Chapter Six

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    Gentlema first. Mr Lilly and Maud stood at the door to

    see him leave, and I watched from her window. She shook his

    O hand and he made her a bow. Therap took him off, to the

    station at Marlow. He sat with folded arms, his hat put back, his

    face our way, his eyes now on hers, now on mine.

    There goes the Devil, I thought.

    He made no sort of sign. He did not o. He had gone over his plans with us and we had them by heart. He was to travel three miles by the train, then wait. We were to keep to Mauds parlour till midnight, then go. He was to meet us at the river when the clock struck the half.

    That day passed just like all the old ones. Maud went to her uncle, as she had used to do, and I went slowly about her rooms, looking over her things—only this time, of course, I was looking out for what we ought to take. We sat at lunch. We walked in the park, to the ice-house, the graves, and the river. It was the final time we

    would do it, yet things looked the same as they always had. It was us who had ged. We walked, not speaking. Now and then our skirts came together—and once, our hands—aarted apart, as if stung; but if, like me, she coloured, I dont know, for I didnt look at her. Ba her room she stood still, like a statue. Only now and then I heard her sigh. I sat at her table with her box full of brooches and rings and a saucer of vinegar, shining up the stones. I would rather do that, I thought, than nothing. Once she came to look. Then she moved away, wiping her eyes. She said the vinegar made them sting. It made miing, too.

    Then came the evening. She went to her dinner, and I went to mine. Downstairs i, everyone was gloomy.

    Dohe same, now Mr Rivers has gohey said.

    Mrs Cakebreads face was dark as thunder. When Margaret let a spoon drop, she hit her with a ladle and made her scream. And then, no sooner had we started our dihan Charles burst out g at the table, and had to run from the kit wiping snot from his .

    Heve took it very hard, said one of the parlourmaids. Had his heart set on going to London as Mr Riverss man.

    You get back here! called Mr Way, standing up, his powder flying. Boy ye, fellow like him, Id be ashamed!

    But Charles would not e baot for Mr Way nor anyone. He had been takileman his breakfasts, polishing his boots, brushing his fancy coats. Now he should be stuck sharpening knives and shining glasses in the quietest house in England.

    He sat oairs a, and hit his head against the banisters. Mr Way went and gave him a beating. We heard the slap of his belt against Charless backside, and yelps.

    That put rather a dampener on the meal. We ate it in silence, and when we had finished and Mr Way had e back, his face quite purple and his wig at a tilt, I did not go with him and Mrs Stiles to the pantry to take my pudding. I said I had a head-ache. I almost did. Mrs Stiles looked me over, then looked away.

    How poorly you keep, Miss Smith, she said. I should say you must have left your health in London.

    But it was nothing to me, what she thought. I should not see her—or Mr Way, or Margaret, or Mrs Cakebread—ever again.

    I said Good-night, a upstairs. Maud, of course, was still with her uncle. Until she came I did what lanned, and got together all the gowns and shoes and bits and pieces we had agreed ought to be taken. It was all of it hers. My brown stuff dress I left behind me. I hadnt worn it in more than a month. I put it at the bottom of my trunk. I left that, too. We could only take bags. Maud had found out two old things of her mothers. Their leather was damp, with a bloom of white. They were marked, in brass, with letters so bold even I could read them: an M and an L—for her mothers name, which was like hers.

    I lihem with paper, and packed them tight. Ihe heaviest one, which I would carry—I put the jewels Id shined. I ed them in lio save them from tumbling about and growing dull. I put in one of her gloves with them—a white kid glove, with buttons of pearl. She had worn it ond supposed it lost. I meant to keep it, to remind me of her.

    I thought my heart was breaking in two.

    Then she came up from her uncle. She came twisting her hands. Oh! she said. How my head aches! I thought he would keep me forever, tonight!

    I had guessed she would e like this; and had got her some wine from Mr Way, as a nerver. I made her sit and take a little, then I wet a handkerchief with it and rubbed at the hollows of her brow. The wine made the handkerchief pink as a rose, and her head, where I chafed it, grew crimson. Her face was cool under my hand. Her eyelids fluttered. When they lifted, I stepped from her.

    Thank you, she said quietly, her gaze very soft.

    She drank more of the wi was quality stuff. What she left, I finished, and it went through me like a flame.

    Now, I said, you must ge. She was dressed for her supper. I had set out her walking-gown. But we must leave off the cage.

    For there was no room for a oline. Without it, her short dress at last became a long one, and she seemed slehan ever. She

    had grown thin. I gave her stout boots to wear. Then I showed her the bags. She touched them, and shook her head.

    Youve done everything, she said. I should never have thought of it all. I should never have done any of it, without you.

    She held my gaze, looking grateful and sad. God knows how my face seemed. I turned away. The house was creaking, settling down as the maids went up. Then came the clock again, chiming half-past nine. She said,

    Three hours, until he es.

    She said it in the same slow, fling way that I had heard her say, ohree weeks.

    We put the lamp out in her parlour, and stood at her window. We could not see the river, but we gazed at the wall of the park and thought of the water lying beyond it, cool and ready, waiting like us. We stood for an hour, saying almost nothing. Sometimes she shivered. Are you cold? Id say then. But she was not cold. At last the waiting began to tell even on me, and I began to fidget. I thought I might not have packed her bags as I should have. I thought I might have left out her linen, or her jewels, or that white glove. I had put the glove in, I k; but I was bee like her, restless as a flea. I went to her bedroom and opehe bags, leavi the window. I took out all the gowns and linen, and packed them again. Then, as I tightened a strap on a buckle, it broke. The leather was so old it was almost perished. I got a needle, and sewed the strap tight, i, wild stitches. I put my mouth to the thread to bite it, and tasted salt.

    Then I heard the opening of Mauds door.

    My heart gave a jump. I put the bags out of sight, in the shadow of the bed, and stood and listened. No sound at all. I went to the door to the parlour, and looked ihe window-curtains were open ahe moonlight in; but the room was empty, Maud was gone.

