Chapter 12 Chapter Twelve

Then there comes a kind of chaos. The dog barks and leaps, the baby in its blanket gives a cry; another baby, that I have not noticed—it lies in a tin box, beneath the table—begins to cry also. Richard takes off his hat and his coat, sets down our bags, and stretches. The scowling boy drops open his mouth and shows the meat within. It aint Sue, he says. Miss Lilly, says the woman before me, quietly. Aint you just the darling. Are you very tired, dear? You have come quite a journey It aint Sue, says the boy again, a little louder. Change of plan, says Richard, not catching my eye. Sue stays °n behind, to take care of a few last points.—Mr Ibbs, how are you, sir?

Sweet, son, the pale man answers. He has taken off his apron and is quieting the dog. The boy who opened the door to us has gone. The little brazier is cooling and ticking and growing grey. The red-haired girl bends over the screaming babies with a bottle and a spoon, but is still stealing looks at me. The scowling boy says, Change of plan? I dont get it. You will, answers Richard. Unless— He puts his finger against his mouth, and winks. The woman, meanwhile, is still before me, still describing my face with her hands, telling off my features as if they were beads upon a string. Brown eyes, she says, beneath her breath; her breath is sweet as sugar. Pink lips , two pouters. Nice and dainty at the chin. Teeth, white as china. Cheeks—rather soft, I dare say? Oh!

I have stood, as if in a trance, and let her murmur; now, feeling her fingers flutter against my face, I start away from her. How dare you? I say. How dare you speak to me? How dare you look at me, any of you? And you— I go to Richard and seize his waistcoat. they know of Sue, here? Hey, hey, calls the pale man mildly. The boy laughs. The woman looks brutal. Got a voice, dont she? says the girl. Like the blade on a knife, says the man. That clean. Richard meets my gaze, then looks away. What can I say? He shrugs. I am a villain. Damn your attitudes now! I say. Tell me what this means. Whose house is this? Is it yours?

Is it his! The boy laughs harder, and chokes on his meat. John, be quiet, or Ill thrash you, says the woman. Dont mind him, Miss Lilly, I implore you now, dont! I can feel her wringing her hands, but do not look at her. I keep my eyes upon Richard. Tell me, I say. Not mine, he answers at last. Not ours? He shakes his head. Whose, then? Where, then? He rubs at his eye. He is tired. It is theirs, he says, nodding to the woman, the man. Their house, in the Borough. The Borough ... I have heard him say the name, once or twice before. I stand for a moment in silence, thinking back across his

words; then my heart drops. Sues house, I say. Sues house, of thieves. Honest thieves, says the woman, creeping closer, to those that know us! I think: Sues aunt! I was sorry for her, once. Now I turn and almost spit at her. Will you keep from me, you witch? The kitchen grows silent. It seems darker, too, and close. gripped by the waistcoat. When he tries to pull away, I hold him tighter. My thoughts are leaping, fast as hares. I think, He has married me, and has brought me here, as a place to be rid of me. means to keep my money for himself. He means to give them some trifling share for the killing of me, and Sue—even in the midst of my shock and confusion, my heart drops again, as I think it—Sue they will free. Sue knows it all.

You shant do it! I say, my voice rising. You think I dont know what you mean to do? All of you? You dont know anything, Maud, he answers. He tries to draw my hands from his coat. I will not let him. I think, if he does that, they will certainly kill me. For a second we struggle. Then: The stitching , Maud! he says. He plucks my fingers free. I catch at his arm instead. Take me back, I say. I say it, thinking: Dont let them see you are afraid! But my voice has risen higher and I cannot make it firm. Take me back, at once, to the streets and hackneys. He shakes his head, looks away. I cant do it.

Take me now. Or I go, alone. I shall make my way—I saw the route! I studied it, hard!—and I shall find out a—a policeman! The boy, the pale man, the woman and girl, all flinch or wince. The dog barks. Now now, says the man, stroking his mustache. You must be careful how you talk, dear, in a house like this. It is you who must be careful! I say. I look from one face to another. What is it you think you shall have from this? Money? And you, Richard—you—who must be most careful of all, should I once find a policeman and begin to talk. But Richard looks and says nothing. Do you hear me? I cry.

The man winces again, and puts his finger to his ear as if to clear it of wax. Like a blade, he says, to no-one, to everyone. Aint it? Damn you! I say. I look wildly about me for a moment, then make a sudden grab at my bag. Richard reaches it first, however, he hooks it with his long leg and kicks it across the floor, almost playfully. takes it up, and holds it in his lap. He produces a knife and begins to pick at the lock. The blade flashes. Richard folds his arms. You see you cannot leave, Maud, he says simply. You cannot go, with nothing. He has moved to the door, to stand before it. There are other doors, that lead, perhaps to a street, perhaps only into other dark rooms. I shall never choose the right one.

The boys knife flashes again. Now, I think, they will kill me. The thought itself is like a blade, and astonishingly sharp. For havent I willed my life away, at Briar? Havent I felt it rising from me, and been glad ? Now I suppose they mean to kill me; and I am more afraid than I have imagined it possible to be, of anything, anything at all. You fool, I say to myself. But to them I say: You shant. You shant! I run one way, and then another; finally I dart, not for the door at Richards back, but for the slumbering, swollen-headed baby .I seize it, and shake it, and put my hand to its neck. You shant! I say again. Damn you, do you think I have come so far, for this? I look at the woman. first!—I think I would do it.—See, here! I shall stifle it!

The man, the girl, the boy, look interested. The woman looks sorry. My dear, she says, I have seven babies about the place, just now. Make it six, if you want. Make it—with a gesture to the tin box beneath the table—make it five. It is all the same to me. I fancy I am about to give the business up, anyway. The creature in my arms slumbers on, but gives a kick. I feel the rapid palpitation of its heart beneath my fingers, and there is a fluttering at the top of its swollen head. The woman still watches. The girl Puts ^er hand to her neck, and rubs. Richard searches in his pocket for a cigarette. He says, as he does it, Put the damn child down, Maud, won't you?

