Chapter Ten
百度搜索 Fingersmith 天涯 或 Fingersmith 天涯在线书库 即可找到本书最新章节.
The letter works upon me like the snap of a mesmerists fingers: _y I blink, look giddily about me, as if emerging from a trance. I look at Sue: at her hand, at the mark of my mouth upon it. I look at the pillows upon my bed, with the dints of our two heads. I look at the flowers in their vase oable-top, at the fire in my grate. The room is too warm. The room is too warm a I am still trembling, as if cold. She sees it. She catches my eye, and nods to the paper in my hand. Good news, miss? she asks; and it is as if the letter has worked some trick upon<dfn>9９lｉｂ?</dfoo: for her voice seems light to me—dreadfully light—and her face seems sharp. She puts away the thimble; but watches, watches. I eet her gaze.Richard is ing. Does she feel it, as I do? She gives no sign. She walks, she sits, as easily as before. She eats her lunch. She takes out my mothers playing-cards, begins the patient dealing-out of solitary games. I stand at the glass and, in refle, see her reach to take a card and place it, turn it, set it upon another, raise up the
kings, pull out the aces ... I look at my fad think what makes it mihe certain curve of cheek, the lip too full, too plump, too pink.
At last she gathers the pack together and says that if I will shuffle and hold it, and wish, she will study the fall of the cards and tell me my future. She says it, apparently quite without irony; ae myself I am drawn to her side, and sit, and clumsily mix the cards, and she takes them <big>.99ｌｉｂ?</big>and lays them down. These show your past, she says, and these your present. Her eyes grow wide. She seems suddenly young to me: for a moment we bend our heads and whisper as I think other, ordinary girls, in ordinary parlours or schools or sculleries, might whisper: Here is a young man, look, on horseback. Here is a journey. Here is the Queen of Diamonds, for wealth—
I have a brooch that is set with brilliants. I think of it now. I think—as I have, before, though not in many days—of Sue, breathing proprietorially over the stones, gauging their worth . . .
After all, we are not ordinary girls, in an ordinary parlour; and she is ied in my fortune only as she supposes it hers. Her eye grows narrow again. Her voice lifts out of its whisper and is only pert. I move away from her while she sits gathering the deck, turning the cards in her hands and frowning. She has let one fall, and has not seen it: the two of hearts. I place my heel upon it, imagining one of the painted red hearts my own; and I grind it into the carpet.
She finds it, when I have risen, and tries to smooth the crease from it; then plays on at Patience, as doggedly as before.
I look, again, at her hands. They have grown whiter, and are healed about the nails. They are small, and in gloves will seem smaller; and then will resemble my own.
This must be dohis should have been done, before. Richard is ing, and I am overtaken by a sense of duties u: a panig sehat hours, days—dark, devious fish of time—have slithered by, uncaptured. I pass a fretful night. Then, when we rise and she es to dress me, I pluck at the frill on the sleeve of her gown.
Have you no own, I say, than this plain brown thing you always wear?
She says she has not. I take, from my press, a velvet gown, and have her try it. She bares her arms unwillingly, steps out of her skirt and turns, in a kind of modesty, away from my eyes. The gown is narrow. I tug at the hooks. I settle the folds of cloth about her hips, then go to my box for a brooch—that brooch of brilliants—and pin it carefully over her heart.
Then I stand her before the glass.
Margaret es, and takes her for me.
I have growo her, to the life, the warmth, the particularity of her; she has bee, not the gullible girl of a villainous plot—not Suky Tawdry—but a girl with a history, with hates and likings. Now all at once I see how o me in fad figure shell e, and I uand, as if for the first time, what it is that Richard and I mean to do. I place my face against the post of my bed and watch her, gazing at herself in a rising satisfa, turning a little to the left, a little to the right, brushing the creases from her skirt, settling her flesh more fortably into the seams of the gown. If my aunty could see me! she says, growing pink; and I think, then, of who might be waiting for her, in that dark thieves den in London: the aunt, the mother randmother. I think how restless she must be, as she ts off the lengthening days that keep her little fin-gersmith on perilous business, far from home. I imagine her, as she waits, taking out some small thing of Sues—some sash, some necklace, some bracelet of gaudy charms—and turning it, over and over, in her hands . . .
She will turn it for ever, though she does not know it yet. Nor does Sue suppose that the last time she kissed her aunts hard cheek was the last of all her life.
I think of that; and I am gripped with what I take to be pity. It is hard, painful, surprising: I feel it, and am afraid. Afraid of what my future may e. Afraid of that future itself, and of the unfamiliar, ungovernable emotions with which it might be filled.
She does not know it. He must not know it, either. He es that
afternoon—es, as he used to e, in the days of Agakes my hand, holds my gaze with his, bends to kiss my knuckles. Miss Lilly/ he says, in a tone of caress. He is dressed darkly, ly; yet carries his daring, his fidence, close and gaudy about him, like swirls of colour or perfume. I feel the heat of his mouth, even through my gloves. Theurns to Sue, and she makes a curtsey. The stiff-bodiced dress is not made for curtseying in, however: the dip is a jagged ohe fringes upon her skirt tumble together ao shake. Her colour rises. I see him smile as he . But I see, too, that he marks the goerhaps also the whiteness of her fingers. I should have supposed her a lady, Im sure, he says, to me. He moves to her side. There, he seems tall, and darker than ever, like a bear; and she seems slight. He takes her hand, his fingers moving about hers: they seem large, also—his thumb extends almost to the bone of her wrist. He says, I hope you are proving a good girl for your mistress, Sue.
She gazes at the floor. I hope I am, too, sir. I take a step. She is a very good girl, I say. A very good girl, indeed.
But the words are hasty, imperfect. He catches my eye, draws back his thumb. Of course, he says smoothly, she could not help but be good. No girl could help it, Miss Lilly, with you for her example.
You are too kind, I say.
leman could but be, I think, with you to be kind to. He keeps his gaze on mine. He has picked me out, found sympathies in me, means to pluck me from the heart of Briar, unscratched; and I would not be myself, o my uncle, if I could meet the look he shows me now without feeling the stir of some excitement, dark and awful, in my ow. But I feel it too hard, and grow almost queasy. I smile; but the smile stretches tight. Sue tilts her head. Does she suppose me smiling at my own love? The thought makes the smile tighter still, I begin to feel it as an ache about my throat. I avoid her eye, and his. He goes, but makes her step to him and they stand a moment, murmuring at the door. He gives her a —I see the yellow gleam of it—he puts it into
her hand, closes her fingers about it with his own. His nail shows brown against the fresh pink of her palm. She falls in another awkward curtsey.