    She had left the door ajar. I tiptoed to it and squinted into the passage. I thought there came another hen, above the ordinary creakings and tigs of the house—perhaps, the opening

    and shutting of another door, far-off. But I couldnt be sure. I called once, in a whisper, Miss Maud!—but even a whisper sounded loud, at Briar, and I fell silent, straining my ears, looking hard at the darkness, then walking a few steps into the passage and listening again. I put my hands together and pressed them tight, more nervous now than I  say; but I was also, to be ho, rather peeved—for wasnt it like her, to go wandering off at this late hour, without a reason or a word?

    When the clock struck half-past eleven I called again, and took another couple of steps along the passage. But then my foot caught the edge of a rug, and I almost tripped. She could go this way without a dle, she k so well; but it was all strao me. I didnt dare wander after her. Suppose I took a wrong turning in the dark? I might never make my way out again.

    So I only waited, ting the minutes. I went back to the bedroom and brought out the bags. Then I stood at the window. The moon was full, the night was bright. The lawn lay stretched before the house, the wall at the end of it, the river beyond. Somewhere oer was Gentleman, ing closer as I watched. How long would he wait?

    At last, when I had sweated myself into a lather, the clock struck twelve. I stood and trembled at each beating of the bell. The last one sounded, a an echo. I thought, Thats it.—And, as I thought it, I heard the soft thud of her boots—she was at the door, her face pale in the darkness, her breaths ing quick as a cats.

    Five me, Sue! she said. I went to my uncles library. I wao see it, a final time. But I couldnt go until I knew he was asleep.

    She shivered. I pictured her, pale and slight and silent, alone among those dark books. Never mind, I said. But, we must be quick. e here, e on.

    I gave her her cloak, and fastened up mine. She looked about her, at all she was leaving. Her teeth began to chatter. I gave her the lightest bag. Then I stood before her and put a fio her mouth.

    Now, be steady, I said.

    All my nervousness had left me, and I was suddenly calm. I thought of my mother, and all the dark and sle..eping houses she

    must have stolen her way through, before they caught her. The bad blood rose in me, just like wine.

    We went by the servants stairs. I had been carefully up and dowhe day before, looking for the steps that particularly creaked; now I led her over them, holding her hand, and watg where she placed her feet. At the start of the corridor where there were the doors to the kit and to Mrs Stiless pantry, I made her stop and wait and listen. She kept her hand in mine. A mouse ran, quick, along the wainscot; but there was no other movement, and no sounds from anywhere. The floor had drugget on it, that softened our shoes. Only our skirts went rustle and swish.

    The door to the yard was locked with a key, but the key was left in it: I drew it out before I tur, and put a little beef fat to the bit; and then I put more fat to the bolts that fastehe door closed at the bottom and the top. I had got the fat from Mrs Cakebreads cupboard. That was sixpence less she should have from the butchers boy! Maud watched me laying it about the locks, with an astounded sort of look. I said softly,

    This is easy. If we was ing the other way, that would be hard.

    Then I gave her a wink. It was the satisfa of the job. I really wished, just then, it had been harder. I licked my fingers  of the fat, then put my shoulder to the door and pressed it tight into its frame: after that, the key turned smoothly and the bolts slid in their cradles, gentle as babies.

    The air, outside, was cold and clear. The moon cast great black shadoere grateful for them. We kept to the walls of the house that were darkest, going quickly and softly from oo another and then running fast across a er of lawn to the hedges and trees beyond. She held my hand again, and I showed her where to run. Only once I felt her hesitate, and then I turned and found her gazing at the house, with a queer expression that seemed half-fearful a was almost a smile. There were no lights in the windows. No-oched. The house looked flat, like a house in a play. I let her stand for almost a mihen pulled her hand.

    Now you must e, I said.

    She turned her head and did not look again. We walked quickly to the wall of the park, and then we followed it, along a damp and tangled path. The bushes caught at the wool of our cloaks, and creatures leapt in the grass, or slithered before us; and there were cobwebs, fine and shining like wires of glass, that we must trample through and break. The noise seemed awful. Our breaths came harder. We walked so long, I thought we had missed the gate to the river; but theh grew clearer, and the arch sprang up, lit bright by the moon. Maud moved past me and took out her key, a us through it, then made the gate fast at our backs.

    Noere out of the park I breathed a little freer. We set down the bags and stood still in the darkness, in the shadow of the wall. The moon struck the rushes of the further bank, and made spears of them, with wicked points. The surface of the river seemed almost white. The only sound now was the flowing of the water, the calling of some bird; then came the splash of a fish. There was no sign of Gentleman. We had e quicker than we planned for. I listened, and heard nothing. I looked at the sky, at all the stars that were in it. More stars than seemed natural. Then I looked at Maud. She was holding her cloak about her face, but when she saw me turn to her she reached and took my hand. She took it, not to be led by me, not to be forted; only to hold it, because it was mine.

    In the sky, a star moved, ah turo watch it.

    Thats luck, I said.

    Then the Briar bell struck. Half-past twelve—the chime came clear across the park, I suppose the bright air made it sharper. For a sed, the echo of it hung about the ear; and then above it rose anentler sound—we heard it, and stepped apart—it was the careful creak of oars, the slither of water against wood. About the bend of the silvery river came the dark shape of a boat. I saw the oars dip and rise, and scatter s of moonlight; then they were drawn high, a a silehe boat glided towards the rushes, then rocked and creaked again as Gentleman half-rose from his seat. He could not see us, where we waited in the shadow of the wall. He could not see us; but it was not me who stepped forward

    first, it was her. She went stiffly to the waters edge, then took the coil of rope he threw and braced herself against the tugging of the boat, until the boat was steady.

    I dont remember if Gentleman spoke. I dont believe he looked at me, except, once he had helped Maud across the a landing-place, to give me his hand and guide me as he had guided her, over the rotten planks. I think we did it all in silence. I know the boat was narrow, and our skirts bulged as we sat—for, wheleman took up the oars to turn us, we rocked again, and I grew suddenly frightened of the boat capsizing, imagining the water filling all those folds and frills and sug us under. But Maud sat steady. I saw Gentleman looking her over. Still no-one spoke, however. We had do all in a moment, and the boat moved quick. The stream was with us. For a mihe river followed the wall of the park; we passed the place where I had seen him kiss her hand; then the wall snaked off. There came a line of dark trees instead. Maud sat with her eyes on her lap, not looking.

