Chapter Thirteen

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    The night which follows I remember brokenly. I remember that  <df</dfn>I keep at the side of the bed with my eyes quite hidden, and will not rise and go down to the kit, as Mrs Sucksby wishes. I remember that Richard es to me, and again puts his shoe to my skirts, to nudge me, then stands and laughs when I will not stir, then leaves me. I remember that someone brings me soup, which I will . That the lamp is taken away and the room made dark. That I must rise at last, to visit the privy; and that the red-haired, fat-faced girl—Dainty—is made to show me to it, then stands at the door to keep me from running from it into the night. I remember that I weep again, and am given more of my drops in brandy. That I am undressed and put in a night-gown not my own. That I sleep, perhaps for an hour—that I am woken by the rustling of taffeta— that I look in horror to see Mrs Sucksby with her hair let down, shrugging off her gown, unc flesh and dirty linen, snuffing out her dle, then climbing into the bed beside me. I remember

    that she lies, thinking me sleeping—puts her hands to me, then draws them back—finally, like a miser with a piece of gold, catches up a loy hair and presses it to her mouth.

    I know that I am scious of the heat of her, the unfamiliar bulk and sour sts of her. I know that she falls swiftly into an even sleep, and snores, while I start in and out of slumber. The fitful sleeping makes the hours pass slowly: it seems to me the night has many nights in it—has years of nights!—through which, as if through drifts of smoke, I am pelled to stumble. I wake now, believing I am in my dressing-room at Briar; now, in my room at Mrs Creams; now, in a madhouse bed, with a nurse vast and fortable beside me. I wake, a huimes. I wake to moan and long for slumber—for always, at the last, es the remembrance, sharp and fearful, of where I truly lie, how I arrived there, who and what I am.

    At last I wake and do not sleep again. The dark has eased a little. There has been a street-lamp burning, that has lit the threads of the bleached  scarf hung at the window; now it is put out. The light turns filthy pink. The pink gives way, in time, to a sickly yellow. It creeps, and with it creeps sound—softly at first, then rising in a staggering cresdo: crowing cocks, whistles and bells, dogs, shrieking babies, violent calling, coughing, spitting, the tramp of feet, the endless hollow beating of hooves and the grinding of wheels. Up, up it es, out of the throat of London. It is six or seven oclock. Mrs Sucksby sleeps on at my side, but I am wide awake now, and wretched, and sick at my stomach. I rise, and— though it is May, and milder here than at Briar—I shiver. I still wear my gloves, but my clothes and shoes aher bag Mrs Sucksby has locked in a box—In case you should wake bewildered, darling, and, thinking you was at home, get dressed, walk off and be lost.— I remember her saying it, now, as I stood dosed and dazed before her. Where did she put the key?—and the key to the door of the room? I shiver again, more violently, and grow sicker than ever; but my thoughts are horribly clear. I must get out. I must get out! I must get out of London—go anywhere—back to Briar. I must get money. / must, I think—this is the clearest thought of all—/ must get

    Sue! Mrs Sucksby breathes heavily, evenly. Where might she have put the keys? Her taffeta gown is hanging from the horse-hair s: I go silently to it and pat the pockets of its skirt. Empty. I stand and study the shelves, the chest of drawers, the mantelpieo keys; but many places, I suppose, where they might be cealed.

    Theirs—does not wake, but moves her head; and I think I know—think I begin to remember . . . She has the keys beh her pillow: I recall the crafty movement of her hand, the muffled ringing of the metal. I take a step. Her lips are parted, her white hair loose upon her cheek. I step again, and the floorboards creak. I stand at her side—wait a moment, uain; then put my fingers beh the edge of pillow and slowly, slowly, reach.

    She opens her eyes. She takes my wrist, and smiles. She coughs.

    My dear, I loves you f, she says, wiping her mouth. But the girl aint been born thats got the touch that will get past me, when Ive a mind to something. Her grip is strong about my arm; though turns to a caress. I shudder. Lord, aint you cold! she says then. Here, sweetheart, let us cover you up. She pulls the knitted quilt from the bed and puts it about me. Better, dear girl?

    My hair is tangled, and has fallen before my face. I regard her through it.

    I wish I were dead, I say.

    Oh, now, she answers, rising. What kind of talk is that?

    I wish you were dead, then.

    She shakes her head, still smiles. Wild words, dear girl! She sniffs. There has e, from the kit, a terrible odour. Smell that? Thats Mr Ibbs, a-cooking up our breakfasts. Lets see who wishes she was dead, now, thats got a plate of bloaters before her!

    She rubs her hands again. Her hands are red, but the sagging flesh upon her arms has the hue and polish of ivory. She has slept in her chemise aicoat; now she hooks on a pair of stays, climbs into her taffeta gown, then es to dip her b in water and brush her hair. Tra la, hee hee, she sings brokenly, as she

    does it. I keep my own tangled hair before my eyes, and watch her. Her naked feet are cracked, and bulge at the toe. Her legs are almost hairless. When she bends to her stogs, she groans. Her thighs are fat and permaly marked by the pinch of her garters.

    There, now, she says, when she is dressed. A baby has started g. That will set my others all off. e down, dear girl—will you?—while I give em their pap.

    e down? I say. I must go down, if I am to escape. But I look at myself. Like this? Wont you give me back my gown, my shoes?

    Perhaps I say it too keenly, however; or else my look has something of ing, or desperation, in it. She hesitates, then says, That dusty old frock? Them boots? Why, thats walking-gear. Look here, at this silken er. She takes up the dressing-gown from the hook on the back of the door. Heres what ladies wear, for their ms at home. Heres silken slippers, too. Shant you look well, in these? Slip em on, dear girl, and e down for your breakfast. o be shy. John Vroom dont rise before twelve, theres only me, aleman—hes seen you in a state of dishabilly, I suppose!—and Mr Ibbs. And him, dear girl, you might sider now in the light of—well, lets say an uncle. Eh?

    I turn away. The room is hateful to me; but I will not go with her, undressed, down to that dark kit. She pleads and coaxes a little lohen gives me up, and goes. The key turns in the lock.

    I step at oo the box that holds my clothes, to try the lid. It is shut up tight, and is stout.

    So then I go to the window, to push at the sashes. They will lift, by an inch or two, and the rusting nails that keep them shut I think might give, if I pushed harder. But then, the window frame is narrow, the drop is great; and I am still undressed. Worse than that, the street has people in it; and though at first I think to call to them—to break the glass, to signal and shriek—after a sed I begin to look more closely at them, and I see their faces, their dusty clothes, the packets they carry, the children and dogs that run and tumble at their sides. There is life, said Richard, twelve ho. It

    is hard, it is wretched. It would have been yours, but for Mrs Sucksbys kindness in keeping you from it. . .

    At the door to the house with the shutters with the heart-shaped holes, a girl in a dirty bas and feeds her baby. She lifts her head, catches my gaze; and shakes her fist at me.

    I start back from the glass, and cover my face up with my hands.

    When Mrs Sucksby es again, however, I am ready.

    Listen to me, I say, going to her. You know that Richard took me away from my uncles house? You know my uncle is rich, and will seek me out?

    Your uncle? she says. She has brought me a tray, but stands in the door-platil I move back.

    Mr Lilly, I say, as I do it. You know who I meaill thinks me his  least. Dont you suppose he will send a man, and find me? Do you think he will thank you, for keeping me like this?

    I should say he will-—if he cares so much about it. Aint we made you cosy, dear?

    You know you have not. You know you are keeping me here against my will. Fods sake, give me my gown, wont you?

    All right, Mrs Sucksby?—It is Mr Ibbs. My voice has risen, and has brought him out of the kit to the foot of the stairs. Richard, too, has stirred in his bed: I hear him cross his floor, draw open his door, and listen.

    All right! calls Mrs Sucksby lightly. There, now, she says to me. And heres your breakfast, look, growing chilly.

    She sets the tray upon the bed. The door is open; but I know that Mr Ibbs still stands at the foot of the stairs, that Richard waits and listens at the top. There, now, she says again. The tray has a plate and a fork upon it, and a linen napkin. Upon the plate there are two or three amber-coloured fish in a juice of butter and water. They have fins, and faces. About the napkin there is a ring of polished silver, a little like the ohat was kept for my especial use at Briar; but without the initial.

    Please let me go, I say.

    Mrs Sucksby shakes her head. Dear girl, she says, go where?

    She waits and, when I do not answer, leaves me. Richard closes his door and goes back to his bed. I hear him humming.

    I think of taking up the plate, hurling it against the ceiling, the window, the wall. Then I think: You must be strong. You must be strong and ready to run. And so I sit a—slowly, wretchedly, carefully pig out the bones from the amber flesh. My gloves gro and stained; and I have h which to replace them.

    After an hour, Mrs Sucksby es back, to take the empty plate. Another hour, and she brings me coffee. While she is gone I stand, again, at the window, or press my ear to the door. I pace, and sit, and pace again. I pass from fury to maudlin grief, to stupor. But then Richard es. Well, Maud— is all he says. I see him, and am filled with a blistering rage. I make a run at him, meaning to strike his face: he wards off the blows and knocks me down, and I lie upon the floor and kick, and kick—

    Then they dose me again with medie and brandy; and a day or two passes in darkness.

    When I wake , it is again unnaturally early. There has appeared in the room a little basket chair, painted gold, with a scarlet cushion on it. I take it to the window and sit with the dressing-gown about me, until Mrs Sucksby yawns and opens her eyes.

    Dear girl, all right? she says, as she will say every day, every day; and the idiocy or perversity of the question—when all is so far from being right, as to be s I would almost rather die than e—prompts me to grind my teeth or pull at my hair, and gaze at her in loathing. Good girl, she says then, and, Like your chair, do you, dear? I supposed you would. She yawns again, and looks about her. Got the po? she says. I am used in my modesty to taking the chamber-pot behind the horse-hair s. Pass it over, will you, sweetheart? Im ready to bust.