and I become aware of myself, my hands at a baby's throat. I set the child carefully down upon the table, among the plates and china cups. At once, the boy takes his knife from the lock of my bag and waves it over its head. Ha-ha! he cries. The lady wouldn't do it. John Vroom shall have him—lips, nose and ears! The girl squeals, as if tickled. The woman says sharply, Thats enough. Or are all my infants to be worried out of their cradles, into their graves? Fine farm I should be left with then. Dainty, see to little Sidney before he scalds himself, do. Miss Lilly will suppose herself come among savages. Miss Lilly, I can see you a spirited girl. I expected nothing less. But you dont imagine we mean to hurt you? touching me—now she puts her hand upon me and strokes my sleeve. You don't imagine you aint more welcome here, than anyone? I still shake, a little. I cant imagine, I say, pulling myself away from her hands, that you mean me any kind of good, since you persist in keeping me here, when I so clearly wish to leave. She tilts her head. Hear the grammar in that, Mr Ibbs? she says. The man says he does. She strokes me again. Sit down, my darling. for you. Wont you take off your cloak, and your bonnet? You shall swelter, we keep a very warm kitchen. Wont you slip off your gloves?—Well, you know best. I have drawn in my hands. Richard catches the womans eye. Miss Lilly, he says quietly, is rather particular about the fingers. Was made to wear gloves, from an early age—he lets his voice drop still further, and mouths the last few words in an exaggerated way—by her uncle. The woman looks sage. Your uncle, she says. Now, I know all about him. Made you look at a lot of filthy French books. And did he touch you, dear, where he oughtnt to have? Never mind it now. Never mind it, here. Better your own uncle than a stranger, I always say.—Oh, now aint that a shame? I have sat, to disguise the trembling of my legs; but have pushed her from me. My chair is close to the fire and she is right, it is hot, it is terribly hot, my cheek is burning; but I must not move , I must think. The boy still picks at the lock. French books, he says, with a snigger. The red-haired girl has the fingers of the babies hands in her mouth and is sucking on them, idly. nearer. The woman is still at my side. The light of the fire picks out her chin, her cheek, an eye, a lip. The lip is smooth. She wets it. I turn my head, but not my gaze. Richard, I say. He doesnt answer. Richard! The woman reaches to me and unfastens the string of my bonnet and draws it from my head. She pats my hair, then takes up a lock of it and rubs it between her fingers. Quite fair, she says, in a sort of wonder. Quite fair, like gold almost. Do you mean to sell it? I say then. Here, take it! I snatch at the lock she has caught up and rip it from its pins. You see, I say, when she winces, you cannot hurt me as much as I can hurt myself. Now, let me go. She shakes her head. You are growing wild, my dear, and spoiling your pretty hair. Havent I said? We dont mean to harm you. Here is John Vroom, look; and Delia Warren, that we call Dainty: you shall think them cousins, I hope, in time. And Mr Humphry Ibbs: he has been waiting for you—haven't you, Mr Ibbs? And here am I. I've been waiting for you, hardest of all. Dear me, how hard it has been. She sighs. The boy looks up at her and scowls. Jigger me, he says, if I know which way the wind is blowing now. He nods to me. Aint she meant to be—he hugs his arms about himself, shows his tongue , lets his eyes roll—on a violent ward? The woman lifts her arm, and he winks and draws back. You watch your face, she says savagely. And then, gazing gently at me: Miss Lilly is throwing in her fortunes with ours. Miss Lilly dont know her own mind just yet—as who would, in her place? Miss Lilly, I daresay you aint had a morsel of food in hours. What we got, that will tempt you? She rubs her hands together. a mutton chop? A piece of Dutch cheese? A supper of fish? We got a stall on the corner, sells any kind of fish—you name me the breed, Dainty shall slip out, bring it back, fry it up, quick as winking. What shall it be? We got china plates, look, fit for royalty. We got silver forks— Mr Ibbs, pass me one of them forks. See here, dear. A little rough about the handle, aint it? it, darling. Thats where we takes the crest off. Feel the weight of it, though. Aint them prongs very shapely? Theres a Member of Parliament had his mouth about those. Shall it be fish, dear? chop? She stands, bending to me, with the fork close to my face. I push it aside. Do you suppose, I say, I mean to sit and eat a supper with you? With any of you? Why, I should be ashamed to call you servants! Throw in my fortunes with yours? die! There is a second of silence; then: Got a dander, says the boy. Don't she? But the woman shakes her head, looks almost admiring. Daintys got a dander, she answers. Why, Ive got one myself. Any ordinary girl can have one of them. What a lady has, they call something else. , Gentleman? She says this to Richard, who is leaning tiredly to tug upon the ears of the slavering dog. Hauteur, he answers, not looking up. Hauteur, she repeats. Mersee, says the boy, giving me a leer. I should hate, after all, to have mistook it for common bad manners, and punched her. He returns to the clasp of my bag. The man watches, and winces. Aint you learned yet, he says, the handling of a lock? Dont prize it, boy, and mash the levers. Thats sweet little work. to bust it. The boy makes a final stab with his knife, his face darkening, ruck! he says.—The first time I have ever heard the word used as a curse. He takes the point of the blade from the lock and puts it to the leather beneath, and before I can cry out and stop him he slices it, swiftly, in one long gash. Well, thats like you, says the man complacently. He has taken out a pipe, and lights it. The boy puts his hands to the slit in the leather. I watch him do it and, though my cheek is still burning from the heat of the fire, I grow cold. The cutting of the bag has shocked me, more than I can say. I begin to tremble. Please, I say. Please give me back my things. I shall not trouble about the policeman, if you will only give back what is mine, and let me go. I suppose my voice has some new, piteous note to it; for now they all turn their heads and study me, and the woman comes close again and again strokes my hair. Not frightened, still? she says amazingly. Not frightened, of John Vroom? Why, he is just being playful.—John, how dare you? Put your knife away and pass me Miss Lillys bag.—There. , dear? Why, its a creased old thing, that looks like it aint been used in fifty years. We shall get you a proper one. Shant we, though! The boy makes a show of grumbling but gives up the bag; and when the woman hands it to me I take it and hug it. There are tears, rising in my throat. Boo-hoo, says the boy in disgust, when he sees me swallow. He leans and leers at me again. I liked you better, he says, when you was a chair. I am sure he says that. The words bewilder me, and I shrink away. I twist to look at Richard. Please, Richard, I say. For Gods sake, isn't it enough to have tricked me? How can you stand so coolly while they torment me? He holds my gaze, stroking his beard. Then he says to the woman: Havent you a quieter place, for her to sit in? A quieter place? she answers. Why, I have a room made ready. I only supposed Miss Lilly should like to warm her face first down here. Should you like to come up, dear, now? Make your hair neat? ? I should like to be shown to the street, and a hackney, I answer. Only that, only that. Well, we shall put you at the window; and you shall see the street from there. Come up, my darling. Let me take that old bag.