《Fingersmith》


 PART I Chapter One

    My name, in trinder. People called me Sue. I kno for many years I did not knoe, and took my birt Cmas. I believe I am an orp I never sa Lant Street, in to thames.

    t time I remember t t.

    to take me begging at a play. People used to like to take me begging t er. tre sook me to, on t I am t Georges Circus. t. I remember it as very terrible. I remember tilt of to t. I remember a drunken c t made tage very lurid; and tors, ters in a red  of all  dogs master—Bill Sykes, truck t up. t t tage. A ,

    O! You villain! And y of a bully like you!

    I dont kno ting up— of Nancy, lying perfectly pale and still at Bill Sykess feet; but I became gripped by an aerror. I t  quiet me. And  o me and smiled, I screamed out louder. to een, I suppose. Sook me home, and Mrs Sucksby slapped her.

    aking o suco sit eps. I dont s out to  back like turned blue  ?

    Sook me upon  again. tood before rand of  c Flora and tapped  upon time rocking in   creaking  in save ing hen,

    I knotle rig, sly. S you get? A couple of ? A couple of wipers, and a ladys purse?

    Flora pulled trand of o  it. A purse, ser a second. And a bottle of scent.

    S  s o a tear at t of , and reac; and you migear turned out to be not a tear at all, but ttle silk pocket t  a black clottle opper on a silver c, and meg. Per it from t my dress. ttle, s stopper off, smelt of roses. Mrs Sucksby sniffed.

    Pretty poor poke, s it?

    Flora tossed  me, if s started up erics.

    Mrs Sucksby leaned and  her again.

    If I  you , s  at all. Let me tell you t an infant for prigging ake one of my ot take Sue. Do you hear me?

    Flora sulked, but said s. And leave t poke beell your motlemen.

    took me to , rubbing at ts o ooping to breato s, s for. S afraid now, Sue?

    But I  and  me ick. S particular fancy-man: he was all bounce. She said,

    It  it?  trouble oo hard for him.

    I said, But, ohe poor girl Nancy, and how he knocked her down and murdered her!

    Murdered  a bit about t no know he ever laid his hand upon her.

    I said, ont  hough?

    Sold me t Nancy o  last, and left Bill Sykes entirely; t s a nice c tle sobacco.

    Sed my  my neck and smoot across t gre older—and Mrs Sucksby used to  till it sparked. No, ted a tress of it and touc to  Flora tries to take you on tell me—will you?

    I said I   t treet-lamps s e dark te still. On to stay: t, dropped coins, and sometimes danced. Beyond ter, o en  top-to-toe in cradles, like sprats in boxes of salt—s. t start up tle t set ttle of gin, tle silver spoon you could  the glass.

    On t, tairs must y, and Mr Ibbss sister stayed quiet; and per, t asleep. Being used to t again of cruel Bill Sykes; and of Nancy, dead at . From some ruck treets. I o a man ick.

    I ion, even tsteps in Lant Street, t stopped outside t-

    steps curning of tarted up off my pillo before I could tco it, t I t I kne  ter from tre, but our ole. Bill Sykes never . t for a  meat pudding for his and Mrs Sucksbys supper.

    All rig;

    t clear as anyt of  I  it , and good Mr Ibbses; and Nancys, t mig  I  Nancy got to at last.—I mean, th sugar mice in.

    It er,  a second time, t I understood t Nancy of course got murdered after all. By te to  End tres and s. Sook me oo scared of Mrs Sucksby.

    S at last, poor t; and  for transportation as a thief.

    e  Lant Street. But  kind of t rat. If I ared to see Flora put o a tear in  and bring out a purse and perfume, I  o Mr Ibbss s in t, in , in ocking.

    All right, Mr Ibbs?hed say.

    All rigalked rat.  you know?

    Not much.

    Got something for me?

    t somet and uncommon ...quot;

    t, or somet. Mr Ibbs urn tious man, and never sa ter ain, and be raigo our kitco table. Come on, my son,  do t you are suc—s and tea-spoons.

    Mrs Sucksby migo a baby. take off .

    All right, Mrs Sucksby?

    All right, my dear.

    All rig you growed!

    I t tter t from ts and sleeves -books, silk ce, brass candlesticks, petticoats—imes. ty stuff, t it all out; and Mr Ibbs . But tudy t-seeming—very pale in t lips and  about break your .

    Rag,  say, so pusicks. I op-quality candlesticks come just last  e do not give them away

    and, making a s looking like  to ting ed.

    Mr Ibbs,   pay me for trouble of walking from London Bridge. Be fair, now.

    But by to ing out sable: one, t pause,  , for just t reason—and it was like o a greyhound.

    Couldnt you make it five, Mr Ibbs?

    Mr Ibbs   face, and shrug.

    I so, my son. I ster. And if you o bring me somet of tes or gleaming brass—tealing ths of Mrs Sucksbys babies.

    And  tton , and cough or wipe his nose.

    And to . ep to en anyt a crust. tell o be sure and spend it on a breakfast and not on a hing like,

    Youre a jewel, Mr Ibbs, a regular jewel.

    Mr Ibbs migen or t: all to be , and fair. For, of course, icks would be so muc. ce lively.

    Noo taking a cloto t—if youve a moment, dear, if Mrs Sucksby dont need you—you migtle go at ttle, gentle sort of go, tle scissors and perear, if you tug too ;

    I believe I learned my alp, like t: not by putting letters do by taking t. I kno came, marked Susan. As for regular reading, roubled . Mrs Sucksby could do it, if so; Mr Ibbs could read, and even e; but, for t of us, it , for Jeumblers; but  yours?

    So I t to cip, from , of course. Bad ones come up too brig be slummed, , too. Silks and linens to make te e our suppers off—but only ts and stampings; and  to bars. er. ook cs o our kitc of to leave it again looking quite anot   Street  left by anotoo. It left by treet t ttle covered passage and a small dark court. You migand in t and to look. It took you to an alley, and t met a  say quite ake you, very quick and inconspicuous, to t boats t crooked co all ts of London. e could pass anyt all, at speeds er of to turn to er. e could pass suns.

    In s, t muc  moved out of it again, rat, t  stuck—one t ood tremendous pull of t passage of poke— one t Mr Ibbs and Mrs Sucksby seemed never to to put a price to.

    I mean of course, Me.

    I o t. ory ragic one. So Lant Street on a certain nigil I learned better, I took o mean t my mot me, perucked in a pocket be, or seo t. For I knehief! Mrs Sucksby would say. So bold! And handsome?

    as she, Mrs Sucksby? as she fair?

    Fairer t s t airs. No-one kne must , for s once. S you, and put a kiss on your little  in sovereigns, and all of em good. S job to do, t o come back for you, when her way was clear

    So Mrs Sucksby told it; and every time, tart off steady it rembling, and ears. For sed for my mot come.  came, instead,   to make une, rying to save e. It  killed  up  last. Shey hanged her.

    the roof of

    tood and c I was born in.

    You got a marvellous vie from t vieo pay very  at t  rattling down, I never did. I never once shuddered or winked.

    ts Susan trinder, someone mig she brave?

    I liked to . ? But t is—and I dont care  is, I  brave at all. For to be brave about a t, you must first be sorry. And  y my mot, since s e, and not for somettling a c y s ted and could never rub along !

    I ster by co keep me a mont me seventeen years. s love, if t aint? S o t  me crying in a draugead s let me on t me. S me sleep beside reat je.

    And I  a jeurned out quite ordinary. My face  a plain key; I could bounce a coin and say, from t anyone can do taug me ots came, and stayed a little, t perisead I greil at last I was old enougo go

    among ttle of gin and times to catc me ain lig, o stay so long, and   blood, and its being ter, Mrs Sucksby looked dark.

    Come  me look at you. And s roke my c me, as s me t nig sune. unes still to be made. Your fortune, Sue, and ours along ...quot;

    So simes. , and ented.

    But  as well  here is Sue. Shell fix em . . .

    I let ; but t I kneter. Id  s  it  o t just for my o for someones I never kneV . . .

    I t I kne love, in t I kne everyt I so farm infants. I migo be married, to a teen, t stole a clasp for me, and said o kiss me. ttle later, and at our back door and er, expressly to see me blus department, as in all others.

    he boys would say. Prince Eddie?

    I to Lant Street t me sloo fast. Perandards. But it seemed to me t I  ty good idea of o .

    Do you follow?

    You are ing for me to start my story. Pering, t my story arted—I  kno.

    t it really began.

    A niger, a feer tmas t marked my seventeent—a , full of a fog t  s in er are t nigo to try, and t up and empty and pleading to be cracked. e got lots of stuff on nigs were o a bargain very quick.

    e did not feel too muc Lant Street, for besides our ordinary kitc a flame beneat, you could never say urn up t ing do t it, sing t c y arren.

    Jo fourteen. ing. I believe  s, and the floor.

    Mrs Sucksby saco tidy it.

    Jo my  bleeding.

    o our  ake  ill  o get rid of, alep. S ter of a so take  last, and o ter t,  o brag. ted a mont  Lant Street by doing jobs for Mr Ibbs; and besides ttle dodges of y to help him.

    S red-y, and more or less a simpleton. S ime stitco stolen dogs, to make t they really were.

    cc reets empting dogs aen pounds ransom before   ing dogs, and dogs imental mistresses; some otle dogs tail and post it to t less—and t Jotle, to  a knocked-do say  off as rabbit, pere it  ty stitco plain street-dogs,  tec.

    ts of fur left over sogeto cover coat. S, t. S forty different sorts of dog in it already. t was powerful, before

    a fire, and drove our oer, Jack, but anoter tory—into a perfect fever.

    Noy o see  looked.

    Its a good job for Dainty t you aint a deal taller, Joime shis.

    Its a good job for you t you aint dead, , and felt it. t of us. I s of your skin upon t—per,  home, beside a bulldog or a boxer.

    ook up   by ested t quite decided yet,   of skin off o make you se? *

    Dainty put o oo large for  of t te black.

    You tickler! she said.

    Joapped  of  a broken tooth. Mrs Sucksby said,

    ts enoug have Sue made nervous.

    I said at once, t if I t I s like Jo my t. Joo cut it for me. t  as s ot, all t time before, and  poor Flora; and as s otween—all for my sake.

    Joo strike  me, as if o strike me y sed in , and urned and struck her.

    Beats me, , why everyone is so down on me.

    Dainty arted to cry. Sicks to you, dont I?

    You sticks, all rig to a s rocking in  and o itches.

    y, said Mrs Sucksby. You are spoiling your nice work.

    Se. t t coin, and started off s to  the floor.

    t quiet, for perer of an cail . I got out cards, for a game of Patience. Dainty sely idle; but  t, to tell me hem.

    Jack of Diggers on tcs,  you slow?

    Aint you eful? I  over a crooked game t  t a final time and turned my ctle, so t Jo not see hey fell.

    And t once, one of tarted out of its slumber and began to cry, and C of  made ts t? she said.

    s w? said John.

    t: a t led to tsteps. tsteps stopped at tchen, slow and heavy, a knock.

    Knock—knock—knock. Like t. Like t comes back. Not a thiefs knock,

    any is quick and lig sort of business it  be anyt all. t be bad.

    So . e looked at one anoto to dra and stop its cries against ook . t t as mice. Mr Ibbs said quietly, Anyone expected? Boys, put t as the blues, were done for.

    t ted from tting ts or in trouser pockets. One of t  nep quickly to tood beside it,  to t. erms in prison, and alhird.

    tidy? Noeady, boys, be steady.  do you say, Sue my dear, to opening t door?

    I looked again at Mrs Sucksby, and ; t me, P it  t  it. But it  made t came in a ruso tc, making tood a man, dressed dark,  t . t s e . I s  spoken. he said,

    Sue! Is it Sue? ty miles to see you. ill you keep me standing he cold will kill me!

    t seen  one man in a o Lant Street speaking like imes Ric

    name I said nohen?

    Its Gentleman, I said.

    t is , of course: not  , using all eet; but as if ted it—Gemun.

    Its Gentleman, I said; and P once put , and  back to turned in ing its scarlet face from s mouth.

    Gentleman! sarted s free by Joo Gentleman and put .  a turn you gave us! Dainty, take a taper to t ter on t.

    e t you leman came into tchen.

    I believe I am turned blue,  docoat, o steam. oget aken t c coat. I kne studying t tce one; but terfeits.

    ter as Dainty sao ts. Gentleman looked about ill rubbing ogether and nodding.

    how do you do, Mr Ibbs? he called easily. how do you do, lads?

    Mr Ibbs said, Very ulip. t ansher boy laughed.

    Boys like t al men like Gentleman are nancies.

    Jooo, but louder tleman looked at tle tick,  your monkey?

    Joook alian. Now, leman,  o his nose. You can kiss my arse, he said.

    Can I? said Gentleman, smiling.  Dainty, and sooped to Cer.  leman, rising, brus will do.

    t and stood at Mrs Sucksbys chair.

    hallo, Mrs S, he said.

    tself quiet. Mrs Sucksby  leman caug up and kissed   it—first at t tips. Mrs Sucksby said,

    Get up out of t c Gentleman sit down.

    Joe, took Daintys stool. Gentleman sat, and spread oall, and -and-ty. Beside  six.

    Mrs Sucksby kept  her gaze, and smiled.

    ell, well, he said. hows business?

    Pretty s, sill, and sted it as so pat me. Gentleman nodded to it.

    And ttle bud,  farm, or is it family?

    Farm, of course, she said.

    A he-bud, or a she-bud?

    A  w I shall be bringing up by hand.

    Gentleman leaned towards her.

    Lucky boy! he said, and winked.

    Mrs Sucksby cried, Ourned pink as a rose. You saucebox!

    Nancy or not, ainly make a lady blusleman, because —had been,

    o a real gents scher and a

    jster__all s broke. he had had

    money once, and lost it all gambling;  of tune; and so o get money took to t  family, t  in him.

    e ter le  Paris;  a year putting Frenco Engliso Frencting tly different eacime, and pinning different titles on tory pass as ty brand-nely,  ty, and seem  as t. te o some ric every time tock from counterfeit banks. ed on o Lant Street about once a year, bringing poke to Mr Ibbs, and picking up bad coin, cautions, and tips.

    I supposed  seemed, did Mrs Sucksby, for once y ea, , ss cradle and smoot across her lap and said,

    ell noleman, t. e didnt look for you for anotwo. he look of?

    Gentleman shing for Mr Ibbs, I am afraid.

    , not, Mr Ibbs?

    Very sad, said Mr Ibbs, from  the brazier.

    Mrs Sucksby greial. hen, for me?

    But Gentleman shook his head again.

    Not for you, eit for you; not for Garibaldi  for Dainty, nor for Phe boys; nor even for Charley ag.

    t me, and taken up ttered playing-cards, and ing to ts. y, and Mrs Sucksby, still quite pink in t t once reacarted s kind of man, w always be busy.

    ell, Sue, ill upon me. his eyes were a very clear blue.

    ell, w? I answered.

    do you say to ts you Ive come for.

    .

    Gentleman nodded. I hing for you. A proposal.

    A proposal! said P. Look out, Sue, s to marry you!

    Dainty screamed, and tleman blinked, took  last, and leaned to Mrs Sucksby to say,

    Get rid of our friends at t keep Joy: I s their help.

    Mrs Sucksby ated, t Mr Ibbs; and Mr Ibbs said at once, Riged so e a s, o drop t coins into ter, one by one. Listen to t. Nohe gold know?

    Go on, Uncle  and turned up o me, to Joy and Mrs Sucksby. to Gentleman tchem go by.

    atc again.

    Mr Ibbs turned tea—splas, as Dainty man. t of team, to mix ed gold, t and teaming greatcoat. ter upon te. Jo, picking songue. Mr Ibbs able, our faces and ; but t of the room was in shadow.

    For a minute, no-one spoke. Gentleman still  and cc of all: ilted  he barrel of a gun.

    So, my son, s tory?

    Gentleman looked up.

    tory, ory is took out a card, and laid it, face-up, on table. It . An old man—a  s. ain out-of-t of ain out-of-te s, and cares for not for ts call it, a dictionary. It is a dictionary of all  ures, too—aken a mind to , ice in a ne to t: Jack of Spades—a smart young man, to  tion; and one particular smart young man—being at t time ratoo  ttle lig-of-t of employment, bed and board provided—replies to tisement, is examined, and found fit.

    t young man being yourself, said Mr Ibbs.

    t young man being me. ch on!

    And try, said Joaken up in Gentlemans story despite s say its busting reasure. And you

    mean to force ts and cs. You o Mr Ibbs for a loan of nippers and a jilt; and you  Sue— eyes,  seen butter—for your canary.

    Gentleman tilted easing sort of hen:

    Cold as ice! ry is a damnable place: tgaged to t a rug or a vase or piece of plate  for, Im afraid. t eats  like us.

    t, tig, tas te a paper leaving all of it to you; and nole of poison—

    Gentleman shook his head.

    Not a ounce of poison? said John, looking hopeful.

    Not an ounce. Not a scruple. And no money in t in t least. ly and so queerly,  moneys for. But t live alone. Look ;

    ts.

    heh, heh, said John, growing sly. A wife, very game.

    But Gentleman shook his head again.

    A daugto? said John.

    Not a  a daugleman,  me, say Sues years. In looks, say anding and knoly shy.

    A flat! said Joell me s least. Sleman, nodding. But only as a caterpillar is ricune is certain, t touc; but it comes ion attac see a penny till ter, to a cousin. If she

    takes a roked te finger—shes rich as a queen.

    spoken, all time. Gentleman heard him now, looked up, and held his gaze.

    ten tly. Five the funds.

    A coal in t pop. Jole toot Mrs Sucksby, but  and ook a sip from ea, in a considering way.

    til bet t ea was swallowed.

    Close enougleman, nodding, moving back. ary of o  a stretcurned into a lady.  sort of smile. I t, tart ures ting. Ss lessons, er. Noo fake my ell a pastel from a pig. But sakes to ruction—oeaceaco design. tercolours. Next, th week—

    Fifth week, you jiggles her! said John.

    Gentleman closed his eyes.

    Fift may sit in a room, leman tutor, alone? e  ime—cougurning red in time my fingers stray too near oo le urns out s fever—is at t dying of it, poor bitc too busy to sit at lessons. t end, ts are left to dry upon tte. No supper, at her

    uncles side; and sometimes, if I pass her chamber door, I hear her sighing.

    And just, said Mr Ibbs, as you ting on so nicely.

    Just so, said Gentleman. Just so.

    Poor lady! said Dainty. ears in t anyte a peac the face?

    Gentleman looked careless. Sh a shrug.

    Joo fill her eye!

    I so fill yours, said Gentleman, steadily. t, I mean.

    Joo . I so see you try it!

    Mr Ibbs lifted s enoug , before ladies and kids! Jo doop fucking about. Gentleman, you promised us your story; o our point, o ?

    Joool, t. Gentleman aken out a packet of cigarettes. e ed, . e co table again and toucting straigheir edges.

    You  t,  is. apped ts. I aim to marry take une. I aim to steal o one side—from under o doing it already, as you  s of girl, and cant be trusted to ake some clever, , o collect a set of bindings for t to send Sue back before me. I  to set  s help me woo her.

    my eye. ill played idly h one pale hand. Now he lowered his voice.

    And t I s   me. I knourned t s back. I must only marry  jiggle ake ing, to tes.  I said, s I  to be sure. I so keep o persuade o t.

    te and, as turned t is, save Mrs Sucksby. Sened, saying notleman spoke. I ctle of ea out of o  about t to ory  on. S tea, s ainly, I dont believe I ever kne as hers.

    No   Gentleman, and finally spoke.

    he girls in England? hy my Sue?

    Because srust o say, a bad girl, not too nice about ts of the law.

    S, to cut the shine?

    Again  me; but ill spoke to her.

    Sake any of ttle ladys bits and frocks and je she likes.

    t  it over.  do you say?  last—to me, time. And then,

    you can see ttle time I o act in. I must get a girl soon. I s to be you, Sue. I s to be you, more t if it is not to be, tell me quickly, her.

    Dainty , said Jo. Dainty  you, Daint?—for a lady in a great  Peckham.

    As I recall, said Mr Ibbs, drinking ea, Dainty lost t place tting a -pin to the ladys arm.

    Sco me, said Dainty, and got my dander up. t sound like a bitc, you said so. I could maid for a flat.

    It  ly. And sill aint said.

    t me; and turned my  kno seems a rum sort of plot to me. Set me up, as maid to a lady?  to do?

    e can teacleman. Dainty can teac be? You must only sit and simper, and s.

    I said, Suppose t  me for  me?

    But  of t.  of everyt to pass me off as ers cy girl come on imes.  take me then, for his sake.

    e you a cer—sign it Lady Fanny of Bum Street, somet—s knoter. Sy, doesnt know London from Jerusalem. ho can she ask?

    I dont know, I said again. Suppose s care for you, so much as you are hoping?

    . ell,  be permitted by noo know when a green girl likes me.

    Suppose, said Mrs Sucksby t like you quite

    enougurns out another Miss Bamber or Miss

    Finch?

    Miss Bamber and Miss Finc netted. But ed. S, urn out like t. tious fat page of o  liking me enoughink she will.

    Enougo do a flit, from her uncles house?

    Its a grim house, he answered, for a girl of her years.

    But its t  you, said Mr Ibbs. You picked up bits and pieces of Lay, sake  and as quiet as you like: ake  count for buttons, then.

    But and me, said Gentleman slyly.

    Dainty looked blank. Johe jiggling, he said.

    S  hen.

    Dainty gaped more than ever.

    Never mind it, said Mr Ibbs, lifting o Gentleman: Its tricky. Uncommonly tricky.

    I dont say its not. But  take our c o lose? If not will be a holiday for Sue.

    Jo  caught.

    I bit my lip. . But it  so muc troubled me. You cannot be a troubling over   I  sure I ed any kind of  sure I cared for it ao visit ry as quiet and queer, and t eitons or gipsies.

    on girl? S be like Dainty, oucimes

    violent. S be really mad. S try and ttle me; and t, for miles and miles, to  cross treet to spit on you, if you were on fire.

    I said, ts she like. You said shes queer in her head.

    Not queer, said Gentleman. Only ural. S from t wo sharpen you up, she had—no-one.

    Dainty looked at  droo beat  er till she died. She said, in a whisper:

    Aint it terribly leman, o do? I dont believe any of us  it, before t moment. Noy said it, and I gazed about me, and nobody ch my eye.

    tleman laughed.

    icked? y, of course its  its o tune of fifteen t ts a s tune,

    got, it  ly? Dont t! Money never is. It is got, by families like y backs broken for every shilling made. You have heard, have you, of Robin hood? have I! she said.

    ell, Sue and I saking gold from t back to t  from.

    Joo t people are yours! You  to rob a lady, go and rob your oher.

    My motleman, colouring up. s my moto do  Mrs Sucksbys eye, and turned to me. Oh, Sue, he said. I do beg your pardon.

    Its all rig table, and again everyone gre. Per s: for, as I   aeen years. Noy miles,  cold and slippery o me.

    I raised my eyes to his.

    tly.

    tll s, all right, said Mr Ibbs.

    And all ty. O you look hem!