Now my smile is fixed like the grima the face of a corpse. Wheurns back, I ot look at her. I go to my dressing-room and close the door, lie face down upon my bed, and am seized and shaken by laughter—a terrible laughter, it courses silently through me, like filthy water—I shudder, and shudder, and finally am still.
How do you find your new girl, Miss Lilly? he asks me at dinner, his eyes upon his plate. He is carefully parti from the spine of a fish—the bone so pale and so fi is almost translut, the meat in a thiing coating of butter and sauce. Our food es cold to the table in winter. In summer it es too warm.
I say, Very—biddable, Mr Rivers.
You think she will suit?
I think so, yes.
You wont have cause to plain, of my reendation?
No.
Well, I am relieved to hear it.
He will always say too much, for the sport of the thing. My uncle is watg. Whats this? he says now.
I wipe my mouth. My new maid, Uncle, I answer. Miss Smith, who replaces Miss Fee. Youve seen her, often.
Heard her, more like, kig the soles of her boots against my library door. What of her?
She came to me on Mr Riverss word. He found her in London, in need of a place; and was so kind as to remember me.
My uncle moves his tongue. Was he? he says slowly. He looks from me to Richard, from Richard bae, his a little raised, as if sensing dark currents. Miss Smith, you say?
Miss Smith, I repeat steadily, who replaces Miss Fee. I en my knife and fork. Miss Fee, the papist.
The papist! Ha! He returedly to his ow. Now, Rivers, he says as he does it.
Sir?
I defy you—positively defy you, sir!—to name me any institution so nurturing of the atrocious acts of lechery as the Catholic Church of Rome
He does not look at me again until supper is ehen has me read for an hour from an antique text, The Nunns plaint Against the Fryars.
Richard sits and hears me, perfectly still. But when I have finished and rise to leave, he rises also: Let me, he says. We walk together the little way to the door. My uncle does not lift his head, but keeps his gaze on his own smudged hands. He has a little pearl-handled ks a blade sharpened almost to a crest, with which he is paring the skin from an apple—one of the small, dry, bitter apples that grow in the Briar orchard.
Richard checks to see that his gaze is turhen looks at me frankly. His tone he keeps polite, however. I must ask you, he says, if you wish to tih your drawing-lessons, now that Im returned? I hope you do. He waits. I do not answer. Shall I e, as usual, tomorrow? He waits again. He has his hand upon the door and has drawn it baot far enough, though, to let me step about it; nor does he pull it further when he sees me wishing to pass. Instead, his look grows puzzled. You mustnt be modest, he says. He means, You mustnt be weak. You are not, are you?
I shake my head.
Good, then. I shall e, at the usual time. You must show me the work youve done while Ive been away. I should say a little more labour and—well, who knows? We might be ready to surprise your uh the fruits of your instru. What do you think? Shall we give it awo weeks? Two weeks or, at the most, three?
Again, I feel the nerve and daring of him, feel my own blood rise to meet it. But there es, beh or beyond it, a sinking, a fluttering—a vague and nameless movement—a sort of panic. He waits for my reply, and the fluttering grows wilder. lotted so carefully. We have itted, already, one dreadful deed, a in train another. I know all that must be done now. I know I must seem
to love him, let him appear to wihen fess his winning to Sue. How easy it should be! How I have longed for it! How hard I have gazed at the walls of my uncles estate, wishing they might part and release me! But now that the day of our escape is close, I hesitate; and am afraid to say why. I gaze again at my uncles hands, the pearl, the apple giving up its skin to the knife.
Let us say, three weeks—perhaps longer, I say finally. Perhaps longer, should I feel I .
A look of irritatier disturbs the surface of his face; but when he speaks, he makes his voice soft. You are modest. Your talent is better than that. Three weeks will do it, I assure you.
He draws back the door at last and bows me out. And though I do not turn, I know he lio watch me mount the stairs—as solicitous for my safety, as any of my uncles gentlemen friends.
He will grow more solicitous, soon; but for now, at least, the days fall bato something like a familiar pattern. He passes his ms at work on the prints, then es to my rooms, to teach me drawing—to keep close to me, that is to say; to look and to murmur, while I daub paint on card; to be grave and ostentatiously gallant.
The days fall ba their pattern—except that, where before they had Agnes in them, now they have Sue.
And Sue is not like Agnes. She knows more. She knows her own worth and purpose. She knows she must listen and watch, to see that Mr Rivers does not e too close, or speak too fidentially, to her mistress; but she also knows that when he does e near she is to turn her head aside and be deaf to his whispers. She does turn her head, I see her do it; but I see her, too, steal gla us from the edge of her eye—study our refles in the ey-glass and windows—watch our very shadows! The room, in which I have passed so many captive hours I know it as a prisoner knows his cell—the room seems ged to me now. It seems filled with shining surfaces, eae an eye of hers.
When those eyes meet mihey are veiled and blameless. But when they meet Richards, I see the leap of knowledge or uanding that passes between them; and I ot look at her.
For of course, though she knows much, what she has is a terfeit knowledge, and worthless; and her satisfa in the keeping of it—in the nursing of what she supposes her secret—is awful to me. She does not know she is the hinge of all our scheme, the point about which our plot turns; she thinks I am that point. She does not suspect that, in seeming to mock me, Richard mocks her: that after he has turo her in private, perhaps to smile, perhaps to grimace, he turns to me, and smiles and grimaces in ear.
And where his t of Agnes pricked me on to little cruelties of my own, now I am only unnerved. My sciousn<cite>?</cite>ess of Sue makes me too scious of myself—makes me, now reckless, as Richard is sometimes reckless, in the gross performance of our sham passion; now guarded and watchful, hesitating. I will be bold for an hour—or meek, or coy—and then, in the final minute of his stay, I will tremble. I will be betrayed by the movement of my own limbs, my blood, my breath.—I suppose she reads that as love.