— Want to keep it? All right. Aint your grip a strong one! Gentleman, you come along, too, why dont you? Youll take your old room, at the top? I will, he answers, if you'll have me. For the wait. They exchange a glance. She has put her hands upon me and, in drawing from her grasp, I have risen. Richard comes and stands close. I shrink from him, too, and between them—as a pair of dogs might menace a sheep into a pen—they guide me from the kitchen, through one of the doors, towards a staircase. Here it is darker and cooler, and I feel the draft perhaps of a street-door, and slow my steps; , of what the woman has said, about the window: I imagine I might call from it, or drop from it—or fling myself from it—should they try to hurt me. The staircase is narrow, and bare of carpet; here and there, on the steps, are chipped china cups half-filled with water, holding floating wicks, casting shadows. Lift your skirts, dear, above the flames, says the woman, going up before me. Richard comes, very close, behind. At the top there are doors, all shut: the woman opens the first, and shows me through it to a small square room. A bed, a wash-hand stand, a box, a chest of drawers, a horse-hair screen— and a window, to which I instantly cross. It is narrow, and has a bleached net scarf hung before it. The hasp has been broken long ago: the sashes are fixed together with nails. The view is of a slip of muddy street, a house with ointment-coloured shutters with heart-shaped holes, a wall of brick, with loops and spirals marked upon it in yellow chalks. I stand and study it all, my bag still clutched to me, but my arms growing heavy. I hear Richard pause, then climb a second set of stairs; then he walks about the room above my head. The woman crosses to the wash- hand stand and pours a little water from the jug mto the bowl. Now I see my mistake, in coming so quickly to the window: for she stands between me and the door. She is stout, and her arms are thick. I think I might push her aside, however, if I was to surprise her. Perhaps she is thinking the same thing. Her hands are hovering about the wash-hand stand, her head is tilted, but she is watching me, in the same close, eager, half-awed, half-admiring way as before. Heres scented soap, she says. And heres a comb. Heres a hairbrush. I say nothing. Heres a towel for your face. Heres eau-de-Cologne. , her wrist bared and made wet with a sickening perfume. Don't you care, she says, for lavender? I have stepped away from her, and look at the door. From the kitchen, the boys voice comes very clearly: You tart! I dont care, I say, taking another step, to be tricked. She steps, too. darling? Do you think I meant to come here? Do you think I mean to stay? I think you are only startled. I think you aint quite yourself. Not quite myself? Whats myself to you? Who are you, to say how I might or might not be? At that, her gaze falls. She draws her sleeve over her wrist, returns to the wash-hand stand, touches again the soap, the comb, the brush and towel. Downstairs, a chair is drawn across the floor, something is thrown or falls, the dog barks. Upstairs, Richard walks, coughs, mutters. If I am to run, I must do it now. Which way shall I go? Down, down, the way I have come. Which was the door, at the bottom, that they led me through?—the second, or the first? I am not sure. Never mind, I think. Go now! But I do not. The woman lifts her face, catches my eye, I hesitate; the moment of that hesitation Richard crosses his floor and steps heavily down the stairs. He comes into the room. He has a cigarette behind his ear. He has rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, and his beard is dark with water. He closes the door, and locks it. Take your cloak off, Maud, he says. I think: He is going to strangle me. T keep my cloak quite fastened, and move backwards, slowly, from him and from the woman, back to the window. I will ash it with my elbow if I must. I will shriek into the street. Richard watches me and sighs. He makes his eyes wide. t he says, look so like a rabbit. Do you think I would bring you all this way, to hurt you? And do you think, I answer, I will trust you not to? You told me vourself, at Briar, what lengths you will go to, for moneys sake. I wish I had listened harder, then! Tell me now you dont mean to cheat me of all my fortune. Tell me you shant get it, through Sue. I suppose you will fetch her, after some slight delay. She will be cured, I suppose. My heart contracts. Clever Sue. Good girl. Shut up, Maud. Why? So you may kill me in silence? Go on and do it. Then live with the deed upon your conscience. I suppose you have one? Not one, he says, quickly and lightly, that would be troubled by the murder of you, I assure you. He presses his fingers to his eyes. Mrs Sucksby, however, would not like it. Her, I say, with a glance at the woman. She is still gazing at the soap, the brush, not speaking. You do everything, at her word? Everything in this case. He says it meaningfully; and when I hesitate, not understanding, he goes on: Listen to me, Maud. The scheme was hers, all of it. From start to finish, hers. And, villain that I am , I am not so great a swindler that I would swindle her of that. His face seems honest—but then, it has seemed honest to me before. You are lying, I say. No. This is the truth. Her scheme. I cannot believe it. She that sent you to Briar, to my uncle? And before that, to Paris? To Mr Hawtrey? She that sent me to you. No matter all the twisting paths I took to reach you. I might have taken them anyway, and not known what lay at the end of them. I might have passed you by! Perhaps many men have. have not had Mrs Sucksby, guiding their steps. I glance between them. She knew of my fortune, then, I say after a moment. So anyone might, I suppose. She knew—who? She knew you, Maud, you; before almost anyone. The woman lifts her eyes to mine again at last, and nods. I knew your mother, she says. My mother! My hand goes to my throat—a curious thing, for my mothers portrait lies with my jewels, its ribbon fraying, I have not worn it in years. My mother! I came to London to escape her. Now, all at once, I think of her grave in the park at Briar—untended, untrimmed, its white stone creeping with grey. The woman still watches. I let my hand drop. I dont believe you, I say. My mother? What was her name?__ tell me that. She begins to look sly. I know it, she says, but wont say it just yet. Ill tell you the letter that started it, though. That was a M, like what starts your name. was a I A.—Why, thats like your name, too! The next letter, though, is where they runs off different. That was aR . . . She knows it, I know she knows it. How can she? I study her face—her eye, her lip. They seem familiar to me. A nurse, I say. You were a nurse— But she shakes her head, almost smiles. Now, why should I have been that? You dont know everything, then! I say. You dont know that I was born in a madhouse! Was you? she answers quickly. Why do you say so? You think I don't remember my own home? I should say you remember the place you lived in when you was little. Why, so do we all. Dont mean we was born there. I was, I know it, I say. You was told it, I expect. Every one of my uncles servants knows it! They was told it, too, perhaps. Does that make it true? Maybe, j Maybe not. As she speaks, she moves from the wash-hand stand to the bed, and sits upon it, slowly and heavily. She looks at Richard. She puts her hand to her ear, and strokes the lobe. With a show of lightness she says, Find your room all right, Gentleman?