    You s  me—as simes before—and ill to be made.—I could almost . Your fortunes still to be made; and ours, Sue, along  . . .

    And after all, s. une, come from no.  could I say? I looked again at Gentleman. My  beat . I said:

    All rig. But for t t care for me and sends me  a rouble of trying.

    ated, t over. Of course, t was all a ser a second o me and I gave him mine. he pressed my fingers, and laughed.

    Joen to one she comes back crying in a week, he said.

    Ill come back dressed in a velvet goo  o call me miss. ont he, Mrs Sucksby?

    . Ill tear my oongue out, before I do t!

    Ill tear it out first! I said.

    I sound like a child. I was a child! Perhaps Mrs Sucksby was

    t, too. For s, still gazing at me,   lip. S roubled. I could almost have said, she was afraid.

    Perhaps she was.

    Or per noo follow.

 Chapter Two

    t turned out,  Maidenlemans plan o send me train, in time.  stay in London for anot least, to do the bindings of his books.

    I didnt care mucail of my travelling do t before times  o curday nig drop—t ockings; o me, t I recall standing on Battersea Bridge as s, past o all tryside beyond it, t  trees

    and  a c—and o  I , and Mrs Sucksby and Mr Ibbs, and go quite alone, to a maids place in a hose dark hills, I should have laughed in your face.

    But Gentleman said I must go soon, in case t, by accidentally taking anoto be . ter o Lant Street  and e  a letter. y of ing, but  to  o e demented e of ers daugers daug to be me: tory  I  my place; t I  for anotress, but ed on every side to go to t if only some softed lady uation far ay—and so on.

    I said, If sleman, s be even sillier t told us.

    But  t a rand and Piccadilly, ory, five niged from t, t Miss Maud Lilly likely to be, all alone and unknoell ter?

    Youll see, ter and e tion, and  to t.

    t begin at once to teach me how a proper ladys maid should be.

    First, ts of t t t curls. If you turned t iron,  made t er, you

    could make t for a , or longer. Gentleman,  tyle too fast for a country lady: ill it ly smoot once—just t in a plain knot at ty il isfied, cyle, as if  us like a regular girl. y and I looked t plain and bacon-faced, ures of us in t would be a new way of curdling milk.

    y  s till clinging to t it hissing.

    Cant you do anyto t girl of yours, said Mr Ibbs to Jo make her cry?

    Joo see  makes  the less.

    .

    But e cauglemans plot, despite  time I ever kne t o be cut,  to t brought poke, he shook his head.

    Cant do it, my son. Not to-day. Got a little something cooking.

    s of a list t Gentleman  before; t.  runk, t  from a man  the river.

    trunk o take to try. In tuff dress, more or less my size; and a cloak, and sockings; and on top of it all, a e underthings.

    Mr Ibbs only undid tring at t and sat at tcimes to take apart, and po back togetleman, ook out tems one by one, and placed t upon table. Beside table  a kitchen chair.

    Noart ockings and dra mean, shes naked?

    Dainty put o ittered. Sting at Mrs Sucksbys feet, having her hair re-curled.

    Naked? said Gentleman.  else? S take off  take to bat o receive t o pass her her fresh ones.

    I  t of t o o stand and o a strange bare girl. A strange bare girl  Street, ook frig, and I o grab leman sa say youre squeamish?

    I tossed my o s. ook up a pair of tockings, and t of tchen chair.

    next? he asked me.

    I shrugged. her shimmy, I suppose.

    call it,  make sure to , before ss it on.

    ook t close to tc it carefully above t.

    Noo tie tigs see you do it.

    t about t to  fast, he made me pull

    t t lines of red and we upon my palms, as if I had been whipped.

    says t fasten at t, like a regular girl? said Dainty, ching.

    Because tleman, s need a maid. And if s need a maid, s know she was a lady. hey? he winked.

    After t came a camisole, and after t a dicky; tticoats, time of silk. tleman y run upstairs for a bottle of Mrs Sucksbys scent, and   .

    And all time I must say:

    ill you raise your arms, miss, for me to straighis frill? and,

    Do you care for it, miss, h a ruffle or a flounce? and,

    Are you ready for it now, miss?

    Do you like it draight?

    S to be tighter?-

    Oh! Forgive me if I pinch.

    At last,  as a pig. Miss Lilly sat before us  tied ticoats spread out about t rating, of course, about the neck.

    Jo say muc us all time, o his Bramah.

    Sleman, stroking urally s so teac you, darling?

    ted at ts; to t so neatly, it looked to me as if ; and as he reached higher his cheek grew

    pink, tle, tcs of its legs faintly s ill.

    t little bitcly.  ocking.  to me, and yas say its bed-time.

    Joill cy rubbed offee.

    I began at t t of t loose t and eased it free.

    ill you just lift your foot, miss, for me to take this from you?

    ill you breattle softer, miss? and t will come.

    me  for an -iron.

    Spit on ty?  to  gave a sizzle ook out a cigarette, and lit it on t base. tood by and smoked, Mrs Sucksby—s, been a mangling- another hour.

    tleman sent me upstairs, to put on t P for me. It cairs again I could  one; but Gentleman said it  dress for a sneak or for a servant—and so all t for me, o be both.

    e laug t; and t to groo t ( Dainty see oo large and needed stitcand and try a curtsey. t sounds. Say  to, it  masters: I seyed before to anyone. Noleman had me

    dipping up and doil I t I sseying came as natural to ladies maids, as passing rick, I s it—and  about t, at least, for I can still dip a proper curtsey, even noo.

    ell. seys ory. to test me, and before  my part, like a girl saying a catechism.

    No is your name?

    Aint it Susan? I said.

    Aint it Susan, w?

    Aint it Susan trinder?

    Aint it Susan, sir. You must remember, I s be Gentleman to you at Briar. I s call me sir; and you must call Mr Lilly sir; and t call miss or Miss Lilly or Miss Maud, as ss you. And  Susan trinder. t may lead to Lant Street if t find you a better second name—

    Valentine, I said, straig can I tell you? I een. I s. Gentleman heard me, and curled his lip.

    Perfect,  to put you on tage.

    I knoine! I said.

    ts true, said Dainty. Floy Valentine, and ers. Lord, I es t  to be named for them, Sue.

    I bit my finger. Maybe not.

    Certainly not, said Gentleman. A fanciful name mig o everyones notice. e need a name— it over—an untraceable name, yet one c? Lets make it, Smito be a sort of smiter all. t, I mean.

    urned it, and crooked his middle

    finger; and t—fingersmithief, we laughed again.

    At last  fun,  to? Aell me again.  is your name?

    I said it, er.

    Very good. And w is your home?

    My  London, sir, I said. My moty; o be your nurse when you was a boy, sir.

    o detail. Not so good, o style. Come noter t. Youre not selling violets. Say it again.

    I pulled a face; but then said, more carefully,

    t used to be your nurse when you were a boy, sir.

    Better, better. And uation, before this?

    itely married and about to go to India, o dress  need me.

    Dear me. You are to be pitied, Sue.

    I believe so, sir.

    And are you grateful to Miss Lilly, for  Briar?

    Oitude aint in it!

    Violets again!   dont  my ss good. Noell me tant.  are your duties ress?

    I must   steal it. I must o   carry oo , s ts for w be  see when she blushes.

    Splendid! And w is your cer?

    as the day

    And , t no-one but  know?

    t s sune; and t you, Mr Rivers, will make mine.

    I took s and sseys, my eyes all time on toe of .

    Dainty clapped me. Mrs Sucksby rubbed ogether and said,

    ty, pass me an infant, I  someto squeeze.

    Gentleman stepped aside and lit a cigarette. Not bad,  bad, at all. A little fining dos needed noer.

    Later? I said. Oleman, aint you finis? If Miss Lilly will he sake of pleasing you, why should she care how fined down I am?

    S mind,  put an apron on C it is not only  you aff.

    I said, aff? I  t of this.

    Of course,  self? First of all teward, Mr ay—

    Mr ay! said Jo. Do they call him Milky?

    No, said Gentleman. urned back to me. Mr ay,  trouble you muc tiles, tudy you a little  be careful cable-boys and gardeners—but you s see muc them.

    I looked at  t t a s, t I so play the maid for?

    Mrs Sucksby  like dougleman, s looking over. You did keep very dark about ts last night.

    ail, he said.

    A detail? t  you  all.

    But it oo late no day Gentleman   a letter, from Miss Lilly.

    it at t-office in ty. Our neig er come to t it, and broug back, and opened it o —Mr Ibbs only drumming tle on table-top, by w he was nervous; and so grew more nervous myself.

    tter ,  o e; and ful o lemen ful as him!

    on very badly, sant  and dull; pero urned. As for leman tilted tter, tter to catc.—As for o be able to tell  Agnes looked set not to die after all—

    e  and dre  in t t tleman smiled. t about to die; but s so loo Cork.

    God bless taking out his handkerchief and wiping his head.

    Gentleman read on.

    I so see te. I so me, at once. I am grateful

    to anyone for remembering me. I am not over-used to people ts. If so me, Mr Rivers, because so me from London, t .

    ter to  back and forttered in t of the lamps.

    It urned out, of course, just as the clever devil had promised.

    t nig o be my last nig Lant Street, and t nigs t  to lead to Gentlemans securing of Miss Lillys fortune—t nig out for a  roast supper, and put irons to  in tion.

    tuffed at te of mine, and got in my ook to tep, put up ooped to s, and I c ion at ts of my  s from il it sang; t to Mrs Sucksby and s t. Sleman; t for Joy; and t en-derest parts, for herself and for me.

    It , as Ive said, in my , I dont kno; per  Mrs Sucksby o eat it,  pigs  self—o be grimacing, rats eyes and tles of its snout gummed broreacly tears—but as  about table, I greleman teased, and no neatly to work on e, and

    Mrs Sucksby  neatly to e.

    I gave o Dainty. S to John. he snapped his jaws and howled, like a dog.

    And tes  to make flip. ook to take ting of t off, ting tting fire to to see it done and , like ture in a toy-shop window.

    e sat, and everyone talked and laug a fine t  rat, and no-one seemed to notice. At last Mrs Sucksby patted omach and said,

    ont you give us a tune, Mr Ibbs, to put to bed by?

    Mr Ibbs could tle, for an  a go.  acarted up arpaulin Jacket. Mrs Sucksby il  broken.  at sea.—Lost to he Bermudas.

    lets , for e maudlin. Lets see ters  of a dance.

    Mr Ibbs struck up une ty got up and pusy. til ts upon telpiece jumped and t rose inc t. Gentleman stood and leaned and cte, calling , Jo call, laugo a terrier in a fig on.

    o join t. t

    made me sneeze and, after all, t ed too  by a glass and a plate of morsels of meat for Mr Ibbss sister, and I said I , dear girl, sill clapping out t. I took te and tairs.

    It epping out of , to leave our kitcers nig ter and seen to one or t  go back to join ttle o t up t pair of stairs, to ttle attic I had been born in.

    tonig rips of drugget on it. t for a bit of blue oil-clot acked to catcand. tand, at t, coat and a s, of Gentlemans, and one or t; t cs, t e linen spilling from it. On t of a c, a packet of cigarettes, and sealing-. ttle, like toffee.

    t curtain upon it, aken off, for a counterpane: it  from a burning ill smelt of cinders. I took it up and put it about my s tood at t at t ther was hanged.

    t fe upon it, and I o it, to make turn to dirty er. I could still catcle and the bounce of

    Daintys feet, but before me treets of t at a ern of a coac t of all t must be trange and ordinary lives—in otreets, in ter parts of London. I t of Maud Lilly, in   kno I anding, plotting y arren and Jochen.

    o make out t t in a fig, , s figty. S from fig ting bad meat. Just one bit of bad meat killed  like t.

    But, sleman  t  to.

    I tried anotsey. t curtain made me clumsy. I tried again. I began to s, in sudden fear.

    tcsteps on tair, and t ans again, upon ttic stairs, and t of tle—only a little, for s sout.

    Are you ly. And all on your ohe dark?

    S  all t I —at tlemans boots and leathen she

    came to me, and put o my c as if sickled or pinc stop—I said:

    if I aint up to it, Mrs Sucksby?  if I cant do it? Suppose I lose my nerve and let you doy, after all?

    So t and sil it rested in  back tain from my croked my hen.

    Aint it a long o go? I said, looking up at her face.

    Not so far, she answered.

    Shere?

    Srand of  was caug my ear.

    Every minute, sly. Aint you my o I  you sleman by you. I s you go, for any ordinary villain.

    t rue, at least. But still my  beat fast. I t again of Maud Lilly, sitting siging for me to come and unlace ays and goy had said.

    I c t I to do it, t it a very mean trick, and shabby?

    So t, and not given it a t. And I kno also  o see you doing it now.

    t made me tful. For a minute,  and said not I asked   Lant Street, amongst all t ever. I said, in a whisper,

    Do you t s, Mrs Sucksby, whey drop you?

    ill. t started up stroking, sure as before. She said,

    I s feel not t your neck. Raticklis.

    ticklish?

    Say then, pricklish.

    Still  smoothing.

    But  it then?

    Sed cted, whe drop is opened.

    I t of t c. tc, like monkeys on sticks.

    But it comes t quick at t, s on t I rat take t of it. And o dropping a lady— in suc the quicker?

    I looked up at   striking  made o my s.

    tilted er, quite beo come to t, Sue. I s, of all t go, t .

    S; and then she winked.

    S, and seemed to mean it.

    I do sometimes  only  to be kind.

    But I didnt t t  loose; and tcime  upon tairs, and tys voice.

    you coming for a dance? Mr Ibbs   old laugh down here.

    woke

    Mrs Sucksby said t so t back doime I did dance, leman as my partner. z-step. igy, and  tcleman all time still calling, Go it, Joopping once to rub a bit of butter on o keep tle s.

    Next day, at midday, s of stuff into trunk and  . I leman could teacer tory and my ne needed to be done, and as I sat taking my last meal in t kitc, t ratoo dried, and clinging to my gums—Gentleman did it.  from e me out a cer.

    e it off in a moment. Of course, o faking papers.  up for to dry, t out. It began:

    to , May fair, recommends Miss Susan Smit  on like t, I forget t of it, but it sounded all rigo me.  flat again and signed it in a ladys curling  to Mrs Sucksby.

    do you t get Sue uation?

    But Mrs Sucksby said s o judge it.

    You kno, dear boy, she said, looking away.

    Of course, if ook  Lant Street, it  cer tle do come sometimes, to boil to es of to do for us all. e couldnt .

    So Mrs Sucksby leman read it time, t me, t and sealed it and put it in my trunk. I s of my dried meat and bread, and fastened my cloak. to say good-bye to. Joy never got up before one. Mr Ibbs o crack a safe at Bo  it straig o my face and smiled.

    God bless you, Sue! she said. You are making us rich!

    But ted from urned ao ears.

    take o Gentleman. take  let me see it!

    And so   my so o take me to a cab-stand and drive me to tation at Paddington, and see me on my train.

    t  so often I got to cross ter, and I said I so o look at t I s t. At t seemed  of all. You could see t Pauls, ter; you could see all ty, but not t or made like shadows.

    Queer to tleman, peering over t.

    e  bargained on t made traffic sloo a craer ty minutes  to catcrain; noepping fast across some great square, , and ter, and ted, the clap-

    pers and t rung t h flan-

    nel.

    raturn around, I said, and try again tomorrow?

    But Gentleman said trap sent out to Marloo meet my train tter be late, , t arrive at all.

    But after all, o Paddington at last rains all delayed and made slo like traffic:  anotil t tol train—rain as far as Maiden get off and join anoto be boarded. e stood beneaticking clock, fidgeting and blo lamps t team, it drifted from arco arc very poor. t; t streaked by birds. I t it very gloomy, for so grand a place. And of course, t press of people beside us, all ing and cursing, or jostling by, or letting to our legs.

    Fuck tleman in a oe. ooped to  from , traig up a cigarette, turned .  tes, as if stained , at t moment, look like a man a girl would go silly over.

    obacco, too, rand t ongue. t my eye and s forms—e for you and me, soon.

    I looked az  before; no Street and Mrs Sucksby and Mr Ibbs, amongst all t  us,  anotranger, and I o me. And again I almost said t urn round and go  I knew

    t if I did emper; and so, I did not.

    off for a piddle, and I  off for a piddle of my oidying my skirts; and  out tarted up and  sing rusing train. e  leman leading me to a second-class coacrunk to took a place beside a out farmer-types. I to see me get on, for of course, me being dressed so neat and comely, s tell— I  beside t by me. tilted and creaked, and  back our ared at ts of dust and varnis tumbled from t above.

    te and tting aboard I  Gentleman. urned to talk o the open window and said,

    Im afraid you may be very late, Sue. But I trap  for you at Marlo . You must  it will

    I kne once t it , and felt a rush of misery and fear. I said quickly,

    Come  you? And see me to the house?

    But ? ypes, tc , and , alking to a girl like me about it.

    ter climbed dole, train gave a o move off.

    Gentleman lifted up  and folloil t up its speed; t up—I sa  back on, t up o s to traps; t o t its beak to ts cage. to cry. It cried for half an hour.

    Aint you got any gin? I said to t last.

    Gin? s  so pleased to ting by y bitcer all.

    tering bird; and ted; and ts; and types—rain jerk and  and arrive at Maidens time, so t I missed one Marlorain and must  for t one—, my journey c broug Briar in time to take a servants tea t  dinner of bread and dried meat, at noon: it uck to my gums t I s  Maidener. tation t like Paddington, alls and a pastry-cooks stles, and t  on my trunk. My eyes stung, from turned a . Dont cry, he said, smiling.

    I aint crying! I said.

    hen asked me my name.

    It o flirt in to in to ans at t at t, but ried for an o catcy saying t s on a train once, leman near, and rousers and so ; and s, and he had given her a pound. I wondered

    o toucouc, or w.

    But the pound, where I was headed!

    Any y o spend  and kno only sell it on o bury her.

    ell, train c if rousers open I never sa last ilted  to me and got off. tops after t, and at every one someone else got off, from furtrain; and no-one got on. tations greil finally t t a tree—to see anyrees, and beyond t bro sky above it. And  about at t, and t a sky naturally could be, train stopped a final time; and t was Marlow.

    off save me. I  passenger of all. top, and came to lift dorunk. he said,

    Youll  t carrying. Is to meet you?

    I told o be a man rap, to take me up to Briar. rap t came to fetc? t would hree hours before. he looked me over.

    Come do for Briar. I told rap will have come and gone.

    tll  ll hree hours back.

    I stood and s  queer, and t I say it?—tons.

    I said, Aint take me?

    A cab-man? said ted it to ts a cab-man!

    A cab-man!

    til took out a  Marlow!

    Ohe pair of you.

    And I caugrunk and  to  must be t Mr ay kno you. See w ongue down here—!

    I cant say  to do next. I did not knoo Briar. I did not even knoo take. London y miles away, and I was afraid of cows and bulls.

    But after all, country roads arent like city ones. t four of to tarted to ed up a lantern, to look at my face.

    Youll be Susan Smitting after you all day.

    ook my trunk and o t beside ruck by t me sartan blanket for me to put about my legs.

    It o Briar, and ook it at an easy sort of trot, smoking a pipe. I told  till somet, even norains.

    s London. Knos fogs, aint it? Been muco try before?

    Not much, I said.

    Been maiding in ty,  one? Pretty good, I said.

    Rum , for a ladys maid, o France ever?

    I took a second, smoot out over my lap. Once or twice, I said.

    S kind of c? In the leg, I mean.

    Noo please illiam Inker, Sis so, he said.

    tly quiet and perfectly dark, and I imagined tolling of a bell—a very mournful sound, it seemed to me at t moment, not like t tolled nine times.

    ts t in silence after t, and in a little time ook a road t ran beside it. Soon t arc ted  a grand enoug not so grand nor so grim perleman ed it. But  from me and reacrunk, he said,

    ait up, s, o a man  t, Mr Mack. You may s te be last.

    t ared, saying not it, betrees, t curved as to a kind of  o clear a little, on try lanes—gre gre it, damp, upon my face, upon my lashes and lips; and closed my eyes.

    tared again. t from betrees into a gravel clearing, and  and straigark out of ts ered, and its o ts c  I must now call my home.

    e did not cross before t, but kept o took up a lane t sered e face and great black riking across t, illiam Inker pulled tood gazing at us,  the cold.

    tiles, rap come, said illiam. e crossed to join  a little  I saer, and t.

    to a passage, and to a great, brigc five times tc Lant Street, and s set in roable sat a boy, a  me. tudied my bonnet and t of my cloak. ts  trouble myself to study them.

    Mrs Stiles said, ell, youre about as late as you could be. Any longer and you so stay at the village. e keep early hours here.

    S fifty, e cap  quite looking in your eye as so you. S  . Plain, old-fashem.

    I made sey. I did not say—urned back at Paddington;

    t I  for anyone to ime t I rying to get forty miles from London, per to prove t London  meant to be left—I did not say t.  I said was:

    Im sure, Im very grateful t trap  at all. t table tittered to   turned out—got up and set about making me a supper-tray. illiam Inker said,

    Miss Smitty fine place in London, Mrs Stiles. And simes in France. iles.

    Only one or times, I said. Now everyone would suppose I ing.

    S in tiles gave a nod. t table tittered again, and one of t made t tray iles said,

    Margaret, you can carry to my pantry. Miss Smitake you to w splash your hands and face.

    I took to mean t so took me do passage, to anot  in it h paper on a spike.

    took me to tle room. It e , and a picture of a sailor in a frame, t I supposed er Stiles, gone off to Sea; and anoture, of an angel, done entirely in black  I presumed iles, gone off to Glory. S and cake my supper. It ton, minced, and bread-and-butter; and you may imagine t, being so  . As I ate, t I  nine. I said, Does t?

    Mrs Stiles nodded. All nig t out.

    And Miss Lilly? I said, picking crumbs from t does she like?

    S her uncle likes, she answered.

    then she rearranged her lips. She said,

    Youll kno Miss Maud is quite a young girl, for all t sress of t s dont trouble s anso me. I so knoress—but t do as se over my ter. Quite over my   t perfectly urns out.

    I said, I am sure  turn out well.

    S staff of servants, to make sure t it does. t ake to it. I dont kno place. I dont kno say. But if you mind my otable-boys, of course, I alking han you can help

    S on like t for a quarter of an ime, as I ioned, never quite catcold me  take my meals, and  my underclotea t eapot, s  of t ladys maid to pass on to tcicks: to be given to Mr ay. And Mr ay , since it  to C to Cook.

    t Miss Maud leaves in and, oo dry to raise a lathose you may keep.

    ell, ts servants for you—altle patc candle-ends and soap! If I e felt it before, I kne it o be in expectations of thousand pounds.

    t if I o so my room. But so ask me to be very quiet as , for Mr Lilly liked a silent  bear upset, and Miss Maud  of nerves t  like   alloful.

    So sook up ook up my candle, and s into taircase. ts  alake, unless Miss Maud directs you otherwise.

    read greer t. At last, o a door, t so my room. Putting urned the handle.

    I  particularly  one, no, since I must  er, perer dogs. But tel and, before t  it up—runk.

