Chapter Five
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The rain fell all that night. It made rivers of water that ran ^y beh the basement doors, into the kit, the still-room and the pantries. We had to cut short our supper so that Mr Way and Charles might lay down sacks. I stood with Mrs Stiles at a backstairs window, watg the boung raindrops and the flashes of lightning. She rubbed her arms and gazed at the sky.Pity the sailors at sea, she said.
I went up early to Mauds rooms, and sat in the darkness, and when she came she did not know, for a mihat I was there: she stood and put her hands to her face. Then the lightning flashed again, and she saw me, and jumped.
Are you here? she said.
Her eyes seemed large. She had been with her uncle, and with Gentleman. I thought, Shell tell me now. But she only stood gazing at me, and whehunder sounded she turned and moved away. I went with her to her bedroom. She stood as weakly for me to
undress her as she had stood ilemans arms, and the hand he had kissed she held <q></q>off a little from her side, as if to guard it. In her bed she lay very still, but lifted her head, now and then, from her pillow. There was a steady drip, drip in one of the attics. Do you hear the rain? she said; and then, in a softer voice: The thunder is moving away
I thought of the basements, filling with water. I thought of the sailors at sea. I thought of the Bh. Rain makes London houses groan. I wondered if Mrs Sucksby was lying in bed, while the damp house groaned about her, thinking of me.
Three thousand pounds! she had said. My crikey!
Maud lifted her head again, and drew in her breath. I closed my eyes. Here it es, I thought.
But after all, she said nothing.
When I woke, the rain had stopped and the house was still. Maud lay, as pale as milk: her breakfast came and she put it aside and would it. She spoke quietly, about nothing. She did not look or act like a lover. I thought she would say something lover-like soon, though. I supposed her feelings had dazed her.
She watched Gentleman walk and smoke his cigarette, as she always did; and then, when he had goo Mr Lilly, she said she would like to walk, herself. The sun had e up weak. The sky was grey again, and the ground was filled with what seemed puddles of lead. The air was so washed and pure, it made me bilious. But we went, as usual, to the wood and the ice-house, and then to the chapel and the graves. When we reached her mrave she sat a little near it, and gazed at the sto was dark with rain. The grass between the graves was thin aen. Two or three great black birds walked carefully about us, looking for worms. I watched them peck. Then I think I must have sighed, for Maud looked at me and her face—that had been hard, through frowning—grew gentle. She said,
You are sad, Sue.
I shook my head.
I think you are, she said. Thats my fault. I have brought you to
this lonely place, time after time, thinking only of myself. But you have known what it is, to have a mothers love and then to lose it.
I looked away.
Its all right, I said. It doesnt matter.
She said, You are brave ..."
I thought of my mother, dying game on the scaffold; and I suddenly wished—what I had never wished before—that she had been some ordinary girl, that had died in a regular way. As if she guessed it, Maud said quietly now,
And what—it doesnt trouble you, my asking?—what did your mother die of?
I thought for a moment. I said at last that she had swalloin, that had choked her.
I really did know a woman that died that way. Maud stared at me, and put her hand to her throat. Then she gazed down at her own mothers tomb.
How would you feel, she said quietly, if you had fed her that pin yourself?
It seemed an odd sort of question; but, of course, I was used by now to her saying odd sorts of things. I told her I should feel very ashamed and sad.
Would you? she said. You see, I have an i in knowing. For it was my birth that killed my mother. I am as to blame for her death as if I had stabbed her with my own hand!
She looked strangely at her fingers, that had red earth at the tips. I said,
What nonsense. Who has made you think that? They ought to be sorry.
No-one made me think it, she answered. I thought it myself.
Then thats worse, because youre clever and ought to know better. As if a girl could stop herself from being born!
I wish I had been stopped! she said. She almost cried it. One of the dark birds started up from betweeones, its wings beating the air—it sounded like a carpet being snapped out of a window. We both turned our heads to see it fly; and when I looked at her again, her eyes had tears in them.
I thought, What do you have to cry for? Youre in love, youre in love. I tried to remind her.
Mr Rivers, I began. But she heard the name and shivered.
Look at the sky, she said quickly. The sky had grown darker. I think it will thunder again. Here is the new rain, look!
She closed her eyes ahe rain fall on her face, and after another sed I could not have said what were raindrops, and what tears. I went to her and touched her arm.
Put your cloak about you, I said. Now the rain fell quid hard. She let me lift her hood and fasten it, as a child might; and I think, if I had not drawn her from the grave, she would have stayed there and been soaked. But I made her stumble with me to the door of the little chapel. It was shut up fast with a rusting and a padlock, but above it orch of rotted wood. The rain struck the wood and made it tremble. Our skirts were dark with water at the hems. We stood close to one another, our shoulders tight against the chapel door, and the rain came down—straight down, like arrows. A thousand arrows and one poor heart. She said,
Mr Rivers has asked me to marry him, Sue.
She said it in a flat voice, like a girl saying a lesson; and though I had waited so hard to hear her say it, when I answered my words came out heavy as hers. I said,
Oh, Miss Maud, I am gladder than anything!
A drop of rain fell between our faces.