    I do not move. After a sed she rises aches it herself. It is a thing of white a, dark ih what, when I saw it first, in the half-light of m, I queasily took to be clumps of hair; but

    which proved to be decoration merely—a great eye with lashes, and about it, in a plain black fount, a motto:

    use me well and keep me  and ill not tell of what ive seen!

    a present from wales

    The eye gives me, always, a moment or two of uneasiness; but Mrs Sucksby sets the pot down and carelessly lifts her skirt, and stoops. When I shudder, she makes a face.

    Not nice, is it, dear? Never mind. We shall have you a closet, in rand house.

    She straightens, pushes her petticoat between her legs. Then she rubs her hands.

    Now, then, she says. She is looking me over, and her eyes are gleaming. What do you say to this? How about we dress you up today, make you look handsome? Theres your own gown in the box. But, its a dull old thing, aint it? And queer and old-fashioned? How about we try you in something nicer. I got dresses saved for you—got em ed in silver-paper—that fine, you wont believe it. What say we bring Dainty in a em fitted up? Daintys clever with a needle, though she seems sh—dont she? Thats just her way. She was what you would say, nht up, but dragged up. But she is kind at her heart.

    She has my attention, now. Dresses, I think. Once I am dressed, I might escape.

    She sees the ge in me, and is pleased. She brings me another breakfast of fish, and agai it. She brings me coffee, sweet as syrup: it makes my heart beat hard. Then she brings me a  of hot water. She wets a towel and tries to wash me. I will not let her, but take the towel from her, press it against my face, under my arms, between my legs.—The first time, in all my life, that I washed myself.

    Then she goes off—locks the door, of course, behind her—es back with Dainty. They are carrying paper boxes. They set them

    down upon the bed, uheir strings and draw out gowns. Dainty sees them, and screams. The gowns are all of silk: one of violet, with yellow ribbon trimming it, another of green with a silver stripe, and a third of crimson. Dainty takes up an edge of cloth and strokes it.

    Pongee? she says, as if in wonder.

    Pongee, with a foulard rouche, says Mrs Sucksby—the words ing awkwardly, fleshily out of her mouth, like cherry stones. She lifts the crimson skirt, her  and cheeks as red in the reflected light of the silk as if stained with coeal.

    She catches my eye. What do you say, my dear, to these?

    I have not known such colours, such fabrics, such gow. I imagine myself in them, uporeets of London. My heart has sunk. I say, They are hideous, hideous.

    She blinks, then recovers. You say that now. But you beeoo long in that dreary great house of your uncles. Is it to be wo if youve no more idea of fashion, than a bat? When you makes your debut, dear girl, upoown, you shall have a set of dresses so gay, you shall look ba these and laugh your head off to think you ever supposed em bright. She rubs her hands. Now, which best takes your fancy? The arsenic green and the silver?

    Havent you a grey, I say, or a brown, or a black?

    Dainty looks at me in disgust.

    Grey, brown or black? says Mrs Sucksby. When theres silver here, and violet?

    Make it the violet, then, I say at last. I think the stripe will blihe crimson make me sick; though I am sick, anyway. Mrs Sucksby goes to the chest of drawers and opens it up. She brings out stogs, and stays, and coloured petticoats. The petticoats astonish me: for I have always supposed that linen must be white—just as, when I was a child, I thought that all black books must turn out Bibles.

    But I must be coloured now, o hey dress me, like two girls dressing a doll.

    Now, where must we nip it? says Mrs Sucksby, studying the gown. Hold still, my dear, while Dainty takes her measure. Lord,

    look at your waist.—Hold steady! A person dont want tle while Daintys by with a pin in her hand, I  tell you.—Thats better. Too loose, is it? Well, we t be particular about the size— ha, ha!—the way we gets em.

    They take away my gloves; but bring me new ones. On my feet they put white silk slippers. May I not wear shoes? I say, and Mrs Sucksby answers: Shoes? Dear girl, shoes are for walking in. Whereve you got to walk to . . .?

    She says it distractedly. She has opened up the great wooden box and brought out my leather bag. Now, as I look on, and while Dainty stitches, she goes with it to the light of the window, makes herself fortable in the creaking basket chair, and begins to sort through the items inside. I watch as she fingers slippers, playing-cards, bs. Its my jewels she wants, however. She finds in time the little linen packet, uns it and tips the tents into her lap.

    Now, whats here? A ring. A bangle. A ladys picture. She gazes at this in an assessing way; then all at once her expression ges. I know whose features she is seeing there, upon the face where once I looked for mine. She puts it quickly aside. A bracelet of emeralds, she says , in fashion at the time of King Gee; but with handsome stones. We shall find you a nice price for those. A pearl on a . A ruby necklace—thats too heavy, that is, firl with your looks. I got you a  of beads—glass beads, but with such a shine, youd swear they was sapphires!—suit you much better. And— Oh! Whats this? Aint that a beauty? Look Dainty, look at the stunning great stones in that!

    Dainty looks. What a spanker! she says.

    It is the brooch of brilliants I once imagined Sue breathing upon, and polishing, and gazing at with a squinting eye. Now Mrs Sucksby holds it up and studies it with her own eye narrowed. It sparkles. It sparkles, even here.

    I know the place for this, she says. Dear girl, you wont mind? She opens its clasp and pins it to the bosom of her gown. Dainty <dfn></dfs fall her needle and thread, to watch her.

    Oh, Mrs S! she says. You looks like a regular queen.

    My heart beats hard again. The Queen of Diamonds, I say. She eyes me uainly—not knowing if I mean to pliment or mock. I do not know, myself.

    For a time, then, we say nothing. Dainty finishes her work, then bs my hair and twists and pins it into a knot. Then they make me stand, so they might survey me. They look expet, tilt their heads; but their faces fall. Dainty rubs her nose. Mrs Sucksby drums her fingers across her lips, and frowns.

    There is a square of glass upon the ey-piece, with plaster hearts about it: I turn, and see what I y fad figure, in that. I barely reise myself. My mouth is white. My eyes are swollen and red, my cheeks the texture and colour of yellowing flannel. My unwashed hair is dark with grease at the scalp. The neck of the gown is low, and shows the lines and points of the bones about my throat.

    Perhaps violet, after all, says Mrs Sucksby, aint the colour for you, dear girl. Brings out the shadows under your eyes and makes em seem rather too like bruises. And as for your cheek—what say you give it a bit of a pinch, put the roses ba it? No? Let Dainty try for you then. Shes got a grip like thunder, she has.

    Dainty es and seizes my cheek, and I cry out and twist from her grasp.

    All right, you cat! she says, tossing her head and stamping. Im sure, you  keep your yellow face!

    Hi! Hi! says Mrs Sucksby. Miss Lilly is a lady! I want her spoke to like one. You put that lip in. Dainty has begun to pout. Thats better. Miss Lilly, how about we take the gown off and try the green and silver? Only a touch of arseni that green—wont harm you at all, so long as you keep from sweating too hard in the bodice.

    But I ot bear to be handled again, and will not let her unfasten the violet dress. You like it, dear girl? she says then, her fad voice grown softer. There! I khe silks would bring you round at last. Now, what say we go down and stun the gents? Miss Lilly?—Dainty, you go on first. Them stairs are tricky, I should hate for Miss Lilly to take a tumble.

    She has unlocked the door. Dainty passes before me and, after a sed, I follow. I still wish I had shoes, a hat, a cloak; but I will run, bare-headed, in silken slippers, if I must. I will run, all the way to Briar. Which was the door, at the foot of the stairs, that I ought to take? I am not sure. I ot see. Dainty walks ahead of me, and Mrs Sucksby follows anxiously behind. Find your step, dear girl? she says. I do not answer. For there has e, from some room close by, araordinary sound—a sound, like the cry of a peahen, rising, then trembling, then fading to silence. I start, and turn. Mrs Sucksby has also turned. Go on, you old bird! she cries, shaking her fist. And then, to me, more sweetly: Nhtened, dear? Why, thats only Mr Ibbss aged sister, that is kept to her bed, poor thing, and proo the horrors.

    She smiles. The cry es again, I hear it and hasten down the shadowy stairs—my limbs ag and crag as I do it, and my breath ing quick. Dainty waits at the bottom. The hall is small, she seems to fill it. In here, she says. She has opehe door to the kit. There is a street-door behind her, I think, with bolts across it. I slow my step. But then Mrs Sucksby es and touches my shoulder. Thats right, dear girl. This way. I step again, and almost stumble.

    The kit is warmer than I recall, and darker. Richard and the boy, John Vroom, are sitting at the table playing at dice. They both look up when I appear, and both laugh. John says, Look at the fa that! Who bruised the eyes, then? Dainty, say it was you and Ill kiss you.

    Ill bruise your eyes, get my hands on you, says Mrs Sucksby. Miss Lilly is only tired. Get out of that chair, you little waster, a her sit down.

    She says this, log the door at her back, pocketing the key, then crossing the kit and trying the other two doors, making sure they are fast.—Keep the draughts out, she says, when she sees me watg her.

    John throws the dice again, and res up his score, before he rises. Richard pats the empty seat. e, Maud, he says. e, sit beside me. And if you will only promise not to fly at my eyes—

    as you did, you know, on Wednesday—then I shall swear, on Johnnys life! not to knock you down again.

    John scowls. Dont you make so free with my life, he says; else, I might make free with yours—you hear me?

    Richard does not answer. He holds my gaze, and smiles. e, let us be friends again, hmm?

    He puts his hand to me, and I dodge it, drawing my skirts away. The fastening of the doors, the closeness of the kit, has filled me with a kind of bleak bravado. I dont care, I say, to be thought a friend of yours. I dont care to be thought a friend to any of you. I e among you because I must; because Mrs Sucksby wills it, and I havent life left io thwart her. For the rest, remember this: I loathe you all.

    And I sit, not in the empty place beside him, but in the great rog-chair, at the head of the table. I sit in it and it creaks. John and Dainty gaze quickly at Mrs Sucksby, who blinks at me, two or three times.

