Chapter 10 Chapter Ten

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 on the table-top, at the fire in my grate. The room is too warm. The room is too warm and yet 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 her, too: for her voice seems light to me—dreadfully light—and her face seems sharp. She puts away the thimble; but watches, watches.

Richard is coming. Does she feel it, as I do? She gives no sign. She walks, she sits, as easily as before. She eats her lunch. solitary games. I stand at the glass and, in reflection, 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 face and think what makes it mine: the 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; to her side, and sit, and clumsily mix the cards, and she takes them 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 parlors 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, gaining their worth . . . After all, we are not ordinary girls, in an ordinary parlor; and she is interested 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. 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; This must be done. This should have been done, before. Richard is coming, and I am overtaken by a sense of duties unmet: a panicking sense that hours, days—dark, devious fish of time—have slithered by, uncaptured. pass a fretful night. Then, when we rise and she comes to dress me, I pluck at the frill on the sleeve of her gown. Have you no other gown, 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 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 comes, and takes her for me. I have grown used to her, to the life, the warmth, the particularity of her; she has become, 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 near to me in face and figure shell come, and I understand, 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 satisfaction, turning a little to the left, a little to the right, brushing the creases from her skirt, settling her flesh more comfortably 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 or grandmother. I think how restless she must be, as she counts 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—som e 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. 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 cost me. 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. afternoon—comes, as he used to come, in the days of Agnes: takes 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, neatly ; yet carries his daring, his confidence, close and gaudy about him, like swirls of color or perfume. I feel the heat of his mouth, even through my gloves. Then he turns to Sue, and she makes a curtsey. The stiff- bodiced dress is not made for curtseying in, however: the dip is a jagged one, the fringes upon her skirt tumble together and seem to shake. Her color rises. I see him smile as he notes it. But I see, too, that he marks the gown, and perhaps 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 provi ng 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. 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. No gentleman 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; be myself, niece to my uncle, if I could meet the look he shows me now without feeling the stir of some excitement, dark and awful, in my own breast. 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. goes, but makes her step to him and they stand a moment, murmuring at the door. He gives her a coin—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 grimace on the face of a corpse. When she turns back, I cannot 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 parting meat from the spine of a fish—the bone so pale and so fine it is almost translucent, the meat in a thickening coating of butter and sauce. Our food comes cold to the table in winter. In summer it comes too warm.

I say, Very—biddable, Mr Rivers. You think she will suit? I think so, yes. You won't have cause to complain, of my recommendation? No. Well, I am relieved to hear it. He will always say too much, for the sport of the thing. My uncle is watching. Whats this? I wipe my mouth. My new maid, Uncle, I answer. Miss Smith, who replaces Miss Fee. You've seen her, often. Heard her, more like, kicking 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 back to me, his chin a little raised, as if sensing dark currents. Miss Smith, you say?

Miss Smith, I repeat steadily, who replaces Miss Fee. I neaten my knife and fork. Miss Fee, the papist. The papist! Ha! He returns excitedly to his own meat. Now, Rivers, he says as he does it. Sir? I defy you—positively defy you, sir!—to name me any institution so nursing of the atrocious acts of lechery as the Catholic Church of Rome He does not look at me again until supper is ended. Then has me read for an hour from an antique text, The Nunns Complaint 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 knife, its ancient blade sharpened almost to a crescent, 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 turned, then looks at me frankly. His tone he keeps polite, however. I must ask you, he says, if you wish to continue with your drawing-lessons, now that Im returned? you do. He waits. I do not answer. Shall I come, as usual, tomorrow? He waits again. He has his hand upon the door and has drawn it back—not 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. I shake my head. Good, then. I shall come, at the usual time. You must show me the work you've done while I've been away. I should say a little more labor and—well, who knows? We might be ready to surprise your uncle with the fruits of your instruction. What do you think? Shall we give it another two 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 comes, beneath or beyond it, a sinking, a fluttering—a vague and nameless movement—a sort of panic. reply, and the fluttering grows wilder. We have plotted so carefully. We have committed, already, one dreadful deed, and set in train another. I know all that must be done now. to love him, let him appear to win me, then confess 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 need it. A look of irritation or anger 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 lingers to 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 back into something like a familiar pattern. He passes his mornings at work on the prints, then comes 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 back in 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 come too close, or speak too confidentially, to her mistress; knows that when he does come 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 glances at us from the edge of her eye —study our reflections in the chimney-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 changed to me now. with shining surfaces, each one an eye of hers. When those eyes meet mine, they are veiled and blameless. But when they meet Richards, I see the leap of knowledge or understanding that passes between them; For of course, though she knows much, what she has is a counterfeit knowledge, and worthless; and her satisfaction in the keeping of it—in the nursing of what she supposes her secret—is awful to me. 