Richard, at least, knows it for weakness. The days creep by: the first week passes, and we begin the sed. I sense his bafflement, feel the weight of his expectation: feel it gather, turn, grow sour. He looks at my work, and begins to shake his head.
I am afraid, Miss Lilly, he says, more than ohat you want discipline, yet. I thought your touch firmer than this. I am sure it was firmer, a month ago. Dont say youve fotten your lessons, in my short absence. After all our labour! There is ohing an artist must always avoid, in the execution of his work: that is, hesitation. For that leads to weakness; and through weakness, greater designs than this one have foundered. You uand? You do uand me?
I will not answer. He leaves, and I keep at my place. Sue es to my side.
Never mind it, miss, she says gently, if Mr Rivers seems to say hard things about your picture. Why, you got those pears, quite to the life.
You think so, Sue?
She nods. I look into her fato her eye, with its single fleck of darker brown. Then I look at the shapeless daubs of colour I have put upon the card.
Its a wretched painting, Sue, I say.
She puts her hand upon mine. Well, she says, but aint you learning?
I am, but not quickly enough. He suggests, in time, that we go walking in the park.
We must work from nature now, he says.
I should rather not, I tell him. I have my paths, that I like to walk with Sue beside me. I think that to walk them with him will spoil them. I should rather not, I say again.
He frowns, then smiles. As your instructor, he says, I must insist.
I hope it will rain. But though the sky above Briar has been grey all that winter long—has been grey, it seems to me, for seven years!—it lightens now, for him. There is only a quick, soft wind, that es gusting about my unskirted ankles as Mr Way tugs open the door.—Thank you, Mr Way, says Richard, bending his arm for me to take. He wears a low black hat, a dark wool coat, and lavender gloves. Mr Way observes the gloves, then looks at me in a kind of satisfa, a kind of s.
Fancy yourself a lady, do you? he said to me, the day he carried me, kig, to the ice-house. Well, well see.
I will not walk to the ice-house today, with Richard, but choose another path—a longer, blander path, that circles my uncles estate, rises and overlooks the rear of the house, the stables, woods, and chapel. I know the view too well to want to gaze at it, and walk with my eyes upon the ground. He keeps my arm in his, and Sue follows behind us—first close, then falling back when he makes our pace grow brisk. We do not speak, but as we walk he slowly draws me to him. My skirt rises, awkwardly.
When I try to pull away, however, he will not let me. I say at last: You need not hold me so close.
He smiles. We must seem ving.
You grip me so. Have you anything to whisper, that I dont already know?
He gazes quickly over his shoulder. She would think it queer, he
says, were I to let slip these ces to be near you. Anyone would think that queer.
She knows you do not love me. You have o dote.
Shouldnt a gentleman dote, in the springtime, when he has the ce? He puts back his head. Look at this sky, Maud. See how siingly blue it shows. So blue—he has lifted his hand—it jars with my gloves. Thats nature for you. No sense of fashion. London skies, at least, are better-maheyre like tailors walls, aernal drab. He smiles again, and draws me closer. But of course, you will know this, soon.
I try to imagine myself in a tailors shop. I recall ses from The Whipping Milliners. I turn and, like him, quickly gla Sue. She is watg, with a frown of what I take to be satisfa, the bulging of my skirt about his leg. Again I attempt to pull from him, and again he keeps me close. I say, Will you let me go? And, when he does nothing: I must suppose, then, since you know I dont care to be smothered, that you take a delight in tormenting me.
He catches my eye. I am like any man, he says, preoccupied with what I may not have. Hasten the day of our union. I think youll find my attention will cool pretty rapidly, after that.
Then I say nothing. We walk on, and in time he lets me go, in order to cup his hands about a cigarette and light it. I look again at Sue. The ground has risen, the breeze is stronger, and two or three lengths of brown hair have e loose from beh her bo and whip about her face. She carries s and baskets, and has no hand free to secure them. Behind her, her cloak billows like a sail.
Is she all right? asks Richard, drawing on his cigarette.
I turn and look ahead. Quite all right.
She is stouter than Agnes, anynes! I wonder how she does, hey? He takes my arm again, and laughs. I do not answer, and his laughter fades. e, Maud, he says, in a cooler tone, dont be so spinsterish. What has happeo you?
Nothing has happeo me.
He studies my profile. Then, why do you make us wait? Everything is in place. Everything is ready. I have taken a house for us, in London. London houses do not e cheaply, Maud
I walk on, in silence, aware of his gaze. He pulls me close again. You have not, I suppose, he says, had a ge of heart? Have you?
No.
You are sure?
Quite sure.
A, you still delay. Why is that? I do not answer. Maud, I ask you again. Something has happened, since I saw you last. What is it?
Nothing has happened, I say.
Nothing?
Nothing, but what we planned for.
And you know what must be done now?
Of course.
Do it then, will you? Act like a lover. Smile, blush, grow foolish.
Do I not do those things?
You do—then spoil them, with a grimace or a flinch. Look at you now. Lean into my arm, damn you. Will it kill you, to feel my hand upon yours?—I am sorry I have grown stiff at his words. I am sorry, Maud.
Let go of my arm, I say.
We go further, side by side but in silence. Sue plods behind—I hear her breaths, like sighs. Richard throws dowt of his cigarette, tears up a switch of grass and begins to lash at his boots. How filthy red this earth is! he says. But, what a treat for little Charles . . . He smiles to himself. Then his foot turns up a flint and he almost stumbles. That makes him curse. He rights himself, and looks me over. I see you walk more nimbly. You like it, hmm? You may walk in London like this, you know. On the parks ahs. Did you know? Or else, you may choose not to walk, ever again— you may rent carriages, chairs, men to drive and carry you about—
I know what I may do.
Do you? Truly? He puts the stem of grass to his mouth and grows thoughtful. I wonder. You are afraid, I think. Of what? Being alone? Is it that? You need never fear solitude, Maud, while you are rich.
You think I feax solitude? I say. We are close to the wall of my uncles park. It is high, grey, dry as powder. You think I fear that? I fear nothing, nothing.
He casts the grass aside, takes up my arm. Why, then, he says, do you keep us here, in such dreadful suspense?