Are you truly? she said. Her cheeks were damp, her hair ging to them. Then, she went on miserably, I am sorry. For I have not told him yes. How I? My uncle— My uncle will never give me up. It wants four years until I am twenty-one. How I ask Mr Rivers to wait so long?
Of course, we had guessed shed think that. We had hoped that she would; for in thinking it shed be all the more ready to run and be married i. I said, carefully, Are you sure, about your uncle?
She nodded. He will not spare me, so long as there are books still, to be read and noted; and there will always be those! Besides, he is proud. Mr Rivers, I know, is a gentlemans son, but—
But your uncle wont think him quite enough a swell?
She bit her lip. Im afraid that if he knew Mr Rivers had asked for my hand, he would send him from the house. But then, he must go anyway, when his work here is finished! He must go— Her voice shook. And how will I see him, then? How may you keep a heart, for four years, like that?
She put her hands to her fad wept in ear. Her shoulders jumped. It was awful to see. I said, You mustnt cry. I touched her cheek, putting the damp hair from it. I said, Truly, miss, you mustnt cry. Do you think Mr Rivers will give you up now? How could he? You mean more to him than anything. Your uncle will e round, when he sees that.
My happiness is nothing to him, she said. Only his books! He has made me like a book. I am not meant to be taken, and touched, and liked. I am meant to keep here, in a dim light, for ever!
She spoke more bitterly than I had ever heard her speak before. I said,
Your uncle loves you, Im sure. But Mr Rivers— The wot caught in my throat, and I coughed. Mr Rivers loves you, too.
You think he does, Sue? He spoke so fiercely yesterday, beside the river, while you slept. He spoke of London—of his house, his studio—he says he longs to take me there, not as his pupil, but as his wife. He says he thinks of nothing but that. He says he thinks that to wait for me will kill him! You think he means it, Sue?
She waited. I thought, Its not a lie, its not a lie, he loves her for her money. I think he would die if he lost it now. I said,
I know it, miss.
She looked at the ground. But, what he do?
He must ask your uncle.
He ot!
Then—I drew in my breath—you must find another way. She said nothing, but moved her head. You must do that. Still nothing. Isnt there, I said, another way you might take . . .?
She lifted her eyes to mine and blinked back her tears. She looked anxiously to left and tht, then drew a little closer. She said, in a whisper:
Youll tell no-one, Sue?
Tell them what, miss?
She blinked agaiating. You must promise not to tell. You must swear it!
I swear! I said. I swear!—all the time thinking, e on, say it Now!—for it was dreadful, seeing her so afraid to give up her secret, when I knew what the secret was.
Then she did say it. Mr Rivers, she said, more quietly than ever, says we might go away, at night.
At night! I said.
He says we might be privately married. He says my uncle might try to claim me then; but he does not think he will. Not once I am a—a wife.
Her face, as she said the wrew pale, I saw the blood fall out of her cheek. She looked at the stone on her mrave. I said,
You must follow your heart, miss.
I am not sure. After all, I am not sure.
But to love, and then to lose him! Her gaze grew strange. I said, You love him, dont you?
She turned a little, and still looked queer, and would not ahen she said,
I dont know.
Dont know? How you not know a thing like that? Doesnt your blood beat hard when you see him ing? Doesnt his voice thrill in your ears, and his touch set you shaking? Dont you dream of him, at night?
She bit her plump lip. And those things mean I love him?
Of course! What else could they mean?
She did not answer. Instead, she closed her eyes and gave a shiver. She put her hands together, and agairoked the spot upon her palm where he had yesterday touched his lips.
Only now I saw, she was not stroking the flesh so much as rubbing at it. She was not nursing the kiss. She felt his mouth like a burn, like an itch, like a splinter, and was trying to rub the memory of it away.
She didnt love him at all. She was afraid of him.
I drew in my breath. She opened her eyes and held my gaze.
What will you do? I said, in a whisper.
What I do? She shivered. He wants me. He has asked me. He means to make me his.
You might—say no.
She blinked, as if she could not believe I had said it. I could not believe it, either.
Say no to him? she said slowly. Say no? Then her look ged. And watch him leave, from my window? Or perhaps when he goes I shall be in my uncles library, where the windows are all dark; and then I shant see him leave at all. And then, and then—oh, Sue, dont you think I should wonder, over the life I might have had? Do you suppose another man will e visiting, that will want me half as much as he? What choice have I?
Her gaze, now, was so steady and so bare, I flinched from it. I did not answer for a moment, but turned and gazed down at the wood of the door we stood against, and the rusting that held it closed, and the padlock. The padlock is the simplest kind of lock. The worst are the kind that keep their business parts guarded. They are devils to crack. Mr Ibbs taught me that. I closed my eyes and saw his face; and then, Mrs Sucksbys. Three thousand pounds—. I drew in my breath, looked baaud, and said,
Marry him, miss. Dont wait for your uncles word. Mr Rivers loves you, and love wont harm a flea. You will learn to like him as you ought, in time. Till then go with him i, and do everything he says.
For a sed, she looked wretched—as if she might have been hoping I would say anything but that; but it was only for a sed. Then her face grew clear. She said,
I will. Ill do it. But, I t go alone. You mustnt make me go with him, quite on my own. You must e with me. Say you will. Say youll e and be my maid, in my new life, in London!
