The Trespasser

Helena was dozing down in the cove at Tintagel. She and Louisa and Olive

lay on the cool sands in the shadow, and steeped themselves in rest, in

a cool, sea-fragrant tranquillity.

The journey down had been very tedious. After waiting for half an hour

in the midnight turmoil of an August Friday in Waterloo station, they

had seized an empty carriage, only to be followed by five

north-countrymen, all of whom were affected by whisky. Olive, Helena,

Louisa, occupied three corners of the carriage. The men were distributed

between them. The three women were not alarmed. Their tipsy travelling

companions promised to be tiresome, but they had a frank honesty of

manner that placed them beyond suspicion. The train drew out westward.

Helena began to count the miles that separated her from Siegmund. The

north-countrymen began to be jolly: they talked loudly in their uncouth

English; they sang the music-hall songs of the day; they furtively drank

whisky. Through all this they were polite to the girls. As much could

hardly be said in return of Olive and Louisa. They leaned forward

whispering one to another. They sat back in their seats laughing, hiding

their laughter by turning their backs on the men, who were a trifle

disconcerted by this amusement.

The train spun on and on. Little homely clusters of lamps, suggesting

the quiet of country life, turned slowly round through the darkness. The

men dropped into a doze. Olive put a handkerchief over her face and went

to sleep. Louisa gradually nodded and jerked into slumber. Helena sat

weariedly and watched the rolling of the sleeping travellers and the

dull blank of the night sheering off outside. Neither the men nor the

women looked well asleep. They lurched and nodded stupidly. She thought

of Bazarof in _Fathers and Sons_, endorsing his opinion on the

appearance of sleepers: all but Siegmund. Was Siegmund asleep? She

imagined him breathing regularly on the pillows; she could see the under

arch of his eyebrows, the fine shape of his nostrils, the curve of his

lips, as she bent in fancy over his face.

The dawn came slowly. It was rather cold. Olive wrapped herself in rugs

and went to sleep again. Helena shivered, and stared out of the window.

There appeared a wanness in the night, and Helena felt inexpressibly

dreary. A rosiness spread out far away. It was like a flock of

flamingoes hovering over a dark lake. The world vibrated as the sun

came up.

Helena waked the tipsy men at Exeter, having heard them say that there

they must change. Then she walked the platform, very jaded. The train

rushed on again. It was a most, most wearisome journey. The fields were

very flowery, the morning was very bright, but what were these to her?

She wanted dimness, sleep, forgetfulness. At eight o'clock,

breakfast-time, the 'dauntless three' were driving in a waggonette amid

blazing, breathless sunshine, over country naked of shelter, ungracious

and harsh.