    We went very carefully. The night was so still. Gentlemahe boat as close as he could to the shadows of the bank: only now and then, wherees were thinner, did we move in moonlight. But there was no-one about, to watch us. Where there were houses built o the river, they were shut up and dark. Once, when the river became broad, and there were islands, with barges moored at them, and grazing horses, he stopped the oars a us glide in silence; but still no-one heard us pass or came to look. Then the river grew narrow again, and we moved on; and after that, there were no more houses and no more boats. There was only the darkness, the broken moonlight, the creaking of the sculls, the dipping and the rising of Gentlemans hands and the white of his cheek above his whisker.

    We did not keep upon the river for long. At a spot upon the bank, two miles from Briar, he pulled up the boat and moored it. This was where he had started from. He had left a horse there, with a ladys saddle on it. He helped us from the water, sat Maud upon the horses back, and strapped her bags beside her. He said,

    We must go another mile or so. Maud? She did not answer. You must be brave. We are very close now.

    Then he looked at me and nodded. We started off—him leading the horse by the bridle, Maud hunched and stiff upon it, me walking behind. Still we met no-one. Again I looked at the stars. You never saw stars sht at home, the sky was never so dark and so clear.

    The horse was shoeless. Its hooves sounded dull on the dirt of the road.

    We went rather slowly—for Mauds sake, I suppose, so she should not be shaken about and made sick. She looked sick, anyway; and when we came at last to the place he had found—it was two or three leaning cottages, and a great dark church—she looked sicker than ever. A dog came up and started barking. Gentleman kicked it and made it yelp. He led us to the cottage that was he church, and the door ened, a man came out, and then a woman, holding a lantern. They had been waiting. The woman was the one who had kept the rooms for us: she was yawning, but stretg her neck as she yawo get a good look at Maud. She made Gentleman a curtsey. The man was the parson, the vicar— whatever you call him. He made a bow. He wore a gown of dirty white, and wanted shaving. He said,

    Good-night to you. Good-night to you, miss. And what a fair night, for an escapade!

    Gentleman said only, Is everything made ready? He put his arms up to Maud,<bdi></bdi> to help her from the horse: she kept her hands upon the saddle, and slid doardly, and stepped away from him. She did not e to me, but stood alohe woman still studied her. She was studying her pale, set, handsome face, her look of siess, and I knew she was thinking—as anyone would think, I suppose—that she was in the family way, and marrying out of fear. Perhaps Gentleman had even made her think it, when he spoke to her before. For it would be all to his advantage, if it came to a challenge by Mr Lilly, for it to seem that he had had Maud in her uncles own house; and we could say the baby got miscarried, later.

    I would say it, I thought, for five hundred more.

    I thought that, even as I stood watg the woman looking at

    Maud and hating her for doing it; even as I hated myself, for thinking it. The parson came forward and made another bow.

    Alls ready indeed, sir, he said. Theres only the little matter of— In light of the special circumstances—

    Yes, yes, said Gentlemaook the parson aside and drew out his pocket-book. The horse tossed its head, but from one of the other cottages a boy had e over to lead it away. He also looked at Maud; but then he looked from her to me, and it was me he touched his cap to. Of course, he had not seen her in the saddle, and I was dressed in one of her old gowns and must have seemed quite a lady; and she stood in such a mean and shrinking kind of way, that she seemed the maid.

    She did not see it. She had her eyes upon the ground. The parson put his money away in some close pocket under his robe, then he rubbed his hands together. Well and good, he said. And should the lady like to ge her e? Should she like to visit her room? Or shall we do the joining at once?

    Well do it at once, said Gentleman, before anyone else could answer. He took off his hat and smoothed his hair, fussing a little with the curls about his ears. Maud stood very stiff. I went to her, and put her hood up nicely, aled the cloak ier folds; and then I passed my hands across her hair and cheeks. She would not look at me. Her face was cold. The hem of her skirt was dark, as if dipped in a dye for m. Her cloak had mud on it. I said, Give me your mittens, miss.—For I khat, beh them, she had her white kid gloves. I said, You had much better go to your wedding in white gloves, than buff mittens.

    She let me draw them from her, theood and crossed her hands. The woman said to me, No flower, for the lady? I looked at Gentleman. He shrugged.

    Should you like a flower, Maud? he said carelessly. She didnt answer. He said, Well, I think we shall not mind the absence of a flower. Now, sir, if you will—

    I said, You might at least get her a flower! Just one flower, for her to carry into church!

    I had not thought of it until the woman said it; but now—oh! the

    cruelty of taking her, without a bloom, to be his wife, seemed all at once a frightful thing, I could not bear it. My voice came out sounding almost wild, aleman gazed at me and frowned, and the parson looked curious, the woman sorry; and then Maud turned her eyes to me and said slowly,

    I should like a flower, Richard. I should like a flower. And Sue must have a flower, too.

    With every saying of the one word, flower, it seemed to grow a little stranger. Gentlema out his breath and began to look about him in a peevish sort of way. The parson also looked. It was half-past one or so, and very dark out of the moonlight. We stood in a muddy kind of green, with hedges of brambles. The hedges were black. If there were flowers in there, we should never have found them. I said to the woman,

    Havent you nothing we might take? Havent you a flower in a pot? She thought a mihen stepped nimbly bato her cottage; and what she came out with at last was, a sprig of dry leaves, round as shillings, white as paper, quivering on a few thin stalks that looked ready to snap.

    It was hoy. We stood and gazed at it, and no-one would . Then Maud took the stalks and divided them up, giving some to me, but keeping the most for herself. In her hands the leaves quivered harder than ever. Gentleman lit up a cigarette and took two puffs of it, then threw it away. It stayed glowing in the darkness. He o the parson, and the parson took up the lantern, and led us through the church gate and along a path between a line of tilting gravestohat the moon gave deep, sharp shadows. Maud walked with Gentleman, and he held her arm in his. I walked with the woman. We were to be witnesses. Her name was Mrs Cream.

    e far? she said.

    I did not answer.

