The Trespasser

Beatrice was careful not to let the blow of Siegmund's death fall with

full impact upon her. As it were, she dodged it. She was afraid to meet

the accusation of the dead Siegmund, with the sacred jury of memories.

When the event summoned her to stand before the bench of her own soul's

understanding, she fled, leaving the verdict upon herself eternally

suspended.

When the neighbours had come, alarmed by her screaming, she had allowed

herself to be taken away from her own house into the home of a

neighbour. There the children were brought to her. There she wept, and

stared wildly about, as if by instinct seeking to cover her mind with

confusion. The good neighbour controlled matters in Siegmund's house,

sending for the police, helping to lay out the dead body. Before Vera

and Frank came home, and before Beatrice returned to her own place, the

bedroom of Siegmund was locked.

Beatrice avoided seeing the body of her husband; she gave him one swift

glance, blinded by excitement; she never saw him after his death. She

was equally careful to avoid thinking of him. Whenever her thoughts

wandered towards a consideration of how he must have felt, what his

inner life must have been, during the past six years, she felt herself

dilate with terror, and she hastened to invoke protection.

'The children!' she said to herself--'the children. I must live for the

children; I must think for the children.' This she did, and with much success. All her tears and her wildness rose

from terror and dismay rather than from grief. She managed to fend back

a grief that would probably have broken her. Vera was too

practical-minded, she had too severe a notion of what ought to be and

what ought not, ever to put herself in her father's place and try to

understand him. She concerned herself with judging him sorrowfully,

exonerating him in part because Helena, that other, was so much more to

blame. Frank, as a sentimentalist, wept over the situation, not over the

personae. The children were acutely distressed by the harassing

behaviour of the elders, and longed for a restoration of equanimity. By

common consent no word was spoken of Siegmund. As soon as possible after

the funeral Beatrice moved from South London to Harrow. The memory of

Siegmund began to fade rapidly.

Beatrice had had all her life a fancy for a more open, public form of

living than that of a domestic circle. She liked strangers about the

house; they stimulated her agreeably. Therefore, nine months after the

death of her husband, she determined to carry out the scheme of her

heart, and take in boarders. She came of a well-to-do family, with whom

she had been in disgrace owing to her early romantic but degrading

marriage with a young lad who had neither income nor profession. In the

tragic, but also sordid, event of his death, the Waltons returned again

to the aid of Beatrice. They came hesitatingly, and kept their gloves

on. They inquired what she intended to do. She spoke highly and

hopefully of her future boarding-house. They found her a couple of

hundred pounds, glad to salve their consciences so cheaply. Siegmund's

father, a winsome old man with a heart of young gold, was always ready

further to diminish his diminished income for the sake of his

grandchildren. So Beatrice was set up in a fairly large house in

Highgate, was equipped with two maids, and gentlemen were invited to

come and board in her house. It was a huge adventure, wherein Beatrice

was delighted. Vera was excited and interested; Frank was excited, but

doubtful and grudging; the children were excited, elated, wondering. The

world was big with promise.