I said I would. She gave a high, nervous laugh and then, from havi and been so low, she grew almost giddy. She talked of the house that Gentleman had promised her; and of the fashions of London, that I would help her choose; and of the carriage she
would have. She said she would buy me handsome gowns. She said she wouldnt call me her maid then, but her panion. She said she would get me a maid of my own.
For you know I shall be very rich, she said simply, once I am married?
She shivered and smiled and clutched at my arm, and then she drew me to her and put her head against mine. Her cheek was cool, and smooth as a pearl. Her hair was bright with beads of rainwater. I think she was weeping. But I did not pull away to try and find out. I did not wao see my face. I think the look in my eyes must have been awful.
That afternoo out her paints and her painting, as usual; but the brushes and the colours stayed dry. Gentleman came to her parlour, walked quickly to her, and stood before her as if he loo pull her to him but was afraid. He said her Miss Lilly, but Maud. He said it in a quiet, fierce voice, and she quivered, aated ohen nodded. He gave a great sigh, seized her hand and sank before her—I thought that ushing it a bit, myself, and even she looked doubtful. She said, No, not here! and gazed quickly at me; and he, seeing her look, said, But we may be quite free, before Sue? Youve told her? She knows all? He turo me with an awkward gesture of his head, as if it hurt his eyes to look at anything but her.
Ah, Sue, he said, if you were ever a friend to your mistress, be her friend now! If you ever looked kindly on a pair of foolish lovers, look kindly on us!
He gazed hard at me. I gazed hard back.
She has promised to help us, said Maud. But, Mr Rivers—
Oh, Maud, he said at that. Do you mean to slight me?
She lowered her head. She said, Richard, then.
Thats better.
He was still on his knee, with his face tilted upwards. She touched his cheek. He turned his head and kissed her hands, and then she drew them quickly back. She said,
Sue will help us all she . But we must be careful, Richard.
He smiled and shook his head. He said,
And you think, seeing me now, I shall never be that? He rose and stepped from her. He said, Do you know how careful my love will make me? See here, look at my hands. Say theres a cobweb spuween them. Its my ambition. And at its tre theres a spider, of the colour of a jewel. The spider is you. This is how I shall bear you—so gently, so carefully and without jar, you shall not know you are being taken.
He said that, with his white hands cupped; and then, as she gazed into the space between them, he spread his fingers and laughed. I turned away. When I looked at her again, he had taken her hands in his and was holding them loosely, before his heart. She seemed a little easier. They sat, and talked in murmurs.
And I remembered all she had said at the graves, and how she had rubbed her palm. I thought, That was nothing, she has fotten it now. Not love him, when hes so handsome and seems so kind?
I thought, Of course she loves him. I watched as he leao her and touched her and made her blush. I thought, Who wouldnt?
Then he raised his head and caught my gaze and, stupidly, I blushed, too. He said,
You know your duties, Sue. Youve a careful eye. We shall be glad of that, in time. But today—well, have you no other little business, that will take you elsewhere?
He gestured with his eyes to the door of Mauds bedroom.
Theres a shilling in it for you, he said, if you do.
I almost stood. I almost went. So used had I got, to playing the servant. Then I saw Maud. The colour had quite gone from her face. She said, But suppose Margaret or one of the girls should e to the door?
Why should they do that? said Gentleman. And if they do, what will they hear? We shall be perfectly silent. Then they will go again. He smiled at me. Be kind, Sue, he said slyly. Be kind, to lovers. Did you never have a sweetheart of your own?
I might still have gone, before he said that. Now I thought suddenly, Who did he think he was? He might pretend to be a lord; he
was only a an. He had a snide ring on his finger, and all his s were bad ones. I knew more than he did about Mauds secrets. I slept beside her in her own bed. I had made her love me like a sister; he had made her afraid. I could turn her heart against him if I wao, like that! It was enough that he was going to marry her at last. It was enough that he could kiss her, whenever he liked. I wouldnt leave her now to be tugged about and made nervous. I thought, Damn you, Ill get my three thousand just the same!
So I said, I shant leave Miss Lilly. Her uncle wouldnt like it. And if Mrs Stiles was to hear of it, then I should lose my place.
He looked at me and frowned. Maud did not look at me at all; but I knew she was grateful. She said gently,
After all, Richard, we shouldnt ask too much of Sue. We shall have time enough to be together, soon—shant we?
He said then that he supposed that that was true. They kept close before the fire, and after a while I went and sat and sewed beside the window ahem gaze at one anothers faces undisturbed. I heard the hiss of his whispers, the rush of his breath as he laughed. But Maud was silent. And when he left, and took her hand and pressed it to his mouth, she trembled so hard, I thought back to all the times I had watched her tremble before, and wondered how I had ever mistaken that trembling for love. Ohe door was closed she stood at the glass, as she often did, studying her face. She stood there for a mihen turned. She stepped very slowly and softly, from the glass to the sofa, from the sofa to the chair, from the chair to the window—she moved, in short, across the whole of the room, until she reached my side. She leao look at my work and her hair, in its of velvet, brushed my own.