    The church was of flint and, even with the moon on it, looked quite black. I was whitewashed, but the white had turo yellow. There were a few dles lit, about the altar and the pews, and a few moths about the dles, some dead in the wax. We did not try to sit, but went straight to the altar, and the parson stood

    before us with his Bible. He bli the page. He read, and muddled his words. Mrs Cream breathed hard, like a horse. I stood and held my poor, bent twig of hoy, and watched Maud standing at Gentlemans side, holding tight on to hers. I had kissed her. I had lain upon her. I had touched her with a sliding hand. I had called her a pearl. She had been kio me than anyone save Mrs Sucksby; and she had made me love her, when I meant only to ruin her.

    She was about to be married, and was frighteo death. And soon no-one would love her, ever again.

    I saw Gentleman look at her. The parson coughed over his book. He had got to the part of the service that asked if anybody there knew any reason as to why the man and woman before him should not be married; and he looked up through his eyebrows, and for a sed the church was still.

    I held my breath, and said nothing.

    So then he went on, looking at Maud and at Gentleman, asking the same thing of them, saying that, on the Day of Judgement they should have to give up all the awful secrets of their hearts; and had much better give them up now, and be doh it.

    Again there was a silence.

    So theuro Gentleman. Will you, he said, and all the rest of it—Will you have her and honour her, for as long as you live?

    I will, said Gentleman.

    The parson hen he faced Maud, and asked the same thing of her; and she hesitated, then spoke.

    I will, she said.

    Theleman stood a little easier. The parson stretched his throat from his collar and scratched it.

    Who gives this woman to be married? he said.

    I kept quite still, till Gentleman turo me; and then he gestured with his head, and I went and stood at Mauds side, and they showed me how I must take her hand and pass it to the parson, for him to put it into Gentlemans. I would rather Mrs Cream had do, than almost anything. Her fingers, without

    her glove, were stiff and cold as fingers made of wax. Gentlemahem, and spoke the words the parsoo him; and then Maud took his hand, and said the same words over. Her voice was so thin, it seemed to rise like smoke into the darkness, and then to vanish.

    Theleman brought a ring out, aook her hand again and put the ring over her finger, all the time repeating the parsons words, that he would worship her, and give her all his goods. The ring looked queer upon her. It seemed gold in the dle-light, but—I saw it later—it was bad.

    It was all bad, and couldnt have been worse. The parson read another prayer, then raised his hands and closed his eyes.

    These two that God has joiogether, he said, let no man put in sunder.

    And that was it.

    They were married.

    Gentleman kissed her and she stood and swayed, as if dazed. Mrs Cream said in a murmur,

    She dont know whatve hit her, look at her. Shell know it later— plum feller like him. Heh heh.

    I did not turn to her. If I had, I should have punched her. The parson shut his Bible and led us from the altar to the room where they kept the register. Here Gentleman wrote his name and Maud— who was now to be Mrs Rivers—wrote hers; and Mrs Cream and I put ours beh them. Gentleman had already shown me how to write Smith; but still, I wrote it clumsily and was ashamed.— Ashamed, of that! The room was dark and smelled of damp. In the beams, things fluttered—perhaps birds, perhaps bats. I saw Maud gazing at the shadows, as if afraid the things should swoop.

    Gentleman took her arm and held it, and then he led her from the church. There had e clouds before the moon, and the night was darker. The parson shook hands with us, then made Maud a bow; then he went off. He went fast, and as he walked he took his robe off, and his clothes were black beh it—he seemed to snuff himself out like a light. Mrs Cream took us to her

    cottage. She carried the lantern, and we walked behind her, stumbling on her path: her doorway was low, and knocked Gentlemans hat off. She took us up a set of tilting stairs too narrow for our skirts, and then to a landing, about as big as a cupboard, where we all jostled about for a moment and the cuff of Mauds cloak got laid upon the ey of the lantern and was singed.

    There were two shut doors there, leading to the two little bedrooms of the house. The first had a narrow straw mattress on a pallet on the floor, and was for me. The sed had a bigger bed, an arm-chair and a press, and was fentleman and Maud. She went into it, and stood with her eyes on the floor, looking at nothing. There was a single dle lit. Her bags lay beside the bed. I went to them and took her things out, one by one, and put them in the press. Mrs Cream said, What handsome linen!—-She was watg from the dentleman stood with her, looking stra was him that had taught me the handling of a petticoat but now, seeiake out Mauds shimmies and stogs, he seemed almost afraid. He said,

    Well, I shall smoke a final cigarette downstairs. Sue, youll make things fortable up here?

    I did not answer. He and Mrs Cream went down, their boots sounding loud as thunder and the door and the boards and the crooked staircase trembling. I heard him outside then, striking a match.

    I looked at Maud. She was still holding the stalks of hoy. She took a step towards me and said quickly,

    If I should call out to you later, will you e?

    I took the flowers from her, and then the cloak. I said, Dont think of it; It will be<s></s> over in a minute.

    She caught hold of my wrist with her right hand, that still had the glove upon it. She said, Listen to me, I mean it. Never mind what he does. If I call out to you, say youll e. Ill give you money for it.

    Her voice was strange. Her fingers shook, yet gripped me hard. The thought of her giving me so much as a farthing was awful. I said,

    Where are your drops? Look, theres water here, you might take your drops and they will make you sleep.

    Sleep? she said. She laughed and caught her breath. Do you think I want to sleep, on my wedding-night?

    She pushed my hand away. I stood at her bad began to undress her. When I had taken her gown and her corset I turned and said, quietly,

    You had better use the pot. You had better wash ys, before he es.

    I think she shuddered. I did not watch her, but heard the splash of water. Then I bed her hair. There was no glass for her to stand at, and whe into the bed she looked to her side and there was no table, no box, no portrait, no light—I saw her put out her hand as if blind.

    Then the house-door closed, and she fell bad seized the blas and pulled them high about her breast. Against the white of the pillow her face seemed dark; yet I khat it ale. We heard Gentleman and Mrs Cream, talking together in the room below. Their voices came clearly. There were gaps between the boards, and a faint light showed.