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 turned to her in private, perhaps to smile, perhaps to grimace, he turns to me, and smiles and grimaces in earnest. And where his torturing of Agnes pricked me on to little cruelties of my own, now I am only unnerved. My consciousness of Sue makes me too conscious 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 second. I sense his bafflement, feel the weight of his expectation: feel it gather, turn, grow sour. my work, and begins to shake his head. I am afraid, Miss Lilly, he says, more than once, that you want discipline, yet. I thought your touch firmer than this. I am sure it was firmer, a month ago. Dont say you have forgotten your lessons, in my short absence. After all our labor! There is one thing an artist must always avoid, in the execution of his work: that is, hesitation. For that leads to weakness; You do understand me? I will not answer. He leaves, and I keep at my place. Sue comes 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 face—into her eye, with its single fleck of darker brown. Then I look at the shapeless daubs of color 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 gray all that winter long—has been gray, it seems to me, for seven years!—it lights now, for him. There is only a quick, soft wind, that comes 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. Way observes the gloves, then looks at me in a kind of satisfaction, a kind of scorn. Fancy yourself a lady, do you? he said to me, the day he carried me, kicking, 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 convincing. You neednt 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 chances to be near you. Anyone would think that queer. She knows you do not love me. You have no need to dote. Shouldnt a gentleman dote, in the springtime, when he has the chance? He puts back his head. Look at this sky, Maud. See how sickeningly 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-mannered: theyre like tailors walls, an eternal 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 scenes from The Whipping Milliners. I turn and, like him, quickly glance at Sue. She is watching, with a frown of what I take to be satisfaction, 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 come loose from beneath her bonnet and whip about her face. She carries our bags 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, anyway. Poor Agnes! I wonder how she does, hey? He takes my arm again, and laughs. I do not answer, and his laughter fades. Come, Maud, he says, in a cooler tone, dont be so spinsterish. What has happened to you? Nothing has happened to 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 come 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 change of heart? No. You are sure? Quite sure. And yet, you still delay. Why is that? I do not answer. Maud, I ask you again. Something has happened, since I saw you last. 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 down the butt 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. you walk more nimbly. You like it, hmm? You may walk in London like this, you know. On the parks and heaths. 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, gray, 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 changed. 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. to it. I am not, however, he replies. Nor do I wish to take instruction in the art, from you or anyone. I have lost too much, in the past, through waiting. I am cleverer now, at manipulating events to match my needs . That is what I have learned, while you have learned patience. Do you understand me, Maud? I turn my head, half-close my eyes. I dont want to understand 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 contract. 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 alone, at midnight, in your own room ..." He draws back. I suppose your reputation must count for something , even here; Im afraid that ladies always do.—But naturally you knew that, when you received me. His tone has some new edge to it, some quality I have not heard before. But we have changed 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. And yet, I think your uncle must consider 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 misunderstand him, entirely. He considers 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 can feel the beat of the blood in my brow. I put my fingers to my eyes. Don't be tiresome, Richard. Disposes of it, how? Why, by sending it home . . . The beat seems to stumble, then quickens. I draw back my fingers, but again the light is behind him and I cannot 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. And is this kindness? I say. We have moved, at last, into shadow, and I see his look: it is honest, 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 complacently; and she, at least, sticks better.—What? I have shuddered, or my look has changed. 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 come to me, today or tomorrow. Find out some way, will you? Be sly. He puts his smoke-stained finger to his mouth. Presently Sue comes, and rests 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 touch and tidy her. I think I begin to, I think I half-reach for her; then I become conscious of Richard and his shrewd, considering gaze. I cross my arms before me and turn away. Next morning 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 contract, he seems again to say. Then he drops his cigarette and stands heavily upon it; shoes. After that, I feel the mounting pressure of our plot as I think men must feel the straining of checked machinery, 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 and let the engine race, unleash the beast, puncture the lowering clouds! Today, I will let him claim me—! But, I do not. I look at Sue, and there comes, always, that shadow, that darkness—a panic, I suppose it, a simple fear—a quaking, a caving—a dropping, as into the sour mouth of madness — Madness, my mothers malady, perhaps beginning its slow ascent in me! That thought makes me more frightened yet. I take, for a day or two, more of my drops: they calm me, but change me. My uncle marks it. You grow clumsy, he says, one morning. I have mishandled a book. You think I have you come, 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 strange to me. What age are you? he says. I am surprised, and hesitate. He sees it. Dont strike coy attitudes with me, miss! What age are you? Sixteen? Seventeen?