    And why not? she says at last, f a laugh. You make y6ur-self fy, my dear. Ill take this hard old chair here, do me good. She sits and wipes her mouth. Mr Ibbs not about?

    Gone off on a job, says John. Took Charley Wag.

    She nods. And all my infants sleeping?

    Gentleman give em a dose, half anbbr></abbr> ho.

    Good boy, good boy. Keep it nid quiet. She gazes at me. All right, Miss Lilly? Like a spot of tea, perhaps? I do not answer, but ro my chair, very slowly. Or, coffee? She wets her lips. Make it coffee, then. Dainty, hot up some water.—Like a cake, dear girl, to chase it down with? Shall John slip out ae? Dont care for cakes?

    Theres nothing, I say slowly, that could be served to me here, that wouldo me as ashes.

    She shakes her head. Why, what a mouth youve got, for poetry! As for the cake, now—? I look away.

    Dainty sets about making the coffee. A gaudy clock ticks, and strikes the hour. Richard rolls a cigarette. Tobaoke, and smoke from the lamps and spitting dles, already drifts from wall

    to wall. The walls are brown, and faintly gleam, as if painted with gravy; they are pinned, here and there, with coloured pictures—of cherubs, of roses, of girls on swings—and with curling paper clippings, engravings of sportsmen, horses, dogs and thieves. Beside Mr Ibbss brazier three portraits—of Mr Chubb, Mr Yale and Mr Bramah—have been pasted to a board of cork; and are much marked by dart-holes.

    If I had a dart, I think, I might threaten them with it, make Mrs Sucksby give up her keys. If I had a broken bottle. If I had a knife.

    Richard lights his cigarette, narrows his eyes against the smoke and looks me over. Pretty dress, he says. Just the colour for you. He reaches for one of the yellow ribbon trimmings, and I hit his hand away. Tut, tut, he says then. Temper not much improved, I fear. We were in hopes that you would sweeten up in fi. As apples do. And veal-calves.

    Go to hell, will you? I say.

    He smiles. Mrs Sucksby colours, then laughs. Hark at that, she says. on girl says that, sounds awfully vulgar. Lady says it, sounds almost sweet. Still, dear—here she leans across the table, drops her voice—I wish you mightnt speak so nasty.

    I hold her gaze. And you think, I answer levelly, your wishes are something to me, do you?

    She flinches, and colours harder; her eyelids flutter and she looks away.

    I drink my coffee, then, and dont speak again. Mrs Sucksby sits, softly beating her hands upoable-top, her brows drawn together into a frown. John and Richard play again at dice, and quarrel over the game. Dainty washes napkins in a bowl of brown water, thehem before the fire to steam and stink. I y eyes. My stomach aches and aches. If I had a knife, I think again. Or an axe . . .

    But the room is so stiflingly hot, and I am so weary and sick, my head falls bad I sleep. When I wake, it is five oclock. The dice are put away. Mr Ibbs is returned. Mrs Sucksby is feeding babies, and Dainty is cooking a supper. Ba, cabbage, crumbling pota-

    toes and bread: they give me a plate and, miserably pig free the strips of fat from the ba, the crusts from the bread, as I pick bones from my breakfasts of fish, I eat it. Then they put out glasses. Care for some tipple, Miss Lilly? Mrs Sucksby says. A stout, or a

    sherry?

    A gin? says Richard, some look of mischief in his eye.

    I take a gin. The taste of it is bitter to me, but the sound of the silver spoon, striking the glass as it stirs, brings a vague and nameless fort.

    So that day passes. So pass the days that follow. I go early to bed— am undressed, every time, by Mrs Sucksby, who takes my goetticoats and locks them up, then locks up me. I sleep poorly, and wake, each m, sid clear-headed and afraid; and I sit itle gold chair, running over the details of my fi, w out my plan of escape. For I must escape. I will escape. Ill escape, and go to Sue. What are the names of the men who took her? I ot remember. Where is their house? I do not know. Never mind, never mind, I shall find it out. First, though, I will go to Briar, beg money from my uncle—hell still believe himself my uncle, of course—and if hell give me none, Ill beg from the servants! Ill beg from Mrs Stiles! Or, Ill steal! Ill steal a book from the library, the rarest book, and sell it—!

    Or, no, I wont do that.—For the thought of returning to Briar makes me shudder, even now; and it occurs to me in time that I have friends in London, after all. I have Mr Huss and Mr Hawtrey. Mr Huss—who liked to see me climb a staircase. Could I go to him, put myself in his power? I think I could, I am desperate enough . . . Mr Hawtrey, however, was kinder; and invited me to his house, to his shop on Holywell Street.—I think hell help me. I am sure he will. And I think Holywell Street ot be far— it? I do not know, and there are no maps here. But I shall find out the way. Mr Hawtrey will help me, then. Mr Hawtrey will help me find Sue . . .

    So my thoughts run, while the dawns of London break grubbily about me; while Mr Ibbs cooks bloaters, while his sister screams,

    while Gentleman coughs in his bed, while Mrs Sucksby turns in hers, and snores, and sighs.

    If only they would not keep me so close! One day, I think, each time a door is made fast at my back, one day theyll fet to lock it. Then Ill run. Theyll grow tired of always watg.—But, they do not. I plain of the thick, exhausted air. I plain of the mounti. I ask to go, oftehan I o the privy: for the privy lies at the other end of that dark and dusty passage at the back of the house, and shows me daylight. I know I could run from there to freedom, if I had the ce; but the ce does not e: Dainty walks there with me every time, and waits until I e out.—Once I do try to run, and she easily catches me and brings me back; and Mrs Sucksby hits her, for letting me go.

    Richard takes me upstairs, and hits me.

    Im sorry, he says, as he does it. But you know how hard we have worked for this. All you must do is wait, for the bringing of the lawyer. Yood at waiting, you told me once. Why wont you oblige us?

    The blow makes a bruise. Every day I see how it has lightehinking, Before that bruise quite fades, I will escape!

    I pass many hours in silence, brooding on this. I sit, i, in the shadows at the edge of lamp-light—Perhaps theyll fet me, I think. Sometimes it almost seems that they do: the stir of the house goes on, Dainty and John will kiss and quarrel, the babies will shriek, the men will play at cards and diow and then, other men will e—or boys, or else, more rarely, women and girls—with pluo be sold to Mr Ibbs and then sold on. They e, any hour of the day, with astonishing things—gross things, gaudy things—poor stuff, it seems to me, all of it: hats, handkerchiefs, cheap jewels, lengths of lace a hank of yellow hair still bound with a ribbon. A tumbling stream of things—not like the books that came to Briar, that came as if sinking to rest on the bed of a viscid sea, through dim and silent fathoms; nor like the things the books described, the things of veniend purpose—the chairs, the pillows, the beds, the curtains, the ropes, the rods . . .

    There are no books, here. There is only life in all its awful chaos. And the only purpose the things are made to serve, is the making of money.

    And the greatest money-making thing of all, is me.

    Not chilly, dear girl? Mrs Sucksby will say. Not peckish? Why, how warm your brow is! Not taking a fever, I hope? We t have you sick. I do not answer. I have heard it all before. I let her tuck rugs about me, I let her sit and chafe my fingers and cheek. Are you rather low? shell say. Just look at them lips. Theyd look handsome in a smile, they would. Not going to smile? Not even—she swal-lows—for me? Only glance, dear girl, at the almanack. She has scored through the days with crosses of black. Theres a month nearly gone by already, and only two more to e. Then we know what follows! That aint so long, is it?

    She says it, almost pleadingly; but I gaze steadily into her face— as if to say that a day, an hour, a sed, is too long, when passed with her.

    Oh, now! Her fingers ch about my hand; then sla, then pat. Still seems rather queer to you, does it, sweetheart? she says. Never mind. What  we get you, that will lift your spirits? Hey? A posy of flowers? A bow, for your pretty hair? A tri box? A singing bird, in a cage? Perhaps I make some movement. Aha! Wheres John? John, heres a shilling—its a bad one, so hand it over fast—nip out a Miss Lilly a bird in a cage.—Yellow bird, my dear, or blue?—No matter, John, so long as its pretty . . .

    She winks. John goes, aurns in half an hour with a fin a wicker basket. They fuss about that, then. They hang it from a beam, they shake it to make it flutter; Charley Wag, the dog, leaps and whines beh it. It will not sing, however—the room is too dark—it will only beat and pluck at its wings and bite the bars of its cage. At last they fet it. John takes to feeding it the blue heads of matches—he says he plans, in time, to make it swallow a long wick, and then to ig.

    Of Sue, no-one speaks at all. Once, Dainty looks at me as she puts out our suppers, and scratches her ear.

    Funny thing, she says, how Sue aint e back from the try, yet. Aint it?

    Mrs Sucksby gla Richard, at Mr Ibbs, and then at me. She wets her mouth. Look here, she says to Dainty, I havent wao talk about it, but you might as well know it, now. The truth is, Sue aint ing baot ever. That last little bit of busihat Gentlema her to see to had money in. More mohan was meant for her share. Shes up and cut, Dainty, with the cash.

    Daintys mouth falls open. No! Sue Trinder? What was like your own daughter?—Johnny! John chooses that moment to e down, for his supper. Johnny, you aint going to guess what! Sues took all of Mrs Sucksbys money, and thats why she aint e back. Done a flit. Just about broke Mrs Sucksbys heart. If we see her, we got to kill her.

    Done a flit? Sue Trinder? He snorts. She aint got the nerve.

    Well, she do.

    She do, says Mrs Sucksby, with anla me, and I dont want to hear her name said in this house. Thats all.

    Sue Triurned out a sharper! says John.

    Thats bad blood for you, says Richard. He also looks at me. Shows up in queer ways.

    What did I just say? says Mrs Sucksby hoarsely. I wont have her name said. She lifts her arm, and John falls silent. But he shakes his head and gives a whistle. Then after a moment, he laughs.

    More meat for us, though, aint it? he says, as he fills his plate. —Or would be, if it wasnt for the lady there.

    Mrs Sucksby sees him scowling at me; and leans and hits him.