You sew ly, she said—though I had not, not then. I had sewn hard, and my stitches were crooked.
Theood and said nothing. Once or twice she drew in her breath. I thought there was something she loo ask me, but dared not. In the end she moved away again.
And so our trap—that I had thought so lightly of, and worked so hard to lay—was finally set; and wanted only藏书网 time to go quickly by
and spring it. Gentleman was hired to work as Mr Lillys secretary until the end of April, a to stay out his tract to the last—So that the old man wont have the breaking of that to charge me with, he said to me, laughing, alongside the breaking of certain other things. He plao leave when he was meant to—that is, the evening of the last day of the month; but, instead of taking the train for London, he would hang about, and e back to the house at the dead of night, for me and Maud. He must steal her away and not be caught, and then he must marry her—quick as he could, and before her uncle should hear of it and find her and take her home again. He had it all figured out. He could not fetch her in a pony and cart, for he should never have got it past the gate-house. He meant t a boat and take her off along the river, to some small out-of-the-way church where she would not be known as Mr Lillys niece.
Now, to marry a girl at any churust have been living in the parish of it for fifteen days; but he fixed that up, as he fixed everything. A few days after Maud had promised him her hand, he found some excuse and took a horse a riding off to Maidenhead. He got a special lice for the wedding there—that meant they should not have to put out the banns—and then he went about the ty, looking out for the right kind of church. He found one, in a plaall and broken-down it had no name—or anyway, thats what he told us. He said the vicar was a drunkard. Hard by the church there was a cottage, owned by a ho kept black-faced pigs. For two pounds she said she would keep him a room and swear to whoever he liked that he had lived there a month.
Women like that will do anything fentlemen like him. He got back to Briar that night looking pleased as a weasel, and handsome than ever; and he came to Mauds parlour and sat us down anc spoke to us in murmurs of all he had done.
When he had finished, Maud looked pale. She had begun to leave off eating, and was grown thin about the face. Her eyes were dark at the lids. She put her hands together.
Three weeks, she said.
I thought I knew what she meant. She had three weeks left to
make herself want him. I saw her ting the days in her head, and thinking.
She was thinking of what was ing at the end of them.
For, she never learo love him. She never grew to like his kisses or the feel of his hand upon hers. She still shrank from him in a miserable fright—then nerved herself to face him, let him draw her close, let him touch her hair and face. I supposed at first he thought her backwards. Then I guessed he liked her to be slow. He would be kind to her, then pressing, and then, when she greard or fused he would say,
Oh! now you are cruel. I think you mean only to practise on my love.
No indeed, she would answer. No, how you say it?
I dont think you love me as you ought.
Not love you?
You wont show it. Perhaps—and here hed give a sly glao catch my eye—perhaps theres someone else you care for?
Then she would let him kiss her, as if to prove that there was not. She would be stiff, or weak as a puppet. Sometimes she would almost weep. Then he would fort her. He would call himself a brute that did not deserve her, that ought to give her up to a better lover; then she would let him kiss her again. I heard the meeting of their lips, from my cold place beside the window. I heard the creeping of his hand upon her skirt. Now and then I would look—just to be sure he had not put her in too much of a fright. But then, I didnt know what was worse—seeing her face shut up, her cheek made pale, her mouth against his beard; or meeting her eye as the tears were pressed from it and came spilling.
Let her alone, why dont you? I said to him one day, when she had been called from the room to find a book for her uncle. t you see she dont care for it, having you pestering her like that?
He looked at me queerly for a sed; then raised his brows. Not care for it? he said. She is longing for it.
She is afraid of you.
She is afraid of herself. Girls like her always are. But let them squirm and be dainty as much as they like, they all want the same thing in the end.
He paused, then laughed. He thought it a filthy kind of joke.
What she wants from you is to be taken from Briar, I said. For the rest, she knows nothing.
They all say they know nothing, he answered, yawning. In their hearts, in their dreams, they know it all. They take it in their milk from the breasts of their mothers. Havent you heard her, in her bed? Doesnt she wriggle, and sigh? She is sighing for me. You must listen harder. I ought to e and listen with you. Shall I do that? Shall I e to your room, tonight? You could take me to her. We could watch to see how hard her heart beats. You could put back her gown for me to see.
I knew he was teasing. He would never have risked losing everything, for a lark like that. But I heard his words, and imagined him ing. I imagined putting back her gown. I blushed, and turned away from him. I said,
You should never find my room.
I should find it, all right. Ive had the plan of the house, from the little knife-boy. Hes a good little boy, with a chattering mouth. He laughed again, rather harder, and stretched in his chair. Only think of the sport! And how would it harm her? I would creep, like a mouse. I am good at creeping. I would only want to look. Or, she might like to wake and fihere—like the girl in the poem.
I kneoems. They were all about thieves being plucked by soldiers from their sweethearts arms; and one was about a cat being tipped down a well. I didnt know the one he mentioned now, however, and not knowing made me peevish.
You leave her alone, I said. Perhaps he heard something in my voice. He looked me over, and his voice turned rich.
Oh, Suky, he said, have you grown squeamish? Have you learned sweet ways, after your spell with the quality? Who would have said you should take so t ladies, with pals like yours, and a home like your home! What would Mrs Sucksby say—and Dainty, and Johnny!—if they could see your blushes now?