    I looked at Maud. She met my gaze. Her eyes were black, but gleamed like glass. Will you look away, still? she said, in a whisper, when she saw me turn my head. Then I turned back. I could not help it, though her face was awful, it was terrible to see. Gentleman talked on. Some breeze got into the room and made the dle-flame dip. I shivered. Still she held my gaze with hers. Then she spoke again.

    e here, she said.

    I shook my head. She said it again. I shook my head again—but theo her, anyway—went softly to her across the creaking boards, and she lifted her arms and drew my face to hers, and kissed me. She kissed me, with her sweet mouth, made salt with her tears; and I could not help but kiss her back—felt my heart, now like i my breast, and now like water, running, from the heat of her lips.

    But then she did this. She kept her fingers upon my head and pushed my mouth toainst hers; and she seized my hand

    and took it, first to her bosom, then to where the blas dipped, between her legs. There she rubbed with my fingers until they burned.

    The quick, sweet feeling her kiss had called up iuro something like horror, or fear. I pulled from her, and drew my hand away. Wont you do it? she said softly, reag after me. Didnt you do it before, for the sake of this night? t you leave me to him now, with your kisses on my mouth, your touch upohere, to help me bear his the better?—Dont go! She seized me again. You went, before. You said I dreamed you. Im not dreaming now. I wish I were! God knows, God knows, I wish I were dreaming, and might wake up a Briar again!

    Her fingers slipped from my arm and she fell bad sagged against her pillow; and I stood, clasping and unclasping my hands, afraid of her look, of her words, of her rising voice; afraid she might shriek, or swoon—afraid, God damhat she might cry out, loud enough fentleman or Mrs Cream to hear, that I had kissed her.

    Hush! Hush! I said. You are married to him now. You must be different. You are a wife. You must—

    I fell silent. She lifted her head. Below, the light had been taken up and moved. Gentlemans boots came loud again upon the narrow stairs. I heard him slow his step, theate at the door. Perhaps he was w if he should knock, as he had used to knock at Briar. At last he slowly put his thumb to the latch, and came in.

    Are you ready? he said.

    He brought the chill of the night in with him. I did not say another word, to him or to her. I did not look at her face. I went to my own room and lay upon my bed. I lay, in the darkness, in my cloak and my gown, my head between the pillow and the mattress; and all I heard, each time I woke in the night, was the creeping, creeping of little creatures through the straw beh my cheek.

    In the m, Gentleman came to my room. He came in his shirtsleeves.

    She wants you, to dress her, he said.

    He took his breakfast downstairs. Maud had been brought up a tray, with a plate upon it. The plate held eggs and a kidney; she had not touched them. She sat very still, in the arm-chair beside the window; and I saw at once how it would be with her, now. Her face was smooth, but dark about the eyes. Her hands were bare. The yell glittered. She looked at me, as she looked at everything—the plate of eggs, the view beyond the window, the gown I held up to place over her head—with a soft, odd, distant kind of gaze; and when I spoke to her, to ask her some trifling thing, she listened, and waited, then answered and blinked, as if the question, and the answer—even the movement of her own throat making the words—were all perfectly surprising and strange.

    I dressed her, and she sat again beside the window. She kept her hands bent at the wrist, the fingers slightly lifted, as if even to let them rest against the soft stuff of her wide skirt might be to hurt them.

    She held her head at a tilt. I thought she might be listening for the chiming of the house-bell at Briar. But she never mentioned her uncle, or her old life, at all.

    I took her pot aied it, in the privy behind the house. At the foot of the stairs Mrs Cream came to me. She had a sheet over her arm. She said,

    Mr Rivers says the linen on the bed needs ging.

    She looked as if she would like to wink. I would not gaze at her long enough to let her. I had fotten about this part. I went slowly up the stairs and she came behind me, breathing harder than ever. She made Maud a kind of curtsey, theo the bed and drew back the blas. There were a few spots of dark blood there, that had been rolled upon and smeared. She stood and looked at them, and then she caught my eye—as much as to say, Well, I shouldnt have believed it. Quite a little love-match, after all! Maud sat gazing out of the window. From the room downstairs came the squeak of Gentlemans knife on his plate. Mrs Cream raised the sheet, to see if the blood had marked the mattress underh; it hadnt, and that pleased her.

    I helped her ge it, then saw her to the door. She had made another curtsey, and seen Mauds queer, soft gaze.

    Took it hard, have she? she whispered. Maybe missing her ma?

    I said nothing at first. Then I remembered our plot, and what was to happeer, I thought drearily, to make it happen soon. I stood otle landing with her and closed the door. I said quietly,

    Hard aint the word for it. Theres trouble, up here. Mr Rivers dotes on her and wont bear gossip—he has brought her to this quiet place, hoping the try air will calm her.

    Calm her? she said then. You mean—? Bless me! She aint likely to break out—turn the pigs loose—set the place afire?

    No, no, I said. She is only—only too mu her head.

    Poor lady, said Mrs Cream. But I could see her thinking. She hadnt bargained on having a mad girl in the house. And whenever she brought a tray up then, she looked sideways at Maud a down very quick, as if afraid she might get bitten.

    She doesnt like me, said Maud, after she saw her do that two or three times; and I swallowed and said, Not like you? What an idea! Why should she not like you?

    I t say, she answered quietly, looking down at her hands.

    Later Gentleman heard her say it, too; and the me on my own. Thats good, he said. Keep Mrs Cream in fear of her, and her in fear of Mrs Cream, while seeming not tood. That will help us, when it es time to call in the doctor.

    He gave it a week before he sent for him. I thought it the worst week of my life. He had told Maud they should stay a day; but on the se he looked at her and said,

    How pale you are, Maud! I think you arent quite well. I think we ought to stay a little longer, until your strength es back to you.

    Stay longer? she said. Her voice was dull. But t we go, to your house in London?

    I really think you are not well enough.

    Not well? But, I am quite well—you must only ask Sue. Sue, wont you tell Mr Rivers how well I am?

    She sat and shook. I said nothing. Just a day or two more, said Gentleman. Until you are rested. Until you are calm. Perhaps, if you were to keep more to the bed—?