    Near t quite tig.  lead? I asked Mrs Stiles, t migo anot.

    ts to Miss Mauds room, she said.

    I said, Miss Maud is there, asleep in her bed?

    Per rat Mrs Stiles gave a s just tle.

    Miss Maud sleeps very poorly, sly. If s, to go to  call out for you, since you are a stranger to  Margaret in a cside  sake her

    tomorro, you ust be ready to be called in and examined. She said she hoped Miss Maud would find me pleasing. I said I

    did, too.

    S me, t very softly, but at to put o t , and gree cold: for s once like notron of a gaol. I said, before I could stop myself:

    Youre not going to lock me in?

    Lock you in? sh a frown. hy should I do

    t?

    I said I didnt kno me.

    I ! I t.

    t upon t s  maid left ina. It oo dark to see. Mrs Stiles aken  my candle do and made great black sened my cloak, but kept it draped about my sravelling; and ten oo late—it sat in my stomac. It en oclock. e laug people o bed before midnig home.

    I mig in gaol, I t. A gaol  troubled your ears. And  to tside, you nearly fainted to see ables, ill and quiet the land beyond.

    I remembered ttering at a   t light had shone from.

    I opened my trunk, to look at all t I   Street—but tticoats and s Gentleman ake. I took off my dress, and for a second

    against my face. t mine, eit I found t Dainty  t  t t.

    I t of t Mrs Sucksby e as strange as I kne o imagine tting eating it, perirely.

    If I  of girl, I sainly .

    But I ears. I co my nig my cloak back on above it, and stood in my stockings and my unbuttoned s t door at t t. I  a key on  turned. I  and bent and looked—and  go and do it? But oe, and stoop to t, a s, no sign of any kind of sleeping or ful girl, or anything.

    I  raig my ear flat to t-beat, and tig must le in the wood.

    Beyond t, tened for a minute, maybe t up. I took off my sers and got into bed: ts  damp, like ss of pastry. I put my cloak over tra  I mig, if someone came at me in t and I ed to run. You never kne burning. If Mr ay o complain t t ub less, too bad.

    Even a ts. till danced about. try ss stayed cold. t clock sounded  ten—eleven— eleven—t Street, home.

 Chapter Three

    t six in t seemed still t to me, for my candle of course o notains  out. , came knocking at my door, I t I  Lant Street. I ers filed free by Mr Ibbs. t imes; and sometimes times te villains. Once a man put a knife to Mr Ibbss t, because  too sloarted from t, O I meant to be  to , I could not tell you; and neit. S  ter for me, and s my fire; took t, and emptied it into  of

    slops, and  clean   her apron.

    I o   tip my piddle into , I  sure I liked it. But I said, t—t; for s and tossed o say, hanking her?

    Servants. Sake my breakfast in Mrs Stiless pantry. turned and left me—getting a quick look, I t, at my frock and my srunk, on the way.

    I ed for to take, t oo cold to  t in, I sao see t before, by t treaked bro tained we.

    From t-door room t saying, Yes, miss. tting of a door.

    t doo my breakfast—first losing my  ttom of ts stairs, and finding myself in t. ttles, and ted panes. Gentleman  t, too, about ts. iless pantry at last tockings, and . t o Mr Lilly for forty-five years, .  ts, . e  hey say Londoners can lush!

    Mr ay said o me, but spoke to Mrs Stiles about ter to  left; and wold he Dunravens, of

    reet, Mayfair,  o s a humbug he was.

    off at seven. Mrs Stiles  leave table before  up. hen she did she said,

    You o  Miss Maud slept well.

    I didnt knoo say to t. S on, anyway:

    Miss Maud rises early. S you be sent to o wasicular.

    My o me; but I le stone sink sry.

    I felt t drunk it. I ain I so it again.

    I was nervous.

    Sook me up. e , as before, by ts stairs, but truck out into a  led to one or t one of t catc came, but suppose s. Sraigurned the iron handle, and led me in.

    ts s floor—rifling turkey carpets, t  ables about, and one or ts mout branctled in their frames.

    ttle spluttering fire in a vast old grate, and before tanding gazing into t turning as sep, and starting, and blinking—tress of t all our plot  on.

    I ed  Gentleman o be quite out of t s t—at least, I did not tudied  aller t very fair—and er. , for I liked to bite my oo be s young-looking; but as to t— to udied Maud Lilly as sood before me no, s knearted, as I ook a step or to meet me, and opped, and put ly, at . t—I   onis in a net of velvet. On  toned up tig t. She said,

    Miss Smito be my maid, from London! And may I call you Susan? I  at Briar, Susan; and I  muco like, in eit do it very easily— very easily, indeed.

    S, s, ing voice, tilting  me, still quite crimson at t Lant Street, and gripped my skirt and made a curtsey. And w sook my hand in hers.

    S Mrs Stiles, he door.

    You need not stay, Mrs Stiles, s you  my eye. Youve  I am an orpo

    Briar as a c all to care for me. I cannot tell you all tiles  a mot time.

    Silted iles  catch her

    gaze, but a bit of colour struggled into tered. I s , myself; but servants groimental over take my .

    Anye; and t us. Maud smiled again, and led me to one of t o t beside me. Ser my journey—e supposed you lost! ser my room. Did I like my bed? Did I like my breakfast?

    And   anyone  Lant Street—as if I mig t s in a different sort of  in a gaping country  in a noticing, o o .

    Of course, I t I knew w was.

    Next sold me all ties I so do,   tidy her gowns. She lowered her eyes.

    Youll see  of t Briar, s matters little, I suppose, since . But you, of course, o t styles of London.

    I t of Daintys . Pretty used, I said.

    And your last mistress, s on te a fine lady? So look at me, I expect!

    Sill , and again looked from me; and again I t, You pigeon!

    But  Lady Alice— Gentleman oo kind to laug anyone,

    and  grand clot not  ougo be judged. All in all, I t, it ty clever to say; and so too, for w s me in a new way and  down, and sook my hink. I said, Lady Alice always said so, miss.

    ter t Gentleman ten for me, and t t be t to present it. I took it from my pocket and  over. So to o t. Sood a long time looking at t me; and my  beat a little fast to t iced somet it  t: for I sa last t rembled; and I guessed t s a proper cer  w she should say.

    I t it almost a s, t sher.

    ell, sting it inside , Lady Alice does indeed speak  o leave her house.

    Pretty sorry, miss, I said. But to India. I ther fierce.

    S. Strong lig.

    Seete. I smiled, but kept my lips s—for my oeet are yelloo say quite yellohem yellower.

    S, miss.

    library. t library, of its kind, in all of England. I dare say you  soon.

    t hing, miss, Im sure.

    So read, of course?

    I so read, miss? Sing. Pretty muc last. t is, I am sure I so be shown.

    Sared.

    to learn, I mean, I said.

    Sared, even , disbelieving sort of laug mean, you cannot read? Not really? Not a  a letter? tle table . Still ook t to me. Go on, s. Read me any part, I s mind if you stumble.

    I  beginning to s. I opened it and looked at a page. It . I tried anot one  Mauds gaze, like a flame against my  face. I felt tter. take a c.

    Our Fatried, w in heaven—

    But t t. I closed t my lip, and looked at t, very bitterly, ell,   a maid t cant read e fancy letters in a curling ed my eyes to hers and said,

    I migaug, miss. I am t willing. Im sure I could learn, in half a wink—

    But shing.

    Be taugly taking back t allo. Not read! Ao live in t t meant. You should know, indeed!

    Sill ill smiling, tolling of t  times; and then her smile fell.

    No go to Mr Lilly; and wrikes one I shall be free again.

    S—sounding, I t, just like a girl in a story. Arent tories, s, and s? She said,

    Come to me, Susan, at my uncles c one.

    I will, miss, I said.

    S racted kind of  to it, and put o o c goed at the back and showed her calves.

    S my eye in tsey.

    Shall I go, miss? I said.

    Sepped back. Stay, s my rooms in order, will you?

    S to t topped. She said,

    I . I , in London,  miss you too greatly. It , I t Mr Rivers mentioned? Se well, when you saw him?

    S tion fall, like it o o make all t. As if sy!

    I said,  s.

    S. Did ruly? she said.

    truly, miss.

    S  tly.

    I remembered ting at t kitcticoat, saying, You s bitch.

    Im sure hes very kind, miss, I said.

    tinkling of a little urned and ran, leaving tairs as s down.

    I ed a second, tepped to t my foot to it, and kicked it s. I  to t te  Street. I lifted my  Maud  my o my freckled ceetongue. t as Gentleman it over  t as , and tor be standing ready rait-coat at the madhouse door.

    ts , after seeing hen.

    But I t it in a discontented sort of o admit,  e iller t se, ttling of panes of glass. I  to t tle red sand-bags laid upon to keep it out, but t  , and  my o one, and my finger came aood and s t a vie  plain grass and trees. A fehe lawn. I wondered which way London was.

    I er. I arnish.

    t of somet my rooms in order, Maud  I supposed must be  be anot in  house were all of dark oak panelling,

    very gloomy on t so pat in t spot t I looked ood, I sa me, plain as daylight.

    It o  as I , t o my o before and listened for  seemed a very fooliso  I sa. For it  very grand, but grand enoug, s smell to it, and a ed bed ains and a canopy of old moreen. I  sure t sleeping in a bed like t  make me sneeze: I t of all t and dead flies and spiders t must be gat looked as t  been taken doy years. t a nig—I folded t it beneato te. So muc t aged looking-glass, s t e black . I s ladies  leaves in t , for it  go no made t ened. Seeing t, I t again  Maud ainly  rid of ancient stuff like ter someto te and dainty.

    But one t Lant Street teacy goods. I got  and girlis, t to  flat; after t, t to. ther was a

    dressing-table. t re tles

    and pinst—I tidied too—and fitted beneat of fancy

    drae ones, in top dratens in

    t.

    t t  I guessed spelled out Mauds name. I so  t, h scissors and a pin.

    I did no suc left tly, and I  about til I oucudied it all t muco look at; but t tle  sat upon a table beside her bed.

    took it up it gave a dull sort of rattle. t it some, you only o ss like giving brine to an oyster. I used one of her hairpins.

    turned out to be lined  to squeak. I am not sure  to find in tleman, some keepsake, some letter, some little bill-and-coo. But ure portrait, in a frame of gold yle from ty years before, and t look muc I t it a pretty safe bet t s t, if s  Maud kept ure locked up in a box, and did not .

    I puzzled so long over turning ture, looking for marks, t took it up, like everyt t  , or Mrs Stiles—so tch me

    standing by trait in my  back in its place, and made it fast again.

    t to make a pick-lock . I s o  and t me a thief.

    to do, after I . I stood some more at t eleven oclock a maid brougray. Miss Maud isnt ea-pot; but tea  in fairy-sips, to make it last took tray back doo save t into tcared and the cook said,

    ell, I never! If you t aint quick enoug speak to Mrs Stiles. But Im sure, Miss Fee never called anyone idle.

    Miss Fee  sick ina. It seemed very cruel to be supposed prouder trying to be kind.

    But I said not, Miss Maud likes me, if you dont! For so  ime to pass, not for its o as it ake me back to her.

    At least at Briar you alruck, and to tairs and  til one of t by, and so t  floor, t you reac aircase and a  it  you t you ures ood and put my fingers to its little eeting to , but slo be reading to her uncle from a book.

    ted my  for me to enter.

    I sa: sting at a desk tle ly by, but s beside a s ts lig. Above s glass  upon it. All about unning amount. ories does one man need? I looked at t e gloves and drehem back on.

    So , to t, because of t see. A cross voice said,

    is it?

    I pused  sat Mr Lilly, Mauds old uncle; and to describe o tell everything.

    coat, and a velvet cap, t ub of red ting from it  ained all over  be stained obacco. e.  ongue—t  black, from w o urning pages.

    hem he had a pair of glasses, shaded green. he saw me and said,

    he devil are you?

    Maud  ttons at .

    tly. Miss Smith.

    Behemselves up and grow damper.

    Miss Smit me but talking to , like t one?

    I dont know, said Maud. I  asked , Susan?

    I didnt kno  I said, No, miss. I dont think so.

    Mr Lilly at once put his hand across his ear.

    I dont care for  s? Cant s?

    Maud smiled. She can, Uncle, she said.

    turbing me now?

    So fetch me.

    to fetche clock sound?

    o tcoat and dre an ancient great gold repeater, tilting o catc Maud, ill fumbling ening of ook a step, meaning to  -s came ongue.

    the finger!

    o me, and sil ter t t underneate black, and so guessed en. But at t moment range, and spoke so s quite failed me. I t  be prone to fits. I took anotep, and t made ill  last Maud came to me and touched my arm.

    Dont be afraid, sly.  my feet, t into t, a flat brass ing finger.

    Uncle does not care to s eyes upon  no servant advance furto this mark here.

    Soe of er.

    Does s? said her uncle.

    Yes  soe. S very ime—s you, Susan?

    Yes, miss, I said— I s; for it ainly neo me, t gazing at a line of print could spoil it. But  t? Besides  t anyt rue. Yes, miss, I said, a second time; and then: Yes, sir.

    tsey. Mr Lilly snorted, looking  me tened urned to leave him.

    Make , Maud, he door behind us.

    I will, Uncle, she murmured.

    Noook me round taircase to t of lunc, and coffee in anot; but w Cook  up, she made a face.

    Eggs, s, like you must be.  did you think of my uncle, Susan?

    I said, Im sure hes very clever, miss.

    he is.

    And ing, I believe, a great big dictionary?

    Sionary, yes. A great many years labour. e are presently at F.

    So see  of t.

    Astonishing, I said.

    S a spoon to t of took its  te and yello and made anot it from  eat t eat tter.

    t knoe t caking bites of bread and sips of coffee, and once

    rubbing for a minute at a spot upon  te!

    I sa mark, til t came to take tray ao e again—so  a neer, as I put coal on  t te, and they looked like gloves for a doll.

    Sainly, t you   Lant Street? I did not t ty lonely, and pretty bookis be, in a ?  to tening rain, but so go out ood at ttle black press, looking over s, s and s. t killed nearly an s w.  her hands upon mine and said,

    Be slower. o here?

    S her eyes were sad. I said, No, miss.

    In t on a pale grey cloak, and over tens. Stle leat ready, t tle of er, and scissors: s saying  to cut flo staircase to to ts.  outside ood blinking, our  our eyes against tery sun. t sa, at nighe

    fog and I so say it seemed less grim  seemed   nos cs roof s. It ains  t of trunks of ivy. It  front door, split do rain o press , and e sideo leave t all.

    It o see epping out of t gloomy place, like a pearl coming out of an oyster.

    It o cer s at her back.

    But t muco stay for, out in t avenue of trees, t led up to t of gravel t t in. t grely nettles; and an overgro ttle stone  cross to tand and gaze at til s tarted a muddy lane, t led you to a s-up old red c, quietest place I ever sao go to it, but Maud took t en. For at t one tomb, t her.

    S and look at t for an  a time,  for gat only for keeping do gre it; and ters of lead s o take off stains.

    Sil  me  first day, wried, she said,

    It is a daugy, to tend to t ch me.

    So I left o it, and ombs. ts made it ring. I  of my o  give graves to murderesses. t their bodies in quicklime.

    Did you ever pour salt on to do it, and to see to me once,

    Your mot. Sen men died t smelt it!

    again. I took up a pair of kitc to . And thing!

    I wondered  bad blood flowed in me.

    But s to ask. S, gazing  amped my feet. t last s her, passed her hand across her eyes, and drew up her hood.

    ts tle further.

    So t ran alongside a  took you to t see t landing-place tted atle upturned punt t made a kind of seat. ts er very quiet and muddy and filled ing fiso t ter. I supposed sened of snakes. t, and sat ip of it pressed against h.

    I sat beside  cold, and so quiet it  thin.

    Pretty stretcer, I said, for politeness sake.

    A barge  by. toucs. Iwaved.

    Bound  for London, said Maud, looking after them.

    London?

    S t?—-t t trifling bit of er  s t ill, t it o c folloer; t passed from sigs engine faded, ts c. till sat ip of t ook up stones and began to to ter. Sc,  every splaso the house.

    e  back to  out a bit of se  to be a tableclot. I never sac. It made me nervous. e sat togettering fire, and talked in a   greo rattle o myself, Dear God, let Gentleman come soon! I t my eye. t made me ya s ucked up  and laid o sleep.

    ts all to do til truck seven.  s o  co h her uncle.

    S took my dinner in tcs. told me

    t,  and read to

    read? I asked.  let s   —fears ss  keeps ime in gloves.

    ts enougiles.  . I sat and t about Mr Lilly, er, ongue; and t Maud, fro would make a girl like .

    I t I kne ening to ts talk, not saying muciles asked me, So come and take my pudding ry? I supposed I ougo. I sat gazing at ture made all of  every story—t  bulls breaking fences, or parsons making interesting sermons in ciles s e a match for London, news-wise!

    Above  sound of laug chen.

    t ruck, and immediately after it ts bell sounded; and t meant t Mr Lilly o be seen by Mr ay into  Maud o be put by me into hers.

    I almost lost my  even so, when she saw me she said,

    Is t you, Susan? You are quicker too. I dont think a girl can be hand-

    some—__do you?— nor her. I

    so be dark, Susan!

    Sh her supper, and I had had beer. I should

    ay ipsy. Sand

    beside  t silvery glass above her fireplace, and drew my

    o o compare the

    darker, she said.

    to put o gown.

    It  muccer all. Sood sy as everye. Stripping a lady is  eel; , as I t tors speak against, t gives a girl an illness. cs net, ticoats and s all,  and smootter. too soft, I t er  its sood in ockings igurned, and looked at o tom,  from tatue on a pillar in a park. So pale so shine.

    But again, it roubling kind of paleness, and I o cover idied o t and ed, yao come and brush her hair.

    do  migch.

    are you tress? as her hair handsomer?

    she walked well. Do I walk well? You do, miss.

    S  beside o compare them.

    Yours is almost as neat, she said kindly.

    S into  care to lie in darkness. S in a tin s beside  it from t let me tie tains of  tle  s see into the room beyond.

    And you , e close your door? so. I didnt like it, before you came,  in a co call  touc your toucle.

    S o feel t of o button anote pair back on. took ucked . I pulled t perfectly smoot be all, miss?

    Yes, Susan, s like t  it back, and it snaked ao sraight and dark and slender as a rope.

    ook my candle off, t by t  tle  furtood and rubbed my face. I  Briar only a day; but it  day of my life. My , now I had undressed her.

    At last I sat and ble my candle; and  a sound in t in   it to ttle  t up. I t, ell, I can be silent, if you cant. I am softer to t of tained bed, and rait of tcrait to , and spoke soft, sad o it. t it from  t t to look in t it neatly on table— touc once, touc tain and ill.

    I greoo tired to coo. My room  beneathem; and lay cold as a frog in my own narrow ladys maids bed.

    I cannot say  for t say,

    knoe or to Mauds room and sa lig I kne dreaming.  I ,  crasant of my opening my eyes, t as I lifted my  my  beat   in a ened voice. She was calling on her old maid:

    Agnes! Oh! Oh! Agnes!

    I didnt knoo ed  ting t t still rattled, e unbroken; and to tains s all bunch her chin and her

    , range.  I knes Sue, miss.

    S sound? Is t? there? A man? she said. A man? A burglar?

    At t go, Agnes! Im afraid ened, so frig t me try and light a candle.

    But ried to lig in a tin s get to catc on, il my  eady.

    I said, You must be quiet, miss. to come and catch him.

    I took up t. Dont take t! s once. I beg you, dont!

    I said I ake it to to s and clutc t  to to  open.

    t bits of furniture sat , like ts   o be murdered by burglars. And o be a man I knew—say, one of Mr Ibbss nep do happen.

    So I stood gazing fearfully at to call out—in case t t I  of course, t  as a c, and t quickly to to t

    was

    , too—ticking of some clock, far-off and more rattling  after all it  quite Pleasant, standing in a nig, in a great dark silent , t didnt  cer-

    tainly s. I closed t back to Mauds oom and closed t door, and stepped to t t down.

    Shere?

    I  to ans topped. For I orange te and gleaming, t  t I, t Ive a ion? I ain t t to  me. My  leapt so o my mouto taste it. I screamed, and Maud screamed, tc me and   look at me! s leave me! Dont leave me!

    And t te t to foot and almost laughed.

    For it  from  t  steps he springs bounce.

    I sa, as I say, and almost laug  o let  my  beteeto cter. I han ever.

    I said, Its noter all, its nothing. You was only dreaming.

    Dreaming, Agnes?

    S  my bosom, and sil she grew calm.

    t me put t about you, look.

    But wo lay  leave me, Agnes! she said again.

    I said, Its Sue, miss. Agnes ina, and is gone back to Cork. Remember? You must lie dooo.

    S me t ill so dark, seemed yet a little clearer.

    Dont leave me, Sue! she whispered. Im afraid, of my own dreaming!

    . er. In a feime, I t— if our plot o hen?

    So I put  only for a moment; and I clambered over  beneats at  my arm about  once s me. It seemed t t I could do. I pulled  like Mrs Sucksby. Not like Mrs Sucksby, at all. Sill stle, and  my t, like featime, opped, and  again and till. She grew heavy, and warm.

    Good girl, I said, too softly to wake her.

    Next morning I e before sroubled, and tried to .

    Did my dreams ? s meeting my gaze. Did I say foolis o come and keep me company!

    I didnt tell  t eig off to  one I  to fetcaking care, time, to mind ting finger on to the river; she sewed, and dozed, and was

    rung to  iles until  nine, ime to go back up and put o bed. It  t day, over again. S, and laid ood in my room and tle box unlocked, and peeped to cake up trait, kiss it, t it away.

    And t put out my candle tes, before ly: Sue—!

    S sleep. So keep me close to ened.

    S nig after t. You dont mind? s Mayfair?

    could I tell  migress and o double up like girls.

    It  first, , quite like sisters. Quite like sisters, indeed. I aled a sister.

    tleman came.

 Chapter Four

    ter I got t , t Briar  and long, it mig time.

    It  all ts of to get used to ts, and for to get used to me. For a  care for me. I o tco ? All rig   really  a joke and no-one laug it.) And C look at me as if oo afraid to speak; and Mrs Cakebread y kind of way, Ohank you.

    I supposed to , reminding them

    of all t quiet and out-of-t a look at. tiles took me aside. S mind, Miss Smittle  say  place— Sarted everyto me .—I cant say   Briar o keep very mindful of tings of t;

    It turned out t Mrs Cakebread ed, by my saying good-morning to tc to  I meant to tease  all. It  trifling sort of nonsense, and enougo make a cat laug it o t o you, if all you o look foro for t forty years rays and baking pastry. Any, if I o get anyceps. I gave C of ce, t I en; I gave Margaret a piece of scented soap; and to Mrs Cakebread I gave a pair of tockings t Gentleman  for me from the crooked warehouse.

    I said I  Cairs in to me after t.

    ts like a servant. A servant says, All for my master, and means, All for myself. Its t t I cant bear. At Briar, t all over sneaking little matters t o t from Mr Lillys gravy to sell on t to tc Mrs Cakebread did. Or, pulling ttons from Mauds c;  did. I , after tc er after all. Mr ay, no, in a place like o Mr Lillys cellar, on a chain. You never saw such a

    s key ! And tiless pantry,  sray—and Id see  no-one ipping ttom of all to one great cup, and lus away.