I do not answer. We have slowed our step. Now we hear Sue, still breathing hard behind us, and walk on more quickly. When he speaks again, his tone has ged.
You spoke, a moment ago, of torment. The truth is, I think you like to torment yourself, by prolonging this time.
I shrug, as if in carelessness; though I do not feel careless. My uncle said something similar to me once, I say. That was before I became like him. It is hardly a torment to me now, to wait. I am used to it.
I am not, however, he replies. Nor do I wish to take instru i, from you or anyone. I have lost too much, in the past, through waiting. I am cleverer now, at manipulatis to match my needs. That is what I have learned, while you have learned patience. Do you uand me, Maud?
I turn my head, half-y eyes. I dont want to uand you, I say tiredly. I wish you would not speak at all.
I will speak, until you hear.
Hear what?
Hear this. He brings his mouth close to my face. His beard, his lips, his breath, are tainted with smoke, like a devils. He says: Remember our tract. Remember how we made it. Remember that when I came to you first I came, not quite as a gentleman, and with little to lose—unlike you, Miss Lilly, who saw me alo midnight, in your own room ..." He draws back. I suppose your reputation must t for something, even here; Im afraid that ladies always do.—But naturally you khat, when you received me.
His tone has some new edge to it, some quality I have not heard before. But we have ged our course: when I gaze at his face the light is all behind him, making his expression hard to read.
I say carefully, You call me a lady; but I am hardly that.
A, I think your uncle must sider you one. Will he like to think you corrupted?
He has corrupted me himself!
Then, will he like to think the work taken over by another mans hand?—I am speaking only, of course, of what he will suppose to be the case.
I move away. You misuand him, entirely. He siders me a sort of engine, for the reading and copying of texts.
All the worse. He shant like it, when the engine bucks. What say he disposes of it and makes himself another?
Now I feel the beat of the blood in my brow. I put my fio my eyes. Doiresome, Richard. Disposes of it, how?
Why, by sending it home . . .
The beat seems to stumble, then quis. I draw back my fingers, but again the light is behind him and I ot quite make out his face. I say, very quietly, I shall be no use to you, in a madhouse.
You are no use to me now, while you delay! Be careful I dont grow tired of this scheme. I shant be kind to you, then.
And is this kindness? I say.
We have moved, at last, into shadow, and I see his look: it is ho, amused, amazed. He says: This is dreadful villainy, Maud. When did I ever call it anything else?
We stop, close as sweethearts. His tone has grown light again, but his eye is hard—quite hard. I feel, for the first time, what it would be to be afraid of him.
He turns and calls to Sue. Not far now, Suky! We are almost there, I think. To me he murmurs: I shall need some minutes with her, alone.
To secure her, I say. As you have me.
That work is done, he says platly; and she, at least, sticks better.—What? I have shuddered, or my look has ged. You dont suspect her of qualms? Maud? You dont suppose her weakening, or playing us false? Is that why you hesitate? I shake my head. Well, he goes on, all the more reason for me to see her, to find out how she thinks we do. Have her e to me, today or tomorrow. Find out some way, will you? Be sly.
He puts his smoke-stained fio his mouth. Presently Sue es, as at my side. She is flushed from the weight of the bags. Her cloak still billows, her hair still whips, and I want more than anything to draw her to me, to toud tidy her. I think I begin to, I think I half-reach for her; then I bee scious of Richard and his shrewd, sidering gaze. I y arms before me and turn away.
m I have her take him a coal from the fire, to light his cigarette from; and I stand with my brow against my dressing-room window and watch them whisper. She keeps her head turned from me, but when she leaves him he raises his eyes to me and holds my gaze, as he held it once before, in darkness. Remember our tract, he seems again to say. Then he drops his cigarette and stands heavily upon it; then shakes free the ging red soil from his shoes.
After that, I feel the mounting pressure of our plot as I think men must feel the straining of checked maery, tethered beasts, the gathering of tropical storms. I wake each day and think: Today I will do it! Today I will draw free the bolt ahe engine race, unleash the beast, puncture the l clouds! Today, I will let him claim me—!
But, I do not. I look at Sue, and there es, always, that shadow, that darkness—a panic, I suppose it, a simple fear—a quaking, a g—a dropping, as into the sour mouth of madness—
Madness, my mothers malady, perhaps beginning its slow ast ihat thought makes me more frightened yet. I take, for a day or two, more of my drops: they calm me, but ge me. My uncle marks it.
You grow clumsy, he says, one m. I have mishandled a book. You think I have you e, day after day, to my library, to abuse it?
No, Uncle.
What? Do you mumble?
No, sir.
He wets and purses his mouth, and studies me harder. When he speaks again, his tone is strao me.
What age are you? he says. I am surprised, aate. He sees it. Dont strike coy attitudes with me, miss! What age are you? Sixteeeen?—You may show astonishment. You think me insensible to the passage of years, because I am a scholar? Hmm?
I am seventeen, Uncle.
Seventeen. A troublesome age, if we are to believe our own books.
Yes, sir.
Yes, Maud. Only remember: your business is not with belief, but with study. Remember this, also: you are not too great a girl— nor am I too aged a scholar—for me to have Mrs Stiles e and hold you still while I take a whip to you. Hmm? Youll remember these things? Will you?
Yes, sir, I say.
It seems to me now, however, that I must remember too much. My face, my joints, are set ag with the effort of striking looks and poses. I o longer say with certainty whiy as— whiy feelings, everue ones, which are sham. Richard still keeps his gaze close upon me. I will not meet it. He is reckless, teasing, threatening: I choose not to uand. Perhaps I am weak, after all. Perhaps, as he and my uncle believe, I draleasure from torment. It is certainly a torment to me now, to sit at a lesson with him, to sit at a diable with him, to read to him, at night, from my uncles books. It begins to be a torment, too, to pass time with Sue. Our routines are spoiled. I am too scious that she waits, as he does: I feel her watg, gauging, willing me on. Worse, she begins to speak in his behalf—to tell me, bluntly, how clever he is, how kind and iing.
You think so, Sue? I ask her, my eyes upon her face; and her gaze might flutter uneasily away, but she will always answer: Yes, miss. Oh, yes, miss. Anyone would say it, wouldnt they?