    After that, if the men and women who e to the house ask after Sue, they are taken aside and told, like John and Dainty, that she has turned out wicked, double-crossed Mrs Sucksby and broken her heart. They all say the same: Sue Trinde藏书网r? Whod have thought her so fly? Thats the mother, that is, ing out in the child . . . They shake their heads, look sorry. But it seems to me, too, that they fet her quickly enough. It seems to me that even John and Dainty fet her. It is a short-memoried house, after all. It is a

    short-memoried district. Many times I wake in the night to the sound of footsteps, the creak of wheels—a man is running, a family taking flight, quietly, in darkness. The woman with the bandaged face, who nurses her baby oep of the house with the shutters with the heart-shaped holes, disappears; her place is taken by another—who, iurn, moves on, to be replaced by another, who drinks. Whats Sue, to them?

    Whats Sue, to me? Im afraid, here, to remember the pressing of her mouth, the sliding of her hand. But Im afraid, too, of fetting. I wish I could dream of her. I never do. Sometimes I take out the picture of the woman I supposed my mother, and look for her features there—her eyes, her pointed . Mrs Sucksby sees me do it. She watches, fretfully. Finally she takes the picture away.

    Dont you be thinking, she says, on things that are done and t be ged. All right, dear girl? You think of the time to e.

    She imagines I brood upon my past. But I am still brooding on my future. I am still watg keys as they are turned—soon one will be left in a lock, I know it. I am watg Dainty and John, Mr Ibbs— they are growing too used to me. Theyll turn careless, theyll fet. Soon, I think. Soon, Maud.

    So I think; until this happens.

    Richard takes to leaving the house each day, not saying where he is going. He has no money, and will have il the bringing of the lawyer: I think he goes only to walk the dusty streets, or to sit in the parks; I think the heat and the closeness of the Bh kit stifles him as much as it stifles me. One day, however, he goes, but returns in an hour. The house is quiet, for once: Mr Ibbs and Joh, and Dainty is sleeping in a chair. Mrs Sucksby lets him into the kit, ahrows off his hat and kisses her cheek. His face is flushed and his eyes are gleaming.

    Well, what do you think? he says.

    Dear boy, I t imagine! Have all your horses e up at once?

    Better than that, he says. He reaches for me. Maud? What do you think? e, out of the shadows. Dont look so fierce! Save that, till youve heard my news. It s you, rather.

    He has seized my chair and begun to haul me closer to the table. I shake him off. s me, how? I say, moodily. I have been sitting, thinking over the shape of my life.

    Youll see. Look here. He puts his hand to his waistcoat pocket and draws something out. A paper. He waves it.

    A bond, dear boy? says Mrs Sucksby, stepping to his side.

    A letter, he says, from—well, guess who? Will you guess, Maud? I say nothing. He pulls a face. Wont you play? Shall I give you a clue? It is someone you know. A friend, very dear.

    My heart gives a lurch. Sue! I say at once. But he jerks his head, and snorts.

    Not her. You think they give them paper, where she is? He gla Dainty; who opens and closes her eyes, and then sleeps on. Not her, he says again, more quietly. I mean, another friend of yours. You wont guess?

    I turn my face. Why should I? You mean to tell me, dont you?

    He waits another moment; then: Mr Lilly, he says. Your uhat was.—Aha! I have started. You are ied!

    Let me see, I say. Perhaps my uncle is searg for me, after all.

    Now, now. He holds the letter high. It has my name upon it, not yours.

    Let me see!

    I rise, pull down his arm, see a line of ink; then push him away.

    Thats not my uncles hand, I say—so disappointed, I could strike him.

    I never said it was, says Richard. The letters from him, but sent by another: his steward, Mr Way.

    Mr Way?

    More curious still, hmm? Well, you shall uand that, when you read it. Here. He unfolds the paper and hands it to me. Read this side, first. Its a postscript; and explains, at least—what Ive always thought so queer—why weve heard nothing from Briar, till now . . .

    The hand is cramped. The ink is smeared. I tilt the paper to catch what light I ; then read.

    Dear Sir.—I found today among my masters private papers, this letter, &amp; do suppose he meant it to be sent; only, he fell into a grave indisposition shortly after having wrote it, sir, whidisposition he tinues in to this day.—Mrs Stiles &amp; me did think at first, that this was through his niece having run off in such a sdalous mahough we beg leave to notice, sir, that his words herein suggest him not to have been overly astonished by that deed; as, begging leave again sir, no more were we.—We send this respectfully, sir, and presume to hope it finds you cheerful.—Mr Martin Way, Steward of Briar.

    I look up, but say nothing. Richard sees my expression and smiles. Read the rest, he says. I turn the paper over. The letter is short, and dated 3rd of May—seven weeks ago, now. It says this.

    To Mr Richard Rivers, from Christopher Lilly, Esq.—Sir. I suppose you have taken my niece, Maud Lilly. I wish you joy of her! Her mother was a strumpet, and she has all her mothers instincts, if not her face. The check to the progress of my work will be severe; but I take fort in my loss, from this: that I fancy you, sir, a man who knows the proper treating of a whore.—C.L.

    I read it, two or three times; then read it again; the fall. Mrs Sucksby instantly takes it up, to read herself. As she labours over the words, she grows flushed. When she has finished, she gives a cry:

    That blackguard! Oh!

    Her cry wakes Dainty. Who, Mrs Sucksby? Who? she says.

    A wicked man, thats all. A wicked man, who is ill, as he ought to be. No-one you know. Go back to sleep. She reaches for me. Oh, my dear—

    Leave me alone, I say.

    The letter has upset me, more than I should have believed. I

    dont know if it is the words that have wounded me most; or the final proof they seem to give, to Mrs Sucksbys story. But I ot bear to be watched by her, and by Richard, with my feelings in such a stir. I walk as far from them as I may—some two or three steps-— to the brown kit wall; then I walk from there to another wall and from there to a door; and I seize and vainly turn the handle.

    Let me out, I say.

    Mrs Sucksby es to me. She makes to reaot for the door, but for my face. I push her off—go quickly, to the sed door, and thehird.—Let me out! Let me out! She follows.

    Dear girl, she says, do yourself be upset by that old villain. Why, he aint worth your tears!

    Will you let me out?

    Let you out, to where? Aint everything here, that you need now? Aint everything here, or ing? Think of them jewels, them gowns—

    She has e close again. Again, I push her away. I step back to the gravy-coloured wall, and put my hand to it—a fist—a a it. Then I look up. Before my eyes is the almanack, its pages swarming with crosses of black. I catch hold of it, and pluck it from its pin. Dear girl— Mrs Sucksby says again. I turn and throw it at her.

    But afterwards, I fall weeping; and whe of tears has passed, I think I am ged. My spirit has gohe letter has taken it from me. The almanack goes back upon the wall, and I let it stay there. It grows steadily blacker, as we all inearer to our fates. The season advances. June grows warm, then even warmer. The house begins to be filled with flies. They drive Richard to a fury: he pursues them with a slipper, red-faced and sweating.—You know I am a gentlemans son? he will say. Would you think it, to look at me now? Would you?

    I do not answer. I have begun, like him, to long for the ing of Sues birthday in August. I will say anything they wish, I think, to any kind of solicitor or lawyer. But I pass my days in a sort of restless lethargy; and at night—for it is too hot to sleep—at night I

    d at the narrow window in Mrs Sucksbys room, gazing blankly

    at the street.

    Tome away from there, sweetheart, Mrs Sucksby will murmur f he wakes. They say there is cholera in the Bh. Who knows but you wont take a fever, from the draught?

    May oake a fever, from a draught of foetid air? I lie down at her side until she sleeps; then go back to the window, press my face to the gap between the sashes, breathe deeper.

    I almost fet that I mean to escape. Perhaps they se. For at last they leave me, oernoon—at the start of July, I think— with only Dainty to guard me.

    You watch her close, Mrs Sucksby tells her, drawing on gloves. Anything happen to her, Ill kill you. Me, she kisses. All right, my dear? I shant be gone an hour. Bring you back a present, shall I?

    I do not answer. Dainty lets her out, then pockets the key. She sits, draws a lamp across the table-top, and takes up work. Not washing napkins—for there are fewer babies, now: Mrs Sucksby has begun to find homes for them, and the house is daily growing stiller—but the pulling of silk stitches from stolen handkerchiefs. She does it listlessly, however. Dull work, she says, seeing me look. Sue used to do this. Care to try?

    I shake my head, let my eyelids fall; and presently, she yawns. I hear that; and am suddenly wide awake. If she will sleep, I think, I might try the doors—steal the key from her pocket! She yawns again. I begin to sweat. The clock ticks off the minutes—fifteen, twenty, twenty-five. Half an hour. I am dressed in the violet gown and white silk slippers. I have no hat, no money—never mind, never mind. Mr Hawtrey will give you that.

    Sleep, Dainty. Dainty, sleep. Sleep, sleep . . . Sleep, damn you!

    But she only yawns, and nods. The hour is almost up.

    Dainty, I say.

    She jumps. What is it?

    Im afraid— Im afraid I must visit the privy.

    She puts down her work, pulls a face. Must yht now, this minute?

    Yes. I place my hand on my stomach. I think I am sick.

    She rolls her eyes. Never knew a girl for siess, like you. Is th what they call a ladys stitution?

    I think it must be. Im sorry, Dainty. Will you open the door5

    Ill go with you, though.

    You . You might stay at your sewing, if you like ...&quot;

    Mrs Sucksby says I must go with you, every time; else Ill catch it. Here.

    She sighs, and stretches. The silk of her gown is stained beh the arms, the stain edged white. She takes out the key, unlocks the door, leads me into the passage. I go slowly, watg the lurg of her back. I remember having run from her before, and how she caught me: I know that, even if I might hit her aside now, she would only rise again at ond chase me. I might knock her head against the bricks . . . But I imagine doing it, and my wrists grow weak, I dont think I could.

    Go on, she says, when I hesitate. Why, whats up?

    Nothing. I catch hold of the privy door and draw it to me, slowly. You  wait, I say.