    I sa—but, of course, I kept it all to myself. I  to make trouble. It o me, if o deat of my time, any used to oo. S; but t enoug didnt  me to indulge t le to take a kind of pleasure in tidying of o dressing infants. I greo dressing her.

    Lift your arms, miss, Id say. Lift your foot. Step here. Now, here.

    times s say. I turning of all my limbs.

    I did, in time. I kne sed. I kne sending up eggs, I  and told o send soup instead.

    Clear soup, I said. Clear as you can make it. All rigiles, s like it. Mrs Stiles dont o eat it, I ansiles aint Miss Mauds maid. I am.

    So te it all up. . S down  splashed.

    Its only er, I said, seeing

    you. S  anote ealing glances at less. Finally she said:

    I ter tle fat in it...quot;

    t o go into  her a fresh pair of

    aloves myself, to sit and c. Let me do it, I said, undoing tton at ; and t first s let me toucime—since I said I le— so let me.  t ly clean, and gre of oo smooto be rig  t . I  of my lap and tand and curn black. Surned to asimes Id stand and look h

    her.

    For t to notice, at Briar, t t cead, t: to to see  ed or dropped. In tumn, it floods, Maud said, and all t care for t. And some nige mist comes creeping from ter, almost to t gave beneats stle t is freezing already. Do you see  struggles? It s to flo till it. Do you see, Sue? he rushes?

    Sc of  ts only er, miss.

    Only er?

    Broer.

    She blinked.

    You are cold, I said to t too long. I put  mine. I did it, not tayed stiff. But t day—or perhe day

    after t—sook my arm again, and  so stiff; and after t, I suppose urally ... I dont kno er t I  it and tried to look back. But by t time ime her.

    S a girl, after all; for all t t a girl t idying one of . S t s, but t  Boroug. e played for matc first; ttle counters, made of mot moons; and after t,  and cool on till  doly, making tcer a , too.

    alked. So alk of London. Is it truly so large? sres? And hey call, fashion-houses?

    And eating-houses. And every kind of shop. And parks, miss.

    Parks, like my uncles?

    A little like, Id say. But filled h people, of course.—Are you low, miss, or high?

    I am  doe filled, would you say?

    I am o your two.

    e filled, you say, h people?

    Of course. But dark. ill you cut?

    Dark? Are you sure? I t London o be brig lamps fired—I believe—h gas?

    Great lamps, like diamonds! I said. In tres and  t—

    Dance, Sue?

    Dance, miss.  to dance, of course?

    I— Saug. Do you t be a lady, in London— t is, so go t be a lady in London, and yet not dance?

    S, I suppose. S you like to learn, ter.

    Could I? Sful, t sure . . .

    I guessed ing in London, who could.

    I c for a minute or tting up. It is easy, look—

    And I seps, to a couple of dances. try tood in my arms like  .  on turkey carpet. So t t back; and t  it sear. tleman, remember. Of course, it er, —

    tumbled again, and  and fell into separate c o c stuck out like a little Dutce.

    S my eye, and smiled; till looked frightened.

    I s I, Sue?

    You s t moment, I believed it. I made  ero  I remembered t, of course, she never would.

    For, te—t so !—per rat knoe of a person in a story or a play.  and s-up, it made t over a pigs o t I lemans stolen fortune—it made t  not first I o myself, leman comes Ill do ts . But Id say it, t   t I  muc t  I suppose t  toget a time; and it o be kind to  too   and feel cruel.

    Of course, it  for o talk; but more often so be silent, and t  nigurning, turning of s—feel leman,  old  ser my old aunty, t o be , for  made me home-sick.

    And t  t Maud  ion. I only t t later, t time, I sater?

    Songue. I oot t cuts me.

    Let me see, I said.

    I took o tood h her face in my hands

    and let me feel about ed toot at

    once.

    ell, t is sharper— 1 began.

    ts tooth, Sue? she said.

    to say, miss, I ans to  out a to matche flying scissors.

    Maud stroked ten by a snake, Sue? she asked me.

    could you say? o t. Per ry living. I said I didnt. S me, t t ted tootil t aken off. I  many times, s.—Of course, infants rat. Maud stood very still, ed,  back,  first closed t me, .  lifted and sank, as s, from t tered, and s my eye.

    And, as sepped a ter on a tray. For Miss Maud, ssey. I looked at t once t it must be Gentlemans. My  gave a dip. So did Mauds, I think.

    Bring it ill red  rembling.

    I c to, as I moved about aking up books and custing aurn tter and fumble —of course, s tear t me, and till trembling,

    but making a s  to say it o  s it toned one glove and put o tter from t in .

    t out  sig t from it.

    Good ne? I said; since I t I ougo.

    Sated. t is from Mr Rivers, in London; and o Briar, tomorrow!

    tayed on ; and in ternoon,  se even play at cards, but paced about times stood before touco me,  all.

    I got t any of Gentleman, laying out t Street kitcold us all . t of Dainty.  o tell fortunes from a pack of cards. I , many times.

    I looked at Maud, standing dreaming at the mirror. I said,

    So knoure, miss? Did you kno you can read it, from he cards fall?

    t made urn from looking at o look at mine. Ser a moment,

    I t it .

    ell, but dont tell Margaret or Mrs Stiles, I said. My grandmother, you know, was a gipsy-princess.

    And after all, my granny mig. I put togeto ated, t beside me, spreading  skirt flat, saying,  must I do?

    I said s sit e, and ts t  ; ake t out t seven

    of t I t I remembered Daintys mot mig down seven.

    I looked  to knoune?

    Sening me!

    I said again, Do you really  to kno?  teac obey. It is very bad luck to ask to so be bound by tune you find here?

    I do, sly.

    Good, I said.  us see t part of it. t.

    I turned over t ts, folloting ig, I hen.

    I studied ting, and trife.

    Sared, t o . Go on, she said. her face was pale now.

    Let us look, I said, at t t.

    I turned th a flourish.

    tern old gentleman. the Cavalier of Spades—

    I took my time. Sowards me.

    s he Cavalier?

    I said ; and s me in suconis of  sorry. S turn over t cards.

    I said, Miss, I must. Or all your luck will leave you. Look ure.

    I turned t. the Six of Spades.

    A journey! I said. Perrip ...quot;

    S ans gazing at turned up. t one, s. S first.

    Queen of Diamonds, sh a sudden frown. hos she?

    I did not knoo turn up t after all, must he deck.

    t last. Great hink.

    Great   t and took t  and rose. I dont believe, s your grandmotoo fair in t believe it. And I dont like your fortune-telling. Its a game for servants.

    Sepped aood again before t surn and say somet. But as s, s , and he pips.

    t card, after t, in t followed.

    t afternoon,  t of t nigful. S into bed, but  a little cup of er; and as I stood undressing I satle and slip t into t  time I sa. It made  day, trand of o  the bed.

    Bruso me, as sood for me to dress   se my c, Sue. S my fingers to her face, and pressed

    t mind if you bruise it. Id rate one!

    troubled me to alk of bruises. I said,

    Stand still, or I s be able to dress you at all.—ts better. Now, which gown will you have?

    the grey?

    too soft on ts say, the blue . . .

    t out tood before tctoned it tig. t me. S my brouff dress. She said,

    Your dress is rat it? I t to c.

    I said, C? this is all I have.

    All you  already.  o wearing for Lady Alice, wo you?

    I felt—and I t in feeling it—t Gentleman  me do o Briar  the one good gown. I said,

    ell, t is, miss, Lady Alice  s my frocks back, to take to India for here.

    Maud blinked her dark eyes and looked sorry. She said,

    Is t reat their maids, in London?

    Only the near ones, miss, I answered.

    to be near for,  and so spend your mornings in. And per, for you to co wor?

    She door of her press. She said,

    No I never s long, I see. My uncle does not care to see me in a long skirt, s un  mind, of course, about

    you. You need only let dotle , of course?

    ell, I ainly used to taking stitc; and I could seraigo. I said, t , . It looked like it ogetrong ailors. Sudied me, and then said,

    Ory it, Susan, do! Look, I so undress me. See, I can do it, quite as ress!

    Stle nervously, all time s last. e migers!

    Sugged my old bro tand before to tig he figure of a lady.

    Of course,  ers,  bots. My dress shen, I should have fallen down and died.

    But to see me; and no Boroug . I stood, plucking at t, o my bosom, tilting o see  looked. the parlour door.

    t, se pink. So t!

    Margaret came and made a curtsey, looking straig me. She said,

    I  come for your tray, mi— O you, tress, Im sure!

    Sanding in tain—looked girlisting er, and her dark eyes shone.

    Suppose, s o do  did, and mistake you for me?  hen?

    Again s the glass, and smiled.

    For it  it, to be taken for a lady?

    Its ed.

    And anyo get tarting early. I kept t to  turning tting out t about to do myself an injury, for teen-inc.

    No s. But , serrible books!

    S weeping, and wringing her hands.

    I took t aing for not be dressed in a sack. S een tleman  her.

    It  ao see  I kneending I kne migctle glass, to look at your face in?—and so keep my blood warm. And, A glass, Sue? hy should I need a glass?

    I t you  your ohan was usual.

    My oed in doing t?

    I cant say, miss, Im sure.

    I kne Marlo four oclock, and t illiam Inker  to meet it, as  for me. At t at t

    I said nottle padded seat beside ttling panes and mouldy sand-bags, it  place in t s t ing at itctle glances at to the house.

    I t, if t  love, tc  one of them.

    At last s o  and gave a stifled sort of cry. S coming, on illiam Inkers trap. t made  up and come aand at toget be Mr Rivers, miss? and se as t? ell, I suppose it is. how pleased my uncle will be!

    . So bid Mr Rivers  nohe grey?

    But Mr Lilly did not send for  it o pass on t Mr Rivers was arrived.

    And is Mr Rivers made comfortable, in his old room? said Maud.

    Yes, miss.

    And Mr Rivers ired, I suppose, after his journey?

    Mr Rivers sent to say t olerable tired, and looked foro seeing Miss Lilly  supper.  turbing Miss Lilly before then.

    I see, s. t o tell Mr Rivers t s t any sort of disturbance, to be visited by he supper-hour came . . .

    S on like te and a  t off. Ser of an leman h her.

    epped into t look at me at first. his eyes were all for Maud. he said,

    Miss Lilly, you are kind to receive me ravel-stained and tumbled as I am. t is like you!

    le. As for tains— a mark upon o . idy;  little ring on  finger, but apart from t his hands were bare and very clean.

    to be—a leman. urned to me at last, I found myself making sey and  shy.

    And , co I sepped toook my o me.  Briar, Sue. I ress.

    I said, I oo, sir.

    She is a very good girl, said Maud. She is a very good girl, indeed.

    S in a nervous, grateful kind of  to a stranger, feeling pusion, about your dog.

    Gentleman pressed my  it fall.   be good—I s be good, Miss Lilly—h you as her example.

    rose again. You are too kind, she said.

    at leman could but be, o be kind to,

    No  last s hen she laughed.

    And I t t time, t . S—I kne, seeing and beside h her eyes on his.

    Pigeons and geese. t clock sounded, and tarted and looked aleman said  oo long. I s supper, I h your uncle?

    itly.

    to t out of it o remember me, and  tomime, of patting at s, looking for coins. o take it.

    ed my . It  Maud s overhear.

    I said, Osey, and o do toget  recommend you try it: for I fear tsey; and Im certain tsey the wink.

    I dont tleman noticed, isfied  us. Maud looked once at me, t silently to  knoil ser, to o her gown for dinner.

    I sat and tossed t, bad coins will gleam as well as good.

    But I t it in a discontented sort of  know why.

    t nigayed an er supper, reading to o Gentleman in t seen t s iles o remark on it as ook our meals. I still passed my evenings in tciless pantry; and pretty dull evenings t, . I  doo find Margaret  piece of roasting . , plumping up e diso cook for.

    Sockings for tra ruffles. C, and made ting straig ool beside to one of Gentlemans boots.

    o tiles? Mr Rivers says t, in London, you may see eleps. s in pens in ts back.

    ell, bless my soul! said Mrs Stiles.

    Sened a brooc t was a mourning brooc.

    Eleps! I t. I could see t Gentleman o a coop of roosting  ttering. tter-bred treating of a servant. t a fine t  a clever young person like  tood up and told trut ts; t Mr Rivers o marry Maud and steal ood and told t, t. t I was mad.

    tleman, over someone like me.

    And of course, I  about to tell t my ts to myself; and later, over pudding in ry, Mrs Stiles sat, fingering . Mr ay took o to serve up t of all of us, not glad t Gentleman had come.

    At least, I supposed I old myself, but just dont kno. Youll feel it, o meet, in a day or t  anotwo weeks, however, before we did. For of course, I had no

    reason for  Maud, into ts of t in, and o mine. Besides, t Briar  e like some great mec c. ter t  moving on our o room, on our set courses, until to our beds at nig as

    into t .—Sometimes,   t I could almost  turning. I greo stop.

    ts ry does to you.

    leman came, ticks, t all  on, smoot  order. Maud did not go to o read to ook notes. S to  and se cards, or  o to trees and the graves.

    As for Gentleman:  seven, and took  in  eigures. Mr Lilly directed ures as ted up a little room for Gentleman to ures ty precious. I never saleman carried keys about o t room  or in it.

    til one oclock, took took ours alone. e ate in silence. S not eat at all, but only sit ing. t a quarter to ts, papers and cards, a riangle—and s tly, in an order t  let me help. If a brush fell and

    I caug, sake everyts, triangle—and set it out all over again.

    I learned not to touco cen, as truck t a minute after t tleman, to teach her her days lesson.

    At first, t to t an apple, a pear and a er-jug upon a table, and stood and nodded o paint t as -brus Gentleman  his head or screw up his eye and say,

    I declare, Miss Lilly, you are acquiring quite a method. Or,

    an improvement, on your sketc month!

    Do you t ttle lean?  ougo practise my perspective?

    tive is, pertle at fault,  you , Miss Lilly, o stand before you! I am afraid of urn t eye upon me.

    , in a voice t art off strong and t, and breatating; and soo near to a fire. Sry t again. time t like a banana. tleman  t he brush a bad one.

    If I migake you to London, Miss Lilly, to my oudio there!

    t ists life, in a  Cing artist friends. Maud said, Lady artist friends, too?

    Of course, —t to everyones taste. See ry ttle firmer.

    to  urned o his and said,

    ont you tell me  is you t speak plainly. I am not a child, Mr Rivers!

    You are not, ly, gazing into art. After all,  on, my opinion is mild enoug concerns your—your sex, and matters of creation. t have.

    S is t, Mr Rivers?

    y, ly, of mine.

    S still, to startle o tleman looked up too, and c made ill o me, to ed o roke.

    t o ture of t, and—O ran like a tear-drop. Gentleman said s not mind it, t e enoug to table, took up t. Maud kept a little pen-knife  t and cut to t slices. o  one for  s juice and brougo me.

    Almost ripe, I th a wink.

    o e it in t left beads of cloudy juice on fully; and I licked mine; and Maud, for once, let ained, and sat  against  it, her look a dark one.

    e s. Real secrets, and snide. too many to count. ry noo sort out op and give it up, it makes my head spin.

    At last  try painting from nature. I guessed at once  meant. It meant t ake  to all t instruction. I t, too. ill it rain today, do you think?

    s of ill cold as anyt just as everyone in t  to see Mr Rivers come back to it again, so noo lift and gro. topped rattling. turned pearly instead of grey. tables.

    In t t leman: er a sation, sake it; I t more easily, to ty stiffly, t ttle artful o pull il it o brus from art off space bet steadily t last, t about rousers. I sa all; for I ool. Sometimes te to forget me. turn, and say,

    mind ter of a mile .

    Mr Rivers al t.   to paint, but really keeping alking in murmurs; and I o folloheir gear.

    Of course, I o  all. I  to c Gentleman was proper.

    I ccimes at en at t some flotering bird t took  urn, and catc by time s h.

    You would swear, seeing  he loved her.

    You would swear, seeing  she loved him.

    But you could see t stering .  go too fast. ouc to let o guide ed. o o coget if  a little nearer s her gloves on.

    At last  t spot beside ting of t reading in t nig fretfully to imes took more sleeping-drops, and sometimes shivered in her sleep.

    I put my , till sill again.

    I er on  me to make  for no  , I kept  till it sleman o udy er in t passes!, I kne. But I kneoo, t  it as a compliment not to  to me, w all.

    I guessed little t.  speak plainly, but made great play ed out our calk in private; and just as it began to look as t c did—and it was Maud, in  way, w us .

    For sood at t  it, and said,

    the lawn.

    I  and stood beside rolling about tte. till rather low, made his shadow very long.

    Aint all? I said, gazing side Maud. S, and s ahen she said,

    O te . Poor Mr Rivers!

    udying tip of te, and blo it; noing o rouser pocket, searcc the window-glass.

    No? c believe ruck te ty minutes ago.  go to Uncle soon. No,  cs ...quot;

    S me and wrung  was breaking.

    I said, It  kill him, miss.

    But poor Mr Rivers, s take a matco ting te away. how sad he looks now!

    e didnt c kept told Maud t she said,

    take a candle! take anytake a coal from t you be quicker?—Dont say I sent you, mind!

    Can you believe s?—tripping dos of stairs, ed coal in a pair of fire-tongs, just so a man mig? ell, I  no. Gentleman saepping across to  I carried, and laughed.

    I said, All rig me do for you to ligte from. Look glad, sc make a business of it, if you .

    move  raised o her window.

    a good girl she is, he said.

    Soo good for you, t I do know.

    only as a gentleman so a servant; and ly,

    how do we do, Sue?

    Pretty well, I answered.

    You think she loves me?

    I do. Oh, yes.

    a silver case and lifted free a cigarette. But s told you so?

    S o.

    o trust you?

    I t. She has nobody else.

    te, t in a sigained the cold air blue. he said, Shes ours.

    epped back a little ured  ed, let to tooped to  it.  else? old  t ened, smiling, all time fumbling ongs over tc up and rising, and placing my ongs and pressing tight.

    tly. ter. But you kno do? atctle jeing and turn o cas like t on, in an ordinary voice. Mr ay o t door of to see  fall and scorcs . . .

    I made sey, and epped out to bend  tc,  murmur:

    ts on you, at Lant Street. Mrs Sucksby o kiss you, in her behalf.

    kiss, t te into ted up e o brus back behind his ear.

    From ep, I saudying  quite sure o do most: laug s out. But

    Gentleman kept . ed o tretc Maud migter from the shadows of her room.

    Sood and cte, every morning  ifter t. Sand at to t circle of crimson in   upon t I sa gro passed.

    Noced for to break.

    I  it migake t t  too good at ing, and too smoottle jump out of o be nearer to Gentleman; and tle  of o be closer to  t o glide in. e needed to go bust.

    e needed o gro I could , ttle s—suc a kind gentleman Mr Rivers  s like Mr Rivers mig t for ttle c, to open up , sook one. turned cold again, t got to Marc  April. By May, Mr Lillys pictures ed, and Gentleman  still s of fear t a en her off.

    I greful, ing. Gentleman greful. e all gre fidgeting for  a trot, and art, t

    art; and ime for Gentleman to call on ening for ep—t. t nigiff and open-eyed, or turn and murmur in her sleep.

    All, I t, for love! I . I t about  , in t of all t she guessed liked her.

    I t of leman liked me.

    I t per to take ell o another.

    t s tty rum, in lig er.

    But somet. t last. t bust, and all our ing paid off.

    S him kiss her.

    Not on  someter.

    I kno.

    It  day of April. too ime of year. t in a sky of grey, and everyone said thunder.

    S and a cloak above : so ake a. Sting at ing of tleman o e spoiled , and t upon her face.

    t to touc er in it still, and all t rank. t Gentleman said les. tig, furry buds.

    I sat beside turned punt: Gentleman  to ter of t  of cakes. t leman looked on, smiling, and sometimes putting his hand on

    hers.

    Sed, and t sun  loo be streaked . I slept and dreamt of Lant Street—I dreamt of Mr Ibbs at ing. t arted from t, not knoleman were nowo be seen.

    tool, and terrible painting. ts. I  over and picked up t it leman, after all, to aken o t me to come up, sing,  I could not imagine t s almost afraid for  almost like a real maid, worried for ress.

    And ttle hem.

    t gone far—only just along t bent about t  look round. t ogeto  last.  time,  me to over  t to ,  turned   her hair, and whispered.

    tood ced one of ; and then he kissed her naked palm.

    And by t, I kneo  rose even ops of ockings, te of high.

    treacle. My go to gaze as I did. I could not look aillness of t ill bunc ed skirt—it seemed to ongue among tcly kissed her again.

    I so see . I . Instead, I imagined t of e fingers,   morning. I  and in . All for  t and —so slig s break. I t  swallow her up, or bruise her.

    I turned a t of too urned, and stole softly back to er a minute te after t I s, and tleman  ttoned up and . hen he saw me he gave me a look. he said,

    Sue! e didnt like to  t is all gone, and ress?

    I said notoo, , and looked no . I put  ook ting and ts, tool and t, and folloe in to the

    door to us. As  to fall, in great, dark, staining drops.

    Just in time! said Gentleman softly, gazing at Maud and letting her draw her hand from him.

    It   ill, for I sao roke her fingers over her palm.

 Chapter Five

    t nig made rivers of er t ran ^y beneat doors, into tcill-room and tries. e o cut s our supper so t Mr ay and C lay doood iles at a backstairs cning. S the sky.

    Pity t sea, she said.

    I  up early to Mauds rooms, and sat in t knoe, t I ood and put o ning flashed again, and she saw me, and jumped.

    Are you here? she said.

    leman. I t, Sell me no sood gazing at me, and  o ood as o

    undress ood in Gentlemans arms, and ttle from o guard it. In ill, but lifted eady drip, drip in one of ttics. Do you er voice: thunder is moving away

    I t of ts, filling er. I t of t sea. I t of t hinking of me.

    thousand pounds! she had said. My crikey!

    Maud lifted  comes, I t.

    But after all, shing.

    opped and till. Maud lay, as pale as milk:  came and s it aside and  eat it. Sly, about not look or act like a lover. I t shough. I supposed her feelings had dazed her.

    Scleman e, as so Mr Lilly, so  made me bilious. But , as usual, to to t a little near it, and gazed at tone. It en. t black birds  us, looking for c  me and  le. She said,

    You are sad, Sue.

    I shook my head.

    I ts my fault. I  you to

    time after time, t you  it is, to o lose it.

    I looked away.

    Its all rig doesnt matter.

    S;

    I t of my mot I  s , Maud said quietly now,

    And  doesnt trouble you, my asking?—her die of?

    I t for a moment. I said at last t s had choked her.

    I really did kno died t ared at me, and put o . t omb.

    ly, if you  pin yourself?

    It seemed an odd sort of question; but, of course, I o s of told her I should feel very ashamed and sad.

    ould you? serest in kno  killed my moto blame for abbed h my own hand!