Then she will make me —always , handsome a— she will take down my hair and dress it, straighten seams, lift lint from the fabriy gowns. I think she does it as much to calm
herself, as to calm me. There, she will say, when she has finished. Now you are better.—Now she is better, she means. Now your brow is smooth. How creased it was, before! It mustnt be creased—
It mustnt be creased, for Mr Riverss sake: I hear the unspoken words, my blood surges again; I take her arm in mine and pinch it.
Oh!
I do not know who cries it, she or I: I reel away, unnerved. But in the sed I have her skiween my fingers, my own flesh leaps in a kind of relief. I shake, horribly, for almost an hour.
Oh, God! I say, hiding my face. Im afraid, for my own mind! Do you think me mad? Do you think me wicked, Sue?
Wicked? she answers, wringing her hands. And I see her thinking: A simple girl like you?
She puts me into my bed and lies with her arm against mine; but soon she sleeps, and then draws away. I think of the house in which I lie. I think of the room beyond the bed—its edges, its surfaces. I think I shall not sleep, unless I touch them. I rise, it is cold, but I go quietly from thing to thing—ey-piece, dressing-table, carpet, press. Then I e to Sue. I would like to touch her, to be sure that she is there. I dare not. But I ot leave her. I lift my hands and move and hold them an inch, just an inch, above her—her hip, her breast, her curling hand, her hair on the pillow, her face, as she sleeps.
I do that, perhaps three nights in a row. Then this happens.
Richard begins to make us go to the river. He has Sue sit far from me, against the upturned boat; and he, as always, keeps close at my side, pretending to watch as I paint. I paint the same spot so many times, the card starts to rise and crumble beh my brush; but I paint on, stubbornly, and he will now and then lean close <tt>.t>to whisper, idly but fiercely:
God damn you, Maud, how you sit so calm and steady? Hey? Do you hear that bell? The Briar clock sounds clearly there, beside the water. Theres another hohat we might have passed in freedom. Instead, you keep us here—
Will you move? I say. You are standing in my light.
You are standing in mine, Maud. See how easy it is, to remove that shadow? Otle step is all that must be made. Do you see? Will you look? She wont. She prefers her painting. That piece of— Oh! Let me find a match, I shall burn it!
I gla Sue. Be quiet, Richard.
But the days grow warm, and at last es a day, so close and airless, the heat overpowers him. He spreads his coat upon the ground and sprawls upon it, tilts his hat to shadow his eyes. For a time, then, the afternoon is still and almost pleasant: there is only the calling s in the rushes, the slapping of water, the cries of birds, the occasional passing of boats. I draw the paint across the card in ever finer, ever slower strokes, and almost fall into slumber.
Then Richard laughs, and my hand gives a jump. I turn to look at him. He puts his fio his lip. See there, he says softly. And he gestures to Sue.
She still sits before the upturned boat, but her head has fallen back against the rotten wood and her limbs are spread and loose. A blade of hair, dark at the tip where she has been biting at it, curves to the er of her mouth. Her eyes are closed, her breaths e evenly. She is quite asleep. The sun slants against her fad shows the point of her , her lashes, her darkening freckles. Between the edges of her gloves and the cuffs of her coat are two narrow strips of pinking flesh.
I look again at Richard—meet his eye—then turn bay painting. I say quietly, Her cheek will burn. Wont you wake her?
Shall I? He sniffs. They are not much used to sunlight, where she es from. He speaks almost fondly, but laughs against the words; then adds in a murmur: Nor where shes going, I think. Poor bitch—she might sleep. She has been asleep since I first got her and brought her here, and has not known it.
He says it, not with relish, but as if with i at the idea. Theretches and yawns ao his feet, and she fiher troubles him. He puts his knuckles to his nose and violently sniffs. I beg your pardon, he says, drawing out his handkerchief.
Sue does not wake, but frowns and turns her head. Her lower lip
slightly falls. The blade of hair swings from her cheek, but keeps its curve and point. I have lifted my brush and touched it oo my crumbling painting; now I hold it, an inch from the card; and I watch, as she sleeps. Only that. Richard sniffs again, softly curses the heat, the season. Then, as before, I suppose he grows still. I suppose he studies me. I suppose the brush in my fingers drops paint—for I find it later, black paint upon my blue gown. I do not mark it as it falls, however; and perhaps it is my not marking it, that betrays me. That, or my look. Sue frowns again. I watch, a little lohen I turn, and find Richards eyes upon me.
Oh, Maud, he says.
That is all he says. But in his face I see, at last, how much I want her.
For a moment we do nothing. Theeps to me and takes my wrist. The paintbrush falls.
e quickly, he says. e quickly, before she wakes.
He takes me, stumbling, along the line of rushes. We walk as the water flows, about the bend of the river and the wall. Wheop, he puts his hands to my shoulders and holds me fast.
Oh, Maud, he says again. Here I have been, supposing you gripped by a sce, or some other weakness like that. But this—!
I have turned my face from him, but feel him laugh. Dont smile, I say, shuddering. Dont laugh.
Laugh? You might be glad I dont do worse. Youll know—youll know, if anyone will!—the sports to which gentlemens appetites are said to be pricked, by matters like this. Thank heavens Im not a gentleman so much as a rogue: we go by different codes. You may love a<s>..</s>nd be damned, for all I care.—Dont wriggle, Maud! I have tried to twist from his hands. He holds me tighter, thes me lean from him a little, but grips my waist. You may love and be damned, he says again. But keep me from my money—keep us languishing here: put back our plot, our hopes, your own bright future—you shall not, no. Not now I know what trifling thing you have made us stay for. Now, let her wake up.—I promise you, it is as tiresome to me as to you, when you twist so!—Let her wake up
and seek us out. Let her see us like this. You wont e to me? Very good. I shall hold you here, a her suppose us lovers at last; and so have doh it. Stand steady, now.
He leans from me and gives a wordless shout. The sous against the thick air and makes it billow, then fades to a silence.
That will bring her, he says.
I move my arms. You are hurting me.
Stand like a lover then, and I shall grow gentle as anything. He smiles again. Suppose me her.—Ah! Now I have tried to strike him. Do you mean to make me bruise you?