    She began to weep. He went to her side, and that made her shudder and weep harder. He said, Oh, Maud, it tears at my heart to see you like this! If I thought it would be a fort to you, of course I should take you to London at once—I should carry you, in my own arms—do you think I would not? But do you look at yourself now, and still tell me you are well?

    I dont know, she said then. It is se here. Im afraid, Richard—

    And wont it be stranger, in London? And shouldnt you be frightehere, where its so loud and crowded and dark? Oh, no, this is the place to keep you. Here you have Mrs Cream, to make you fortable—

    Mrs Cream hates me.

    Hates you? Oh, Maud. Now yrowing foolish; and I should be sorry to think you that; and Sue should also be sorry— shouldnt you, Sue? I would not answer. Of course she would, he said, with his hard blue eyes on mine. Maud looked at me, too, then looked away. Gentleman took her head in his hands and kissed her brow.

    There now, he said. Let us have no more argument. Well stay another day—only a day, until that paleness is driven from your cheek, and your eyes are bright again!

    He said the same thing then, the  day. On the fourth day he was stern with her—said she seemed to mean to disappoint him, to make him wait, when he longed only to carry her back to Chelsea as his bride; then on the fifth day, he took her in his arms and almost wept, and said he loved her.

    After that, she did not ask how long they were to stay there. Her cbbr></abbr>heek never grew rosy. Her eye stayed dull. Gentleman told Mrs Cream to make her every kind of nourishing dish, and what she

    brought were mgs, more kidneys, livers, greasy bas and puddings of blood. The meat made the room smell sour. Maud could eat none of it. I ate it instead—sinebody must. I ate it, and she only sat beside the window gazing out, turning the ring upon her finger, stretg her hands, or drawing a strand of hair across her mouth.

    Her hair was dull as her eyes. She would not let me wash it—she would hardly let me brush it, she said she couldhe scraping of the b upon her head. She kept in the gown she had travelled from Briar in, that had mud about the hem. Her best gown—a silk one—she gave to me. She said,

    Why should I wear it, here? I had much rather see you in it. You had much better wear it, tha lie in the press.

    Our fiouched beh the silk, and we flinched and stepped apart. She had ried to kiss me, after that first night.

    I took the dress. It helped to pass the awful hours, sittiing out the waist; and she seemed to like to watch me sew it. When I had fi, and put it on and stood before her, her expression was strange. How well you look! she said, her blood rising. The colour sets off your eyes and hair. I k would. Now you are quite the beauty—arent you? And I am plain—dont you think?

    I had got her a little looking-glass from Mrs Cream. She caught it up irembling hand and came and held it before our faces. I remembered the time she had dressed me up, in her old room, and called us sisters; and how gay she had seemed then, and how plump and careless. She had liked to stand before her glass and make herself look fair, fentleman. Now—I saw it! I saw it, in the desperate slyness of her gaze!—now she was glad to see herself grown plain. She thought it meant he would not want her.

    I could have told her ohat he would want her anyway.

    Now, I dont know what he did with her. I never spoke to him more than I had to. I did everything that was needed, but I did it all in a thick, miserable kind of trance, shrinking from thought and feeling—I was as low, almost, as she was. Aleman, to do him justice, seemed troubled on his own at. He only came to

    kiss or bully her, a little while each day; the rest of the time he sat in Mrs Creams parlour, lighting cigarettes—the smoke came rising through the floor, to mix with the smell of the meat, the chamberpot, the sheets on the bed. Once or twice he went riding. He went for news of Mr Lilly—but heard only that the word was, there was some queer stir at Briar, no-one knew quite what. In the evenings he would stand at a fe the back of the house, looking over the black-faced pigs; or he would walk a little, in the lane or about the churchyard. He would walk, however, as if he kneatched him—not in the old, show-off way he had used to stretd smoke his cigarettes, but with a twitch to his step, as if he could not bear the feel of azes on his back.

    Then at night I would undress her, and he would e, and I would leave them, and lie alone, with my head between my pillow and my rustling mattress.

    I should have said he o do it to her only the once. I should have thought he might have been frightened he should get her with child. But there were other things I thought he might like her to do, now he had learned how smooth her hands were, how soft her bosom was, how warm and glib her mouth.

    And every m, when I went in to her, she seemed paler and thinner and in more of a daze than she had seemed the night before; and he caught my eye less, and plucked at his whiskers, his swagger all gone.

    He at least knew what a dreadful business he was about, the bloody villain.

    At last he sent for the doctor to e.

    I heard him writing the letter in Mrs Creams parlour. The doctor was one he knew. I believe he had been crooked once, perhaps in the ladies medie line, and had taken to the madhouse business as being more safe. But the crookedness, for us, was only a security. He wasnt in olemans plot. Gentleman wouldnt have cared to cut the cash with him.

    Besides, the story was too sound. And there was Mrs Cream to back it. Maud was young, she was fey, and had bee from the

    world. She had seemed to love Gentleman, and he loved her; but they hadnt been married an hour before she started to turn queer.

    I think any doctor would have done what that one did, hearilemans story, and seeing Maud, and me, as we were then.

    He came with another man—another doctor, his assistant. You wo doctors words to put a lady away. Their house was near Reading. Their coach was odd-looking, with blinds like louvred shutters and, on its back, spikes. They came not to take Maud, though—not that time; only to study her. The taking came later.

    Gentleman told her they were two of his painter friends. She seemed not to care. She let me wash her and make her dull hair a little er, and tidy her gown; but then she kept to her chair, saying nothing. Only when she saw their coach pull up did she stare, and begin to breathe a little quicker—and I wondered if she had noticed the blinds and the spikes, as I had. The dot dowlema quickly out to talk with them, and they shook hands and put their heads together, and looked slyly up at our window.

    Theleman came back, ahem waiting. He came upstairs. He was rubbing his hands together and smiling. He said,

    Well, what do you think! Here are my friends Graves and Christie, e down to visit from London. You remember, Maud, I spoke to you of them? I dont believe they thought me really married! They have e to see the phenomenon for themselves.

    Still he smiled. Maud would not look at him.

    Shall you mind it, dear, he said, if I bring them to you? I have left them now with Mrs Cream.