    No, Ill wait. She leans against the wall. Do me good, take the air.

    The air is warm and foul. In the privy it is warmer, and fouler. But I step inside and close the door and bolt it; then look about me. There is a little window, no bigger than my head, its broken paopped up with rag. There are spiders, and flies. The privy seat is cracked and smeared. I stand and think, perhaps for a minute. All right? calls Dainty. I do not ahe floor is earth, stamped hard. The walls are powdery white. From a wire hang strips of news-print. Ladies alemens Cast-off Clothing, in Good or Inferior dition, Wanted for— Welsh Mutton &amp; New-laid Eggs—

    Think, Maud.

    I turn to face the door, put my mouth to a gap in the wood.

    Dainty, I say quietly.

    What is it?

    Dainty, I am not well. You must fetch me something.

    What? She tries the door. e out, miss.

    I t. I darent. Dainty, you must go to the drawer, in the chest

    in my room upstairs. Will you? There is something there. Will

    you? Oh, I wish you would hurry! Oh, how it rushes! I am afraid of

    the men ing back—

    Oh,  she says, uandi last. She drops her voice. Caught you out has it?

    Will you go for me, Dainty? But Im not to leave you, miss!

    I must keep here, then, until Mrs Sucksby es! But say that John, or Mr Ibbs, should e first! Or say I swoon? And the door

    is bolted! What will Mrs Sucksby think of us, then? Oh Lord, she mutters. And then: In the chest of drawers, you

    say?

    The top-most drawer, on the right. Will you hurry? If I might

    ust make myself , and then lie down. I always take it so

    badly—

    All right.

    Be quick!

    All right!

    Her voice is fading. I press my ear to the wood, hear her feet, the opening and swinging back of the kit door.—I slide the bolt and run. I run out of the passage and into the court—I remember this, I remember the les, the bricks. Which way from here? There are high walls all about me. But I run further, and the walls give way. Theres a dusty path—it was slick with mud, when I came down it before; but I see it, and know it—I know it!—it leads to an alley and this, in turn, leads to another path, which crosses a street and leads me—where? To a road I do nhat runs uhe arches of a bridge. I recall the bridge, but remember it nearer, lower. I recall a high, dead wall. There is no wall here.

    No matter. Keep going. Keep the house at your back, and run. Take wider roads now: the lanes and alleys twist, and are dark, you must not get caught in them. Run, run. No matter that the sky seems vast and awful to you. No matter that London is loud. No matter that there are people here—no matter that they stare—no matter that their clothes are worn and faded, and yown bright;

    that their heads are covered, yours bare. No matter that your slippers are silk, that your feet are cut by every stone and der—

    So I whip myself along. Only the traffic checks me, the rushing horses and wheels: at every crossing I pause, then cast myself into the mass of cabs and waggons; and I think it is only my haste, my distra—that, and perhaps the vividness of my dress—that makes the drivers pull at their reins and keep from running me down. On, on, I go. I think once a dog barks at me, and snaps at my skirt. I think boys run beside me, for a time—two boys, or three— shrieking to see me stagger. You, I say, holding my hand against my side, will you tell me, where is Holywell Street? Which way, to Holywell Street?—but at the sound of my voice, they fall back.

    I go more slowly then. I cross a busier road. The buildings are grander here—awo streets beyond them the houses are shabby. Which way must I go? I will ask again, I will ask in a moment; for now, I will only walk, put streets and streets between myself and Mrs Sucksby, Richard, Mr Ibbs. What matter if I grow lost? I am lost already . . .

    Then I cross the mouth of a rising passage of yellow brid see at the end of it, dark and humped above the tips of broken roofs, its gold cross gleaming, the church of St Pauls. I know it, from illustrations; and I think Holywell Street is near it. I turn, pick up my skirts, make for it. The passage smells badly; but the church seems close. So close, it seems! The brick turns green, the smell grows worse. I climb, then suddenly sink, emerge in open air and almost stumble. I have expected a street, a square. Instead, I am at the top of a set of crooked stairs, leading down to filthy water. I have reached the shore of the river. St Pauls is close, after all; but the whole of the width of the Thames is flowiween us.

    I stand and gaze at it, in a sort of horror, a sort of awe. I remember walking beside the Thames, at Briar. I remember seeing it seem to fret and worry at its banks: I thought it longed—as I did—to qui, to spread. I did not know it would spread to this. It flows, like poison. Its surface is littered with broken matter—with hay, with wood, with weed, with paper, with tearings of cloth, with cork

    and tilting bottles. It moves, not as a river moves, but as a sea: it heaves. And where it breaks, against the hulls of boats, and where it is thrown, upon the shore, and about the stairs and the walls and woodehat rise from it, it froths like sour milk.

    It is an agony of water and of waste; but there are men upon it, fident as rats—pulling the oars of rowing-boats, tugging at sails. And here and there, at the rivers edge—bare-legged, bent-backed—are women, girls and boys, pig their way through the ing litter like gleaners in a field.

    They dont look up, and do not see me, though I stand for a minute and watch them wade. All along the shore I have e to, however, are warehouses, with w men about them; and presently, as I bee aware of them, they also spot me—spot my gown, I suppose—first stare, then signal and call. That jerks me out of my daze. I turn—go back along the yellow passage, take up the road again. I have seen the bridge that I must cross to reach St Pauls, but it seems to me that I am lower than I ought to be, and I ot find the road that will lead me up: the streets I am walking now are narrow, unpaved, still reeking of dirty water. There are men upooo—men of the boats and warehouses, who, like the others, try to catch my eye, whistle and sometimes call; though they do not touch me. I put my hand before my face, and go on faster. At last I find a boy, dressed like a servant. Which way is the bridge, I say, to the other shore? He points me out a flight of steps, and stares as I climb them.

    Everybody stares—men, women, children—even here, where the road is busy again, they stare. I think of tearing off a fold of skirt to cover my naked head. I think of begging a . If I knew what  to beg for, how much a hat would e, where it might be bought, I would do it. But I know nothing, nothing; and so simply walk on. The soles of my slippers I think are beginning to tear. Dont mind it, Maud. If you start to mind it, you will weep. Then the road ahead of me begins to rise, and I see again the gleam of water. The bridge, at last!—that makes me walk quicker. But walking quicker makes the slippers tear more; and after a moment, I am obliged to stop. There is a break in the wall at the start of the bridge

    with, set into it, a shallow stone bench. Hung up beside it is a belt of eant for throwing, it says upon a sign, to those in difficulties upon the river.

    I sit. The bridge is higher than I imagi. I have never been so high! The thought makes me dizzy. I touch my broken shoe. May a woman nurse her foot on a public bridge? I do not know. The traffic passes, swift and unbroken, like r water. Suppose Richard should e? Again, I cover my face. A moment, and Ill go on. The sun is hot. A moment, to find my breath. I y eyes. Now, when people stare, I ot see them.

    Then someone es and stands before me, and speaks. Im afraid youre unwell.

    I open my eyes. A man, rather aged. A strao me. I let my hand fall.

    Dont be afraid, he says. Perhaps I look bewildered. I dido surprise you.

    He touches his hat, makes a sort of bow. He might be a friend of

    my uncles. His voice is a gentlemans voice, and his collar is white.

    He smiles, then studies me closer. His face is kind. Are you unwell?

    Will you help me? I say. He hears my void his look

    ges.

    Of course, he says. What is it? Are you hurt? Not hurt, I say. But I have been made to suffer dreadfully. I— I cast a look at the coaches and waggons upon the bridge. Im afraid, I say, of certain people. Will you help me? Oh, I wish you would say you will!

    I have said it, already. But, this is extraordinary! And you, a lady— Will you e with me? You must tell me all your story; I shall hear it all. Dont try to speak, just yet.  you rise? Im afraid youre injured about the feet. Dear, dear! Let me look for a cab. Thats right.

    He gives me his arm, and I take it and stand. Relief has made me weak. Thank God! I say. Oh, thank God! But, listen to me. I grip him harder. I have nothing—no moo pay you with—

    Money? He puts his hand over mine. I should not take it. Dont think of it!

    —But I  have a friend, who I think will help me. If youll take me

    to him?

    Of course, of course. What else? e, look, heres what we need. He leans into the road, raises his arm: a cab pulls out of the stream of traffid halts before us. The gentleman seizes the door and draws it back. The cab is covered, and dark. Take care, he says.  you maake care. The step is rather high.

    Thank God! I say again, lifting my foot. He es behind me

    as I do it.

    Thats right, he says. And then: Why look, how prettily you

    climb!

    I stop, with my foot upoep. He puts his hand upon my waist. Go on, he says, urgio the coach.

    I step back.

    After all, I say quickly, I think I should walk. Will you tell me the way?

    The day is too hot to walk. You are too weary. Go on.

    His hand is upoill. He presses harder. I twist away and we almost struggle.

    Now, then! he says, smiling.

    I have ged my mind.

    e, now.

    Let go of me.   i

    Do you wish to cause a fuss? e, now. I know a house—

    A house? Havent I told you that I want only to see my friend?

    Well, hell like you better, I think, when you have washed your hands and ged your stogs and taken a tea. Or else—who knows?—when you have dohose things you may find you like me better.—Hmm?

    His face is still kind, he still smiles; but he takes my wrist and moves his thumb across it, and tries, again, to hao the coach. We struggle properly, now. No-ories to intervene. From the other vehicles in the road I suppose we are quite hidden. The men and women passing upon the bridge look ohen turn their heads.

    There is the driver, however. I call to him. t you see? I call.

    Theres been a mistake here. This man is insultihe mas me go, then. I move further about the coach, still calling up. Will you take me? Will you take me, alone? I shall find someoo pay you, I give you my word, when we arrive.

    The driver looks me over blankly as I speak. When he learns I have no money, he turns his head and spits. No fare, no passage, he says.

    The man has e close again. e on, he says—not smiling, now. Theres no need for this. What are you playing at? Its clear youre in some sort of fix. Shouldnt you like the stogs, the tea?