He holds me harder, keeping his hands upo pinning down my arms with his own. He is tall, he is strong. His fingers meet about my waist—as young mens fingers are meant to do, I believe, on the waists of their sweethearts. For a time I strain against the pressure: we stand braced and sweating as a pair of wrestlers in a ring. But I suppose that, from a distance, we might seem swaying in a kind of love.
But I think this dully; and soon I feel myself begin to tire. The sun is still hot upon us. The frogs still t, the water still laps among the reeds. But the day has been punctured or ripped: I feel it begin to droop ale, close about me, in suffog folds.
I am sorry, I say weakly.
You be sorry, now.
It is only—
You must be strong. I have seen you be strong, before.
It is only—
But, only what? How might I say it? Only that she held my head against her breast, when I woke bewildered. That she warmed my foot with her breath, ohat she ground my poiooth with a silver thimble. That she brought me soup—clear soup—instead of an egg, and smiled to see me drink it. That her eye has a darker fleck of brown. That she thinks me good . . .
Richard is watg my face. Listen to me, Maud, he says now. He pulls me tight. I am sagging in his arms. Listen! If it were any girl but her. If it were Agnes! Hey? But this is the girl that must be cheated, and robbed of her liberty, for us to be free. This is the girl
the doctors will take, while we look on without a murmur. You remember our plan? I nod. But— What?
I begin to fear that, after all, I havent the heart for it..." Youve a heart, instead, for little fingersmiths? Oh, Maud. Now his voice is rich with s. Have you fotten what she has e to you for? Do you think she has fotten? Do you suppose yourself anything to her, but that? You have been too long among your uncles books. Girls love easily, there. That is the point of them. If they loved so in life, the books would not have to be written.
He looks me over. She would laugh in your face, if she knew. His tone grows sly. She would laugh in mine, were I to tell her ..." You shall not tell her! I say, lifting my head and stiffening. The thought is awful to me. Tell her once, and I keep at Briar food. My uncle shall know how youve used me—I shant care how he treats me for it.
I shall not tell her, he answers slowly, if you will only do as you must, with no further delay. I shall not tell her, if you will let her think you love me and have agreed to be my wife; and so make good our escape, as you promised.
I turn my face from his. Again there is a silehen I murmur—what else should I murmur?—I will. He nods, and sighs. He still holds me tightly, and after another momes his mouth against my ear.
Here she es! he whispers. She is creeping about the wall. She means to watd not disturb us. Now, let her know I have you . . .
He kisses my head. The bulk a and pressure of him, the warmth and thiess of the day, my own fusion, make me stand a him, limply. He takes one hand from about my waist and lifts my arm. He kisses the cloth of my sleeve. When I feel his mouth upon my wrist, I flinow, now, he says. Be good, for a moment. Excuse my whiskers. Imagine my mouth hers. The words e wetly upon my flesh. He pushes my glove a little way along my hand, he parts his lips, he touches my palm with the point of his
ngue; and I shudder, with weakness, with fear and distaste—with rlsmay, to know Sue stands and watches, in satisfa, thinking me his.
For he has showo myself. He leads me to her, we walk to the house, she takes my cloak, takes my shoes; her cheek is pink, after all- she stands frowning at the glass, moves a hand, lightly, across her face . . ? That is all she does; but I see it, and my heart gives a pluhat g, or dropping, that has so much pani it, so much darkness, I supposed it fear, or madness. I watch her turn and stretch, walk her random way about the room—see her make all the careless unstudied gestures I have marked so covetously, so long. Is this desire? How queer that I, of all people, should not know! But I thought desire smaller, er; I supposed it bound to its own ans as taste is bound to the mouth, vision to the eye. This feeling haunts and inhabits me, like a siess. It covers me, like skin.
I think she must see it. Now he has , I think it must colour or mark me—I think it must mark me crimson, like paint marks the hot red points, the lips and gashes and bare whipped limbs, of my uncles pictures. I am afraid, that night, to undress before her. I am afraid to lie at her side. I am afraid to sleep. I am afraid I will dream of her. I am afraid that, in dreaming, I will turn and touch her ...
But after all, if she sehe ge in me, she thinks I am ged because of Richard. If she feels me tremble, if she feels my heart beat hard, she thinks I tremble for him. She is waiting, still waiting. day I take her walking to my mrave. I sit and gaze at the stohat I have kept so and free from blemish. I should like to smash it with a hammer. I wish—as I have wished many times—that my mother were alive, so that I might kill her again. I say to Sue: Do you know, how it was she died? It was my birth that did it!—and it is an effort, to keep the note of triumph from my voice.
She does not catch it. She watches me, and I begin to weep; and where she might say anything to e—anything at all— what she says is: Mr Rivers.
I look from her in pt, then. She es and leads me to the chapel door—perhaps, to turn my thoughts te. The door is locked and t be passed. She waits for me to speak. At last I tell her, dutifully: Mr Rivers has asked me to marry him, Sue.
She says she is glad. And, when I weep again—false tears, this time, that wash away the true ones—and when I choke and wring my hands and cry out, Oh! What shall I do?, she touches me and holds my gaze, and says: He loves you.
You think he does?
She says she knows it. She does not flinch. She says, You must follow your heart.
I am not sure, I say. If I might only be sure!
But to love, she says, and then to lose him!
I grow too scious of the closeness of her gaze, and look away. She talks to me of beating blood, of thrilling voices, of dreams. I feel his kiss, like a burn upon my palm; and all at once she sees, not that I love him, but how much I have e to fear and hate him.
She grows white. What will you do? she says, in a whisper.
What I do? I say. What choice have I?
She does not answer. She only turns from me, to gaze for a moment at the barred chapel door. I look at the pale of her cheek, at her jaw, at the mark of the needle in the lobe of her ear. Wheurns back, her face has ged.
Marry him, she tells me. He loves you. Marry him, and do everything he says.
She has e to Briar to ruio cheat me and do me harm. Look at her, I tell myself. See how slight she is, how brown and trifling! A thief, a little fingersmith—/1 think I will swallow down my desire, as I have swallowed down grief, and rage. Shall I be thwarted, shall I be checked—held to my past, kept from my future—by her? I think, / shant. The day of our flight draws near. / shant. The month grows warmer, the nights grow close. / shant, I shant—
You are cruel, Richard says. I dont think you love me as you ought. I think— and he glances, slyly, at Sue—I think there must be someone else you care for . . .