—I have guessed at last that this is some name he goes by here, among the thieves. Find your room all right? He nods. She gazes at me again. We keeps that room , she goes on, in the same light, friendly, dangerous tone, for Gentleman to kip in when he comes. A very high, out-of-the-way sort of room it is, I can tell you. Seen all manner of business up there; all sorts of tricks. People been known to come here, rather quiet—she pretends surprise—why, just as you have come!—to spend a day, two days, two weeks, who knows how long? up there. Chaps, maybe, that the police would like a word with. Cant be found—do you see?—when they come here. Chaps, girls, kids, ladies After this last word she pauses. She pats the space at her side. Wont you sit, dear girl? Dont care to? Hmm? Perhaps in a minute, then. The bed has a blanket upon it—a quilt of colored squares, roughly knitted, and roughly sewn together. She begins to pluck at one of its seams, as if in distraction. Now, what was I speaking of? she says, her eyes on mine. Of ladies, says Richard. She moves her hand, lifts her finger. Of ladies, she says. Thats right. Of course, there come so few true ladies, you find they rather sticks in the mind. I remember one, particular, that came—oh, how long ago? Sixteen years? Seventeen? Eighteen . . .? She watches my face. Seems a long time to you, sweetheart, I dare say. Seems a lifetime, dont it? Only wait, dear girl, till you are my age. years all run together, then. All run together, like so many tears . . . She gives a jerk of her head, draws in her breath in a backwards sigh, quick and rueful. , and cautious, and say nothing. So then she goes on. Well, this particular lady, she says, she wasn't much older than you are now. But wasn't she in a fix? She had got my name from a woman in the Borough, that did girls and their complaints. You know what I am saying , dear? Made girls be poorly, in the regular way, when their poorliness had stopped? She moves her hand, makes a face. I never bothered with that. That was out of my line. My idea was, if it wasn't going to kill you on its way out, then have it, and sell it; or whats better, give it to me and let me sell it for you!—I mean, to people that want infants, for servants or apprentices, or for regular sons and daughters. Did you know, dear girl , that there were people in the world, like that?—and people like me, providing the infants? No? Again, I make no answer. Again she moves her hand. Well, perhaps this lady I am speaking of now didnt know it Either, till she came to me. Poor thing. The Borough woman had tried to help her, but she was too far on, she had only got sick. "Wheres your husband?" I said, before I took her in. "Wheres your ma? Wheres all your people? Wont follow you here, will they?" She said they wouldn't. She had no husband—that was her trouble, of course. Her mother was dead. She had run away from a great, grand house , forty miles from London—up-river, she said ..." She nods, still keeping her eyes on mine. I have grown colder than ever. Her father and her brother were looking for her, and seemed likely to just about kill her; but would never find their way to the Borough, she swore it. As for the gentleman that had started her troubles all off, by saying he loved her—well, he had a wife and a kiddie of his own, and had given her up as ruined, and washed his hands.—As gentlemen, of course, will do. Which, in a line like mine, you say thank heavens for! She smiles, almost winks. This lady had money. I took her, and put her upstairs. Perhaps I oughtnt to have done it. For I had five or six babies in the house already, and was worn out and fretful—more fretful, through having just borne a little infant of my own, that had died— Here her look changes, and she waves a hand before her eyes . I wont talk of that, however. I wont talk of that. She swallows and looks about her for a moment, as if in search of the fallen threads of her story. Then she seems to find them. The confusion passes from her face, she catches my eye again, then gestures upwards. I glance, with her, at the ceiling. It is a dirty yellow, marked gray with the smoke of lamps. Up there we put her, she says, in Gentlemans room. And all day long I would sit beside her and hold her hand, and every night I would hear her turning in her bed, and crying. Nearly broke your heart. She had no more harm in her than milk does. I supposed she might die. Mr Ibbs supposed it. I think even she supposed it, for she was meant to go another two months, and anyone could see that she wouldn't have the strength to go half that time. But maybe the baby knew it, too—they do know, sometimes. For we only have her here a week, before her water buses and it starts coming. Takes a day and a night. , all right! Even so, its a shrimp of a thing, but the lady—being so poorly already—is quite made rags of. Then she hears her baby cry, and picks up her head from her pillow. "Whats that, Mrs Sucksby?" she says. "Thats your baby, my dear!" I tell her. "My baby?" says she. "Is my baby a boy, or a girl?" "Its a girl," I say. she hears that she cries out with all her lungs: "Then God help her! For the world is cruel to girls. I wish she had died, and me with her!" She shakes her head, lifts her hands, lets them fall upon her knees. Richard leans against the door. The door has a hook, with a silk dressing-gown hanging from it: he has taken up the belt of the gown and is idly passing it across his mouth. His eyes are on mine, their lids a little lowered; his look is unreadable. From the kitchen below us there comes laughter and a ragged shrinking. Theres Dainty, crying again . . . She rolls her eyes. But how I have run on!—haven't I, Miss Lilly? Not finding me tiresome, dear? Aint much to hold the interest, perhaps, in these old tales ... " Go on, I say. My mouth is dry, and sticks. Go on, about the woman. The lady, what had the little girl? Such a slight little scrap of a girl, she was: fair-haired, blue-eyed—well, they all come out blue, of course; She looks, meaningfully, into my own brown eyes. I blink, and colour. But my voice I make flat. Go on, I say again. What then? Wished her dead? She moves her head. So she said. So women do say, sometimes. And sometimes they mean it. Not her, though. That child was everything to her, and when I said she had much Better give her up to me, than keep her, she grew quite wild. "What, you dont mean to raise her yourself?" I said. "You, a lady, without a husband?" She said she would pass herself off as a widow—meant to go abroad, where no-one knew her, and make her living as a seamstress. "Ill see my daughter married to a poor man before she knows my shame," she said. "Im through with the quality life "That was her one thought, poor thing, that no amount of sensible talking from me could shake her of: that she would sooner see her girl live low but honest, than give her back to the world of money she come from. She meant to start for France so soon as her strength was all back—and I'll tell you this now, I thought she was a fool; but I would have cut my own arm to help her, she was that simple and good. She sighs. But its the simple and the good that are meant to suffer in this world—aint it, though! She kept very weak, and her baby hardly grew. Still she talked, all the time, of France, it was all she thought of; until one night, I was putting her into her bed when there comes a knocking on our kitchen door. Its the woman, from the Borough, what first put her on to me: I see her face, and know theres trouble. There is. What do you think? The ladys pa and brother have tracked her down after all. "Theyre coming," says the woman. "Lord help me, I never meant to tell them where you was; but the brother had a cane , and whipped me." She shows me her back, and its black. "Theyve gone for a coach," she says, "and a bully to help them. I should say youve an hour. Get your lady out now, if she means to go. Try to hide her and theyll pull your house apart!" Well! The poor lady had followed me down and heard it all, and started shrieking. "Oh, Im done for!" she said. "Oh, if I might only have got to France!"