    I could hear them, then, in the parlour, talking in low, serious voices. I knew what questions they were asking, and what answers Mrs Cream would make. Gentleman waited for Maud to speak and, when she said nothing, looked at me. He said,

    Sue, will you e with me a moment?

    He made a gesture with his eyes. Maud gazed after us, blinking. I went with him to the crooked landing, and he closed the door at my back.

    I think you should leave her with me, he said quietly, when they

    go to her. I shall watch her, then; perhaps make her nervous. It keeps her too calm, having you always about her.

    I said, Dohem hurt her.

    Hurt her? He almost laughed. These men are sdrels. They like to keep their lunatics safe. Theyd have them in fire-proof vaults if they could, like bullion; and so live off the ihey wont hurt her. But they know their business, too, and a sdal would ruin them. My word is good, but they shall o look at her and talk to her; and they shall also o talk to you. Youll know how to answer, of course.

    I made a face. Will I? I said.

    He narrowed his eyes. Dont make game of me, Sue. Not now we are so close. Youll know what to say?

    I shrugged, still sulky. I think so.

    Good girl. I shall bring them first to you.

    He made to put his hand upon me. I dodged it and stepped away. I went to my little room, and waited. The doctors came after a moment. Gentleman came with them, then closed the door and stood before it, his eyes on my face.

    They were tall men, like him, and one of them was stout. They were dressed in black jackets aic boots. When they moved, the floor, the walls and the window gave a shudder. Only one of them—the thinner one—spoke; the other just watched. They made me a bow, and I curtseyed.

    Ah, said the speaking doctor quietly, when I did that. His name was Dr Christie. Now, you knoe are, I think? You wont mind, if we ask you what might seem imperti questions? We are friends of Mr Riverss, and very curious to hear about his marriage, and his new wife.

    Yes, I said. You mean, my mistress.

    Ah, he said again. Your mistress. Now, refresh my memory. Who is she?

    Mrs Rivers, I said. That was Miss Lilly.

    Mrs Rivers, that was Miss Lilly. Ah.

    He he silent doctraves—took out a pencil and a book. The first o on:

    Your mistress. And you are—?

    Her maid, sir.

    Of course. And what is your name?

    Dr Graves held his pencil, ready to write. Gentleman caught my eye, and nodded. Susan Smith, sir, I said.

    Dr Christie looked at me harder. You seemed to hesitate, he said. That is your name, you are quite sure?

    I should say I know my own name! I said.

    Of course.

    He smiled. My heart still beat hard. Perhaps he saw it. He seemed to grow kind. He said,

    Well, Miss Smith,  you tell us now, how long you have known your mistress . . .?

    It was like the time, at Lant Street, when I had stood befentleman and he had put me through my character. I told them about Lady Aliayfair, alemans old nurse, and my dead mother; and then about Maud. I said she had seemed to like Mr Rivers but now, a week after her wedding-night, she was grown very sad and careless of herself, and made me afraid.

    Dr Graves wrote it all down. Dr Christie said,

    Afraid. Do you mean, for your own sake?

    I said, Not for mine, sir. For hers. I think she might harm herself, she is so miserable.

    I see, he said. Then: You are fond of your mistress. You have spoken very kindly of her. Now, will you tell me this. What care do you think your mistress ought to have, that would make her better?

    I said, I think—

    Yes?

    I wish—

    He nodded. Go on.

    I wish you would keep her, sir, and watch her, I said in a rush. I wish you would keep her some place where no-one could touch her, or hurt her—

    My heart seemed all at once high in my throat, and my voice oiled with tears. Gentleman still had his eyes upohe

    doctor took my hand and held it, close about the wrist, in a familiar way.

    There, there, he said. You must not be so distressed. Your mistress shall have everything you wish for her. She has been lucky, io have had so good and faithful a servant, as you!

    He patted and smoothed my hand, the go. He looked at his watch. He caught Gentlemans eye, and nodded. Very good, he said. Very good. Now, if you might just show us—?

    Of course, said Gentleman quickly. Of course. This way He opehe door, and they turheir black backs to me and all moved off. I watched them do it, and was gripped suddenly by a feeling—I could not say if it was misery, or fear. I took a step and called out after them.

    She dont like eggs, sir! I called. Dr Christie half turned. I had lifted my hand. Now I let it fall. She dont like eggs, I said more feebly, in any kind of dish.

    It was all I could think of. He smiled, and bowed; but in a hum kind of way. Dr Graves wrote—or preteo write— in his book, Dont care fs. Gentlemahem both across to Mauds room. Then he came bae.

    Youll keep here, until theyve seen her? he said.

    I did not answer. He shut my door. But those walls were like paper: I heard them move about, caught the rumble of the doctors questions; then, after a minute or so, came the thin rising and falling of her tears.

    They did not stay with her long. I suppose they had all they needed, from me and Mrs Cream. When they had gone I went to her, aleman was standing behind her chair, holding her pale head between his hands. He had been leaning to gaze at her, perhaps to whisper and tease. When he saw me e he straightened and said,

    Look, Sue, at your mistress. Dont you think her eyes a little brighter?

    They were bright, with the last of her tears still in them; and they were red at the rims.

    Are you well, miss? I said.

    She is well, said Gentleman. I think the pany of friends has cheered her. I think those dear good fellows, Christie and Graves, were quite delighted with her; and you tell me, Sue, when did a lady ever not begin to flourish, under a gentlemans delight?

    She turned her head and raised her hand, and plucked a little weakly at his pressing fingers. He stood holding her face a moment lohen stepped away.

    What a fool Ive been, he said to me. Ive asked Mrs Rivers to grow strong, in this quiet place, thinking the quietness would help her. Now I see that what she needs is the bustle of the city. Graves and Christie saw it, too. They are so eager to have us joi Chelsea—why, Christie is giving us the use of his own coad driver! We are to leave tomorrow. Maud, what do you say to that?

    She had turned her gaze to the window. Now she lifted her head to him, and a little blood struggled into her white cheeks.

    Tomorrow? she said. So soon as that?

    He omorrow well go. To a great house, with fine, quiet rooms, and good servants in it, that waits there just for you.

    day she put her breakfast of eggs a aside, as usual; but even I could  it. I dressed her without looking at her. I knew every part of her. She wore the old gown still, that was stained with mud, and I wore the handsome silk one. She would not let me ge out of it, even for travelling, though I k would crease.