They would say I had a soft heart, I said, firing up. Maybe I do. Wheres the crime in that?
God damn it, he answered, firing up in his turn. What did a soft heart ever dirl like you? What would it do, firl like Dainty? Except, perhaps, kill her. He o the door through which Maud had goo her uncle. Do you suppose, he said, she wants your qualms? She wants yrip, on the laces of her stays— on her b, on the handle of her chamber-pot. Fods sake, look at you! I had turned and picked up her shawl, and begun to fold it. He pulled it from my hands. When did you bee so meek, so tidy? What do you imagine you owe, to her? Listen to me. I know her people. Im one of them. Dont talk to me as if she keeps you at Briar for kindness sake—nor as if you came out of sweetness of temper! Your heart—as you call it—and hers are alike, after all: they are like mine, like everyohey resemble nothing so much as those meters you will find on gas-pipes: they only perk up and start pumping when you drop s in. Mrs Sucksby should have taught you that.
Mrs Sucksby taught me lots of things, I said, and not what you are saying now.
Mrs Sucksby kept you too close, he answered. Too close. The boys of the Bh are right, calling you slow. Too close, too long. Too much like this. He showed me his fist.
Go and fuck it, I said.
At that his cheeks, behind his whiskers, grew crimson, and I thought he might get up and hit me. But he only leaned forward in his seat, and reached to grip the arm of my chair. He said quietly,
Let me see you in your tantrums again and I will drop you, Sue, like a stone. Do you uand me? I have e far enough now, to do without you if I must. She will do anything I tell her. And say my old nurse, in London, should grow suddenly sick, and need her o tend her? What would you do then? Should you like to put on your old stuff gown again, and go back to Lant Street with nothing?
I said,I should tell Mr Lill>９９ｌｉb?</a>y!
Do you think he would have you in his room, long enough to hear you?
Then, I should tell Maud.
Go ahead. And why not tell her, while you are about it, that I have a tail with a point, and cloven hooves? So I would have, were I to act my crimes upoage. No-one expects to meet a man like me in life, however. She would choose not to believe you. She ot afford to believe you! For she has e as far as we have, and must marry me now, or be more or less ruined. She must do as I say—or stay here, and do nothing, for the rest of her life. Do you think shell do that?
What could I say? She had as good as told me herself that she would not. So I was silent. But from that point on, I think I hated him. He sat with his hand on my chair, his eyes on mine, for another moment or two; then there came the pat of Mauds slippers oairs, and after a sed her face about the door. And then, of course, he sat bad his look ged. He rose, and I rose, and I made a hopeless sort of curtsey. He went quickly to her and led her to the fire.
You are cold, he sa<s>藏书网</s>id.
They stood before the mantel, but I saw their faces in the glass. She looked at the coals in the hearth. He gazed at me. Then he sighed and shook his hateful head.
Oh, Sue, he said, you are terribly stern today.
Maud looked up. Whats this? she said.
I swallowed, saying nothing. He said,
Poor Sue is weary of me. Ive been teasing her, while you were gone.
Teasing her, how? she asked, half-smiling, half-frowning.
Why, by keeping her from her sewing, by talking of nothing but you! She claims to have a soft heart. She has at all. I told her my eyes were ag for want of gazing at you; she told me to them in flannel ao my room. I said my ears were ringing, for want of your sweet voice; she wao call for Margaret t castor-oil to put in them. I showed her this blameless white hand, that wants your kisses. She told me to take it and— He paused.
And what? said Maud.
Well, put it in my pocket.
He smiled. Maud looked o me, in a doubtful oor hand, she said at last.
He lifted his arm. It still wants your kisses, he said.
She hesitated, then took his hand and held it in her own two slender ones and touched his fingers, at the knuckles, with her lips.—Not there, he said quickly, when she did that. Not there, but here.
He turned his wrist and showed his palm. She hesitated again, then dipped her head to it. It covered her mouth, her nose, and half her face.
He caught my eye, and nodded. I turned away and wouldnt look at him.
For he was right, damn him. Not about Maud—for I khat, whatever he said about hearts and gas-pipes, she was sweet, she was kind, she was everything that was gentle and handsome and good. But, he was right about me. How could I go back to the Bh, with nothing? I was meant to make Mrs Sucksbys fortune. How could I go back to her, and to Mr Ibbs—and to John—saying, I had thrown off the plot, let slip three thousand pounds, because—
Because what? Because my feelings were fihan I thought? They would say my nerve had failed me. They would laugh in my face! I had a certain standing. I was the daughter of a murderess. I had expectations. Fine feelings werent in them. How could they be?
And then, say I gave it all up—how would that save Maud? Say I went home: Gentleman would go on and marry her, and lock her up anyway. Or, say I peached him up. He would be sent from Briar, Mr Lilly would keep her all the closer—she might as well be put in a madhouse, theher way, I didnt say much to her ces.
But her ces had all bee her, years before. She was like a twig on a rushing river. She was like milk—too pale, too pure, too simple. She was made to be spoiled.
Besides, nobodys ces were good, where I came from. And though she was to do badly, did that mean I must?