Sometimes I see him look at her, and think he has told her. Sometimes she looks at me, sely—or else her hands, in toug me, seem so stiff, so nervous and unpractised—I think she knows. Now and then I am obliged to leave them aloogether, in my own room; he might tell her, then.
What do you say, Suky, to this? She loves you!
Loves me? Like a lady loves her maid?
Like certain ladies love their maids, perhaps. Hasnt she found little ways to keep you close about her?—Have I dohat? Hasnt she feigroublesome dreams?—Is that what I have done? Has she had you kiss her? Careful, Suky, she doesnt try to kiss you back . . .
Would she laugh, as he said she would? Would she shiver? It seems to me she lies more cautiously beside me now, her legs and arms tucked close. It seems to me she is often wary, watchful. But the more I think it, the more I wahe more my desire rises and swells. I have e to terrible life—or else, the things about me have e to life, their crown too vivid, their surfaces too harsh. I flinch, from falling shadows. I seem to see figures start out from the fading patterns in the dusty carpets and drapes, or creep, with the milky blooms of damp, across the ceilings and walls.
Even my uncles books are ged to me; and this is worse, this is worst of all. I have supposed them dead. Now the words— like the figures in the walls—start up, are filled with meaning. I grow muddled, stammer. I lose my place. My uncle shrieks— seizes, from his desk, a paperweight of brass, and throws it at me. That steadies me, for a time. But then he has me read, one night, from a certain work . . . Richard watches, his hand across his mouth, a look of amusement dawning on his face. For the work tells of all the means a woman may employ to pleasure another, when in want of a man.
And she pressed her lips and too it, and into it—
You like this, Rivers? asks my uncle.
I fess, sir, I do.
Well, so do mahough I fear it is hardly to my taste. Still, I am glad to note your i. I address the subject fully, of course, in my Index. Read on, Maud. Read on.
I do. Ae myself—and in spite of Richards dark, tormenting gaze—I feel the stale words rouse me. I colour, and am ashamed. I am ashamed to think that what I have supposed the secret book of my heart may be stamped, after all, with no more miserable matter than this—have its pla my uncles colle. I leave the drawing-room eaight and go upstairs—go slowly, tapping the toes of my slippered feet against each step. If I strike them equally, I shall be safe. Then I stand in darkness. When Sue es to undress me I will myself to suffer her touch, coolly, as I think a mannequin of wax might suffer the quick, indifferent touches of a tailor.
A, even wax limbs must yield at last, to the heat of the hands that lift and place them. There es a night when, finally, I yield to hers.
I have begun, in sleeping, to dream unspeakable dreams; and to wake, each time, in a fusion of longing and fear. Sometimes she stirs. Sometimes she does not. Go back to sleep, she will say, if she does. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I dont. Sometimes I rise and go about the room; sometimes, take drops. I take drops, this night; theurn to her side; but sink, not into lethargy, but only into more fusion. I think of the books I have lately read, to Richard and to my uhey e bae, now, in phrases, fragments—pressed her lips and toakes hold of my hand—hip, lip and tongue—forced it half-strivingly—took hold of my breasts—opened wide the lips of my little—the lips of her little t—
I ot silehem. I almost see them, rising darkly from their oages, to gather, to swarm and bine. I put my hands before my face. I do not know how long I lie for, then. But I must make some sound, or movement; for when I draw my hands away, she is awake, and watg. I know that she is watg, though the bed is so dark.
Go to sleep, she says. Her voice is thick.
I feel my legs, very bare inside my gown. I feel the point at which they join. I feel the words, still swarming. The warmth of her limbs es ing, ing through the fibres of the bed.
I say, Im afraid . . .
Then her breathing ges. Her voice grows clearer, kinder. She yawns. What is it? she says. She rubs her eye. She pushes the hair back from her brow. If she were any girl but Sue! If she were Agnes! If she were a girl in a book—!
Girls love easily, there. That is their point.
Hip, lip and tongue—
Do you think me good? I say.
Good, miss?
She does. It felt like safety, onow it feeis like a trap. 1 say, I wish— I wish you would tell me—
Tell you what, miss?
Tell me. Tell me a way to save you. A way to save myself. The room is perfectly black. Hip, lip—
Girls love easily, there.
I wish, I say, I wish you would tell me what it is a wife must do, on her wedding-night
And at first, it is easy. After all, this is how it is done, in my uncles books: two girls, one wise and one unknowing . .. He will want, she says, to kiss you. He will want to embrace you. It is easy. I say my part, and she—with a little prompting—says hers. The words sink back upon their pages. It is easy, it is easy .. .
Then she rises above me and puts her mouth to mine.
I have felt, before, the pressure of a gentlemans still, dry lips against my gloved hand, my cheek. I have suffered Richards wet, insinuating kisses upon my palm. Her lips are cool, smooth, damp: they fit themselves imperfectly to mine, but then grow warmer, damper. Her hair falls against my face. I ot see her, I only feel her, and taste her. She tastes of sleep, slightly sour. Too sour. I part my lips—to breathe, or to swallow, or perhaps to move away; but ihing or swallowing or moving I only seem to draw her into my mouth. Her lips part, also. Her tongue es between them and touches mine.
And at that, I shudder, or quiver. For it is like the finding out of something raw, the troubling of a wound, a nerve. She feels me jolt, and draws away—but slowly, slowly and unwillingly, so that
our damp mouths seem to g together and, as they part, to tear. She holds herself above me. I feel the rapid beating of a heart, and suppose it my own. But it is hers. Her breath es, fast. She has begun, very lightly, to tremble.
Then I catch the excitement of her, the amazement of her.
Do you feel it? she says. Her voice sounds strangely in the absolute darkness. Do you feel it?
I do. I feel it as a falling, a dropping, a trig, like sand from a bulb of glass. Then I move; and I am not dry, like sand. I am wet. I am running, like water, like ink.
I begin, like her, to shake.
Dont be frightened, she says. Her voice has a catch. I move again, but she moves, too, she es o me, and my flesh gives a leap, to hers. She is trembling, worse than before. She is trembling, from the closeness of me! She says, Think more of Mr Rivers.—I think of Richard, watg. She says again, Dont be frightened.—But it is she who seems frightened. Her voice still has its catch. She kisses me again. Then she raises her hand and I feel the tips of her fingers flutter against my face.
