The Trespasser

Three gentlemen came, before a month was out, to Beatrice's

establishment. She hoped shortly to get a fourth or a fifth. Her plan

was to play hostess, and thus bestow on her boarders the inestimable

blessing of family life. Breakfast was at eight-thirty, and everyone

attended. Vera sat opposite Beatrice, Frank sat on the maternal right

hand; Mr MacWhirter, who was _superior_, sat on the left hand; next him

sat Mr Allport, whose opposite was Mr Holiday. All were young men of

less than thirty years. Mr MacWhirter was tall, fair, and stoutish; he

was very quietly spoken, was humorous and amiable, yet extraordinarily

learned. He never, by any chance, gave himself away, maintaining always

an absolute reserve amid all his amiability. Therefore Frank would have

done anything to win his esteem, while Beatrice was deferential to him.

Mr Allport was tall and broad, and thin as a door; he had also a

remarkably small chin. He was naïve, inclined to suffer in the first

pangs of disillusionment; nevertheless, he was waywardly humorous,

sometimes wistful, sometimes petulant, always gallant. Therefore Vera

liked him, whilst Beatrice mothered him. Mr Holiday was short, very

stout, very ruddy, with black hair. He had a disagreeable voice, was

vulgar in the grain, but officiously helpful if appeal were made to him.

Therefore Frank hated him. Vera liked his handsome, lusty appearance,

but resented bitterly his behaviour. Beatrice was proud of the superior

and skilful way in which she handled him, clipping him into shape

without hurting him.

One evening in July, eleven months after the burial of Siegmund,

Beatrice went into the dining-room and found Mr Allport sitting with his

elbow on the window-sill, looking out on the garden. It was half-past

seven. The red rents between the foliage of the trees showed the sun was

setting; a fragrance of evening-scented stocks filtered into the room

through the open window; towards the south the moon was budding out of

the twilight.

'What, you here all alone!' exclaimed Beatrice, who had just come from

putting the children to bed. 'I thought you had gone out.' 'No--o! What's the use,' replied Mr Allport, turning to look at his

landlady, 'of going out? There's nowhere to go.' 'Oh, come! There's the Heath, and the City--and you must join a tennis

club. Now I know just the thing--the club to which Vera belongs.' 'Ah, yes! You go down to the City--but there's nothing there--what I

mean to say--you want a pal--and even then--well'--he drawled the

word--'we-ell, it's merely escaping from yourself--killing time.' 'Oh, don't say that!' exclaimed Beatrice. 'You want to enjoy life.' 'Just so! Ah, just so!' exclaimed Mr Allport. 'But all the same--it's

like this--you only get up to the same thing tomorrow. What I mean to

say--what's the good, after all? It's merely living because you've

got to.' 'You are too pessimistic altogether for a young man. I look at it

differently myself; yet I'll be bound I have more cause for grumbling.

What's the trouble now?' 'We-ell--you can't lay your finger on a thing like that! What I mean to

say--it's nothing very definite. But, after all--what is there to do but

to hop out of life as quickly as possible? That's the best way.' Beatrice became suddenly grave.