    But I still call up to the driver. Will you tell me, then, I say, which way I must walk? I must reach Holywell Street. Will you tell me, which way I must take, for there?

    He hears the name and snorts—in s, or laughter, I ot tell. But he raises his whip. That way/ he says, gesturing over the bridge; thewards, by Fleet Street.

    Thank you. I begin to walk. The man reaches for me. Let go of me, I say.

    You dont mean it. Let go!

    I almost shriek it. He falls back. Go on, then! he says. You damn little teaser.

    I walk, as quickly as I . I almost run. But then, after a moment, the cab es beside me and slows to match my pace. The gentleman looks out. His face has ged again.

    Im sorry, he says, coaxingly. e up. Im sorry. Will you e? Ill take you to your friend, I swear it. Look here. Look here. He shows me a . Ill give you this. e up. You mustnt go to Holywell Street, they are bad men there—not at all like me. e now, I know youre a lady. e, Ill be kind ...&quot;

    So he calls and murmurs, half the length of the bridge; until finally a line of waggons forms behind the crawling cab, and the driver shouts that he must go on. Then the man draws back, puts up his window with a bang; the cab pulls away. I let out my breath. I have begun to shake. I should like to stop, to rest; I dare not, now.

    T leave the bridge: here the road meets another, more busy than those on the southern shore; but more anonymous too, I think. I am grateful for that, though the crowds—the crowds are terrible. Never mind, never mind, push through them. Go owards, as the driver directed.

    Now the street ges again. It is lined with houses with bulging windows—shops, I uand them to be, at last: for there are goods on show, marked up with prices on cards. There are breads, there are medies. There are gloves. There are shoes and hats.—Oh, for a little money! I think of the  the gentleman offered, from the window of the coach: should I have seized it, and run? Too late to wo now. No matter. Go on. Here is a church, parting the road like the n of a bridge parts water. Which side ought I to take? A asses, bare-headed like me: I catch her arm, ask her the way. She points it out and then, like everyone else, stands staring as I take it.

    But here is Holywell Street at last!—Only, now I hesitate. How have I imagi? Not like this, perhaps—not so narrow, so crooked, so dark. The London day is still hot, still bright; in turning into Holywell Street, however, I seem to step into twilight. But the twilight is good, after all: it hides my face, and robs my gown of its colours. I walk further. The way grows narrower. The ground is dusty, broken, uhere are shops, lit up, oher side of me: some with lines of tattered clothes hung before them, some with broken chairs ay picture-frames and classes spilling from them, in heaps; the most, however, selling books. I hesitate again, when I see that. I have not handled a book since I left Briar; and now, to e so suddenly upon them, in suumbers; to see them laid, face-up, like loaves in trays, or piled, haphazardly, in baskets; to see them torn, and foxed, and bleached—marked up 2d., 3d., This Box Is.—quite unnerves me. I stop, and watch as a man picks idly through a box of coverless volumes and takes one up. The Mousetrap of Love.—I know it, I have read that title so many times to my uncle I know it almost by heart!

    Then the man lifts his head and finds me watg; and I walk on. More shops, more books, more men; and finally a window, a

    little brighter than the rest. The display is of prints, hung up on strings. The glass has Mr Hawtreys name upon it, iers of flaking gold. I see it, and shake so hard I almost stumble.

    Ihe shop is small and cramped. I have not expected that. The walls are all giveo books and prints, and there are ets, besides. Three or four men stand at them, each leafing rapidly and ily through some album or book: they dont look up when the door is opened; but when I take a step and my skirts give a rustle, they all turn their heads, see me, and openly stare. But I am used to stares, by now. At the rear of the shop is a little writing-table, with a youth sitting at it, dressed in a waistcoat and sleeves. He stares, as they do—then, when he sees me advang, gets up. What are you looking for? he says. I swallow. My mouth is dry.

    I say, quietly, Im looking for Mr Hawtrey. I wish to speak with Mr Hawtrey.

    He hears my voice, and blinks; the ers shift a little, and look me ain. Mr Hawtrey, he says, his tone a little ged. Mr Hawtrey doesnt work in the shop. You oughtnt to have e to the shop. Have you got an appoi?

    Mr Hawtrey knows me, I say. I dont need an appoi. He gla the ers. He says, Whats your business with him?

    Its private, I say. Will you take me to him? Will y him to me?

    There must be something to my look, however, or my voice. He grows muarded, steps back.

    Im not sure, after all, if hes in, he says. Really, you oughtnt to have e to the shop. The shop is for selling books and prints—do you know what kind? Mr Hawtreys rooms are upstairs.

    Theres a door, at his back. Will you let me go to him? I say. He shakes his head. You may send up a card, something like that.

    I dont have a card, I say. But give me a paper, and Ill write him out my name. Hell e, when he reads it. Will you give me a paper?

    fie does not move. He says again, I dont believe hes in the

    house.

    Then Ill wait, if I must, I say.

    You ot wait here!

    Then I think, I answer, you must have an office, some room like that; and I will wait there.

    He looks again at the ers; picks up a pencil and puts it

    down.

    If you will? I say.

    He makes a face. Then he finds me a slip of paper and a pen. But you shant, he says, be able to wait, if it turns out hes not in.1 I nod. Put your name on there, he says, pointing.

    I begin to write. Then I remember what Richard told me once— how the booksellers speak of me, in the shops of London. I am afraid to write, Maud Lilly. I am afraid the youth will see. At last— remembering something else—I put this: Galatea.

    I fold it, and hand it to him. He opens the door, whistles into the passage beyond. He listens, then whistles again. There e footsteps. He leans and murmurs, gestures to me. I wait.

    And, as I do, one of the ers closes his album and catches my eye. Dont mind him, he says softly, meaning the youth. He supposes you gay, thats all. Anyone  see, though, that youre a lady . . . He looks me over, then nods to the shelves of books. You like them, hmm? he says, in a different tone. Of course you do. Why shouldnt you?

    I say nothing, do nothing. The youth steps back.

    Were seeing, he says, if hes in.

    There are pictures behind his head, pio the wall in aper ers: a girl on a swing, showing her legs; a girl in a boat, about to slip; a girl falling, falling from the breaking branch of a tree ... I y eyes. He calls to one of the men: Do you wish to buy that book, sir—?

    Presently, however, there ore footsteps, and the door is opened again.

    It is Mr Hawtrey.

    He looks shorter, and slighter, than I remember him. His coat

    and trousers are creased. He stands in the passage in some agitation, does not e into the shop—meets my gaze, but does not smile— looks about me, as if to be sure I am alohen bee to him. The youth steps back to let me pass. Mr Hawtrey— I say. He shakes his head, however; waits until the door is closed behind me before he will speak. What he says then—in a whisper so fierce it is almost a hiss—is:

    Good God! Is it you? Have you really e here, to me?

    I say nothing, only stand with my eyes on his. He puts his hand, in distra, to his head. Theakes my arm. This way, he says, leadio a set of stairs. The steps have boxes upon them. Be careful. Be careful, he says, as we climb them. And then, at the top: In here.

    There are three rooms, set up for the printing and binding of books. Iwo men work, loading type; another, I think, is Mr Hawtreys own office. The third is small, and smells strongly of glue. Its ihat he shows me. The tables are piled with papers—loose papers, ragged at the edges: the leaves of unfinished books. The floor is bare and dusty. One wall—the wall to the typesetters room—has frosted glass panels in it. The men are just visible, bending over their work.

    There is a single chair, but he does not ask me to sit. He closes the door and stands before it. He takes out a handkerchief and wipes his face. His face is yellowish-white.

    Good God, he says again. And then: Five me. Five me. Its only the surprise of the thing.

    He says it, more kindly; and I hear him and half turn away.

    Im sorry, I say. My voice is not steady. Im afraid I will weep. I have not e to you to weep.

    You may weep, if you like! he says, with a gla the frosted glass.

    But I will not weep. He watches me struggling against my tears for a moment, then shakes his head.

    My dear, he says gently at last. What have you done?

    Dont ask me.

    You have run away.

    From my uncle, yes.

    From your husband, I think.

    My husband? I swallow. Do you know, then, of that?

    He shrugs, colours, looks away.

    I say, You think me wrong. You do not know what I have been made to suffer! Dont worry—for he has lifted his eyes to glance, again, at the panels of glass—dont worry, I shant grow wild. You may think what you like of me, I dont care. But you must help me.

    Will you?

    My dear—

    You will. You must. I have nothing. I need money, a house to stay in. You used to like to say you would make me wele—

    Despite myself, my voice is rising.

    Be calmer, he says—lifting his hands as if to soothe me; but not moving from his place at the door. Be calmer. You know how queer this will look? Do you? What are my staff to think? A girl es asking for me urgently, sending up a riddling name . . . He laughs, not happily. What would my daughters say, my wife?

    I am sorry.

    Again he wipes his face. He lets out his breath. I wish you would tell me, he says, why you have e, to me. You mustnt think I will take your part against your uncle. I never liked to see him keep you so meanly, but he mustnt know youve e here. Nor must you think—is it what you are hoping?—that Ill help you bato his favours. He has quite cast you off, you know. Besides that, he is ill—seriously ill—over this business. Did you know that?

    I shake my head. My uncle is nothing to me, now.

    But he is something to me, you uand. If he should hear of your ing—

    He will not.

    Well. He sighs. Then his face grows troubled again. But to e to me! To e here! And he looks me over, takes in my gaudy dress and gloves—which are filthy; my hair—which I think is tangled; my face—which must be dusty, lustreless, white. I should hardly have known you, he says, still frowning, you seem so ged. Where is your coat, and your hat?

    There was not time—

    He looks appalled. Did you e, like this? He squints at the hem of my skirt; then he sees my feet, and starts. Why, look at your slippers! Your feet are bleeding! Did you leave, without shoes?

    I must. I have nothing!

    Not shoes?

    No. Not so much as that.

    Rivers keeps you without shoes?

