The Trespasser

He was thinking bitterly. She seemed to goad him deeper and deeper into

life. He had a sense of despair, a preference of death. The German she

read with him--she loved its loose and violent romance--came back to his

mind: '_Der Tod geht einem zur Seite, fast sichtbarlich, und jagt einem

immer tiefer ins Leben._' Well, the next place he would be hunted to, like a hare run down, was

home. It seemed impossible the morrow would take him back to Beatrice.

'This time tomorrow night,' he said.

'Siegmund!' she implored.

'Why not?' he laughed.

'Don't, dear,' she pleaded.

'All right, I won't.' Some large steamer crossing the mouth of the bay made the water dash a

little as it broke in accentuated waves. A warm puff of air wandered in

on them now and again.

'You won't be tired when you go back?' Helena asked.

'Tired!' he echoed.

'You know how you were when you came,' she reminded him, in tones full

of pity. He laughed.

'Oh, that is gone,' he said.

With a slow, mechanical rhythm she stroked his cheek.

'And will you be sad?' she said, hesitating.

'Sad!' he repeated.

'But will you be able to fake the old life up, happier, when you go

back?' 'The old life will take me up, I suppose,' he said.

There was a pause.

'I think, dear,' she said, 'I have done wrong.' 'Good Lord--you have not!' he replied sharply, pressing back his head to

look at her, for the first time.

'I shall have to send you back to Beatrice and the babies--tomorrow--as

you are now....' '"Take no thought for the morrow." Be quiet, Helena!' he exclaimed as

the reality bit him. He sat up suddenly.

'Why?' she asked, afraid.

'Why!' he repeated. He remained sitting, leaning forward on the sand,

staring intently at Helena. She looked back in fear at him. The moment

terrified her, and she lost courage.

With a fluttered motion she put her hand on his, which was pressed hard

on the sand as he leaned forward. At once he relaxed his intensity,

laughed, then became tender.

Helena yielded herself like a forlorn child to his arms, and there lay,

half crying, while he smoothed her brow with his fingers, and grains of

sand fell from his palm on her cheek. She shook with dry, withered sobs,

as a child does when it snatches itself away from the lancet of the

doctor and hides in the mother's bosom, refusing to be touched.