—but the trip downstairs had half-killed her, she was so weak. "Theyll take my baby!" she said. "Theyll take her and make her theirs! Theyll put her in their great house, they might as well lock her into a tomb! Theyll take her, and turn her heart against me—oh! and I havent even named her! I havent even named her!" Thats all she would say. "I havent even named her!"—"Name her now, then!" I said, just to make her be quiet. "Name her quick, while you still got the chance." "I will!" she said. "But, what name shall I give her?" "Well," I said, "think on: shes to be a lady after all, theres no helping it now. Give her a name thatll fit her. Whats your own name? Give her that." Then she looked dark. She said, "My names a hateful one, Id sooner curse her before I let anyone call her Marianne—" She stops, seeing my face. It has jumped, or twisted—though I have known that the story must reach this point, and have stood, feeling my breath come shorter, my stomach grow sourer, as the tale proceeds. I draw in my breath. Its not true, I say. My mother, coming here, without a husband? My mother was mad. My father was a soldier. I have his ring. Look here, look here! I have gone to my bag, and I stoop to it, and pull at the torn leather and find the little square of linen that holds my jewels. There is the ring that they gave me in the madhouse: I hold it up. My hand is shaking. Mrs Sucksby studies it and shrugs. Rings may be got, she says, from just about anywhere. From him, I say. From anywhere. I could get you ten like that, have them stamped VR—Would that make them the Queens? I cannot answer. For what do I know about where rings come from and how they may be stamped? I say again, more weakly, My mother coming here, without a husband. Ill, and coming here. My father— My uncle— I look up. My uncle. Why should my uncle lie? Why should he tell the truth? says Richard, coming forward, speaking at last. I dare swear his sister was honest enough, before her ruin, and only unlucky; but thats the sort of unluckiness— well, that a man doesnt care to talk about too freely . . . I gaze again at the ring. There is a cut upon it I liked, as a girl, to suppose made by a bayonet. Now the gold feels light, as if pierced and made hollow. My mother, I say, doggedly, was mad. She bore me, strapped to a table.—No. I put my hands to my eyes. That part, perhaps, was my own fancy. But not the rest. My mother was mad—was kept in the cell of a madhouse; and I was made to be mindful of her example, lest I should follow it. She was certainly, once they had got her, put in a cell, says Richard; as we know girls are, from time to time, for the satisfaction of gentlemen.—Well, no more of that, just yet. He has caught Mrs Sucksbys eye. And you were certainly kept in fear of following her, Maud. And what did that do to you?—save make you anxious, obedient, careless of your own comforts—in other words, exactly fit you to your uncles fancy? Didnt I tell you once, what a scoundrel he was? You are wrong, I say. You are wrong, or mistaken. No mistake, answers Mrs Sucksby. You may be lying, even now. Both of you! We may be. She taps her mouth. But you see, dear girl, we aint. My uncle, I say again. My uncles servants. Mr Way, Mrs Stiles . . . But I say it, and I feel—the ghost of a pressure—Mr Ways shoulder against my ribs, his finger in the crook of my knee: Fancy yourself a lady, do you?—And then, and then, Mrs Stiless hard hands on my pimpling arms and her breath against my cheek: Why your mother, with all her fortune, should have turned out trash—/ I know it, I know it. I still hold the ring. Now, with a cry, I throw it to the floor—as I once, as a furious child, threw cups and saucers. Damn him! I say. I think of myself at the foot of my uncles bed, the razor in my hand, his unguarded eye. Confidence Abused. Damn him! Richard nods. I turn upon him, then. And damn you, with him! You knew this, all along? Why not tell me, at Briar? Dont you think it would have made me the likelier to go with you? Why wait, and bring me here—to this foul place!—to trick and surprise me? Surprise you? he says, with a curious laugh. Oh, Maud, sweet Maud, we havent begun to do that. I dont understand him. I hardly try to. I am thinking still of my uncle, my mother—my mother, ill, ruined, coming here . . . Richard puts his hand to his chin, works his lips. Mrs Sucksby, he says, do you keep any drink up here? I find myself rather dry about the mouth. Its the anticipation, I think, of sensation. I am the same at the casino, at the spinning of the wheel; and at the pantomime, when theyre about to let fly the fairies. Mrs Sucksby hesitates, then goes to a shelf, opens a box, lifts out a bottle. She produces three short tumblers with gold about the rim- She wipes them, on a fold of her skirt. I hope, Miss Lilly, you wont suppose this sherry, she says, as she pours. The scent of the liquid comes sharp and sickly upon the close air of the room. Sherry in a ladys chamber I could never agree to; but a bit of honest brandy, meant for use now and then as a bracer—well, you tell me, wheres the harm in that? No harm at all, says Richard. He holds a glass to me and, so confused am I—so dazed and enraged—I take it at once, and sip it as if it were wine. Mrs Sucksby watches me swallow. Got a good mouth for spirits, she says approvingly. Got a mouth for them, says Richard, when theyre marked up, Medicine. Hey, Maud? I will not answer. The brandy is hot. I sit, at last, upon the edge of the bed and unfasten the cord of my cloak. The room is darker than before: the day is turning into night. The horse-hair screen looms black, and casts shadows. The walls—that are papered here in a pattern of flowers, there in muddy diamonds—are gloomy and close. The scarf stands out against the window: a fly is caught behind it, and buzzes in hopeless fury against the glass. I sit with my head in my hands. My brain, like the room, seems hedged about with darkness; my thoughts run, but run uselessly. I do not ask—as I would, I think, if this were some other girls story and I was only reading it or hearing it told—I do not ask why they have got me here; what they mean to do with me now; how they plan to profit from the cheating and stunning of me. I only rage, still, against my uncle. I only think, over and over: My mother, ruined, shamed, coming here, lying bleeding in a house of thieves. Not mad, not mad . . . I suppose my expression is a strange one. Richard says, Maud, look at me. Dont think, now, of your uncle and your uncles house. Dont think of