    I thought of wearing it ba the Bh. I could not believe that I would be at home again, with Mrs Sucksby, before it was dark.

    I packed her bags. I did it slowly, hardly feeling the things I touched. Into one bag went her linen, her slippers, her sleeping-drops, a bo, a brush—that was for her to take to the madhouse. Into the other went everything else. That was for me. Only that white glove I think I have mentioned, did I keep to one side; and when the bags were filled I put it, ly, ihe bodiy gown, over my heart.

    The coach came, and we were ready. Mrs Cream saw us to the door. Maud wore a veil. I helped her dowilting staircase, and

    she gripped my arm. Wheepped out of the cottage she gripped it tighter. She had kept to her room for more than a week. She flinched from the sight of the sky and the black church, and seemed to feel the soft air hard upon her cheek, even through her veil, like a hand that slapped her.

    I put my fingers over hers.

    God bless you, maam! cried Mrs Cream, wheleman had paid her. She stood and watched us. The boy who had taken our horse, that first night, noeared again, to see us leaving; and one or two other boys also came to stare, and to stand at the side of the coach, pigat the doors, where an old gold crest had been painted out black. The driver flicked his whip at them. He fastened s upon the roof, thehe steps dowleman handed Maud in, drawing her fingers from mine. He caught my eye.

    Now, now, he said, in a warning sort of way. No time for se.

    She sat and leaned her head back, a beside her. I sat opposite. There were no hao the doors, only a key, like the key to a safe: when the driver closed them Gentleman made them fast, then put the key in his pocket.

    How long will we travel? asked Maud.

    He said, An hour.

    It seemed lohan an hour. It seemed like a life. The day was a warm one. Where the sun struck the glass it made the carriage very hot, but the windows had been fixed not to open—I suppose, so a lunatic should not have the ce to leap out. At last Gentleman pulled a cord to make the blinds close, a jolting in the heat and the darkness, not speaking. In time I began to grow sick. I saw Mauds head rolling against the padding of the seat, but could not see if her eyes were open or closed. She kept her hands before her, clasped.

    Gentleman fidgeted, however, loosening his collar, looking at his watch, plug at his cuffs. Two or three times he took out his handkerchief and wiped off his brow. Every time the coach slowed, he leaned close to the window to peer through the louvres. Then it

    slowed so hard it came almost to a stop, and began to turn: he looked again, sat straight and tightened his ie.

    We are almost there, he said.

    Maud turned her head to him. The coach slowed again. I pulled the cord that moved the blinds. We were at the start of a green lane, with a stone arch across it and, beh that, iron gates. A man was drawing them back. The coach gave a jerk, and we drove along the lail we reached the house at the end. It was just like at Briar, though this house was smaller, aer. Its windows had bars on them. I watched Maud, to see what she would do. She had put back her veil and was gazing from the window in her old dull way; but behind the dullness I thought I saw a rising kind of knowledge or dread.

    Dont be afraid, said Gentleman.

    That was all he said. I dont know if he said it to her, or to me. The coach made aurn, and stopped. Dr Graves and Dr Christie were there, waiting for us, with beside them a great stout woman, her sleeves pushed up to her elbows and her gown covered over with an apron of vas, like a butchers. Dr Christie came forward. He had a key like Gentlemans, a up the lock from his side. Maud fli the sound. Gentleman put his hand upon her. Dr Christie made a bow.

    Good day, he said. Mr Rivers. Miss Smith. Mrs Rivers, you remember me of course?

    He held out his hand.

    He held it to me.

    There was a sed, I think, of perfect stillness. I looked at him, and he nodded. Mrs Rivers? he said again. Theleman leaned and caught hold of my arm. I thought at first he meant to keep me in my seat; then I uood that he was trying to press me from it. The doctor took my other arm. They got me to my feet. My shoes caught upoeps. I said,

    Wait! What are you doing? What—?

    Dont struggle, Mrs Rivers, said the doctor. We are here to care for you.

    He waved his hand, and Dr Graves and the woman came forward. I said,

    Its not me you want! What are you doing? Mrs Rivers? Im Susan Smith! Gentlemalemahem!

    Dr Christie shook his head.

    Still keeping up the old, sad fi? he said to Gentleman.

    Gentleman nodded and said nothing, as if he were too unhappy to speak. I hope he was! He turned and took down one of the bags—one of Mauds mothers bags. Dr Christie held me tighter. Now, he said, how  you be Susan Smith, late of Whelk Street, Mayfair? Dont you know theres no such place? e, you do know it. And we shall have you admitting it, though it take us a year. Now, dont twist so, Mrs Rivers! You are spoiling your handsome dress.

    I had struggled against his grip. At his words, I grew slack. I gazed at my sleeve of silk, and at my own arm, that had got plump and smooth with careful feeding; and then at the bag at my feet, with its letters of brass—the M, and the L.

    It was in that sed that I guessed, at last, the filthy trick that Gentleman had played on me.

    I howled.

    You bloody swine! I cried, twisting again, and pulling towards him. You fuckster! Oh!

    He stood in the doorway of the coach, making it tilt. The dripped me harder and his face grew stern.

    Theres no place for words like those in my house, Mrs Rivers, he said.

    You sod, I said to him. t you see what hes done? t you see the dodge of it? It aint me you want, its—

    I still pulled, aill held me; but now I looked past him, to the swaying coach. Gentleman had moved back, his hand before his face. Beyond him, the light in bars upon her from the louvred blinds, sat Maud. Her face was thin, her hair was dull. Her dress was worn with use, like a servants dress. Her eyes were wild, with tears starting in them; but beyond the tears, her gaze was hard. Hard as marble, hard as brass.

    Hard as a pearl, and the grit that lies i.

    Dr Christie saw me looking.

    Now, why do you stare? he said. You know your own maid, I think?

    I could not speak. She could, however. She said, in a trembling voiot her own:

    My own poor mistress. Oh! My heart is breaking!

    You thought her a pigeon. Pigeon, my arse. That bitew everything. She had been in on it from the start.

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