I didnt think it did. So though, as I have said, I was sorry for her,
I was not quite sorry enough to want to try and save her. I never really thought of tellihe truth, of showing up Gentleman as the villain he was—of doing anything, anything at all, that would spoil our plot and keep us from our fortune. I let her suppose he loved her and was kind. I let her think that he was gentle. I watched her try to make herself like him, knowing all the time that he meant to take her, trick her, fuck her and lock her away. I watched her grow thin. I watched her pale and dwindle. I watched her sit with her head in her hands, passing the points of her fingers across her ag brow, wishing she might be a herself, Briar any house but her uncles, Gentleman any man but the man she must marry; and I hated it, but turned away. I thought, It t be helped. I thought, Its their business.
But, here was a curious thing. The more I tried to give up thinking of her, the more I said to myself, Shes nothing to you, the harder I tried to pluck the idea of her out of my heart, the more she stayed there. All day I sat or walked with her, so full of the fate I was bringio I could hardly touch her or meet her gaze; and all night I lay with my back turo her, the bla over my ears to keep out her sighs. But in the hours iween, when she went to her uncle, I felt her—I felt her, through the walls of the house, like some blind crooks are said to be able to feel gold. It was as if there had e between us, without my knowing, a kind of thread. It pulled me to her, wherever she was. It was like—
Its like you love her, I thought.
It made a ge i made me nervous and afraid. I thought she would look at me a—entleman would, or Margaret, or Mrs Stiles. I imagined word of it getting back to Lant Street, reag John—I thought of John, more than any of them. I thought of his look, his laugh. What have I done? I imagined Id say. I havent done anything! And I hadnt. It was only, as Ive said, that I thought of her so, that I felt her so. Her very clothes seemed ged to me, her shoes and stogs: they seemed to keep her shape, the warmth and st of her—I didnt like to fold them up and make them flat. Her rooms seemed ged. I took to going about them—just as I had done, on my first day at Briar—
and looking at all the things I knew she had taken up and touched. Her box, and her mothers picture. Her books. Would there be books for her, at the madhouse? Her b, with hairs snagged in it. Would there be ao dress her hair? Her looking-glass. I began to stand where she liked to stand, close to the fire, and Id study my face as Id seeudying hers.
Ten days to go, I would say to myself. Ten days, and you will be rich!
But Id say it, and across the words might e the chiming of the great house bell; and then I would shudder to think of our plot being so much as a single hour s end, the jaws of our trap that little bit closer and tighter about her and harder to prise apart.
Of course, she felt the passing hours, too. It made her g to her old habits—made her walk, eat, lie in her bed, do everything, more stiffly, more ly, more like a little clockwork doll, than ever. I think she did it, for safetys sake; or else, to keep the time from running on too fast. Id watch her take her tea—pick up her cup, sip from it, put it down, pick it up and sip again, like a mae would; or Id see her sew, with crooked stitches, nervous and quick; and Id have to turn my gaze. Id think of the time I had put back the rug and danced a polka with her. Id think of the day I had smoothed her poiooth. I remembered holding her jaw, and the damp of her to had seemed ordinary, then; but I could not imagine, now, putting a fio her mouth and it being ordinary . . .
She began to dream again. She began to wake, bewildered, in the night. Once or twice she rose from her bed: I opened my eyes and found her moving queerly about the room. Are you there? she said, when she heard me stirring; and she came bay side and lay and shook. Sometimes she would reae. When her hands came against me, though, shed draw them away. Sometimes she would weep. Or, she would ask queer questions. Am I real? Do you see me? Am I real?
Go back to sleep, I said, one night. It was a night close to the end.
Im afraid to, she said. Oh, Sue, Im afraid . . .
Her voice, this time, was not at all thick, but soft and clear, and so unhappy it woke me properly and I looked for her face. I could not see it. The little rush-light that she always kept lit must have fallen against its shade, or burself out. The curtains were down, as they always were. I think it was three or four oclock. The bed was dark, like a box. Her breath came out of the darkness. It struck my mouth.
"What is it? I said.
She said, I dreamed— I dreamed I was married
I turned my head. Then her breath came against my ear. Too loud, it seemed, in the silence. I moved my head again. I said,
Well, you shall be married, soon, for real.
Shall I?
You know you shall. Now, go back to sleep.
But, she would not. I felt her lying, still but very stiff. I felt the beating of her heart. At last she said again, in a whisper: Sue—
What is it, miss?
She wet her mouth. Do you think me good? she said.
She said it, as a child might. The words unnerved me rather. I turned again, and peered into the darkness, to try and make out her face.
Good, miss? I said, as I squinted.
You do, she said unhappily.
Of course!
I wish you wouldnt. I wish I wasnt. I wish— I wish I was wise.
I wish you were sleeping, I thought. But I did not say it. What I said was, Wise? Arent you wise? A girl like you, that has read all those books of your uncles?
She did not answer. She only lay, stiff as before. But her heart beat harder—I felt it lurch. I felt her draw in her breath. She held it. Then she spoke.
Sue, she said, I wish you would tell me—
Tell me the truth, I thought she was about to say; and my ow beat like hers, I began to sweat. I thought, She knows. She has guessed!—I almost thought, Thank God!