    Srangely at   tips. I said,

    nonsense. ? t to be sorry.

    No-one made me t, s it myself.

    ts ter. As if a girl could stop herself from being born!

    I . One of tarted up from betones, its ing t sounded like a carpet being snapped out of a urned our o see it fly; and hem.

    I t,  do you o cry for? Youre in love, youre in love. I tried to remind her.

    Mr Rivers, I began. But she name and shivered.

    Look at t he new rain, look!

    S ter anot  ears. I  to ouched her arm.

    Put your cloak about you, I said. No me lift en it, as a c; and I t dra I made umble o ttle c  ing c above it ed ruck t tremble. Our skirts er at tood close to one anotig traig. She said,

    Mr Rivers o marry him, Sue.

    S in a flat voice, like a girl saying a lesson; and ted so o , w heavy as hers. I said,

    Ohing!

    A drop of rain fell between our faces.

    Are you truly? so t on miserably, I am sorry. For I  told  s four years until I am ty-one. o  so long?

    Of course, . I said, carefully, Are you sure, about your uncle?

    S spare me, so long as till, to be read and noted; and tlemans son, but—

    But your uncle  te enough a swell?

    S  if  t go any?

    S o  in earnest.  o see. I said, You mustnt cry. I toucting t. I said, truly, miss, you mustnt cry. Do you to .

    My o  meant to be taken, and touc to keep , for ever!

    Sterly than I had ever heard her speak before. I said,

    Your uncle loves you, Im sure. But Mr Rivers— t caug, and I cougoo.

    You terday, beside t. udio—o take me t as  as  t.  to  for me will kill , Sue?

    Sed. I t, Its not a lie, its not a lie,  it now. I said,

    I kno, miss.

    S t, w can he do?

    ask your uncle.

    !

    t find anot moved  do t. Still not t take . . .?

    Sed o mine and blinked back ears. So left and to rigtle closer. She said, in a whisper:

    Youll tell no-one, Sue?

    tell t, miss?

    Sating. You must promise not to tell. You must s!

    I sime t No  was.

    t. Mr Rivers, sly t go a night.

    At night! I said.

    be privately married.  try to claim me t  t once I am a—a wife.

    of  tone on hers grave. I said,

    You must follow your , miss.

    I am not sure. After all, I am not sure.

    But to love, and to lose range. I said, You love  you?

    Surned a little, and still looked queer, and  anshen she said,

    I dont know.

    Dont kno? Doesnt your blood beat  ouc you s you dream of  night?

    S hings mean I love him?

    Of course!  else could they mean?

    S ansead, s ogetroked t upon erday touched his lips.

    Only noroking t it. S nursing t cer, and rying to rub t away.

    S love  all. She was afraid of him.

    I dreh. She opened her eyes and held my gaze.

    will you do? I said, in a whisper.

    can I do? Ss me. o make me his.

    You might—say no.

    S believe I . I could not believe it, either.

    Say no to c see  all. And t you t ing, t  me  choice have I?

    eady and so bare, I flinc. I did not ans, but turned and gazed do tood against, and ting c  closed, and t kind of lock. t are t keep ts guarded. to crack. Mr Ibbs taug. I closed my eyes and saw o Maud, and said,

    Marry   for your uncles  o like , in time. till t, and do everything he says.

    For a second, sc  t; but it hen her face grew clear. She said,

    I . But, I cant go alone. You mustnt make me go e on my o come h me. Say you will. Say youll come and be my maid, in my new life, in London!

    I said I  Gentleman  I would he carriage she

    would  call me   me a maid of my own.

    For you know I shall be very rich, she said simply, once I am married?

    Sc my arm, and to   mine.  er. I t I did not pull ao try and find out. I did not  o see my face. I t have been awful.

    t afternoon s out s and ing, as usual; but tayed dry. Gentleman came to o ood before o pull o   Maud.  in a quiet, fierce voice, and sated once, t sig t , myself, and even sful. S  me; and  e free, before Sue? Youve told urned to me ure of   o look at anyt her.

    Ao your mistress, be her friend now! If you ever looked kindly on a pair of foolish lovers, look kindly on us!

    me. I gazed hard back.

    So , Mr Rivers—

    O t. Do you mean to slight me?

    Shen.

    ts better.

    ill on ilted upwards. Soucurned hem quickly back. She said,

    Sue  be careful, Richard.

    he smiled and shook his head. he said,

    And you t? epped from  my s my ambition. And at its centre tly, so carefully and  jar, you s knoaken.

    , e o turned ale easier. t, and talked in murmurs.

    And I remembered all s t, t ten it no love him, when hes so handsome and seems so kind?

    I t, Of course sco ouc, ?

    t my gaze and, stupidly, I blusoo. he said,

    You knoies, Sue. Youve a careful eye. e s, in time. But today—le business, t ake you elsewhere?

    ured o the door of Mauds bedroom.

    t for you, he said, if you do.

    I almost stood. I almost . So used , to playing t. te gone from  suppose Margaret or one of to the door?

    ? said Gentleman. And if t ly silent. t me. Be kind, Sue, o lovers. Did you never  of your own?

    I migill . No suddenly,  pretend to be a lord; he

    s. I slept beside er; urn  against ed to, like t! It . It ugged about and made nervous. I t, Damn you, Ill get my t the same!

    So I said, I s leave Miss Lilly.  like it. And if Mrs Stiles o , then I should lose my place.

    me and fro look at me at all; but I knew seful. Sly,

    After all, Ric ask too mucime enougo be toget we?

    t rue. t close before ter a  and se t one anoturbed. I  Maud . And ook  to rembled so  back to all times I cremble before, and  trembling for love. Once tood at ten did, studying ood te, turned. Sepped very sloly, from to to to t, across til so look at my  of velvet, brushed my own.

    You sely, s, not titches were crooked.

    tood and said noto ask me, but dared not. In the end she moved away again.

    And so our trap—t I  so ligo lay—; and ed only time to go quickly by

    and spring it. Gentleman ary until t to stay out ract to t—So t t  to co me, laugain oto leave o—t is, t day of t, instead of taking train for London, , and come back to t t, for me and Maud.  steal  be caug marry  and find ake  all figured out.  fetc, for  it past te- to bring a boat and take o some small out-of-t be known as Mr Lillys niece.

    Noo marry a girl at any c  for fifteen days; but  up, as er Maud ook a  riding off to Maiden a special licence for t meant t o put out t about ty, looking out for t kind of c s age, owo pounds so w h.

    omen like t lemen like  back to Briar t nigo Mauds parlour and sat us doo us in murmurs of all he had done.

    o leave off eating, and  t t ogether.

    three weeks, she said.

    I t I kneo

    make  ing thinking.

    S  them.

    For, so love o like ill s—to face   ouc first  o be slow. o hen, when she grew awkward or confused he would say,

    Oo practise on my love.

    No indeed, s?

    I dont t.

    Not love you?

    You  s. Pero catcheres someone else you care for?

    t o prove t t. Siff, or . Sometimes s  e t did not deserve  ougo give o a better lover; t ing of t. No to be sure  put oo muc. But t kno and came spilling.

    Let  you? I said to o find a book for  you see s care for it, ering ?

    me queerly for a second; t care for it? .

    She is afraid of you.

    S let ty as muc the end.

    it a filthy kind of joke.

    ss from you is to be taken from Briar, I said. For t, shing.

    ts, in t all. take it in ts of t you  s listen  to come and listen ? So your room, tonigake me to co see  beats. You could put back o see.

    I kne I ting back urned away from him. I said,

    You should never find my room.

    I s, all rigtle knife-boy. tle boy, tering moutretc! And   creeping. I  to look. Or, s like to he poem.

    I kne ts arms; and one  a cat being tipped do knoioned now,  knowing made me peevish.

    You leave urned rich.

    O er your spell y? ake so to serving ladies,  y, and Johey could see your blushes now?

    t , I said, firing up. Maybe I do. ?

    God damn it, urn.  did a soft  ever do for a girl like you?   do, for a girl like Dainty? Except, pero to s your qualms? Ss your grip, on tays— on . For Gods sake, look at you! I urned and picked up o fold it.  from my idy?  do you imagine you oo en to me. I knoalk to me as if s Briar for kindness sake—nor as if you came out of sness of temper! Your —as you call it—and er all: ters you art pumping waug.

    Mrs Sucksby taugs of t w you are saying now.

    Mrs Sucksby kept you too close, oo close. t, calling you slooo close, too long. too muc.

    Go and fuck it, I said.

    At t   get up and  me. But , and reaco grip tly,

    Let me see you in your tantrums again and I one. Do you understand me? I o do  you if I must. Sell o tend  o put on your old stuff goo Lant Street hing?

    I said,I sell Mr Lilly!

    Do you to hear you?

    tell Maud.

    Go a tell  it, t I ail , and cloven o act my crimes upon tage. No-one expects to meet a man like me in life,  to believe you. S afford to believe you! For s marry me noay  of ?

    could I say? Sold me  s. So I . But from t point on, I ted   or t of Mauds slippers on tairs, and after a second  t back and  of curtsey.  quickly to o the fire.

    You are cold, he said.

    tood before tel, but I sa t me. teful head.

    Oerribly stern today.

    Maud looked up. s this? she said.

    I shing. he said,

    Poor Sue is easing her, while you were gone.

    teasing her, how? she asked, half-smiling, half-frowning.

    alking of not you! So  . S at all. I told  of gazing at you; sold me to o my room. I said my ears  of your s voice; sed to call for Margaret to bring castor-oil to put in te  s your kisses. Sold me to take it and— he paused.

    And w? said Maud.

    ell, put it in my pocket.

    me, in a doubtful .

    ed  still s your kisses, he said.

    Sated, took  in ouc t t. Not t here.

    urned  and sated again, to it. It covered h, her nose, and half her face.

    my eye, and nodded. I turned a look at him.

    For , damn  about Maud—for I kne, le and ,  about me. o t to make Mrs Sucksbys fortune. o o Mr Ibbs—and to Jo, let slip thousand pounds, because—

    Because ? tain standing. I er of a murderess. I ations. Fine feelings  in they be?

    And t all up— save Maud? Say I  leman  in a mad say muco her chances.

    But  oo pure, too simple. So be spoiled.

    Besides, nobodys co do badly, did t mean I must?

    I didnt t did. So though, as I have said, I was sorry for her,

    I  quite sorry enougo  to try and save  of telling rutleman as t all, t  and keep us from our fortune. I let   le. I cry to make ime t  to take rick ccc s of  be anyone but  leman any man but t marry; and I ed it, but turned a, It cant be , Its their business.

    But, ried to give up to myself, So you, tried to pluck t of my , tayed t or e I urned to  over my ears to keep out  in to   o be able to feel gold. It  my kno pulled me to  was like—

    Its like you love .

    It made a c made me nervous and afraid. I t s me and see it—or Gentleman , or Mrs Stiles. I imagined  getting back to Lant Street, reac of Jo of   done anyt. It  I t of  I felt o me, ockings: to keep  of  like to fold t. ook to going about t as I  day at Briar—

    and looking at all taken up and toucure.  t. ould to dress o stand and, close to tudy my face as Id seen udying hers.

    ten days to go, I o myself. ten days, and you will be rich!

    But Id say it, and across t come t o t being so mucs end, trap t little bit closer and tig o prise apart.

    Of course, s too. It made o s—made , lie in iffly, more neatly, more like a little clock, for safetys sake; or else, to keep time from running on too fast. Id cake ea—pick up , put it do up and sip again, like a macitco turn my gaze. Id time I  back ted tootongue. It  I could not imagine, noting a finger to  being ordinary . . .

    So dream again. So . Once or tirring; and so my side and lay and simes s me, times sions. Am I real? Do you see me? Am I real?

    Go back to sleep, I said, one nig he end.

    Im afraid to, she said. Oh, Sue, Im afraid . . .

    ime,  at all t soft and clear, and so un . ttle rus t s lit must  its sself out. tains   of t struck my mouth.

    quot; is it? I said.

    She said, I dreamed— I dreamed I was married

    I turned my  my ear. too loud, it seemed, in the silence. I moved my head again. I said,

    ell, you shall be married, soon, for real.

    Shall I?

    You know you so sleep.

    But, s. I felt ill but very stiff. I felt ting of . At last she said again, in a whisper: Sue—

    is it, miss?

    S hink me good? she said.

    S, as a c. turned again, and peered into to try and make out her face.

    Good, miss? I said, as I squinted.

    You do, she said unhappily.

    Of course!

    I wis. I wis. I wish— I wish I was wise.

    I  I did not say it.  I said  you  hose books of your uncles?

    S ans  beat  it lurc . then she spoke.

    Sue, sell me—

    tell me trut s to say; and my o like o s. I t, S t, thank God!

    But it  t. It  t, at all. Sh

    again, and again I felt o ask some a it , I t last, t from her.

    I  is a  do, on !

    I oo. It oo dark to see.

    I said, Dont you know?

    I knohing.

    But you dont know w?

    how should I?

    But truly, miss: you mean, you dont know?

    you see, dont you see? I am too ignorant even to kno is I am ignorant of! S eady. I t, unnatural voice, I t?

    Again, I felt  the word, kiss. Again, I blushed.

    ill he? she said.

    Yes, miss.

    I felt h?

    On your mouth, I should say.

    On my mouted o  last, teness of er t ougo   burned out. I ime I ever did—t t. Only t have shrunk, or fallen away.

    else, s me to do?

    I t, Say it quick. Quick . Quick and plain. But it h her.

    , I said, after a moment, to embrace you.

    ill. I t. She said,

    You mean, to stand h me in his arms?

    S, and I pictured  once, in Gentlemans grip. I saanding—as you do see men and girls, sometimes, at nig urn your eyes. I tried to turn my eyes, no, of course, could not, for to turn to, t, brigern slides.

    I greful way,

    to stand. Its rougand. You only stand o lie in or must be quick. A gentleman would embrace .

    A bed, shis?

    Pero so shape, when youve finished!

    I laug t too loud. Maud flinco frown.

    Finis? she embrace?

    Finis, I said.

    But do you mean, the embrace?

    Finis. I turned, turned again.  is! ?—Finis. Can I be plainer?

    I talk instead of beds, of feat are to me? You talk of it. s it?

    It is  is tual tarts you off. t comes over you, like—like ing to dance, to a time, to music. have you never—?

    Never w?

    Never mind, I said. I still moved, restlessly. You must not mind. It will be easy. Like dancing is.

    But dancing is not easy, s be taugo dance. You taught me.

    t.

    ?

    ts of o dance. You can only do to you, when once you have begun.

    I felt  t o me. I dont t kisses can start me off. Mr Riverss kisses never ain necessary muscle or nerve—?

    I said, For Gods sake, miss. Are you a girl, or a surgeon? Of course your moutight, like a spring. I rose from my pillow. here are your lips? I said.

    My lips? sone of surprise. they are here.

    I found them, and kissed her.

    I kne all rigy  like kissing  aste,  first. t moved against mine. t opened. I felt ongue. I felt —

    I , only to s I lay , starting up in me, everytart in leman kissed  made me giddy. It made me blus  made me drunk. I dre, from hers. I said, in a whisper,

    Do you feel it?

    to my tongue. S ansill I t suddenly,  if Ive put rance? Say s?  ever ell her uncle—?

    ted a little. And then she spoke.

    I feel it, srange as mine. You . Its sucing thing. I never—

    It s Mr Rivers, I said.

    Does it?

    I t must.

    I dont kno know.

    S sed again, and t brougo me. o mine. It  . She said again, Im afraid.

    Dont be frig once. For I kne snt be t. Say s so frightened she cried off marrying him?

    ts . I t I must so do it, or . So, I kissed oucouc ting of our mout t  corners of our lips—touco   and s of turning solid and growing quick, under my hand.

    So sill afraid. to soo. I forgot to tleman, after t. I t only of  ears, I kissed them away.

    You pearl, I said. So we she was! You pearl, you pearl, you pearl.

    It o say, in t o do. But next morning I rips of grey ligains of t I , My God. Maud lay, still sleeping, ogetoo, and I brougo touc. took t smelt of  of t  . Being fetc. Did cell you it comes on you like a sneeze; but a sneeze is noto it, not all—

    I s tip of one finger to my tongue. It tasted sharp—like vinegar, like blood.

    Like money.

    I gre. I got up, not looking

    at  to my room. I began to feel ill. Perer  seemed to sting. I ed. I  sloo o fasten trings of dress. I ied t.

    I sa, and my insides s wed o mine, I looked away.

    I looked ao  speak. Sc t s came, er: I stood pulling clot at t. Maud kept to  left. I put out a goticoats and s out er.

    ill you come, I said, so I may dress you?

    Sood, and slooo hard.

    I covered it up. S opped me. S  ress, after all! But, so tood  dorembling of my fingers against  say. Only w finis co search for words. She said,

    a t I?

    You did, I said. My voice was shaking. No dreams.

    No dreams, s t  one. I t, Sue

    S ing. I sa in . Mine beat to matc, my very  turned in my

    breast; and I t if I o me t back; and everyt   knoo keep e. e miged Gentleman. I migo Lant Street—

    But if I did t, s for t of telling rutrembled  do it. Soo simple. Soo good. If tain upon —! But t crimson bruise. A single kiss . he Borough?

    And t my side?

    I  of Mrs Sucksby. Maud c t pin to  of velvet. I swallowed, and said,

    In your dream? I dont t me. I sepped to tte almost smoked already. You will miss !

    e  day. e  . So take my arm, and I dreting do ty place beside her and said,

    ts are gro you tter on your own . . .?

    I  back to my narros ss like pieces of pastry. I urning, and sig; and I turned, and sig t t ugging, tugging at my —so   me. A imes I almost rose, almost  in to imes I t, Go to ing? Go back to  every time, I t of  lie beside  ing to touc

    ing to kiss   ing to save her.

    So, I did not nigoo, and t after t; and soon, ts: time, t , t oo late to ching.

 Chapter Six

    Gentleman  first. Mr Lilly and Maud stood at to

    see ched from her window. She shook his

    O rap took o the

    station at Marlo put back, his

    face our way, his eyes now on hers, now on mine.

    t.

    of sign.  need to. . o travel train, t. e o keep to Mauds parlour till midnigo meet us at truck the half.

    t day passed just like all t to o do, and I  slo ime, of course, I  for ake. e sat at lunco t ime we

    , yet t s came togetarted apart, as if stung; but if, like me, s kno look at ood still, like a statue. Only no at able ones. I , I t, to look. ting. It made mine sting, too.

    t to  to mine. Doairs in tchen, everyone was gloomy.

    Dont seem they said.

    Mrs Cakebreads face  let a spoon drop, s arted our dinners t out crying at table, and o run from tc from his chin.

    ook it very  set on going to London as Mr Riverss man.

    You get back anding up, his powder flying. Boy your age, fellow like him, Id be ashamed!

    But C come back, not for Mr ay nor anyone. aking Gentleman s, poliss, bruss. No house in England.

    on tairs and , and   ters. Mr ay  and gave ing. e  against Charless backside, and yelps.

    t put rate it in silence, and ilt, I did not go iles to try to take my pudding. I said I  did. Mrs Stiles looked me over, then looked away.

    your h in London.

    But it o me, w s. I s see , or Mrs Cakebread—ever again.

    I said Good-nig upstairs. Maud, of course, ill il s ogets and pieces o be taken. It  uff dress I left be  in more t it at ttom of my trunk. I left t, too. e could only take bags. Maud  te. tters so bold even I could read thers name, which was like hers.

    I lined tig one, o save tumbling about and gro in one of e kid glove, tons of pearl. S once and supposed it lost. I meant to keep it, to remind me of her.

    I t my  wo.

    ting  onight!

    I   and take a little, t a  and rubbed at t, greered. ed, I stepped from her.

    tly, .

    S y stuff.  s, I finis  through me like a flame.

    No c out   leave off the cage.

    For t it,  dress at last became a long one, and shan ever. She

    out boots to ouchem, and shook her head.

    Youve done everyt of it all. I s,  you.

    Seful and sad. God knotling do up. t nine. She said,

    til he comes.

    S in t I hree weeks.

    e put t in ood at  see t  t of ter lying beyond it, cool and ready, ing like us. e stood for an  notimes s s cold. At last ting began to tell even on me, and I began to fidget. I t I mig  I mig out  ; but I  to  took out all tigrap on a buckle, it broke. t  peris a needle, and serap tig, itc my mouto to bite it, and tasted salt.

    the opening of Mauds door.

    My  gave a jump. I put t of sigood and listened. No sound at all. I  to to tains  t in; but ty, Maud was gone.

    S tiptoed to it and squinted into t tickings of the opening

    and sting of anot I couldnt be sure. I called once, in a , straining my ears, looking  teps into tening again. I put my ogetig I o be , rat it like o go  te  a reason or a word?

    ruck  eleven I called again, and took anoteps along t t caug tripped. S a candle, s so  it range to me. I didnt dare er ook a urning in t never make my  again.

    So I only ed, counting tes. I  back to t out tood at t c t, ter leman, coming closer as I c?

    At last, o a latruck tood and trembled at eacing of t one sounded, and left an ec, ts it.—And, as I t it, I  ts—s ts.

    Forgive me, Sue! s to my uncles library. I ed to see it, a final time. But I couldnt go until I knew he was asleep.

    Sured  and silent, alone among t,  be quick. Come here, come on.

    I gave ened up mine. S  all seeto cter. I gave est bag. tood before  a finger to h.

    Noeady, I said.

    All my nervousness  me, and I  of my mothe dark and sleeping houses she

    must olen   like wine.

    e  by ts stairs. I eps t particularly creaked; no tart of to tco Mrs Stiless pantry, I made op and  and listen. S ; but t, and no sounds from any, t softened our ss  rustle and swish.

    to t t in it: I dre out before I turned it, and put a little beef fat to t; and t more fat to ts t fastened t ttom and top. I  t from Mrs Cakebreads cupboard. t  tounded sort of look. I said softly,

    t would be hard.

    t isfaction of t t , t my so t tigo its frame: after t, turned smoots slid in tle as babies.

    tside,  great black seful for t to t , going quickly and softly from one to anot across a corner of lao trees beyond. So run. Only once I felt ate, and turned and found  t seemed   a smile. ts in tc, like a  and for almost a minute, then pulled her hand.

    No come, I said.

    Surned  look again. e o t, along a damp and tangled pat at tures leapt in t  trample t o t t brig me and took out  us t, te fast at our backs.

    No of ttle freer. e set doood still in truck ts. t er, tleman. e ened, and  t all tars t . More stars tural. t Maud. S  o ook my ook it, not to be led by me, not to be comforted; only to , because it was mine.

    In tar moved, and urned to c.

    ts luck, I said.

    truck.  t air made it s  t rose anotler sound—epped apart—it er against  t. I sater coins of moonlig a silence. t glided toleman .  see us,  see us; but it  me wepped forward

    first, it iffly to ters edge, took t tugging of t, until t eady.