that woman, Marianne. I shall think of her, I answer, I shall think of her as I always have: as a fool! But, my father— You said, a gentleman? They have made me out an orphan, all these years. Does my father still live? Did he never—? Maud, Maud, he says, sighing, moving back to his place at the door. Look about you. Think how you came here. Do you suppose I snatched you from Briar, did the deed I did this morning—ran the risks I have run—so that you might learn family secrets, no more than that? I dont know! I say. What do I know, now? If you will only give me a little time, to think in. If you will only tell me— But Mrs Sucksby has come to me, and lightly touches my arm. Wait up, dear girl, she says, very gently. She puts a finger to her lip, half closes one eye. Wait up, and listen. You aint heard all my story. The better parts to come. For theres the lady, you remember, thats been made rags of. Theres the father and the brother and the bully, due in one hours time. Theres the baby, and me saying, "Whatll we name her? What about your own name, Marianne?", and the lady saying as how shed sooner curse her, than call her that. You remember, my dear? "As for being the daughter of a lady," says the poor girl next, "you tell me this: what does being a lady do for you, except let you be ruined? I want her named plain," she says, "like a girl of the people. I want her named plain." "You name her plain, then," I say—still meaning, as it were, to humour her. "I will," she says. "I will. There was a servant that was kind to me once—kinder than ever my father or my brother was. I want her named for her. I shall call her for her. I shall call her—" Maud, I say, wretchedly. I have lowered my face again. But when Mrs Sucksby is silent, I lift it. Her look is strange. Her silence is strange. She slowly shakes her head. She draws in her breath— hesitates, for another second—and then says: Susan. Richard watches, his hand before his mouth. The room, the house, is still. My thoughts, that have seemed to turn like grinding wheels, now seem to stop. Susan. Susan. I will not let them see how the word confounds me. Susan. I will not speak. I will not move, for fear I should stumble or shake. I only keep my eyes upon Mrs Sucksbys face. She takes another, longer sip from her glass of brandy, then wipes her mouth. She comes and sits again, beside me, upon the bed. Susan, she says again. Thats what the lady named her. Seems a shame to have named that baby for a servant, dont it? So I thought, anyway. But what could I say? Poor girl, she was quite off her head—still crying, still shrieking, still saying as how her father would come, would take the child, would make her hate her own mothers name. "Oh, how can I save her?" she said. "I would rather anyone got her, than him and my brother! Oh, what can I do? How can I save her? Oh, Mrs Sucksby, I swear to you now, I would rather they took any other poor womans baby, than mine!" Her voice has risen. Her cheek is flushed. A pulse beats, briefly—very fast—in the lid of her eye. She puts her hand to it, then drinks again, and again wipes her mouth. Thats what she said, she says, more quietly. Thats what she said. And as she says it, all the infants that are lying about the house seem to hear her, and all start up crying at once. They all sound the same, when you aint their mother. They all sounded the same to her, anyway. I had got her to the stairs, just outside that door—she tilts her head, Richard shifts his pose and the door gives a creak—and now, she stops. She looks at me, and I see what shes thinking, and my heart goes cold. "We cant!" I say. "Why cant we?" she answers. "You have said yourself, my daughter shall be brought up a lady. Why not let some other little motherless girl have that, in her place—poor thing, she shall have the grief of it, too! But I swear, Ill settle a half my fortune on her; and Susan shall have the rest. She shall have it, if youll only take her for me now, and bring her up honest, and keep her from knowing about her inheritance till she has grown up poor and can feel the worth of it! Dont you have," she says, "some motherless baby we can give to my father in Susans place? Dont you? Dont you? For Gods sake, say you do! Theres fifty pounds in the pocket of my gown. You shall have it!— I shall send you more!—if youll only do this thing for me, and not tell a living soul youve done it." Perhaps there is movement in the room below, in the street—I do not know, I do not hear it if there is. I keep my gaze on Mrs Sucksbys flushed face, on her eyes, her lips.—Now, here was a thing, she is saying, to be asked to do. Wouldnt you say, dear girl? Here was a thing, all right. I think I never thought harder or quicker before in all my life. And what I said at last was: "Keep your money. Keep your fifty pounds. I dont want it. What I want, is this: Your pa is a gentleman, and gents are tricky. Ill keep your baby, but I want for you to write me out a paper, saying all you mean to do, and signing it, and sealing it; and that makes it binding." "Ill do it!" she says, straight off. "Ill do it!" And we come in here, and I fetch her a bit of paper and ink, and she sets it all down—just as I have told you, that Susan Lilly is her own child, though left with me, and that the fortunes are to be cut, and so on—and she folds it and seals it with the ring off her finger, and puts on the front that it aint to be opened till the day her daughter turns eighteen. Twenty-one, she wanted to make it: but my mind was running ahead, even as she was writing, and I said it must be eighteen—for we oughtnt to risk the girls taking husbands, before they knew what was what. She smiles. She liked that. She thanked me for it. And then, no sooner had she sealed it than Mr Ibbs sends up a cry: theres a coach, pulled up at his shop door, with two gents—an old one, and a younger—getting out, and with them, a bully with a club. Well! The lady runs shrieking to her room and I stand, tearing the hair out of my head. Then I go to the cribs, and I fetch up this one particular baby that is there—a girl, same size as the other, looks to turn out fair, like her—and I carry her upstairs. I said, "Here! Take her quick, and be kind to her! Her names Maud; and thats a name for a lady after all. Remember your word." "Remember yours!" the poor girl cries; and she kisses her own baby, and I take it, and bring it down and lay it in the empty cot. . . She shakes her head. Such a trifling little thing it was to do! she says.—And done in a minute. Done, while the gentlemen are still hammering at the door. "Where is she?" theyre crying. "We know youve got her!" No stopping them, then. Mr Ibbs lets them in, they fly through the house like furies—see me and knock me down, next thing I know, theres the poor lady being dragged downstairs by her pa—her gown all flapping, her shoes undone, the mark of her brothers stick on her face—and theres you, dear girl—theres you in her arms, and nobody thinking you was anyones but hers.