But it wasnt that. It wasnt that, at all. She drew in her breath
again, and again I felt her, nerving herself to ask some awful thing. I should have known what it was; for she had been nerving herself to ask it, I think, for a month. At last, the words burst from her.
I wish you would tell me, she said, what it is a wife must do, on her wedding-night!
I heard her, and blushed. Perhaps she did, too. It was too dark to see.
I said, Dont you know?
I know there is—something.
But you dont know what?
How should I?
But truly, miss: you mean, you dont know?
How should I? she cried, rising up from her pillow. Dont you see, dont you see? I am too ignorant even to know what it is I am ignorant of! She shook. Then I felt her make herself steady. I think, she said, in a flat, unnatural voice, I think he will kiss me. Will he do that?
Again, I felt her breath on my face. I felt the word, kiss. Again, I blushed.
Will he? she said.
Yes, miss.
I felt her nod. On my cheek? she said. My mouth?
On your mouth, I should say.
On my mouth. Of course . . . She lifted her hands to her face: I saw at last, through the darkness, the whiteness of her gloves, heard the brushing of her fingers across her lips. The sound seemed greater than it ought to have dohe bed seemed closer and blacker than ever. I wished the rush-light had not burned out. I wished—I think it was the only time I ever did—that the clock would chime. There was only the silence, with her breath in it. Only the darkness, and her pale hands. The world might have shrunk, or fallen away.
What else, she asked, will he wao do?
I thought, Say it quick. Quick will be best. Quid plain. But it was hard to be plain, with her.
He will want, I said, after a moment, to embrace you.
Her hand grew still. I think she blinked. I think I heard it. She said,
You mean, to stand with me in his arms?
She said it, and I pictured her, all at once, ilemans grip. I saw them standing—as you do see men and girls, sometimes, at night, in the Bh, in doorways or up against walls. You turn your eyes. I tried to turn my eyes, now—but, of course, could not, for there was nothing to turo, there was only the darkness. My mind flung figures on it, bright as lantern slides.
I grew aware of her, waiting. I said, in a fretful way,
He wont want to stand. Its rough, when you stand. You only stand when you havent a place to lie in or must be quick. A gentleman would embrace his wife on a couch, or a bed. A bed would be best.
A bed, she said, like this?
Perhaps like this.—Though the feathers, I think, would be devils to shake bato shape, when youve finished!
I laughed; but the laugh came out too loud. Maud flihen she seemed to frown.
Finished . . . she murmured, as if puzzling over the word. Then, Finished what? she said. The embrace?
Fi, I said.
But do you mean, the embrace?
Fi. I turhen turned again. How dark it is! Where is the light?—Fi. I be plainer?
I think you could be, Sue. You talk instead of beds, of feathers. What are they to me? You talk of it. Whats it?
It is what follows, I said, from kissing, from embrag on a bed. It is the actual thing. The kissing only starts you off. Then it es over you, like—like wanting to dao a time, to music. Have you never—?
Never what?
Never mind, I said. I still moved, restlessly. You must not mind. It will be easy. Like dang is.
But dang is not easy, she said, pressing on. One must be taught to dance. You taught me.
This is different.
Why is it?
There are lots of ways to dance. You only do this, one way. The way will e to you, when once you have begun.
I felt her shake her head. I dont think, she said miserably, it will e to me. I dont think that kisses start me off. Mr Riverss kisses never have. Perhaps—perhaps my mouth lacks a certain necessary muscle or nerve—?
I said, Fods sake, miss. Are you a girl, or a surgeon? Of course your mouth will work. Look here. She had fired me up. She had wouight, like a spring. I rose from my pillow. Where are your lips? I said.
My lips? she answered, in a tone of surprise. They are here.
I found them, and kissed her.
I knew how to do it all right, for Dainty had shown me, once. Kissing Maud, however, was not like kissing her. It was like kissing the darkness. As if the darkness had life, had a shape, had taste, was warm and glib. Her mouth was still, at first. Then it moved against mihen it opened. I felt her tongue. I felt her swallow. I felt—
I had do, only to show her. But I lay with my mouth on hers a, starting up in me, everything I had said would start in her, wheleman kissed her. It made me giddy. It made me blush, worse than before. It was like liquor. It made me drunk. I drew away. When her breath came now upon my mouth, it came very cold. My mouth was wet, from hers. I said, in a whisper,
Do you feel it?
The words sounded queer; as if the kiss had done something to my tongue. She did not answer. She did not move. She breathed, but lay so still I thought suddenly, What if Ive put her in a trance? Say she never es out? What ever will I tell her uncle—?
Then she shifted a little. And then she spoke.
I feel it, she said. Her voice was as strange as mine. You have made me feel it. Its such a curious, wanting thing. I never—
It wants Mr Rivers, I said.
Does it?
I think it must.
I dont know. I dont know.
She spoke, unhappily. But she shifted again, and the shift brought her o me. Her mouth came closer to mi was like she hardly knew what she was doing; or knew, but could not help it. She said again, Im afraid.
Dont be frightened, I said at once. For I khat she musthat. Say she got shtened she cried off marrying him?