    I dont remember if Gentleman spoke. I dont believe  me, except, once  landing-place, to give me ten planks. I t all in silence. I kno s bulged as —for, ook up to turn us, er filling all t Maud sat steady. I saleman looking ill no-one spoke,  all in a moment, and t moved quick. tream e, trees instead. Maud sat  looking.

    e  very carefully. t ill. Gentleman kept t as close as o trees . But t, to c near to t up and dark. Once, opped t us glide in silence; but still no-one o look. ter t, ts. t, tlemans e of his cheek above his whisker.

    e did not keep upon t a spot upon t. tarted from.  a . er, sat Maud upon trapped her bags beside her. he said,

    e must go anot ans be brave. e are very close now.

    t me and nodded. e started off—iff upon it, me  no-one. Again I looked at tars. You never saars so brig he sky was never so dark and so clear.

    ts  of the road.

    e  rat be s and made sick. S last to t tages, and a great dark carted barking. Gentleman kicked it and made it yelp. o ttage t  t, and tern. ting. t t stretco get a good look at Maud. Sleman a curtsey. tever you call y ed shaving. he said,

    Good-nigo you. Good-nigo you, miss. And , for an escapade!

    Gentleman said only, Is everyt o Maud, to  epped ao me, but stood alone. till studied udying ,  s of fear. Perleman , o age, if it came to a c to seem t  miscarried, later.

    I , I t, for five hundred more.

    I t t, even as I stood c

    Maud and ing ; even as I ed myself, for t. ther bow.

    Alls ready indeed, sir, tle matter of— In ligances—

    Yes, yes, said Gentleman. ook t -book. tossed its  from one of ttages a boy o lead it a to me, and it was me ouco. Of course,  seen  e a lady; and sood in suc she maid.

    S see it. S  under ogeto cume? So visit  once?

    ell do it at once, said Gentleman, before anyone else could anstle  ood very stiff. I  to  tled ter folds; and t look at me.  tens, miss.—For I kne, beneate kid gloves. I said, You ter go to your tens.

    S me draood and crossed o me, No flo Gentleman. he shrugged.

    S anshe absence of a flower. Now, sir, if you will—

    I said, You mig least get  one floo church!

    I  t of it until t; but now—ohe

    cruelty of taking  a bloom, to be  once a frig bear it. My voice came out sounding almost leman gazed at me and frourned o me and said slowly,

    I s oo.

    it seemed to grotle stranger. Gentleman let out o look about  of   of t. e stood in a muddy kind of green, o the woman,

    you not take?  you a flo? S a minute, tepped nimbly back into tage; and  last alks t looked ready to snap.

    It ood and gazed at it, and no-one . took talks and divided to me, but keeping t for leman lit up a cigarette and took t, t a stayed gloo took up tern, and led us te and along a patilting gravestones t tleman, and o be nesses. her name was Mrs Cream.

    Come far? she said.

    I did not answer.

    t and, even , looked quite black. Inside it e urned to yello, about tar and t t try to sit, but  straigo tar, and tood

    before us  tood and  tcanding at Gentlemans side, igo ouco me t only to ruin her.

    S to be married, and h. And soon no-one would love her, ever again.

    I saleman look at  to t of t asked if anybody to w be married; and ill.

    I hing.

    So t on, looking at Maud and at Gentleman, asking t, on t to give up all ts of ts; and ter give t.

    Again there was a silence.

    So turned to Gentleman. ill you,  of it—ill you have her and honour her, for as long as you live?

    I leman.

    tated, then spoke.

    I will, she said.

    tleman stood a little easier. tretc from c.

    o be married? he said.

    I kept quite still, till Gentleman turned to me; and tured  and stood at Mauds side, and t take  to to put it into Gentlemans. I , t anyt

    iff and cold as fingers made of leman o ook  seemed to rise like smoke into to vanish.

    tleman broug, and ook  time repeating t  seemed gold in t, but—I sa later—it was bad.

    It  hen raised his hands and closed his eyes.

    t God oget no man put in sunder.

    And t .

    they were married.

    Gentleman kissed ood and swayed, as if dazed. Mrs Cream said in a murmur,

    S knoer— plum feller like him. heh heh.

    I did not turn to  ar to t ter. leman e o be Mrs Rivers—e  ours beneatleman o e Smit still, I e it clumsily and tered—pers. I sa things should swoop.

    Gentleman took , and t  off.  fast, and as ook —o snuff  like a ligook us to her

    cottage. Sern, and  of tilting stairs too narros, and to a landing, about as big as a cupboard,  for a moment and t laid upon tern and was singed.

    to ttle bedrooms of t ratress on a pallet on tleman and Maud. S into it, and stood  not.  to took , one by one, and put t cleman stood range. It icoat but noake out Mauds sockings,  afraid. he said,

    ell, I ste doairs. Sue, youll make table up here?

    I did not anss sounding loud as taircase trembling. I side triking a match.

    I looked at Maud. Sill alks of y. Sook a step towards me and said quickly,

    If I s to you later, will you come?

    I took t t; It e.

    S

    still . Sen to me, I mean it. Never mind o you, say youll come. Ill give you money for it.

    range.  gripped me  of hing was awful. I said,

    er  take your drops and they will make you sleep.

    Sleep? s  to sleep, on my ?

    Sood at o undress aken  I turned and said, quietly,

    You ter use t. You ter wash your legs, before he comes.

    I t c er. to stand at, and o to able, no box, no portrait, no lig out her hand as if blind.

    ts and pulled t . Against te of t I kne it alking toget light showed.

    I looked at Maud. S my gaze.  gleamed like glass. ill you look aill? surn my urned back. I could not , t errible to see. Gentleman talked on. Some breeze got into till shen she spoke again.

    Come here, she said.

    I s again. I s t to  softly to ed o  mout ears; and I could not  kiss  my , no, and noer, running, from t of her lips.

    But t oo  hers; and she seized my hand

    and took it, first to o hey burned.

    t feeling urned to somet you do it? sly, reacer me. Didnt you do it before, for t? Cant you leave me to ouco ter?—Dont go! S, before. You said I dreamed you. Im not dreaming no Briar again!

    ood, clasping and unclasping my  s s cry out, loud enougleman or Mrs Cream to  I had kissed her.

    o  be different. You are a —

    I fell silent. Sed  aken up and moved. Gentlemans boots came loud again upon tairs. I ep, tate at to knock at Briar. At last  o tch, and came in.

    Are you ready? he said.

    t in  say anoto o  look at  to my otress; and all I ime I , tle creatures trah my cheek.

    In tleman came to my room. sleeves.

    Ss you, to dress her, he said.

    ook  doairs. Maud  up a tray, e upon it. te  touc very still, in t once   dark about ttered. S me, as s everyte of eggs, to place over , odd, distant kind of gaze; and ened, and ed, tion, and t of  making tly surprising and strange.

    I dressed  again beside t  at t, tly lifted, as if even to let t against t stuff of  migo  them.

    S a tilt. I t s be listening for t Briar. But sioned  all.

    I took  and emptied it, in t t of tairs Mrs Cream came to me. S over her arm. She said,

    Mr Rivers says the bed needs changing.

    So  gaze at o let ten about t. I  sloairs and ssey, t to ts. ts of dark blood t ood and looked at t my eye—as muco say, ell, I s . Quite a little love-matcer all! Maud sat gazing out of tairs came tlemans knife on e. Mrs Cream raised t, to see if ttress underneat , and t pleased her.

    I , to tsey, and seen Mauds queer, soft gaze.

    took it hard, have she? she whispered. Maybe missing her ma?

    I said not first. t, and o ter, I t drearily, to make it ood on ttle landing ly,

    t. trouble, up es on  bear gossip— o t place, ry air will calm her.

    Calm  likely to break out—turn t the place afire?

    No, no, I said. Soo much in her head.

    Poor lady, said Mrs Cream. But I could see  bargained on  a tray up t Maud and set it do bitten.

    S like me, said Maud, after s times; and I s like you?  an idea!  like you?

    I cant say, sly, looking do her hands.

    Later Gentleman , too; and t me on my os good,  to—very good. t ime to call in tor.

    a  t ay a day; but on t her and said,

    quite  to stay a little longer, until your strengto you.

    Stay longer? s cant o your house in London?

    I really t well enough.

    Not , I am quite  only ask Sue. Sue,  you tell Mr Rivers how well I am?

    S and s a day or tleman. Until you are rested. Until you are calm. Pero keep more to the bed—?

    So o  made  tears at my  to see you like t it  to you, of course I sake you to London at once—I s? But do you look at yourself noill tell me you are well?

    I dont knorange here. Im afraid, Richard—

    And  it be stranger, in London? And s you be frigs so loud and croable—

    Mrs Cream es me.

    es you? Oo t; and Sue s you, Sue? I  ansoo, tleman took her head in his hands and kissed her brow.

    t us . ell stay anotil t paleness is driven from your c again!

    day. On tern o mean to disappoint o make , , and said he loved her.

    After t, s ask o stay tayed dull. Gentleman told Mrs Cream to make  she

    broug made t none of it. I ate it instead—since somebody must. I ate it, and s beside t, turning tretcrand of h.

    let me  in travelled from Briar in, t  t gown—a silk one—so me. She said,

    , . You ter , t it lie in the press.

    Our fingers toucepped apart. Sried to kiss me, after t first night.

    I took t o pass tting letting out t; and so like to c. , and put it on and stood before range. s off your eyes and  e ty—arent you? And I am plain—dont you think?

    I  tle looking-glass from Mrs Cream. S it up in rembling  before our faces. I remembered time sers; and o stand before leman. No! I sa, in te slyness of o see  it meant   her.

    I could old   her anyway.

    No kno  I did it all in a trance, s and feeling—I , as sleman, to do ice, seemed troubled on . o

    kiss or bully tle ime  in Mrs Creams parlour, ligtes—to mix , t, ts on t  tir at Briar, no-one knee and at a fence at ttle, in t tc in to stretctes, but co ep, as if  bear the feel of our gazes on his back.

    t nigling mattress.

    I so do it to   ened   t  like o do, now  h.

    And every morning, o  before; and  my eye less, and plucked at his whiskers, his swagger all gone.

    least knehe bloody villain.

    At last  for tor to come.

    I ing tter in Mrs Creams parlour. tor o t ty.  in on Gentlemans plot. Gentleman  o cut th him.

    Besides, tory oo sound. And to back it. Maud he

    leman, and  t been married an arted to turn queer.

    I tor  one did, lemans story, and seeing Maud, and me, as hen.

    or, ant. You need tors o put a lady aters and, on its back, spikes. t to take Maud, t t time; only to study aking came later.

    Gentleman told o care. S me le neater, and tidy  t to are, and begin to breattle quicker—and I ors got doleman  quickly out to talk  toget our window.

    tleman came back, and left ting. airs. ogether and smiling. he said,

    ell, ie, come doo visit from London. You remember, Maud, I spoke to you of t believe t me really married! to see themselves.

    Still  look at him.

    S, dear, o you? I  th Mrs Cream.

    I could alking in loions t ansleman ed for Maud to speak and, w me. he said,

    Sue, ?

    ure er us, blinking. I  o t my back.

    I tly, whey

    go to c keeps oo calm,  her.

    I said, Dont let t her.

    laugo keep tics safe. ts if t   too, and a scandal  to look at alk to o talk to you. Youll know o answer, of course.

    I made a face. ill I? I said.

    make game of me, Sue. Not noo say?

    I sill sulky. I think so.

    Good girl. I s to you.

    o put  and stepped a to my little room, and ed. tors came after a moment. Gentleman came ood before it, his eyes on my face.

    tall men, like out. ts and elastic boots.  cseyed.

    Aor quietly,  questions? e are friends of Mr Riverss, and very curious to  his marriage, and his new wife.

    Yes, I said. You mean, my mistress.

    Aress. Now, refresh my memory. ho is she?

    Mrs Rivers, I said. t was Miss Lilly.

    Mrs Rivers, t was Miss Lilly. Ah.

    doctor—Dr Graves—took out a pencil and a book. t one  on:

    Your mistress. And you are—?

    her maid, sir.

    Of course. And w is your name?

    Dr Graves o e. Gentleman caugh, sir, I said.

    Dr Cie looked at me o ate,  is your name, you are quite sure?

    I should say I know my own name! I said.

    Of course.

    still beat . o grow kind. he said,

    ell, Miss Smitell us now, ress . . .?

    It ime, at Lant Street, leman and  me ter. I told t Lady Alice of Mayfair, and Gentlemans old nurse, and my dead mot Maud. I said so like Mr Rivers but noer , she was grown very sad and careless of herself, and made me afraid.

    Dr Graves e it all down. Dr Cie said,

    Afraid. Do you mean, for your own sake?

    I said, Not for mine, sir. For  harm herself, she is so miserable.

    I see, ress. You ell me t care do you tress ougo  er?

    I said, I think—

    Yes?

    I wish—

    he nodded. Go on.

    I wiscouc her—

    My  seemed all at once , and my voice ears. Gentleman still he

    doctor took my , close about t, in a familiar way.

    t not be so distressed. Your mistress so , as you!

    ted and smoot it go.  c Gentlemans eye, and nodded. Very good,  just show us—?

    Of course, said Gentleman quickly. Of course. turned to me and all moved off. I c, and  say if it ook a step and called out after them.

    S like eggs, sir! I called. Dr Cie urned. I ed my  it fall. S like eggs, I said more feebly, in any kind of dish.

    It  in a e—or pretended to e— in  care for eggs. Gentleman led to Mauds room. to me.

    Youll keep il theyve seen her? he said.

    I did not ans t, caugors questions; ter a minute or so, came tears.

    t stay  to leman anding be o ened and said,

    Look, Sue, at your mistress. Dont you ttle brighter?

    t,  of ears still in t the rims.

    Are you well, miss? I said.

    Sleman. I tie and Graves, e deligell me, Sue, o flourislemans delight?

    Surned tle  ood  longer, tepped away.

    a fool Ive been, o me. Ive asked Mrs Rivers to grorong, in t place, tness y. Graves and Cie sa, too. to  Cie is giving us to leave tomorroo t?

    Surned o ted o tle blood struggled into e cheeks.

    tomorrow? s?

    omorroo a great  rooms, and good servants in it, t s t for you.

    Next day s  of eggs and meat aside, as usual; but even I could not eat it. I dressed  looking at  of ill, t ained  let me c of it, even for travelling, t would crease.

    I t of  back in t believe t I   was dark.

    I packed  slo , a brus ake to to t everyt  ioned, did I keep to one side; and , neatly, inside t.

    to tilting staircase, and

    sepped out of ttage s tig to  of to feel t air  slapped her.

    I put my fingers over hers.

    God bless you, maam! cried Mrs Cream, caken our  first nigo see us leaving; and one or to stare, and to stand at t t ed out black. t tened our bags upon t teps doleman  my eye.

    Noime for sentiment.

    S and leaned  beside  opposite. to to a safe: , t t.

    ravel? asked Maud.

    he said, An hour.

    It seemed longer t seemed like a life. truck t made t, but t to open—I suppose, so a lunatic s o leap out. At last Gentleman pulled a cord to make t jolting in t and t speaking. In time I began to gro, but could not see if  her hands before her, clasped.

    Gentleman fidgeted,  c imes ook out ime to to peer t

    slo to a stop, and began to turn:  straigigie.

    e are almost there, he said.

    Maud turned o  moved t tart of a green lane, one arc and, beneat, iron gates. A man il   like at Briar, ter. Its windows co see w s back  be I saw a rising kind of knowledge or dread.

    Dont be afraid, said Gentleman.

    t o o me. turn, and stopped. Dr Graves and Dr Cie ing for us,  stout  up t tleman put ie made a bow.

    Good day, h. Mrs Rivers, you remember me of course?

    his hand.

    to me.

    t stillness. I looked at leman leaned and caug at first  to keep me in my seat; tood t rying to press me from it. tor took my ot me to my feet. My s upon teps. I said,

    ait!  are you doing? —?

    Dont struggle, Mrs Rivers, said tor. e are o care for you.

    he woman came forward. I said,

    Its not me you !  are you doing? Mrs Rivers? Im Susan Smitleman! Gentleman, tell them!

    Dr Cie shook his head.

    Still keeping up tion? o Gentleman.

    Gentleman nodded and said notoo uno speak. I urned and took doie ige of reet, Mayfair? Dont you kno. And ing it, t take us a year. No t so, Mrs Rivers! You are spoiling your handsome dress.

    I ruggled against   my sleeve of silk, and at my o  plump and smoot t my feet, s letters of brass—the L.

    It  second t I guessed, at last, trick t Gentleman had played on me.

    I howled.

    You bloody sing again, and pulling towards er! Oh!

    ood in t tilt. tor gripped me ern.

    those in my house, Mrs Rivers, he said.

    You sod, I said to  you see ? It aint me you , its—

    I still pulled, and ill  no o tleman  in bars upon  Maud. s dress. ears starting in t beyond tears, her gaze was hard. hard as marble, hard as brass.

    t lies inside it.

    Dr Cie saw me looking.

    Now, ware? hink?

    I could not speak. Srembling voice, not her own:

    My oress. O is breaking!

    You t  bitc from tart.

 Part II Chapter Seven

    tart,  I  too  is t of my mistakes.

    I imagine a table, slick oo muc. t, I t runs, like ink. I to save t do migaggered beating of clocks. Beyond t come oter cries: tics, ts and scolds of nurses. For table raps upon it to keep o trap separates o prevent ting of ongue; anot  I migraps remain: tear me in t me upon  . I suck, and the

    about me. till, t falling blood— drip drop! drip, drop!—t telling off t fees of my life, t of hen sinks for ever.

    I feel it, and suck  me.

    I pass my first ten years a daugo tabby cat upon t cat, a to pet and dress e-grey go like t ure keys upon it, and call me little nurse. I sleep urn, in ties upon to me, I suppose—and divided in tics, one side for male. I see only t me, as toucers. Otroublesome, and to stand before and strike  to my il thing so droll.

    ts of discipline and order; and incidentally appretitudes of insanity. ter.

    o reason I am given a gold ring said to be my fatrait of a lady called my motand I am an orp, never s love—or rat greatly troubled by t, in t cy. I  singing voice and an eye for letters. I I suppose I s all my days a nurse, contentedly teasing lunatics until I die.

    So  nine and ten. Some time in my elevento tron of to make me some treat. I am ead, she

    greets me strangely, and  meet my eye. tleman, s ttle to me. It ime. Step closer, tron says. tleman c of black, and a pair of black silk gloves. ter to study me. ending to il I stand before s o pass ongue across tongue is dark at tip.

    S makes enoug, for all t. hows her voice?

    remulous, complaining, like the shadow of a shivering man.

    Say a o tleman, says tron quietly. Say how you are.

    I am very ly. tleman winces.

    t will do, hen: I hope you can whisper? I hope you can nod?

    I nod. Oh yes.

    I ?

    I can.

    Be silent, ts better. urns to tron. I see s o keep . I dont care at all for  is too plump. It , and slouc of   a t? Did I ask for t?

    tron colours. It  of to keep ume of the house.

    o provide sport for nurses?

    ick upon turns again to me, but speaks to her. he says, how well does she read?

    ext and let rate.

    tron , and again tleman ly! il I speak it in a murmur. te t while he looks on.

    A girls  heless.

    I am also pleased. I understand from  I er I ed ters are my undoing. tleman leans ick and tilts acles, the bloodless rims of his eyes.

    ell, miss, o come and live in my  pus lip at me, mind! o come to me, and learn neat ters?

    ruck me. I s not at all, I say at once.

    tron says, For shame, Maud!

    tleman snorts. Peremper after all. Sy foot, at least. So you like to stamp, miss? ell, my o stamp in, far ao fits ttle o feed you, and t—hmm?

    s do  upon it. ruction to tron and does not look at me again. ake up t to the floor.

    I  go! I cry.  make me!

    tron drao ake a ious lunatics, but noure is to be, in the house of my uncle.

    Some men o

    take me . All at once, I must give up my little mad of cloto dress me to s, o tiffened from to t ig my complaints, pulls tigc comes time for o take me, ts a pair of scissors to my o take a curl of o keep inside a locket; and, t, take up knives and scissors of t me until my ears at t. tresses like gulls— tics in t e ss hard behind us.

    a place to raise a girl in! she says, passing a handkerchief across her lip.

    I  speak to rait gos me and makes my breats c my ankles. My  last I tear tc, complacently. Got a temper,  of knitting and a parcel of food. t of salt and te eggs, boiled , to break t of it. t eat it, but let it jerk til it falls upon tut tut, s t. Sakes out ting, t beside iff, in a miserable rage. times rees. the window-glass, dark as blood.

    I  to grimness and solitude, tered  is tillness of my uncles  be day. tops at a door, split dohe middle

    into to tremble. t I take to be a pos Mr ay, your uncles ste  make some gesture s teps do I  let ake my  to tease—for I imes seen nurses curtsey, laugo lady lunatics.  o a darkness t seems to lap at my buff goer or  is t my uncle cultivates in her men grow vines and flowering creepers.

    takes me up a staircase  quite even, and times torn: my nes make me clumsy, and once I fall. Come up, c; and no stay to me—t like ted  filled raits, sing blades, creatures in frames and cases. taircase turns upon itself, to make a gallery about t every turning tant grubs, in tand servants, come to see me make my progress the house.

    I do not knos,   lunatics.

    co the woman.

    o see your face, so see if you turned out her.

    I y mot t; and am hem.

    topped before a door. handsome is as hand-

    some does, s died. to be yours.

    Sakes me into to t joins it. ttle as if battered by fists. t is er noo ttle fire—I am too small to see my face in tand and shiver.

    S your mittens, says ter sakes my cloak from me, t ug all you like, s s you, it s  a business to see you neat, after t say. Notle girl lift up s and piddle?

    Scs a cloter and washes my face and hands.

    I sa. Sefuller t teac house of yours?

    I long for my little oo, and knoruggle and limp. At lengteps from me and wipes her hands.

    Lord, hink hell make a lady of you.

    I dont  to be a lady! I say. My uncle cannot make me.

    I s e youve made us.

    tifled ringing of a bell, times. It is a clock; I understand it, o to t told tics to rise, to dress, to say to take think,

    No as before. Even tcs ired. Again my boots catcs. alk softly! says the woman in a whisper, pinching my arm. heres your uncles room, look.

    Sakes me in.  put on ter sun striking t strangely. t t is t suitable for ted; and t is pink. I suppose all printed o be true ones.

    ts me very near tands at my back, s surface is  cap assel on a fraying ther, paler, pair of coloured glasses.

    So, miss, epping toiles? he asks her.

    Rather ill, sir.

    I can see it, in her eye. here are her gloves?

    t hem.

    My uncle comes close. An unhappy beginning. Give me your hand, Maud.

    I  give it. tc t and lifts it. My  to . My uncle . he shakes his head.

    No a set of coarse fingers upon my books, iles bring me a nurse. I s o make ter. Your , , t are kept out of ts o t of , and uncoils from it—one of things,

    t bookmen use—a line of metal beads, bound tig, seeming to  smartly doiless assistance, akes my oto t.

    ting like a  t bloiles releasing my s, I put my fingers to my mouto weep.

    My uncle  turns to  and ter towards his ears.

    Keep silence, girl! . Mrs Stiles pinc makes me cry  last I groill.

    ell, ly. You s forget ture, hmm?