— Why should they? Too late to change it, then. She gave me one quick look as her father took her down, and that was all; I fancy she watched me, though, from the window of the coach. But if she was ever sorry she done it, I cant tell you. I dare say she thought often of Sue; but no more than— Well, no more than she ought. She blinks and turns her head. She has placed her glass of brandy upon the bed between us; the seams in the quilt keep it from spilling. Her hands she has clasped: she is stroking the knuckles of one with the blunt red thumb of the other. Her foot in its slipper goes tap upon the floor. She has not taken her eyes from my face, all the time she has spoken, until now. My own eyes I close. My hands I place before them, and I gaze into the darkness that is made by my palms. There is a silence. It lengthens. Mrs Sucksby leans closer. Dear girl, she murmurs. Wont you say a word to us? She touches my hair. Still I will not speak or move. Her hand falls. I can see this newsve dashed your spirits, rather, she says. Perhaps she gestures then to Richard, for he comes and squats before me. You understand, Maud, he says, trying to see about my fingers, what Mrs Sucksby has told you? One baby becomes another. Your mother was not your mother, your uncle not your uncle. Your life was not the life that you were meant to live, but Sues; and Sue lived yours ..." They say that dying men see, played before their eyes with impossible swiftness, the show of their lives. As Richard speaks, I see mine: the madhouse, my baton of wood, the gripping gowns of Briar, the string of beads, my uncles naked eyes, the books, the books ... The show flickers and is gone, is lost and useless, like the gleam of a coin in murky water. I shudder, and Richard sighs. Mrs Sucksby shakes her head and tuts. But, when I show them my face they both start back. I am not weeping, as they suppose. I am laughing—I am gripped with a terrible laughter-—and my look must be ghastly. Oh, but this, I think I say, is perfect! This is all I have longed for! Why do you stare? What are you gazing at? Do you suppose a girl is sitting here? That girl is lost! She has been drowned! She is lying, fathoms deep. Do you think she has arms and legs, with flesh and cloth upon them? Do you think she has hair? She has only bones, stripped white! She is as white as a page of paper! She is a book, from which the words have peeled and drifted— I try to take a breath; and might as well have water in my mouth: I draw at the air, and it does not come. I gasp, and shake and gasp again. Richard stands and watches. No madness, Maud, he says, with a look of distaste. Remember. You have no excuse for it now. I have excuse, I say, for anything! Anything! Dear girl— says Mrs Sucksby. She has caught up her tumbler of liquor and is waving it close to my face. Dear girl— But I shudder with laughter still—a hideous laughter—and I jerk, as a fish might jerk on the end of a line. I hear Richard curse; then I see him go to my bag and grope inside it, bring out my bottle of medicine: he lets the liquid drop, three times, into the glass of brandy, then seizes my head and presses the glass to my lips. I taste it, then swallow and cough. I put my hands to my mouth. My mouth grows numb. I close my eyes again. I do not know how long I sit, but at length I feel the blanket that covers the bed come against my shoulder and cheek. I have sunk upon it. I lie—still twitching, from time to time, in what feels like laughter; and again Richard and Mrs Sucksby stand, in silence, and watch me. Presently, however, they come a little nearer. Now, says Mrs Sucksby softly, are you better, darling? I do not answer. She looks at Richard. Oughtnt we to go, and let her sleep? Sleep be damned, he answers. I still believe she thinks we have brought her here for her own convenience. He comes, and taps my face. Open your eyes, he says. I say, I have no eyes. How could I? You have taken them from me. He catches hold of one of my lids and pinches it hard. Open your damn eyes! he says. Thats better. Now, there is a little more for you to know—just a little more, and then you may sleep. Listen to me. Listen! Dont ask me, how you are meant to, I shall cut the fucking ears off the sides of your head if you do. Yes, I see you hear that. Do you feel this, also? He strikes me. Very good. The blow is not so hard as it might have been: Mrs Sucksby has seen him lift his arm and tried to check it. Gentleman! she says, her cheek growing dark. No call for that. No call at all. Hold your temper, cant you? I believe youve bruised her. Oh, dear girl. She reaches towards my face. Richard scowls. She ought to be grateful, he says, straightening, putting back his hair, that I have not done worse, any time in the past three months. She ought to know I will do it again, and count it nothing. Do you hear me, Maud? You have seen me at Briar, a sort of gentleman. I make a holiday from gallantry, however, when I come here. Understand? I lie, nursing my cheek, my eyes on his, saying nothing. Mrs Sucksby wrings her hands. He takes the cigarette from behind his ear, puts it to his mouth, looks for a match. Go on, Mrs Sucksby, he says as he does it. Tell the rest. As for you, Maud: listen hard, and know at last what your life was lived for. My life was not lived, I say in a whisper. You have told me, it was a fiction. Well—he finds a match, and strikes it—fictions must end. Hear now how yours is to. It has ended already, I answer. But his words have made me cautious. My head is thick with liquor, with medicine, with shock; but not so thick that I cannot, now, begin to be fearful of what they will tell me next, how they plan to keep me, what they mean to keep me for ... Mrs Sucksby sees me grow thoughtful, and nods. Now you start to get it, she says. You are starting to see. I got the ladys baby and, whats better, I got the ladys word.—The words the thing, of course. The words the thing with the money in—aint it? She smiles, touches her nose. Then she leans a little closer. Like to see it? she says, in a different sort of voice. Like to see the ladys word? She waits. I do not answer, but she smiles again, moves from me, glances at Richard, then turns her back to him and fumbles for a second with the buttons of her gown. The taffeta rustles. When the bodice is part-way open she reaches inside—reaches, it seems to me, into her very bosom, her very heart—and then draws out a folded paper. Kept this close, she says, as she brings it to me, all these years. Kept this closer than gold! Look, here. The paper is folded like a letter, and bears a tilting instruction: To Be Opened on the Eighteenth Birthday of My Daughter, Susan Lilly.—I see that name, and shudder, and reach, but she holds it jealously and, like my uncle—not my uncle, now!—with an antique book, wont let me take it; she lets me touch it, however. The paper is warm, from the heat of her breast. The ink is brown, the folds furred and discoloured. The seal is quite unbroken. The stamp is my mothers—Sues mothers, I mean; not mine, not mine— ML You see it, dear girl? Mrs Sucksby says. The paper trembles. She draws it back to herself, with a misers gesture and look—lifts it to her face and puts her lips to it, then turns her back and restores it to its place inside her gown. As she buttons her dress, she glances again at Richard. He has been watching, closely, curiously; but says nothing. I speak, instead. She wrote it, I say. My voice is thick, I am giddy. She wrote it. They took her. What then? Mrs Sucksby turns. Her gown is closed and perfectly smooth again, but she has her hand upon the bodice, as if nursing the words beneath. The lady? she says, distractedly. The lady died, dear girl. She sniffs, and her tone changes. Bust me, however, if she didnt linger on another month before she done it! Who would have thought? That month was against us. For now her pa and her brother, having got her home, made her change her will.