Thats what I thought. I thought I must show her how to do it, or her fear would spoil our plot. So, I kissed her again. Then I touched her. I touched her face. I began at the meeting of our mouths—at the soft wet ers of our lips—then found her jaw, her cheek, her brow— I had touched her before, to wash and dress her; but never like this. So smooth she was! So warm! It was like I was calling the heat and shape of her out of the darkness—as if the darkness was turning solid and growing quick, under my hand.
She began to shake. I supposed she was still afraid. Then I began to shake, too. I fot to think of Gentleman, after that. I thought only of her. When her face greith tears, I kissed them away.
You pearl, I said. So white she was! You pearl, you pearl, you pearl.
It was easy to say, in the darkness. It was easy to do. But m I woke, saw the strips of grey light between the curtains of the bed, remembered what I had done, and thought, My God. Maud lay, still sleeping, her brows drawn together in a frown. Her mouth en. Her lip had grown dry. My lip was dry, too, and I brought up my hand, to touch it. Then I took the hand away. It smelt of her. The smell made me shiver, ihe shiver was a ghost of the shiver that had seized me—seized us both—as Id moved against her, in the night. Beiched, the girls of the Bh call it. Did he fetch you—? They will tell you it es on you like a sneeze; but a sneeze is nothing to it, nothing at all—
I shivered again, remembering. I put the tip of one fio my to tasted sharp—like vinegar, like blood.
Like money.
I grew afraid. Maud made some movement. I got up, not looking
at her. I went to my room. I began to feel ill. Perhaps I had been drunk. Perhaps the beer I had had with my supper had been brewed bad. Perhaps I had a fever. I washed my hands and my face. The water was so cold it seemed to sting. I washed between my legs. Then I dressed. Then I waited. I heard Maud wake, and move; a slowly in to her. I saw her, through the space between her curtains. She had raised herself up from her pillow. She was trying to fasterings of her nightdress. I had uhem in the night.
I saw that, and my insides shivered again. But when she lifted her eyes to mine, I looked away.
I looked away! And she didnt call me to her side. She didnt speak. She watched me move about the room, but she said nothing. Margaret came, with coals and water: I stood pulling clothes from the press while she k at the hearth, my face blushing scarlet. Maud kept to her bed. Then Margaret left. I put out a goetticoats and shoes. I put out water.
Will you e, I said, so I may dress you?
She did. She stood, and slowly raised her arms, and I lifted up her gowhighs had a flush upohe curls of hair between her legs were dark. Upon her breast there was a crimson bruise, from where I had kissed too hard.
I covered it up. She might have stopped me. She might have put her hands upon mine. She was the mistress, after all! But, she did nothing. I made her go with me to the silvery looking-glass above her fire, and she stood with her eyes cast down while I bed and pinned her hair. If she felt the trembling of my fingers against her face, she didnt say. Only when I had almost finished did she lift her head and catch my gaze. And then she blinked, and seemed to search for words. She said,
What a thick sleep I had. Didnt I?
You did, I said. My voice was shaking. No dreams.
No dreams, she said, save one. But that was a sweet one. I think— I think you were in it, Sue
She kept her eyes on mine, as if waiting. I saw the blood beat ihroat. Mio match it, my very heart turned in my
breast; and I think, that if I had drawo me then, shed have kissed me. If I had said, 1 love you, she would have said it back; and everything would have ged. I might have saved her. I might have found a way—I dont know what—to keep her from her fate. We might have cheated Gentleman. I might have run with her, to Lant Street—
But if I did that, shed fi for the villain I was. I thought of tellihe truth; and trembled harder. I couldnt do it. She was too simple. She was too good. If there had only been some stain upon her, some speck of badness in her heart—! But there was nothing. Only that crimson bruise. A single kiss had made it. How would she do, in the Bh?
And then, how would / do, ba the Bh with her at my side?
I heard, again, Johns laugh. I thought of Mrs Sucksby. Maud watched my face. I put the last pin to her hair, and then her of velvet. I swallowed, and said,
In your dream? I dont think so, miss. Not me. I should say— I should say, Mr Rivers. I stepped to the window. Look, there he is! His cigarette almost smoked already. You will miss him, if you wait!
We were awkward with each other, all that day. We walked, but we walked apart. She reached to take my arm, and I drew away. And when, that night, I had put her into her bed and stood letting down her curtains, I looked at the empty place beside her and said,
The nights are grown so warm now, miss. Dont you think you will sleep better on your own . . .?
I went bay narrow bed, with its sheets like pieces of pastry. I heard her turning, and sighing, all through the night; and I turned, and sighed, myself. I felt that thread that had e between us, tugging, tugging at my heart—so hard, it hurt me. A huimes I almost rose, almost went in to her; a huimes I thought, Go to her! Why are you waiting? Go back to her side! But every time, I thought of what would happen if I did. I khat I couldnt lie beside her, without wanting to touch her. I couldnt
have felt her breath e upon my mouth, without wanting to kiss her. And I couldnt have kissed her, without wanting to save her.
So, I did nothing. I did nothing the night, too, and the night after that; and soon, there were no more nights: the time, that had always gone so slow, ran suddenly fast, the end of April came. And by then, it was too late to ge anything.
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