The Trespasser

'You talk in that way, Mr. Allport,' she said. 'You don't think of the

others.' 'I don't know,' he drawled. 'What does it matter? Look here--who'd care?

What I mean to say--for long?' 'That's all very easy, but it's cowardly,' replied Beatrice gravely.

'Nevertheless,' said Mr. Allport, 'it's true--isn't it?' 'It is not--and I _should_ know,' replied Beatrice, drawing a cloak of

reserve ostentatiously over her face. Mr. Allport looked at her and

waited. Beatrice relaxed toward the pessimistic young man.

'Yes,' she said, 'I call it very cowardly to want to get out of your

difficulties in that way. Think what you inflict on other people. You

men, you're all selfish. The burden is always left for the women.' 'Ah, but then,' said Mr. Allport very softly and sympathetically,

looking at Beatrice's black dress, 'I've no one depending on _me_.' 'No--you haven't--but you've a mother and sister. The women always have

to bear the brunt.' Mr. Allport looked at Beatrice, and found her very pathetic.

'Yes, they do rather,' he replied sadly, tentatively waiting.

'My husband--' began Beatrice. The young man waited. 'My husband was one

of your sort: he ran after trouble, and when he'd found it--he couldn't

carry it off--and left it--to me.' Mr. Allport looked at her very sympathetically.

'You don't mean it!' he exclaimed softly. 'Surely he didn't--?' Beatrice nodded, and turned aside her face.

'Yes,' she said. 'I know what it is to bear that kind of thing--and it's

no light thing, I can assure you.' There was a suspicion of tears in her voice.

'And when was this, then--that he--?' asked Mr. Allport, almost with

reverence.

'Only last year,' replied Beatrice.

Mr. Allport made a sound expressing astonishment and dismay. Little by

little Beatrice told him so much: 'Her husband had got entangled with

another woman. She herself had put up with it for a long time. At last

she had brought matters to a crisis, declaring what she should do. He

had killed himself--hanged himself--and left her penniless. Her people,

who were very wealthy, had done for her as much as she would allow them.

She and Frank and Vera had done the rest. She did not mind for herself;

it was for Frank and Vera, who should be now enjoying their careless

youth, that her heart was heavy.' There was silence for a while. Mr. Allport murmured his sympathy, and

sat overwhelmed with respect for this little woman who was unbroken by

tragedy. The bell rang in the kitchen. Vera entered.