—You can guess what to. No penny to go to the daughter—meaning you, dear girl, so far as they knew—till the daughter marries. Theres gentlemen for you—aint it? She sent me a note to tell me, by a nurse. Theyd got her into the madhouse by then, and you alongside her— well, that soon finished her off. It was a puzzle to her, she said, how things might turn out now; but she took her consolation from the thought of my honesty. Poor girl! She seems almost sorry.—That was her slip. Richard laughs. Mrs Sucksby smooths her mouth, and begins to look crafty. As for me, she says, —well, I had seen from the first that the only puzzle was, how to get the whole of the fortune when I was only due to have half. My comfort must be, that I had eighteen years for figuring it out in. I thought many times of you. I turn my face. I never asked for your thoughts, I say. I dont want them now. Ungrateful, Maud! says Richard. Here has Mrs Sucksby been, plotting so hard in your behalf, so long. Another girl—dont girls seek only to be the heroines of romance?—another girl might fancy herself distinguished. I look from him back to Mrs Sucksby, saying nothing. She nods. I thought often of you, she says again, and wondered how you got on. I supposed you handsome. Dear girl, you are! She swallows. I had two fears, only. The first was, that you might die. The second was, that your grand-dad and uncle should take you away from England and have you married before the ladys secret come out. Then I read in a paper that your grand-dad died. Then I heard how your uncle lived quietly, in the country; and had you with him, and kept you in a quiet way, too. Theres my two fears both gone! She smiles. Meanwhile, she says—and now her eyelids flutter—Meanwhile, heres Sue. You have seen, dear girl, how close and quiet I have kept the ladys word. She pats her gown. Well, what was the word to me, without Sue to pin it to? Think how close and quiet I have kept her. Think how safe. Think how sharp such a girl might have grown, in a house like this one, in a street like ours; then think how hard Mr Ibbs and me have worked to keep her blunt. Think how deep I puzzled it over— knowing I must use her at the last, but never quite knowing how. Think how it begins to come clear, when I meets Gentleman— think how quick my fear that you might be secretly married, turns into my knowing that he is the chap that must secretly marry you . . . Its the work of another minute, then, to look at Sue and know what ought to be done with her. She shrugs. Well, and now weve done it. Sues you, dear girl. And what we brought you here for is— Listen, Maud! says Richard. I have closed my eyes and turned my head. Mrs Sucksby comes to me, lifts her hand, begins to stroke my hair. What we brought you here for, she goes on, more gently, is for you to start being Sue. Only that, dear girl! Only that. I open my eyes, and suppose look stupid. Do you see? says Richard. We keep Sue as my wife in the madhouse, and with the opening of her mothers statement, her share of the fortune—Mauds share, I mean—comes to me. I should like to say I will keep every cent of it; but the scheme was Mrs Sucksbys after all, and half goes to her. He makes a bow. Thats fair, aint it? says Mrs Sucksby, still stroking my hair. But the other share, Richard goes on, —which is to say, Sues real share—Mrs Sucksby stands also to get. The statement names her Sues guardian; and guardians, I am afraid, are often less than scrupulous in the handling of their wards fortunes . . . That all means nothing, of course, if Sue herself has vanished. But then, its Maud Lilly—the true Maud Lilly—he blinks—by which I mean of course, the false Maud Lilly—who has vanished. Isnt that what you wanted? To vanish? You said, a minute ago, that you have excuse for anything now. What will it hurt you, then, to be passed off as Sue, and so make Mrs Sucksby rich? Make us both rich, darling, Mrs Sucksby says quickly. I aint so heartless, dear, as to rob you quite of everything! Youre a lady, aint you, and handsome? Why, I shall need a handsome lady, to show me whats what when I comes into my fortune. I got plans for us both, sweetheart, that grand!—She taps her nose. I push myself up, away from her; but am too giddy, still, to stand. You are mad, I say to them both. You are mad! I— Pass me off as Sue? Why not? says Richard. We need only convince a lawyer. I think we shall. Convince him, how? How? Why, here are Mrs Sucksby and Mr Ibbs—that have been like parents to you, and so might be supposed, I think, to know you, if anyone might. And here are John and Dainty, too—theyll swear to any kind of mischief with money in, you may be sure. And here am I—that met you at Briar, when you were maid to Miss Maud Lilly, later my wife. Youve seen, havent you, what gentlemens words are worth? He pretends to be struck with the thought. But of course you have! For in a madhouse in the country are a pair of doctors—theyll remember you, I think. For didnt you, only yesterday, give them your hand and make them a curtsey, and stand in a good light before them, for quite twenty minutes, answering questions to the name of Susan? He lets me consider that. Then he says, All we ask is that, when the moment arrives, you give the performance over again, before a lawyer. What have you to lose? Dear Maud, you have nothing: no friends in London, no money to your name—why, not so much as a name! I have put my fingers to my mouth. Suppose, I say, I wont do it? Suppose, when your lawyer comes, I tell him— Tell him what? Tell him how you plotted to swindle an innocent girl?—looked on, while the doctors dosed her and carried her off? Hmm? What do you think he will make of that? I sit and watch him speak. At last I say, in a whisper: Are you truly so wicked as this? He shrugs. I turn to Mrs Sucksby. And you, I say. Are you so wicked? To think, of Sue— Are you so vile? She waves her hand before her face, says nothing. Richard snorts. Wickedness, he says. Vileness. What terms! The terms of fiction. Do you think, that when women swap children, they do it, as nurses do it in the operettas—for comedys sake? Look about you, Maud. Step to the window, look into the street. There is life, not fiction. It is hard, it is wretched. It would have been yours, but for Mrs Sucksbys kindness in keeping you from it.—Christ! He moves from the door, puts his arms above his head and stretches. How tired I am! What a days work I have done today—havent I? One girl pressed into a madhouse; another— Well. He looks me over, nudges my foot with his. No arguments? he says. No bluster? That may come later, I suppose. No matter if it does. Sues birthday falls at the start of August. We have more than three months, to persuade you into our plot. I think three days—of Borough living, I mean—will do that. I am gazing at him, but cannot speak. I am thinking, still, of Sue. He tilts his head. Dont say we have broken your spirit, Maud, he says, so quickly? I should be sorry to think it. He pauses. Then: Your mother, he adds, would have been sorry, also. My mother, I start to say.—I think of Marianne, with lunacy in her eye. Then I catch my breath. Through all of it, I have not thought of this. Richard watches, looks sly. He puts his hand to his collar and stretches his throat, and coughs, in a feeble, girlish and yet deliberate kind of way. Now, Gentleman, says Mrs Sucksby anxiously as he does it, dont tease her. Tease her? he says. He still pulls at his collar as if it chafes him. I am only dry about the throat, from talking. You have s