    He does not believe it. If I might only, I say, make you know— But he is not listening. He is looking about him, as if seeing for the first time the tables, the piles of paper. He takes up a few blank sheets, begins hurriedly to cover up the naked print.

    You oughtnt to have e here, he says, as he does it. Look at this! Look at this!

    I catch sight of a line of print. —you shall have enough, I warrant you, and I shall whip, whip— Do you try and hide it, I say, from me? I have seen worse at Briar. Have you fotten?

    This is not Briar. You dont uand. How could you? You were amolemen, there. It is Rivers I blame for this. He ought—having taken you—at least to have kept you closer. He saw what you were.

    You dont know, I say. You dont know how hes used me!

    I dont want to know! It is not my place to know! Dont tell me.—Oh, only look at yourself! Do you know how you will have seemed, uporeets? You t have e unnoticed, surely?

    I gaze down at my skirt, my slippers. There was a man, I say, upon the bridge. I thought he meant to help me. But he meant only— My voice begins to shake.

    You see? he says then. You see? Suppose a poli should have seen you, and followed you here? Do you know what would happen to me—to my staff, to my stock—if the police were to e down heavily upon us? They might, for such a matter as this.—Oh, God, only look at your feet! Are they bleeding, truly?

    He helps me into the chair, then gazes about him. Theres a sink, he says,  door. Wait here, will you? He goes off, to the room with the typesetters in it. I see them lift their heads, hear his

    nice.—I dont know what he must tell them. I dont care. In sitting, I have grown tired; and the soles of my feet, whitil now have been almost numb, have begun to smart. The room has no window of its own, and no ey, and the smell of glue seems stronger. I have e close to one of the tables: I lean upon it, and gaze across it—at the piles of pages, untrimmed, unsewn, some of them disturbed or cealed by Mr Hawtrey.—and I shall whip, whip, whip, your backside till the blood runs down your heels— The print is new, and black; but the paper is poor, the ink has feathered. What is the fount? I know it, but—it troubles me—I ot .

    —so, so, so, so, so, you like the birch, do you?

    Mr Hawtrey returns. He has a cloth, and a bowl, half-filled with water; also a glass, with water for me to drink.

    Here you are, he says, putting the bowl before me, wetting the cloth and handing it to me; then glang nervously away.  you do it? Just enough to take the blood away, for now

    The water is cold. When I have wiped my feet I wet the cloth again and, for a sed, sit and hold it to my face. Mr Hawtrey looks round and sees me do it. Youre not feverish? he says. Youre not ill?—I am only warm, I say. He nods, and es and takes the bowl. Then he gives me the glass, and I drink a little of it. Very good, he says.

    I look again at the leaves of print upoable; but the name of the fount escapes me, still. Mr Hawtrey checks his watch. Thes his hand to his mouth and bites at the skin of his thumb, and frowns.

    I say, Yood, to help me. I think other men would blame me.

    No, no. Havent I said? It is Rivers I blame. Never mind. Tell me, now. Be ho with me. What money have you, upon you now?

    I have none.

    No mo<samp>藏书网</samp> all?

    I have only this gown. But we might sell it, I think? I should sooake a plainer one, anyway.

    Sell yown? His frown grows deeper. Dont speak so oddly, will you? When you go back—

    Go back? To Briar?

    To Briar? I mean, to your husband.

    To him? I look at him in amazement. I ot go ba! It has takewo months to escape him!

    He shakes his head. Mrs Rivers— he says. I shudder.

    Dont call me that, I say, I beg you.

    Again, so odd! What ought I to call you, if not that?

    Call me Maud. You asked me, just now, what I have that is mine. I have that hat, and nothing else.

    He makes some movement with his hand. Dont be foolish, he says. Listen to me, now. I am sorry for you. You have had some quarrel, havent you—?

    I laugh—so sharply, he starts; and the two typesetters look up. He sees them do it, then turns bae.

    Will you be reasonable? he says quietly, warningly.

    But how  I be that?

    A quarrel, I say. You think it a quarrel. You think I have run on bleedi, half-way across London, for that? You know nothing. You ot guess what danger I am in, what coils—! But, I t tell you. Its too great a thing.

    What is?

    A secret thing. A scheme. I ot say. I ot— Oh! I have lowered my gaze, and it has fallen again upon the pages of print. you like the birch, do you? What is this type? I say. Will you tell me?

    He swallows. This type? he says, his voice quite ged.

    This fount.

    For a sed he does not ahen: Clarendon, he says, quietly.

    Clarendon. Clarendon. I k, after all. I tio gaze at the paper—I think I put my fio the print—until Mr Hawtrey es and places a blank sheet upon it, as he did with the others.

    Dont look there, he says. Dont stare so! What is the matter with you? I think you must be ill.

    I am not ill, I answer. I am only tired. I y eyes. I wish I might stay here, and sleep.

    Stay here? he says. Stay here, in my shop? Are you mad? At sound of that word I open my eyes, a his gaze; he colours, looks quickly away. I say again, more steadily, I am only tired. But he does not answer. He puts his hand to his mouth and begins to bite, again, at the skin of his thumb; aches me, carefully, cautiously, from the side of his eye. Mr Hawtrey— I

    say.

    I wish, he says suddenly then, I just wish you would tell me what it is you mean to do. How am I even to get you from the shop? I must bring a cab, I suppose, to the back of the building.

    Will you do that?

    You have somewhere to go, to sleep? To eat?

    I have nowhere!

    You must go home, then.

    I ot do that. I have no home! I need only a little money, a little time. There is a person I mean to find, to save—

    To save?

    To find. To find. And, having fouhen I may need help again. Only a little help. I have beeed, Mr Hawtrey. I have been wronged. I think, with a lawyer—if we might find an ho man— You know I am rich?—or, ought to be. Agaiches but does not speak. I say, You know I am rich. If youll only help me, now. If youll only keep me—

    Keep you! Do you know what you are saying? Keep you, where?

    Not in your own house?

    My house?

    I thought—

    My house? With my wife and daughters? No, no. He has begun to pace.

    But at Briar you said, many times—

    Havent I told you? This is not Briar. The world is not like Briar. You must find that out. How old are you? You are a child. You ot leave a husband, as you may leave an uncle. You ot live, in London, on nothing. How do you think you will live?

    I do not know. I supposed— I supposed you would give me money,

    I want to say. I look about me. Then I am struck with an idea. Might I not, I say, work for you?

    He stands still. For me?

    Might I not work here? Iting together of books?—the writing, even? I know that work. You knoell I know it! You may pay me a wage. I shall take a room—I need only one room, one quiet room!—I shall take it secretly, Richard shall never know, you shall keep my secret for me. I shall work, and earn a little money— enough to find out my friend, to find out an ho lawyer; and then—What is it?

    He has kept still, all this time; but his look has ged, is odd.

    Nothing, he says, moving. I— Nothing. Drink your water.

    I suppose I am flushed. I have spoken rapidly, and grown warm: I swallow, ahe chill dest of the water inside my breast, like a sword. He moves to the table and leans upon it, not looking at me, but thinking, thinking. When I set down the glass he turns back. He does not catch my eye.

    Listen to me, he says. He speaks quietly. You ot stay here, you know that. I must send for a cab, to take you. I— I must send for some woman, also. I will pay for a woman to go with you.

    Go with me, where?

    To some—hotel. Now he has turned again, has taken up a pen—looks in a book, begins to set down a dire upon a slip of paper. Some house, he says, as he does it, where you may rest and take a supper.

    Where I may rest? I say. I dont think I shall rest, ever again! But a room! A room!—And will you e to me there? Tonight? He does not answer. Mr Hawtrey?

    Not tonight, he says, still writing. Tonight I ot.

    Tomorrow, then.

    He waves the paper, to dry it; then folds it. Tomorrow, he says. If I .

    You must!

    Yes, yes.

    And the work—my w for you. Youll sider that? Say you will!

    Hush. Yes, Ill sider it. Yes.

    Thank God!

    I put my hand before my eyes. Stay here, he says. Will you? Dont go from here.

    I hear him step, then, to the room  door; and when I look, I see him speaking quietly to one of the typesetters—see the man draw on his jacket, then go. Mr Hawtrey es back. He nods to my feet.

    Put your shoes on, now, he says, turning away. We must be

    ready

    You are kind, Mr Hawtrey, I say, as I lean to tug on my broken slippers. God knows, no-one has been so kind to me, since— My voice is lost.

    There, there, he says, distractedly. Dont think of it, now . . .

    Then I sit in silence. He waits, takes out his watch, goes now and then to the top of the stairs, to stand and listen. At last he goes and es quickly back.

    They are here, he says. Now, have you everything? e this way, carefully.

    He takes me dowakes me through a set of rooms, piled high with crates and boxes, and then through a sort of scullery, to a door. The door leads to a little grey area: there are steps from this, to an alley. A cab waits there with, beside it, a woman. She sees us and nods.

    You know what to do? Mr Hawtrey says to her. She nods again. He gives her money, ed in the paper on which he has written. Here is the lady, look. Her name is Mrs Rivers. You are to be kind to her. Have you some shawl?

    She has a plaid wool , which she puts about me, to cover up my head. The wool is hot against my cheek. The day is still warm, though it is almost twilight. The sun has gone from the sky. I have been three hours from Lant Street.

    At the door to the cab, I turn. I take Mr Hawtreys hand.

    You will e, I say, tomorrow?

    Of course.

    You wont talk of this, to anyone? Youll remember the danger I spoke of?

    He nods. Go on, he says quietly. This woman will care for you now, better than I.  ?

    Thank you, Mr Hawtrey!

    He hands me into the cab—hesitates, before lifting my fio his mouth. The woman es . He closes the door at her back, then moves off, out of the path of the turning wheel. I lean to the glass and see him take out his handkerchief, wipe his fad neck; theurn, pull out of the alley, and he is gone. We drive away from Holywell Street—northwards, so far as I  tell; for I know— I am almost certain—that we do not cross the river.

    We go very fitfully, however. The traffic is thick. I keep with my face at the window at first, watg the crowds uporeets, the shops. Then I think, Suppose I see Richard?—and I fall back against the leather seat and study the streets from there.