—You may show astonishment. 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 come 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 aching with the effort of striking looks and poses. I can no longer say with certainty which of my actions— which of my feelings, even—are true 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 understand. Perhaps I am weak, after all. Perhaps, as he and my uncle believe, I draw a pleasure from torment. It is certainly a torment to me now, to sit at a lesson with him, to sit at a dinner-table 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 conscious that she waits, as he does: I feel her watching, gauging, willing me on. Worse, she begins to speak in his behalf—to tell me, bluntly, how clever he is, how kind and interesting. 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, wouldn't they? Then she will make me neat—always neat, handsome and neat—she will take down my hair and dress it, straighten seams, lift lint from the fabric of my 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 increased it was, before! It mustnt be increased— It mustnt be increased, 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 second I have her skin between my fingers, my own flesh leaps in a kind of relief. 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 can 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. think I shall not sleep, unless I touch them. I rise, it is cold, but I go quietly from thing to thing—chimney-piece, dressing-table, carpet, press. Then I come to Sue. her, to be sure that she is there. I dare not. But I cannot 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 beneath my brush; but I paint on, stubbornly, and he will now and then lean close to whisper, idly but fiercely: God damn you, Maud, how can you sit so calm and steady? Hey? Do you hear that bell? The Briar clock sounds clearly there, beside the water. Theres another hour gone, that 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? One little 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 glance at Sue. Be quiet, Richard. But the days grow warm, and at last comes 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 of frogs 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 finger to 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 corner of her mouth. Her eyes are closed, her breaths come evenly. She is quite asleep. The sun slants against her face and shows the point of her chin, 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 back to my 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 comes 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 interest at the idea. Then he stretches and yawns and gets to his feet, and sneezes. The fine weather 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 once to 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 longer. Then 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. Then he steps to me and takes my wrist. The paintbrush falls. Come quickly, he says. Come 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. When we stop, 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 conscience, 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 and be damned, for all I care.—Dont wriggle, Maud! I have tried to twist from his hands. He holds me tighter, then lets 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 come to me? Very good. I shall hold you here, and let her suppose us lovers at last; and so have done with it. Stand steady, now. He leans from me and gives a wordless shout. The sound beats 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 upon me but 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 chant, the water still laps among the reeds. But the day has been punctured or ripped: I can feel it begin to droop and settle, close about me, in suffocating folds. I am sorry, I say weakly. You neednt 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, once. That she ground my pointed tooth 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 watching 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 scorn. Have you forgotten what she has come to you for? Do you think she has forgotten? 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 for good. 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 silence. Then I murmur—what else should I murmur?—I will. He nods, and sighs. He still holds me tightly, and after another moment he puts his mouth against my ear. Here she comes! he whispers. She is creeping about the wall. She means to watch and not disturb us. Now, let her know I have you . . . He kisses my head. The bulk and heat and pressure of him, the warmth and thickness of the day, my own confusion, make me stand and let 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 flinch. Now, now, he says. Be good, for a moment. Excuse my whiskers. Imagine my mouth hers. The words come 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 satisfaction, thinking me his. For he has shown me to 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 plunge—that caving, or dropping, that has so much panic in 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, neater; I supposed it bound to its own organs as taste is bound to the mouth, vision to the eye. This feeling haunts and inhabits me, like a sickness. It covers me, like skin. I think she must see it. Now he has named it, 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 senses the change in me, she thinks I am changed 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. Next day I take her walking to my mothers grave. I sit and gaze at the stone, that I have kept so neat 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 comfort me—anything at all— what she says