    I s smiles.  Mrs Stiles. Youll keep my niece mindful of ies? I  e tame. I cant orms and tantrums,  stray too far, mind! You must be in reach of her, should she grow wild.

    Mrs Stiles makes a curtsey and—under cover of plucking my trembling so keep it from falling into a slouc, t again, as the sun.

    Now, says my uncle, w, w you here.

    I put my crimson fingers to my face, to wipe my nose.

    to make a lady of me.

    he gives a quick, dry laugh.

    to make a secretary of you.  do you see  these walls?

    ood, sir.

    Books, girl, s place and turns it. t as a Bible. t er all,

    mig ing different qualities of madness. I feel t advance in t.

    My uncle keeps to , and taps its spine.

    Do you see title, girl?—Dont take a step! I asked you to read, not to prance.

    But too far from me. I sears return.

    ress. I s! Look do t   t my er consultation —an eye-doctor. t for ordinary gazes. Let me see you step once past t pointing finger, and I s of t doing til t  you sime; but at my word, and wand me, hmm?

    I do not.  I am already groious, and nod as if I do. s ts place, lingering a moment over the shelf.

    t ime—a favourite of itle is—

    But notle w.

    After my uncle o forget me. I stand for anoter-s c of me, and ruggle a moment  t, Mrs Stiles darts from to lead me back upstairs. I suppose youre tle girls always are. I seful for a we egg now.

    I am   admit to it. But so come, and t and a glass of s red o

    bear, some I sears , and tiles stand togetce alone. ttle cloak over myself, tle iles at terrible fear, and a sense of many ly tolled. I believe it is seven or eight oclock.

    I say, I so be taken home now.

    Mrs Stiles laugo t  a plaqe to call your home!

    I shey miss me.

    I so be rid of you—ty, pale-faced little t you are. Come s your bed-time. So unlace my goug a.

    I say, Youve no rigo  me! Youre noto me! I  my mot love me!

    trait at my t. ts all teful you , to knoeady. You must o give you the figure of a lady.

    Saken tiff buff dress from me, and all tig t grips me s a nigo my e skin gloves, c ts. Only my feet remain bare. I fall upon tcill.

    See e, tle daug died. Semper like a lambs. le-tempered co die, and peeviso t say. hy

    your motune, surned out tras live to keep your fingers smooto a lady, is a puzzle. eep all tful tears you like. You s ter.

    Scakes me to to t, y bed, ts doains. t: sells me it leads to anotempered girl sleeps ten in t, and if I am anyt still and good and quiet, she will hear; and her hand is very hard.

    Say your prayers, so forgive you.

    takes up the lamp and leaves, and I am plunged in an awful darkness.

    I t a terrible to do to a c terrible, even noraining my ears against ting black of my oer. My corset . My knuckles, tugged into tiff skin gloves, are starting out in bruises. No clock ss its gears, and c comfort I can from my idea t someco s of tics licence to aking it for anotempered girl t sleeps next door is ed, and tle me o , close by—unnaturally close, to me to be: I imagine a t tain, a to cry. t I ears come strangely. I long to lie still, so t guess t I am t tiller I try to be, tcly, a spider or a mottling  last, and jerk in a convulsion and, I suppose, shriek.

    t bethe

    seams of tain. A face appears, close to my o tic, but t of t my little tea of biscuits and s wine. Sgown, and  down.

    Noly.  s it to my rokes my face, and I groears flourally I say I ics, and she laughs.

    tics  ot you glad, to  t is only strange for you o it.

    Sakes up . I see , and begin at once again to cry.—! she says.

    I say I do not like tened to lie alone. Sates, tiles. But I dare say my bed is softer t is er, and fearfully cold. S last t sil I sleep. She darkness.

    Sells me s me rest my   t you like it here?

    I say I t a little, if s; and at t stles ably upon ttress.

    S once, and  face-cream. , at t, and I find t  for sleep to come—as if I am tumbling into t darkness and t will save me.

    I am telling you t you mige t work upon me, making me w I am.

    Next day, I am kept to my to se my terrors of t, t do it! I cry,

    tearing tiles beats me. My go being so stiff, ss riking of my back. I take tle consolation I mig.

    I am beaten often, I believe, in my first days t be ots, tings of ty y of my uncles o fits and foaming tempers. I am an amiable craint. I dasable to til ts fly from my il my t bleeds. My passions are met s, eac. I am bound about ts and mout into lonely rooms, or into cupboards. One time—urned a candle and let t til taken by Mr ay into to t remember, noal—t tick in try silence, like so many clocks. tick for tiles comes to release me I  and cannot be uncurled, and am as hey had drugged me.

    I t frigly, by ts stairs, and ss.

    If sers for ever!

    It is someto see er t, and cter; t myself, and pinc, srong one, and soon punishes me again.

    to my c seems longer. My uncle s, all t time, as   for tiles conduct me to ions o my progress.

    iles?

    Still badly, sir.

    Still fierce?

    Fierce, and snappish.

    Youve tried your hand?

    Semper, more rages and tears. At night, Barbara shakes her head.

    a dot of a girl, to be so naugiles says stle tartar as you.  you be good?

    I   morning I upturn my c and tread to t. Mrs Stiles trikes my face. to my uncles door.

    of us. Good God, ?

    Oful thing, sir!

    Not more of  break out, among the books?

    But s ime at me. I stand very stiff,  my  face, my pale  my shoulders.

    At lengtakes off acles and closes o me, and very soft at to the bridge of his nose, and pinches.

    ell, Maud, , tiles, and aff, all ing on your good manners. I ter to find you biddable. os  s only to examine your c is , I tiless

    is cool, hmm?

    -edged, for cutting pages. oops and puts t against my face. ens me.  as a girls. o see you , Maud. Indeed I am. Do you suppose I  you  t? It is you  it, since you provoke it so. I t like to be struck.—t is cooler, is it not? urned the blade. I shiver. My bare arms

    creep ing, s, on your good manners. ell,  t, at Briar. e can , and , and  again. Mrs Stiles and my staff are paid to do it; I am a sco it by nature. Look about you  my collection. Do you suppose tient man? My books come to me sloedly passed many tedious ation of poorer volumes t mig; moves t of to a spot beneatilts up my face and looks it over. ts tucks tacles behind his ears.

    I advise you to wiles, roublesome again.

    Perer all, and may be broken. My uncle returns to o my se is not t of a  is y of patience. tience so terrible as t of tics labour at endless tasks—conveying sand from one leaking cup into anoting titces in a sunbeam; filling invisible ledgers ing sums. lemen, and ricead of affs.—I cannot say. And of course, ts t come to me later,  day, in my cs surface. But I see t it is dark, and kno it is silent—indeed, its substance is tance of ter or like wax.

    Sruggle, it o itself, and I will drown.

    I do not .

    I cease struggling at all, and surrender myself to its viscid, circular currents.

    t is t day, perion. But next day, at

    eigutors me  a desk and a stool for me close to ting finger on ool is  and t of my single and finally groience er all; and to be free of a desire to ty often.

    Still, t o o e, to se moves silently upon paper, and a green-so save my eyes.

    t s, of smouldering dust: a curious smell—I so e it!—th.

    My self is of t tedious kind, and consists cext, from antique volumes, into a leat is filled my job is to render it blank again ask, more tter I am made to copy: for tion, groo tear; and t of a smudge on a leaf of text, or tearing paper, is more ts of t I fear most as a cres of past lessons, imperfectly erased.

    I call t I am not taugo recite, softly and clearly; I am never taugo sing. I never learn t am scead in tcley, silk. I learn inks; tting of pens; tyles and sizes of founts: sans-serif, antique, Egyptian, pica, brevier, emerald, ruby, Pearl. . . t is a c. For te.

    But I learn quickly. turns. I am made small re-soled slippers, a goiff as t, but of velvet. I am alloo take my supper in t one end of a great oak table, set s at t if I so let fall a fork, or to jar my knife against my plate, terrible eye.  t obliges you to grind your silver in t way?

    too large and too fully once.

    taken a eat s, and s, and calves feet, my kid-skin gloves groing to tance tite leaves me. I care most for t in a crystal glass engraved  arnisial. to keep me mindful, not of my name, but of t of my mother; which was Marianne.

    S spot of all t lonely park—ary grey stone among so many aken to see it, and made to keep tomb neat.

    Be grateful t you may, says Mrs Stiles, crim tery grass, end my grave? I s forgotten.

    aken all tle daugo make ornaments  cut  to , I groful meekness t, receiving t s provokes o tless enougo scolds, o tain to sigo trengtone. In time—so cunning

    am I!—I find out ter; tc giving birto a litter of kittens, I take one for a pet, and name it for o call it loudest ty child you are! how fine your black fur is! Come, kiss your mama.

    Do you see, ances make of me?

    Mrs Stiles trembles and  the words.

    take ture arid ! so Barbara, w no more.

    I run and   loved me, and t brings t tears coolly to my eyes.

    O! Say you !

    Barbara says siles sends her away.

    Youre a sly, eful c t kno. Dont t see through you and your designing ways.

    But it is s udying of  is so me?  is anyone no send to save me; six montten me. tiles,  ttle girl emper. I am sure, to be rid of you. In time, I believe o forget. My old life groo times emerges to darken or trouble it, in dreams and  as trokes of forgotten lessons noart out upon the pages of my copy-book.

    My proper mote. Didnt srait in a little   o loat. Let me kiss mama good-nigime, unlocking my box. But I do it only to torment Mrs Stiles. I raise ture to my lips and,  nig which

    follo  last, as a clock must tick to a regular beat, I find I must do it or lie fretful in my bed. And trait must be set doly, s ribbon quite uncreased. If trikes t lining of too ake it out and set it down carefully again.

    Mrs Stiles c, e still until Barbara comes.

    Meanertaining gentlemen at Briar: noexts, not understanding tter I am made to recite; and tlemen—like Mrs Stiles—crangely. I groo t.  my uncles instruction I curtsey. I curtsey lemen clap, to sroke my ell me, often, heir gazes.

    So  my uncles room to find my little desk removed, and a place made ready for me among o him.

    take off your gloves, o touc is a cold, still, sunless day. I  Briar, t begun to bleed as women do.

    ell, Maud, says my uncle. At last you cross to my books. You are about to learn ty of your vocation. Are you afraid?

    A little, sir.

    You do o be. For ter. You think me a scholar, hmm?

    Yes, sir.

    ell, I am more t. I am a curator of poisons. tly puts  pile of ink-stained papers t litter heir Index.

    tion and proper study. t so perfect as t is complete. I ed many years to its construction and revision; and se many more, as t. I o to make you immune, t you mig me. My eyes—do you look at my eyes, Maud. akes off acles and brings o mine; and I flinc of  and naked face—yet see nooo, ain film, or milkiness, upon t sside triol and arsenic must do so  like t so. I he larger dose.

    urns and takes a book from  to me, pressing my fingers  it.

    Keep t o tutored. tainted, sell. You understand me? I ouch poison, Maud. Remember.

    tain Draion of Laura. I sit alone, and turn tand at last tter I  lemen.

    t pleasure. My uncle collects it—keeps it neat, keeps it ordered, on guarded s keeps it strangely—not for its o; rat provides fuel for tisfying of a curious lust.

    I mean, t of the bookman.

    See o me softly, draexts e t edge? Observe tooling, look. he

    tilts to me but, jealously,  let me take it. Not yet not yet! Ater; titles, look, picked out in red. tals floext.  extravagance! And t see ispiece— ture is of a lady reclined on a coucleman beside  tip—done after Borel, most rare. I all at Liverpool, for a s part  noy pounds.—Come, come! y o my eacion, to see you colour? ell, no more of t.  leisure. You  tance, in tiny of the form.

    So o me, many times. I do not believe een. t first,  seems a frig c lusts, gro limbs and cavities, be prone to fevers, to crises, seek not togeting flesopped up ing of my legs. I imagine myself fingered and pierced ... I am teen, as I o restlessness: I begin to lie eac at Barbaras side,  back t to study t. take to c I kno, and fair—darkest of all. t troubles me. t last, one day, sc are you looking at? s, I anss as . her cheek flares crimson. Oh! she cries. I never did! here did you learn such words? From my uncle, I say.

    Oleman. Ill tell Mrs Stiles! Siles ead, like Barbara, sarts back. But takes up a block of soap and, while

    Barbara o my mout  back and fortongue.

    Speak like a devil,  and a filt? Like your orasher? ill you? ill

    you?

    ts me fall, and stands and  out a light.

    t least, I  may keep ;

    I ongue gro still taste lavender. I t , after all.

    But soon, I do not care. My cunt groand my uncles books to be filled rut c quite fades from my limbs. tlessness turns all to scorn. I become o be. I become a librarian.

    tful turk, my uncle mig?

    e   index—o Priapus and Venus ed me, as oticed to the loom.

    I knoill e. I knoors, auctioneers— ents of ters:

    quot;Mr Lilly: on t of Paris claims no kno, sodomitical matter. S;

    My uncle heir lenses.

    t no leave to languis me see . . . ival of till trey? You must copy it, Maud ...quot;

    I will, I say.

    You t myself, and yaudies me. aken s nib.

    It appears you find your occupation dull,  last. Pero return to your room. I say not?

    Perer a moment.

    Per back your book t, Maud— t, as I cross to truct Mrs Stiles to keep t suppose I so keep you warm in idleness, hmm?

    I ate, ter—it seems aler t  until made to dress for dinner. But at table, e, my uncle stops ,  in this house.

    takes tter arike ead I must sit, ting my o t, biting doears,  upon my uncles ink-stained tongue, until I am dismissed.

    Next day at eigurn to my o yawn again.

    I groaller, in t follos and gloves and slippers.—My uncle notes it, vaguely, and instructs Mrs Stiles to cut me neo ttern of t take a sort of malicious pleasure from to suit hen again, perhaps in her grief for

    er sten t little girls are meant to turn out  Briar, and dra, noy. I o my gloves and my  t unloosening of trings. Undressed, I seem to feel myself as naked and unsafe as one of my uncles lenseless eyes.

    Asleep, I am sometimes oppressed by dreams. Once I fall into a fever, and a surgeon sees me.  fless o my croubled, s? ell,  expect t. You are an uncommon girl. rokes my o be taken in a cup of er—for restlessness. Barbara puts out ture, wiles looks on.

    to be married, and I am given anot as a bird—one of ttle, little birds t men bring dos. Se skin marked een, innocent as butter. S first. S still to be, and ill its look of mine. I beat he resemblance.

    So my life passes. You mig kno queer. But I read otalk of servants, and catc—by tying glances of parlourmaids and grooms!—I see well enougy I have become.

    I am as  rakes of fiction; but  came to my uncles s park. I kno remember t follo remember  do, , for example, sit a horse, or dance. I have

    never o spend it. I ain, or a sea.

    I , I t, too. I kno, from my uncles books. I kno lies upon a river—er, t, overturned punt tted as ual mockery, it seems to me, of my confinement; but I like to sit upon it, gazing at t ters edge. I remember tory, of t  and er of a king. I so find a c, not to keep it!—but to take its place in t and leave it at Briar to groo be me. I ten of t claim me.

    t is o fancies.  and at t and at my o, for many  a time. And in t t covers t crescent, to  t of secrets.

    But I am inside t, and long to get out. . .

    I am seventeen  and a promise and tory of a gullible girl wo .

 Chapter Eight

    I  om, occasionally to invite  interested gentlemen to to take a supper er, hear me read. he does so now.

    Make yourself neat tonigo me, as I stand in toning up my gloves. e ss. rey, ranger. I o employ ing of our pictures.

    Our pictures. ts, in a separate study, filled  my uncle ed in a desultory sort of manner, along en spoken of taking on some man to trim and mount t o matcask. One needs a quite particular cer, for  sort.

    cs out rey claims to  for us, besides. An edition of a text alogued.

    t is great news, sir.

    Per my uncle, t mark it. s o to t me see . . .

    May I leave you, Uncle?

    ruck?

    It has, I believe.

    from  c to o , at tem, —s. o —gently, Maud.

    Yes, Uncle.

    No engaged by oo used to ticular rangely, or not at all, and imagines me an ageless cimes t is , tig saso a form I sleap. My uncle  time, I suppose, not quite above fifty—I o ly and permanently aged; as flies remain aged, yet fixed and unchanging, in cloudy chips of amber.

    I leave ing at a page of text. I ly, in soft-soled so my rooms, where Agnes is.

    I find   a piece of seemperament like mine? I stand and co sitc last I take tly put t of it against  off; t it back; times more, until h a rash of needle-pricks.

    to be gentlemen onig. One a stranger. Do you suppose he will be young, and handsome?

    I say it—idly enougeasing. It is noto me. But she hears me, and colours.

    I cant say, miss, surning  drawing her hand away, however. Perhaps.

    You think so?

    be.

    I study ruck h a new idea.

    S if he was?

    Like it, miss?

    Like it, Agnes. It seems to me no you en at turn te private.

    O nonsense!

    Is it? urn your  like it, having a prick upon your palm!

    Sakes , and begins to cry. t of ears—and of  of tender fles I abbed—first stirs, troubles me; tand at my rattling  dips to thames.

    ill you be quiet? I say, c you! tears, for a gentleman! Dont you kno  be  you knohey never are?

    But of course, h.

    Mr Rico me. Later I  to be false—as false as  noand in to make me o doubt ures, even teetaller t a foot. , but is long: a curl springs from its place and tumbles across s a o it, repeatedly.  for a single finger, stained yelloe we.

    Miss Lilly, oained s to brus back.  ioned in advance, by Mr rey.

    Mr rey is a London bookseller and publisher, and has been

    many times to Briar. akes my . Beleman collector, a friend from my uncles youtakes my  takes it to drao hen kisses my cheek. Dear child, he says.

    I imes surprised by Mr airs. o stand and chem.

    sey.

    But it is Mr Rivers I cell. But, o be o table, I see ate; t to mine. I inue to c like to be cing. Mr ay and Cly about us, filling our glasses—mine, t crystal cup, cut  upon our plates, ts leave: tay urn bet Briar , as lemen lasts one hour and a half.

    e are served ; t t ts innards devilled and passed about table. Mr rey takes a dainty kidney, Mr Rivers . I s te he offers.

    Im afraid youre not ly, ching my face.

    Dont you care for goose, Miss Lilly? asks Mr rey. Nor does my eldest daugearful.

    I cears and keep ten to see tears of a girl made into an ink.

    An ink? Dont mention it to my daug I must s, is one tc be he living.

    tears, for ink? says my uncle, a beat be rubbishis?

    Girls tears, says Mr huss.

    Quite colourless.

    I t. truly, sir, I t. I fancy tely tinged—per.

    Perrey, as depending on tion t hem?

    Exactly. You  it, rey, t tears, for a melanc migoo, ;  me and s o h.

    No t tempted. Mr Lilly? One ories of course, of hides and bindings

    time. Mr Rivers listens but says nottention is all alk. I . I sip my  suppers like tedious points in small, tigoo many times. Unexpectedly, I teasing a bead of blood from , and I blink.

    So, Rivers, rey tells me ranslating, Frencter into Englisuff, I suppose, if .

    Poor stuff indeed, anstempt it. It is erms; but it udent of ts t I ely to find a better application for my talents, sir, the conjuring of bad English from worse French.

    ell, ures.

    Very much indeed.

    ell, anot. than for my books, however. Youve heard, perhaps—he pauses—of my Index?

    Mr Rivers inclines  sounds a marvellous thing.

    Pretty marvellous—e, are ? Do we blush?

    I know my own curns, searcful gaze.

    ly.

    e are close, ansation h finishers.

    And th?

    A thousand pages.

    Mr rey raises emper  it,  wle. her slice of goose.

    to you last.

    For t volume, of course. ter.  t, Rivers?

    Astonishing, sir.

    s like? An universal bibliograp Englishmen.

    t to life. A fantastic ac.

    Fantastic, indeed—more so, exts I collect must cloak tity in deception and anonymity. t texts tamped ail as to place and date of publication and impress.  titles. t t pass darkly, via secret cion. Consider to to me, sir, of fantastic labour! rembles in a mirter.

    I cannot conceive it, says Mr Rivers. And the Index is organised . . .?

    By title, by name, by date abled, most precisely

    the books?

    tly, Maud?

    tlemen turn to me. I sip my  t, I say, of Men for Beasts.

    My uncle nods. So, so, ance our bibliograpo tudent of t able Bible.

    trey, smiling, enjoying tcill looking earnestly at my uncle.

    A great ambition, he says now.

    A great labour, says Mr huss.

    Indeed, says Mr rey, turning again to me. I am afraid, Miss Lilly, your uncle continues to work you very mercilessly.

    I so task, I say, as servants are.

    Servants and young ladies, says Mr  sorts of creatures.  said so, many times? Girls eyes s be  he gripping of pens.

    So my uncle believes, I say, s is o save, of course, not my fingers.

    And inius, so dedicated a collector he sake of his library.

    te,  drive o violence for literatures sake, and we shall never forgive you.

    tlemen laugh.

    ell, well, says my uncle.

    I study my ial quite invisible until I turn tal; ts leap out.

    to be sat tlemen join me in their

    voices and  last ttle pinker in trey produces a package, bound in paper and string.  to my uncle, whe wrappings.

    So, so, o  tle grubbian  us.  do you say?

    It is a common novel in a ta ispiece t renders it rare. I look and, despite myself, feel tirrings of a dry excitement. tion makes me queasy. I say, A very fine t a doubt. See ? I see it.

    I dont believe  go back. And  t entry complete? e surn to it, tomorrocicipation of pleasure. For noake your gloves off, girl. Do you suppose rey brings us books to o ts better. Lets tle of it. Do you sit, and read to us.  sit also. Rivers, mark my nieces voice,  and clear she spine, Maud!

    Indeed, Mr Lilly, s, says Mr  my uncovered hands.

    I place tand and carefully urn a lamp so t its lig upon t. how long shall I read for, Uncle?

    s c il t oclock. Noe tell me if you suppose its like may be encountered in any other English drawing-room!

    ties; but my uncle is rigrained too rue and makes t s. hen I

    rey claps, and Mr roubled. My uncle sits acles removed,  an angle, ight.

    Poor omorro of t.—Maud, te unbent?

    Yes, sir.

    ton up my gloves, smoot. I turn t. But I am conscious of myself. I am conscious of Mr Rivers. ly  excitement,  s a little nervously upon tly  and scorce about to gaze into my uncles book-presses—noccime c is rat you like, Miss Lilly, to sit closer to the flames?

    I ans.

    You like to be cool, he says.

    I like the shadows.

    akes it as a kind of invitation, lifts , tc rousers and sits beside me, not too close, still racted by t whe shadows.

    Mr rey stands at ts a glass. My uncle tled into s est p, sir, by seventy years! tions erature no shoes my horse . . .

    I stifle a yaurns to me. I say, Forgive me Vf Rivers.

    care for your uncles sub ject.

    ill speaks in a murmur; and I am obliged to make my oary, I say t is noto me.

    Again alks on It is only curious, to see a lady left cool and unmoved, by t ion.

    But t you speak of; and arent tter best, moved least? I catc from experience of t from my reading merely. But I s—o e a palling in eries of  too often to tiny of wafer and wine.

    blink. At last  laughs.

    You are very uncommon, Miss Lilly

    I look aand.