    Only after some time of this do I look again at the woman. She has her hands in her lap: they are gloveless, and coarse. She catches my eye.

    All right, dearie? she says, not smiling. Her voice is rough as her fingers.

    Do I begin, then, to feel wary? I am not sure. I think, After all, Mr Hawtrey had not the time to be careful, in his finding of a woman. What matter if shes not kind, so long as shes ho? I look more closely at her. Her skirt is a rusty black. Her shoes are the colour aure of roasted meat. She sits placidly, not speaking, while the cab shudders and jolts.

    Must we go far? I ask her at last.

    Not too far, dearie.

    Her voice is still rough, her face without expression. I say, fretfully, Do you call me that? I wish you wouldnt.

    She shrugs. The gesture is so bold a so careless, I think I do then grow uneasy. I put my face again to the window, to try to draw in air. The air will not e. Where is Holywell Street, I think, from here?

    I dont like this, I say, turning back to the woman. May we not walk?

    Walk, in them slippers? She snorts. She looks out. Heres

    Camden Town, she says. Weve a fair way, yet. Sit bad be

    good.

    Will you talk to me, so? I say again. I am not a child.

    And again, she shrugs. We drive on, more smoothly. We drive for perhaps, half an hour, up a rising road. The day is darker now. I am tenser. We have left the lights and shops, and are in some street—some street of plain buildings. We turn a er, and the buildings grow plaiill. Presently we draw up before a great, grey house. There is a lamp, at the foot of its steps. A girl in a ragged apron is reag with a taper to light it. The glass of its shade is cracked. The street is perfectly silent.

    Whats this? I say to the woman, when the coach has stopped and I uand it will not go on.

    Heres your house, she says.

    The hotel?

    Hotel? She smiles. You may call it that. She reaches for the lat the door. I put my hand on her wrist.

    Wait, I say—feeling real fear now, at last. What do you mean? Where has Mr Hawtrey directed you to?

    Why, to here!

    And what is here?

    Its a house, aint it? What is it to you, what sort? You shall get your supper all the same.—You might leave off gripping me, mind!

    Not until you tell me where I am.

    She tries to pull her hand away, but I will not let her. Finally, she sucks her teeth.

    House for ladies, she says, like you.

    Like me?

    Like you. Poor ladies, widow ladies—wicked ladies, I shouldnt wohere!

    I have thrust her wrist aside.

    I dont believe you, I say. I am meant to e to an hotel. Mr Hawtrey paid you for that—

    Paid me t you here, and then to leave you. Most particular. If you dont like it— She reaches into her pocket. Why, heres his very hand.

    She has brought out a piece of paper. It is the paper that Mr Hawtrey put about the . It has the name of the house upon it__

    A home, he calls it, for destitute gentlewomen. For a moment I gaze at the words in a sort of disbelief: as if my gazing at them will ge them, ge their meaning or shape. Then I look at the woman. This is a mistake, I say. He didnt mean

    this. He has misuood, or you have. You must take me back__

    Im t you, and leave you, most particular, she says stubbornly again. &quot;Poor lady, weak in her head, aking to a charity place.&quot; Theres charity, aint it?

    She nods again to the house. I do not answer. I am remembering Mr Hawtreys look—his words, the odd tone of his voice. I think, / must go back! I must go back to Holywell Street!—a, even as I think it, I know, with a dreadful chill tra of my heart, what I will find there if I do: the shop, the men, the youth; and Mr Hawtrey goo his own home—his home, which might be anywhere iy, anywhere at all... And after that, the street—the street in darkness.—How shall I ma? How shall I live a night, in London, on my own?

    I begin to shake. What am I to do? I say.

    What, but go over, says the woman, nodding again to the house. The girl with the taper is gone, and the lamp burns feebly. The windows are shuttered, the glass above them black, as if the rooms are filled with darkness. The door is high—divided in two, like the great front door at Briar. I see it, and am gripped by panic.

    I ot, I say. I ot!

    Again the woman sucks her teeth. Better that than the road— aint it? Its one or the other. I am paid t you here and leave you, thats all. Go on out, now, a me get home.

    I ot, I say again. I grab at her sleeve. You must take me, somewhere else.

    Must I? She laughs—does not shake me off, however. Instead, her look ges. Well, I will, she says; if youll pay me.

    Pay you? I have nothing to pay you with!

    She laughs again. No money? she says. And a dress like that?

    She looks at my skirt.

    Oh, God, I say, plug at it in desperation. I would give you the gown, if I might!

    Would you?

    Take the shawl!

    The shawls my own! She snorts. She still looks at my skirt. Theilts her head. What you got, she says more quietly, underh?

    I shudder. Then slowly, shrinkingly, I draw up my hem, show her my petticoats—two petticoats there are, one white and one crimson. She sees them, and nods.

    Theyll do. Silk, are they? Theyll do.

    What, both? I say. Will you take both?

    Theres the driver needs his fare, aint there? she answers. You must pay me, onyself; and once for him.

    I hesitate—but what  I do? I lift my skirt higher, find out the strings at my waist and pull them loose; then, modestly as I , draw the petticoats down. She does not look away. She takes them from me and tucks them swiftly under her coat.

    What the gentleman dont know, eh? she says, with a chuckle; as if we are close spirators now. She rubs her hands. Where to, then? Eh? Where must I tell the driver?

    She has opehe window, to call. I sit with my arms about myself, feeling the prickle of the fabriy gown against my bare thighs. I think I would colour, I think I would weep, if I had life enough.

    Where to? she asks again. Beyond her head, the street is filled with shadow. A moon has risen—a crest, slender, filthy-brown.

    I bow my head. With this last, awful bafflement of my hopes, I have only one place to go. I tell her, she calls it, and the coach starts up. She settles herself more fortably in her seat, rearranges her coat. She looks at me.

    All right, dearie? she says. I do not answer, and she laughs. She turns away. Dont mind it now, does she? she says, as if to herself. Dont mind it, now.

    Lant Street is dark when we reach it. I know the house to stop at,

    from the house which faces it—the oh the oi-coloured shutters, that I have gazed at so hard from Mrs Sucksbys window John answers my knock. His face is white. He sees me, and stares Fuck, he says. I go past him. The door leads into what I suppose is Mr Ibbss shop, and a passage from that takes me directly into the kit. They are all there, apart from Richard. He is out in seare. Dainty is weeping: her cheek is bruised, worse than before, her lip split and bleeding. Mr Ibbs paces in his shirt-sleeves, making the floorboards jump and creak. Mrs Sucksby stands, her eyes on nothing, her face white as powder, like Johns. She stands still. But when she sees me e she folds and winces—puts her hand to her heart as if struck.

    Oh, my girl, she says.

    I dont know what they do after that. Dainty screams, I think. I go by them, not looking. I go up the stairs to Mrs Sucksbys room— my room, our room, I suppose I must call it now—and I sit upon the bed, my face to the window. I sit with my hands in my lap, my head bowed. My fingers are marked with dirt. My feet have begun, again, to bleed.

    She gives me a minute, before she es. She es quietly. She closes the door and locks it at her back—turning the key gently in the lock, as if she thinks me sleeping and fears to wake me. Theands at my side. She does not try to touch me. I know, however, that she is trembling.

    Dear girl, she says. We supposed you lost. We supposed you drowned, or murdered—

    Her voice catches, but does not break. She waits and, when I do nothing, Stand up, sweetheart, she says.

    I do. She takes the gown from me, and the stays. She does not ask what has bee of my petticoats. She does not exclaim over my slippers ahough she shudders, as she draws off my stogs. She puts me, naked, into the bed; draws up the blao my jaw; then sits beside me. She strokes my hair—teases out the pins and tangles with her hands. My head is loose, and jerks as she tugs. There, now, she says.

    The house is silent. I think Mr Ibbs and Johalking, but

    talking in whispers. Her fingers move more slowly. There, now, she ays again; and I shiver, for her voice is Sues.

    Her voice is Sues, but her face— The room is dark, however, she has nht a dle. She sits with her back to the window. But I feel her gaze, and her breath. I y eyes.

    We thought you lost, she murmurs again. But you came back. Dear girl, I knew you should!

    I have nowhere else, I answer, slowly and hopelessly. I have nowhere and no-one. I thought I k; I never k till now. I have nothing. No home—

    Here is your home! she says.

    No friends—

    Here are your friends!

    No love—

    She draws in her breath; then speaks, in a whisper.

    Dear girl, dont you know? Aint I said, a huimes—?

    I begin to weep—in frustration, exhaustion. Why will you say it? I cry, through my tears. Why will you? Isnt it enough, to have got me here? Why must you also love me? Why must you smother and torment me, with yrasping after my heart?

    I have raised myself up; but the cry takes the last of my strength and soon, I fall back. She does not speak. She watches. She waits, until I have grown still. Theurns her head and tilts it. I think, from the curve of her cheek, that she is smiling.

    How quiet the house is, she says, now so many infants are gone! Aint it? She turns bae. I hear her swallow. Did I tell you, dear girl, she says softly, that I once bore an infant of my own, that died? Round about the time that that lady, Sues mother, came? She nods. So I said. So youll hear it told, round here, if you ask. Babies do die. Whod think that queer . . .?

    There is something to her voice. I begin to shake. She feels it, and reaches again to stroke my tangled head. There, now. Hush, now. You are quite safe, now . . . Theroking stops. She has caught up a lock of hair. She smiles again. Funny thing, she says, in a different tone, about your hair. Your eye I did suppose brown, and your colour white, and your waist and hands I knew would be

    slender. Only your hair e out rather fairer than I had it pictured

    The words drop away. In reag, she has moved her head: the light from the street-lamp, and from the sliver of tarnished moon, falls full upon her, and all at once I see her face—the brown of her own eye, and her own pale cheek—and her lip, that is plump and must, I uand suddenly, must once have been plumper . . . She wets her mouth. Dear girl, she says. My own, my own dear girl—

    She hesitates another moment; then speaks, at last.

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