The Trespasser

Siegmund's lying late in bed made Beatrice very angry. The later it

became, the more wrathful she grew. At half past nine she had taken up

his shaving-water. Then she proceeded to tidy the dining-room, leaving

the breakfast spread in the kitchen.

Vera and Frank were gone up to town; they would both be home for dinner

at two o'clock. Marjory was despatched on an errand, taking Gwen with

her. The children had no need to return home immediately, therefore it

was highly probable they would play in the field or in the lane for an

hour or two. Beatrice was alone downstairs. It was a hot, still morning,

when everything outdoors shone brightly, and all indoors was dusked with

coolness and colour. But Beatrice was angry. She moved rapidly and

determinedly about the dining-room, thrusting old newspapers and

magazines between the cupboard and the wall, throwing the litter in the

grate, which was clear, Friday having been charwoman's day, passing

swiftly, lightly over the front of the furniture with the duster. It was

Saturday, when she did not spend much time over the work. In the

afternoon she was going out with Vera. That was not, however, what

occupied her mind as she brushed aside her work. She had determined to

have a settlement with Siegmund, as to how matters should continue. She

was going to have no more of the past three years' life; things had come

to a crisis, and there must be an alteration. Beatrice was going to do

battle, therefore she flew at her work, thus stirring herself up to a

proper heat of blood. All the time, as she thrust things out of sight,

or straightened a cover, she listened for Siegmund to come downstairs.

He did not come, so her anger waxed.

'He can lie skulking in bed!' she said to herself. 'Here I've been up

since seven, broiling at it. I should think he's pitying himself. He

ought to have something else to do. He ought to have to go out to work

every morning, like another man, as his son has to do. He has had too

little work. He has had too much his own way. But it's come to a stop

now. I'll servant-housekeeper him no longer.' Beatrice went to clean the step of the front door. She clanged the

bucket loudly, every minute becoming more and more angry. That piece of

work finished, she went into the kitchen. It was twenty past ten. Her

wrath was at ignition point. She cleared all the things from the table

and washed them up. As she was so doing, her anger, having reached full

intensity without bursting into flame, began to dissipate in uneasiness.

She tried to imagine what Siegmund would do and say to her. As she was

wiping a cup, she dropped it, and the smash so unnerved her that her

hands trembled almost too much to finish drying the things and putting

them away. At last it was done. Her next piece of work was to make the

beds. She took her pail and went upstairs. Her heart was beating so

heavily in her throat that she had to stop on the landing to recover

breath. She dreaded the combat with him. Suddenly controlling herself,

she said loudly at Siegmund's door, her voice coldly hostile: 'Aren't you going to get up?' There was not the faintest sound in the house. Beatrice stood in the

gloom of the landing, her heart thudding in her ears.