Do you see? she says. It is easy, it is easy. Think more of him. He will want— He will want to touch you.
To touch me?
Only touch you, she says. The fluttering hand moves lower. Only touch you. Like this. Like this.
Whes up my nightgown and reaches between my legs, we both grow still. When her hand moves again, her fingers no longer flutter: they have grow, and slide, and in sliding seem, like her lips as they rub upon mio qui and draw me, to gather me, out of the darkness, out of my natural shape. I thought I longed for her, before. Now I begin to feel a longing so great, so sharp, I fear it will never be assuaged. I think it will mount, and mount, and make me mad, or kill me. Yet her hand moves slowly, still. She whispers. How soft you are! How warm! I want— The hand moves even slower. She begins to press. I catch my breath. That makes her hesitate, and then press harder. At last she presses so hard I feel the
giving of my flesh, I feel her inside me. I think I cry out. She does not hesitate now, however, but es o me and puts her hips about my thigh; then presses again. So slight she is!—but her hip is sharp, her hand is blunt, she leans, she pushes, she moves her hips and hand as if to a rhythm, a time, a quii. She reaches. She reaches so far, she catches the life, the shudderi of me: soon I seem to be nowhere but at the points at which my flesh is gripped by hers. And then, Oh, there! she says. Just there! Oh, there!—I am breaking, shattering, bursting out of her hand. She begins to weep. Her tears e upon my face. She puts her mouth to them. You pearl, she says, as she does it. Her voice is broken. You pearl.
I dont know how long we lie, then. She sinks beside me, with her face against my hair. She slowly draws back her fingers. My thigh is wet from where she has leaned and moved upohe feathers of the mattress have yielded beh us, the bed is close and high and hot. She puts back the blahe night is still deep, the room still black. Our breaths still e fast, our hearts beat loud—faster, and louder, they seem to me, ihiing silence; and the bed, the room—the house!—seem filled with echoes of our voices, our whispers and cries.
I ot see her. But after a moment she finds my hand and presses it, hard, then takes it to her mouth, kisses my fingers, lies with my palm beh her cheek. I feel the weight and shape of the bones of her face. I feel her blink. She does not speak. She closes her eyes. Her face grows heavy. She shivers, ohe heat is rising from her, like a st. I read draw the bla up again, and lay it gently about her.
Everything, I say to myself, is ged. I think I was dead, before. Now she has touched the life of me, the quie; she has put back my flesh and opened me up. Everything is ged. I still feel her, inside me. I still feel her, moving upon my thigh. I imagine her waking, meeting my gaze. I think, I will tell her, then. I will say, "I meant to cheat you. I ot cheat you now. This was Richards plot. We make it ours."—We make it ours, I think; or else, we give it up entirely. I need only escape from Briar: she
help me do that—shes a thief, and clever. We make our ow way to London, find money for ourselves . . .
So I calculate and plan, while she lies slumbering with her face upon my hand. My heart beats hard again. I am filled, as with colour ht, with a sense of the life we will have, together. Then I also sleep. And in sleeping I suppose I must move away from her—or she must move, from me—and then she must wake, with the day, and rise: for when I open my eyes she has gohe bed is cool. I hear her in her own room, splashing water. I rise up from my pillow, and my nightgoes at my breast: she has uhe ribbons, in the dark. I move my legs. I am wet, still wet, from the sliding and the pressing of her hand.
You pearl, she said.
Then she es, as my gaze. My heart leaps within me.
She looks away.
I think her only awkward, at first. I think her shy and self-scious. She goes silently about the room, taking out my petticoats and gown. I stand, so she may wash and dress me. Now she will speak, I think. But, she does not. And when she sees the blush upon my breast, the marks left by her mouth, the dampness between my legs, it seems to me that she shudders. Only then do I begin to grow afraid. She calls me to the glass. I watch her face. It seems queer in refle, crooked and wrong. She puts the pins to my hair, but keeps her eyes all the time on her own uain hands. I think, She is ashamed.
So then, I speak.
What a thick sleep I had, I say, very softly. Didnt I?
Her eyelids flutter. You did, she answers. No dreams.
No dreams, save one, I say. But that was a—a sweet one. I think you were in it, Sue . . .
She colours; and I watch her rising blush and feel, again, the pressure of her mouth against mihe drawing of our fierce, imperfect kisses, the pushing of her hand. I meant to cheat her. I ot cheat her, now. I am not what you think, I will say. You think me good. I am not good. But I might, with you, begin to try to be. This was his plot. We make it ours—
In your dream? she says at last, moving from me. I dont think so, miss. Not me. I should say, Mr Rivers. Look! There he is. His cigarette almost smoked. You will miss him— She falters once; but then goes on, You will miss him, if you wait.
I sit dazed for a moment, as if struck by her hand; then I rise, go lifelessly to the window, watch Richard walk, smoke his cigarette, put back the tumbling hair from his brow. But I keep at the glass, long after he has left the lawn and gone in to my uncle. I would see my face, if the day were dark enough; I see it anyway, though: my hollowing cheek, my lips, too plump, too pink—plumper and pihan ever now, from the pressing of Sues mouth. I remember my uncle—I have touched your lip with poison, Maud—and Barbara, starting away. I remember Mrs Stiles, grinding lavender soap against my tohen wiping and wiping her hands upon her apron.
Everything has ged. Nothing has ged, at all. She has put back my flesh; but flesh will close, will seal, will scar and harden. I hear her go to my drawing-room; I watch her sit, cover up her face. I wait, but she does not look—I think she will never look holy at me, again. I meant to save her. Now I see very clearly what will happen, if I do—if I draw back from Richards plot. He will go from Briar, with her at his side. Why should she stay? She will go, and I shall be left—to my uo the books, to Mrs Stiles, to some new meek and bruisable girl ... I think of my life—of the hours, the mihe days that have made it up; of the hours, the minutes and days that stretch before me, still to be lived. I think of how they will be—without Richard, without money, without London, without liberty. Without Sue.
And so you see it is love—not s, not malice; only love—that makes me harm her, in the end.
百度搜索 Fingersmith 天涯 或 Fingersmith 天涯在线书库 即可找到本书最新章节.