is: Mr Rivers. I look from her in contempt, then. She comes and leads me to the chapel door—perhaps, to turn my thoughts to marriage. The door is locked and cant 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 conscious 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 come to fear and hate him. She grows white. What will you do? she says, in a whisper. What can 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. When she turns back, her face has changed. Marry him, she tells me. He loves you. Marry him, and do everything he says. She has come to Briar to ruin me, to 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, so strangely—or else her hands, in touching me, seem so stiff, so nervous and unpractised—I think she knows. Now and then I am obliged to leave them alone together, 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 done that? Hasnt she feigned troublesome 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 want her, the more my desire rises and swells. I have come to terrible life—or else, the things about me have come to life, their colours grown 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 changed 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 tongue to it, and into it— You like this, Rivers? asks my uncle. I confess, sir, I do. Well, so do many men; though I fear it is hardly to my taste. Still, I am glad to note your interest. I address the subject fully, of course, in my Index. Read on, Maud. Read on. I do. And despite 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 place in my uncles collection. I leave the drawing-room each night 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 comes 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. And yet, even wax limbs must yield at last, to the heat of the hands that lift and place them. There comes a night when, finally, I yield to hers. I have begun, in sleeping, to dream unspeakable dreams; and to wake, each time, in a confusion 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; then return to her side; but sink, not into lethargy, but only into more confusion. I think of the books I have lately read, to Richard and to my uncle: they come back to me, now, in phrases, fragments—pressed her lips and tongue—takes 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 cunt— I cannot silence them. I can almost see them, rising darkly from their own pale pages, to gather, to swarm and combine. 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 watching. I know that she is watching, 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 comes inching, inching through the fibres of the bed. I say, Im afraid . . . Then her breathing changes. 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, once. Now 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 cannot see her, I can 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 in breathing or swallowing or moving I only seem to draw her into my mouth. Her lips part, also. Her tongue comes 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 cling 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 comes, 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 trickling, 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 comes nearer to 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, watching. 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. When she puts up my nightgown and reaches between my legs, we both grow still. When her hand moves again, her fingers no longer flutter: they have grown wet, and slide, and in sliding seem, like her lips as they rub upon mine, to quicken 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 comes nearer to 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 quickening beat. She reaches. She reaches so far, she catches the life, the shuddering heart 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 come 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 upon me. The feathers of the mattress have yielded beneath us, the bed is close and high and hot. She puts back the blanket. The night is still deep, the room still black. Our breaths still come fast, our hearts beat loud—faster, and louder, they seem to me, in the thickening silence; and the bed, the room—the house!—seem filled with echoes of our voices, our whispers and cries. I cannot 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 beneath 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, once. The heat is rising from her, like a scent. I reach and draw the blanket up again, and lay it gently about her. Everything, I say to myself, is changed. I think I was dead, before. Now she has touched the life of me, the quick of me; she has put back my flesh and opened me up. Everything is changed. 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 cannot cheat you now. This was Richards plot. We can make it ours."—We can make it ours, I think; or else, we can give it up entirely. I need only escape from Briar: she can help me do that—shes a thief, and clever. We can make our own secret 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 or light, 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 gone, the bed is cool. I hear her in her own room, splashing water. I rise up from my pillow, and my nightgown gapes at my breast: she has undone the 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 comes, and meets my gaze. My heart leaps within me. She looks away. I think her only awkward, at first. I think her shy and self-conscious. 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 reflection, crooked and wrong. She puts the pins to my hair, but keeps her eyes all the time on her own uncertain 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 mine, the drawing of our fierce, imperfect kisses, the pushing of her hand. I meant to cheat her. I cannot 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 can 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 pinker than 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 tongue, then wiping and wiping her hands upon her apron. Everything has changed. Nothing has changed, 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 honestly 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 uncle, to the books, to Mrs Stiles, to some new meek and bruisable girl ... I think of my life—of the hours, the minutes, the 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 scorn, not malice; only love—that makes me harm her, in the end.