    Aone is a bitter one. Perion a sort of misfortune.

    On trary.  be a misfortune, to be ance, in tter of a gentlemans attentions. I am a connoisseur of all ties of metleman migo compliment a lady

    s e o . ted indeed,  only to compliment you.

    I  a gentlemen s, t one.

    Per in t you are used to. But in life—a great many; and one t is chief.

    I supposed, I say, t t ten for.

    O, but ten for somet of—money. Every gentleman minds t. And those of us who are

    not quite so gentlemanly as  most of all.—I am sorry to embarrass you.

    I , I o be quite beyond embarrassment. I am only surprised.

    t take a satisfaction from t I s o  is someto me, o y of yourdays.

    ingly my cill.

    do you knohose?

    I surmise, from my observation of the house . . .

    No edly:  do you this?

    Of w, sir?

    Of reys cing, now, of pography.

    Pography?

    Rivers, says Mr rey. You are a young man. I appeal to you. Can t record of tory act—

    Record! says my uncle, peevisary! the age!

    —of tory act, tograp t tograper to t of t is an image of life, and age over it: t it endures,  finish and fade.

    Dot a book endure? asks my uncle, plucking at the arm of his chair.

    It enduret, in a pograp speak tograp in an Englis last us all, and I provoke  in our grandsons. It is a t from ory.1

    It is gripped by ory! ans is corrupted by it! Its ory  it like so muc, in

    tting of a slipper, a goograpo your grandson: udy t.  tips of your moustac  you think so Rivers?

    I do, sir.

    You kno alloypes and nonsense like t into my collection?

    I t not to, sir.

    Mr rey so my uncle: You still believe pograp  come to reet, and spend an o c is all our buyers come for.

    Your buyers are brutes.  business  is your opinion as to ty of reys trade . . .?

    te alk until triking of ten oclock—whem.

    t is t. Mr Rivers is due to remain at Briar until Sunday. Next day I am kept from t supper cero sit again  come to my side. Saturday I  see urday nigique book, one of —and ts beside me, to study its singular covers.

    You like it, Rivers? asks my uncle as  is very rare?

    I s must be, sir.

    And you t, t ther copies?

    I , yes.

    So you mig ors, y by otem rare, if no-one s it? e call t a dead

    book. But, say a score of identical copies are sougand me?

    Mr Rivers nods. I do. ticle is relative to t  is very quaint. And  we  heard?

    My uncle gro up for auction, and see! ha?

    Mr Rivers laugo be sure, yes . . .

    But beyond teness, ful. es eet t  and surprising pink.  rey fusses hen he speaks again.

    And w of a pair of books, Mr Lilly,  by a single buyer? o be valued?

    A pair? My uncle puts dowo volumes?

    A pair of complementary titles. A man o secure tly add to t?

    Of course, sir!

    I t it.

    Men pay absurdly for suchings, says Mr huss.

    to sucters, of course, in my Index ...quot;

    tly; and talk on. e sit and listen—or pretend to—and soon urns and studies my face. May I ask you somet do you see, for yourself, after tion of your uncles work?—Now, w?

    I  I suppose must be a bitter sort of smile. I say, Your question means not. My uncles ten t must be added to too many lost books to be rediscovered; too mucainty. rey will

    debate it for ever. Look at tends,  once begin its supplements.

    You mean to keep beside  time?—I  ansed as he?

    I  last. My skills are fee uncommon.

    You are a lady, ly, and young, and  speak from gallantry no. I say only rue. You mighing.

    You are a man, I ansrut from ladies. I may do nothing, I assure you.

    ates—perc— marry,  is something.

    ,  I  some parc so . . .

    I  until urned from me again, tention captured. ts stand and gently lift its cover. Look e, t is attaco all ?

    te bears rangely, to resemble a p em of briar at t. Mr Rivers tilts o study it, and nods. I let the cover close.

    Sometimes, I say, not looking up, I suppose suce must be pasted upon my oed, and noted and so  I am speaking coolly, still. You said, tood. e are not meant for common usage, my felloe from t unguarded eyes. t o he world—some rich and handsomely provided for, some shabby, some

    injured, some broken about t  t; for t ots—otors, I mean—cast out. I  it—

    No speak coolly. I aken by my oco take my uncles book very gently from its stand.

    Your o mine. ten of your time t? ont you sures t mark it as rare . . .?

    ly; and artled me,  like to be startled. I dont like to lose my place. But noo t I cannot account for. I discover at last t I  my o my breast. t I am breat t are all at once denser t seems bleeding into t, is pale as a leaf upon a swelling pool of darkness.

    I  s, for tlemen. But I suppose I range, for wrey gazes my way, smiling, e falls. Miss Lilly! akes my hand.

    Mr  is it?  t.

    Mr Rivers  nohe pages.

    t tlemen, curtseying at my uncle, a look of terror on  is not yet ten oclock. I am perfectly  not trouble. I am only tired, suddenly. I am sorry.

    Sorry? Poorey. It is , and overtask your niece most miserably.

    I al, and ake your mistresss arm. Go steadily, now.

    Sairs? Mr ands in to mount t I do not catch his eye.

    me for some cool to put upon my face. I finally go to tel, and lean my c the looking-glass.

    Your skirts, miss! says Agnes. She fire.

    I feel queer, dislocated. t c sounds, I ter. I  t  kno, ands aill gathered in her hands.

    trikes. I step back, t  beats a little smoots me in my bed, unlooses tains—no mig, any at all. I ening  my ains I  to be taken y as she slumbers.

    , I unlock my little rait. I close my eyes. I t study your face!—but, once  it, I kno do it or lie sleepless and grow ill. I look o her, he said, and feel her madness in you?

    Do I?

    I put trait ao bring me a tumbler of er. I take a drop of my old medicine—t t ake anotill, my  back. My o tingle. Agnes stands and s.  doe stuff of dress. One slender collar-bone is marked a delicate blue  is

    per mig remember—be a bruise.

    I feel t last, sour in my stomach.

    ts all, I say. Go on.

    I o s. ter a little time t groan of macing its gears. I lie and  for sleep. It does not come. Instead, my limbs groless and begin to tcoo  of it, at ts of my fingers and my toes. I raise my ly: Agnes! S  fears to ans last, t up, lie still. trikes. tairs: tlemen are leaving to te chambers.

    Per if I do, it is only for a moment. For suddenly I give a start, and am   movement. Movement, and ligain t, and training against their frames.

    ts mouthing.

    t, after all, t is not like any oto it by a calling voice, I rise. I stand at to Agness room until I am sure, from t sake up my lamp and go, on naked feet, to my drao tand at t tion, peer t t I knoime I see not fall of a sill softer. tcilts tohe flame.

    Ricless as I; and he lawns of Briar, perhaps hoping for sleep.

    Cold  tip of te, er tobacco.  . to knoure; only te fades, gloe.

    once I understand he windows.

    ing o my room!—and e fall and crus of it beneats  see t. I only  door open, feel t of time, s breath.

    I step back  face: it arted back into to s!  do it! to t my ear against tread. tread gro, anot for Mr ay to go to  for t.

    I take up my lamp and go quickly, quickly: ts of lig time to dress—cannot dress,  Agnes to  kno not see goockings, garters, slippers, a cloak. My  is loose, I try to fasten; but I am clumsy  beats quick again, but no beats against t is like a vessel beating  t my o it, and feel t—unlaced, it feels; unguarded, unsafe.

    But tug of ter tance of my fear.

    t is t of ter all. For restlessness.  lengtapping at my door o  once, You kno close. One cry will wake hing.

    Do I suppose ry to kiss me?  do t. ealto t ful  so t w hear us? You are sure?

    Do I teps close. But I feel t, still clinging to . I smell tobacco on  remember all. I move to one side of tand tensely, gripping t.  to tween us, and speaks in whispers.

    you. But I o Briar, after so mucomorroo leave  seeing you. You understand me. I make no judgement on your receiving me like tirs, you are to say t you  I found out your room and came,  invitation. Ive been guilty of as mucs as  once,  onig of and me? I to come?

    I say, I understand t you  somet: t my motic; t my uncle  t is no secret, anyone mig; ts . I am forbidden to forget it. I am sorry for you, if you meant to profit by it.

    I am sorry, o o remind you of it again. It means noto me, except as it o your coming to Briar and being kept by your uncle in suc is ed from your motune.—Youll forgive my speaking plainly. I am a sort of villain, and knoher

    villains best. Your uncle is t kind, for o  tell me you love  is  suit us. But for no and let me speak leman to a lady?

    ures and, after a second—as if ea-tray—ake our places on tgown. urns he folds.

    Noo tell you w I know, he says.

    I kno  from rey. t you—per you, as of some fabulous creature: t Briar, ering monkey, to recite voluptuous texts for gentlemen—pero do  tell you all t. ts noto me. rey, at least, is a little kinder; and t, . old me, in a pitying sort of tle of your life—your unfortunate motations, tions attac one in a . . . But rey une, and you are  you are h, Miss Lilly?

    I ate, t is several imes tliest book upon my uncles simes t. the only measure of value I know.

    It is a great sum, says Mr Rivers, ching my face.

    I nod.

    It shall be ours, he says, if we marry

    I say nothing.

    Let me be , o Briar, meaning to get

    you in tune, perer. I saen minutes ood t to seduce you o insult you—to make you only a different kind of captive. I dont . I wiso free you.

    You are very gallant, I say. Suppose I dont care to be freed?

    .

    turn my face—afraid t ting of blood, across my cray me to eady. I say, You forget, my longings count for not my uncles books long to leap from them—

    Yes, yes, ience. You o me already. I t often. But, y-eigead I am  too poor in pocket, but nor too easy in it t I s be scrambling to line it for a little time to come. Do you t eac. Believe me: I ime t may be misspent, clinging to fictions and supposing truths.

    ed o s back  o age , and creased from tie. rand of grey.  bulges queerly, as mens ts do: as if inviting t will crus.

    I say, to come o confess yourself a villain, to suppose me o receive you.

    And yet you ill. You  called for your maid.

    You intrigue me. You he evenness of my days here.

    You seek a distraction from t give t, in a moment! gone!—when you marry me.

    I s be serious.

    I am, however.

    You kno you to take me.

    ly. e s, of course, to devious methods.

    You oo?

    t look like t. Dont suppose I am joking. You dont knorange. Not tion of a o a  servitude, to la, t terms , t is not y. A liberty of a kind not often granted to the members of your sex.

    Yet to be ac laugh—by a marriage?

    to be acain unusual conditions. Again  last t  squeamis about t, as anot be? I suppose your maid is really sleeping, and not listening at the door?

    I t say notch.

    God en.

    to bring a girl to Briar, from London, and install o use   of t over-scrupulous, not too clever in  sune—Say, t believe sion to ask for more.  are a small set, as crooks go; ter all: for o wever s see a s. She will

    suppose me an innocent, and believe ing in my seduction. S, into marriage o a—ates, before admitting t, take my place. Sest— as a form of lunacy; and so keep he closer.

    And ory as your moter, your uncles niece— in s, all t marks you as yourself. t! t of your life, as a servant  free your cloak; and you so any part of to any neo suit your fancy.

    ty—ter liberty—o Briar to offer. For payment s my trust, my promise, my future silence; and one une.

    not speaking, my face turned from  a minute.  I say at last is:

    e s.

    once: I think we will.

    t us.

    Sracted by t into ructions ss to find t you, , in ?

    And  they look for her?

    ted and robbed t her.

    Forget her?

    of mot. Sime. I dont trouble very  she

    turned out sion  to be cared for, like  ones. c her.

    I gaze away from him. A madhouse . . .

    I am sorry for t,  your oation— your oation— as our crooked girls  see  , all to profit by it, once; t, for ever.

    I still look a afraid of ir me, myself. I say, You speak as to you. Its the money you care for.

    Ive admitted as muc? But t il our fortune is secure. You may trust yourself, till t to my , say, to my cupidity; side t out. I migeaco profit from it. e can take some ely, of course, , ure  only be silent, to t it. You understand me? Being once committed to t be true to eac speak lig o ture of t you from a kno;

    My uncles care, I say, o consider any strategy t . But—

    s and,  to s my aim t your uncle o vieomorroo reconsider. But t t, as about everything.

    he passes his hand again before his eyes, and again looks older.

    truck terribly c, all at once.  as fear, or doubt.  last takes my o me; but  is yours— man see you kept doo le and insulted by fello? t I  for anotor: slemen your uncles  for your uncle to die, and find a liberty t ime, remor,   age? Say ty-five, or forty. You o ting of books, of a kind t rey sells, for a so drapers boys and clerks. Your fortune sits untouc of a bank. Your consolation is to be mistress of Briar— is left to you, one by one.

    As  at  at my o in its slipper. I times igo a form it longs to outgro quite still, to cing to kno my future at Briar—for  I , long ago, already concluded for myself; but by t t elling it at all—t ted, and travelled, forty miles—t olen o t of to my dark room, to me.

    Of to o er, ears on my c s—I t all.

    I say, tomorrohinks Rowlandson a hack.

    t is all I say. It is enoug smile—I t like to see  suc.  my fingers and tands, straig. t breaks t of place. I ,  you very late. You must be cold, and tired.

    crengto groful. I s be troubled— too troubled—by all Ive said?

    I s I am afraid to rise from tremble upon my legs and seem to him weak. I say, ill you go?

    You are sure?

    Quite sure. I ster if you leave me.

    Of course.

    o say more. I turn my face and  let ime read upon t, tle opening and closing of t a moment, t my feet, tuck ts of my cloak about my legs, raise my y sofa cushion.

    t my bed, and trait, my box, my maid—about me, t I like to  tonig of tterns urbed. My liberty beckons: gaugeless, fearful, inevitable as death.

    I sleep, and dream I am moving, sly, in a , upon a dark and silent er.

 Chapter Nine

    I suppose t even t is so nes till slender and  even t draugging of ion. I believe I  t, ook my ting back tling  a poison—tself in to all its rigid familiar lines. I lie and c. I knooo  trangeness of Briar—at tillness, turning passages and cluttered  trange to me for ever, I felt trangeness make me strange— make me a ts and er in t of t Briar crept on me. Briar absorbed me. No of th which I have covered

    myself and t meant to escape! Briar  me!

    But, I am  into doug utterly.  eigo t aogeternoon, I am summoned doairs to make my fareo tlemen, it is only Mr rey and Mr  I must give my o. I find tening tcoats, draands, a little  makes no gesture. tep and lift to crey smiles.

    ea, he says.

    Mr  on . No off. tatue?

    ell, botrey says; but I meant tatue. Miss Lilly s you takes my ers  clay, you knoo  unruck again—as I alhe unfairness of your uncle keeping you here in such a miserable, mushroom-like way.

    I am quite used to it, I say quietly. Besides, I t go h you?

    t. Really, Mr Lilly, I can barely make out ttons on my coat. Do you mean never to join civilised society, and bring gas to Briar?

    Not while I keep books, says my uncle.

    Say never, then. Rivers, gas poisons books. Did you know?

    I did not, says Ricurns to me, and adds, in a lo to go up to London just yet. Your uncle o offer me a little work among s. e s seems, for Morland.

    rey says,

    Nos is in progress, you let your niece make a visit to reet? S you like a  you should.

    S, says my uncle.

    Mr  is ting. akes tips of my fingers. Miss Lilly,  ever—

    Come come, says my uncle. Noedious. ep back from t;

    Fools, lemen  come, Im impatient to begin. You ools?

    I can fetc.

    o follourns, to look at me.  of o  airs. But , , raises my  to s at trip of skin exposed.  my c kind of matter mus pale, now!

    I ill laugs fall my urns from me, begins to mount tairs alone.  list slippers, t sockinged ce a   and make umble.

    I am standing, tep fade, o t look for me, does not kno I am till tened front door.  les, or  used to suc Briar, and  smarting by my uncles rike me noing of timbers and beams. I t must be rising in a cloud from tique carpets beneath his

    so follo flake and tumble from the

    sighe house walls cracking__

    gaping—collapsing in to escape.

    But I am afraid, too, of escaping. I t.  speak privately rey  dare to steal ime, to my o  secure me to s, and cakes ill; but sits at my uncles side, not mine. One nigion to say this:

    It troubles me, Miss Lilly, to t be, notention from o return to your he books.

    tting my gaze fall to my plate of broken meat: Very much, of course.

    t do someto make ttle liging or sketcerial of t sort—t I mig for you, in my oime? I t. For I see you s, from the house.

    or of music migon. Of course, I am not obedient. I say, I cannot paint, or draw. I aug.

    , never?—Forgive me, Mr Lilly. Your niece strikes one as being so competent a mistress of ts, I s, you knole trouble. Miss Lilly could take lessons from me, sir. Mig teacernoons? I tle experience in taug Paris, to ters of a Comte.

    My uncle scre ? Do you mean to assist us, Maud, in the albums?

    I mean dras own sake, sir, says Ricly, before I can reply.

    For its o me. Maud, w do you

    say?

    Im afraid I have no skill.

    No skill? ell, t may be true. Certainly your  ends to slope, even noell me, Rivers: sruction in drawing he firmness of my nieces hand?

    I s  definitely.

    t Mr Rivers teac care, anyo imagine you idle. hmm?

    Yes, sir, I say.

    Ric guards a cats eye as it slumbers. My uncle bending to e, s my look: timacy of his expression makes me shudder.

    Dont misunderstand me. Dont ts true I s—fear of its success, as s failure. But I tremble, too, at ts me quivering, as ting string  unsuspected sympaten minutes  first nig. If I never kne villainy before—or if, kno, I never named it—I kno, name it, now.

    I kno, and. S gallantry. It is gallantry!—try of rogues. Sc out paper, leads and paints. Sake  my side, guide my fingers in to rise—but his can

    fall, insinuate, and yet, like a musical note, stay clear; and , point by point across il t. Very good, er h an able girl. Very good. You learn quickly

    raig back  Agnes and find ter ao your mistresss gifts as an artist? O o judge.

    take up a pencil, go closer to ter.  you try?

    Once akes  at ouc. You dont suppose I mean to insult you? No, sir!

    ell, wtle warm, sir. arm, in December—?

    And so on. alent for torment, quite as polis, in observing to groious. I do not. teases, top, revolving faster at taunt her myself.

    Agnes, I say, op , feel t. Do you t in your eye! And dont young girls  handsome men?

    Indeed, miss, I dont know!

    Do you say t? t part of . ill you put t, wo forgive you? Do you

    t forgive a red  t ss in ure to be so. o put a passion in o punis. Dont you t you feel your passion,  you listen for tep?

    S. S, against  s only say it, or t say it and be bruised, and keep t of e; and I must bruise  bruise ing of ——I would surely feel myself.

    I never do feel it. Dont imagine I do. Does de Merteuil feel it, for Valmont? I dont  to feel it. I se myself, if I did! For I kno, from my uncles books, for too squalid a tcco be satisfied icly, ly, in closets and be  stirring in my breast—t dark propinquity—is sometoget say, it rises like a ss  tains, already; and so no-one marks it.

    No-one, periles. For I t Ricleman o be. I catcimes. I believe so c me and do me , t—and ing me—s to herself; and nurses her hope of my ruin, smiling, as she once nursed her dying child.

    tals rap is made, t prime it and ss teet is all complete— Now, says Richard, our work begins.

    e must get rid of Agnes.

    in a  t over  so coolly, eady a gaze, I am almost afraid of  me.

    You kno , he says.

    Of course.

    And you understand how?

    I , until t. Now I see his face.

    Its quite tuous girls like t. ill stop up a moutter even tbruss to o run t trouble ails,  muco it. Not muc all—  ill fair?

    Quite fair, sir.

    Good. Very good . . . t I suppose lobruso ongue and sucks to a point. Ill do it tonigfully. So o yours. All you must do is, give me fifteen minutes alone  me—and not come, if s.

    It il t, a sort of game. Dont gentlemen and young ladies, in country  and intrigue? No failing, or s.  nig look at urn my o your room, tate—perc cco  cry out, after all. So keep from going to  kno, s, s ion and t t drops, is stifled or soot to  of all: not an absence of sound, but teeming—as ter teems, wh kicks and squirming

    movements. I imagine  back—but e  e mout his—

    I put my o my oop up my ears. I dont  ay closed; take drops, at last, to  day, e. I s o s is red and raised and swollen.

    Scarlet fever, s meeting my gaze.

    tion. Fears, of t! So an attic, and plates of vinegar burned in  only once, to make me  t. I reacing a blow; I only kiss ly, on .

    t me in scorn.

    You are soft on me noo you trying. Id like to see you bruise him, before he bruises you.

    tle—but only a little; and o me t I forget s are all   off my self, live to anottern—live  patterns,   books! I will ban paper from my house!

    I lie upon my bed and try to imagine t I ake, in London. I cannot do it. I see only a series of voluptuous rooms— dim rooms, close rooms, rooms- unnerves me. I give it up. time, I am sure of it.

    I rise and y, picking  to to ted by crooks, I ting off  and ,  ing off a set of vicious faces—Mrs Vixen, Betty Doxy, Jenny Diver, Molly Brazen—until he face he seeks . . .

    Suky tawdry.

    is blue. I begin to dream of he dreams she speaks and I hear her voice. She says my name, and laughs.

    I t comes to my room ter, from him.

    Ses.

    I read it, tter to my mout my lips to t be my lover, after all—or, s. For I could not  han I could a lover.

    But I could not  a lover, more t freedom.

    I put ter upon t once. I am sure I so me for coming from London, .

    t done, I need only , one day and ter t is the day she comes.

    S Marlo time. But t and seem to feel rap comes back  rains are late, t settle. At five oclock I send illiam again—again  take supper  my h?—My uncle hearing me whisper, however, he sends Charles away.

    Do you prefer to talk s, Maud, t us.

    tle puniss for me to read from, after teady recitation of cruelty makes me calmer. But ful again; and after Margaret  me into my bed, I rise, and and no t t t for t of trap. t. It so gloo so flasion of trap berees, like a tc come, my  my . It dra, t, illiam, a vaguer figure. to to Agness room—Susans room, it and at there; and finally see her.

    Sing  tables, t and o t her face. She is dressed darkly, and seems small.

    But, s is real.—I feel t all at once, and tremble.

    It is too late to receive ead I must  furt to  lie, ep and murmur, my eyes upon ted  lies between her chamber and

    mine.

    Once I rise and go stealto it, and put my ear to t hing.

    Next morning I  carefully dress me, and ?

    Yes, miss.

    Do you think she will do?

    Do, miss?

    As girl to me.

    Sosses imes to France and I dont know w.

    ell,  be kind to  o er London. Siles bring o me, so soon as saken ?

    I , sometimes sleeping, sometimes y of  see o my uncle, or I fear I  last, at  seven or so, I read in t leads from ts staircase; and tiless murmur: and? I stand at t? Does s? Does siles comes first and, after a moments ation, sao take my life from me and give me freedom.

    Sation, comes dismay. I  s, spotted t.  to a point. oo frank, noakes in my goockings. training, I suppose—makes a y curtsey. Ssey, I can tell. Ss me, more t so Briar to ruin me. I step to take  you colour, or tremble, or  surns my gaze and ten, about tly steady in mine.

    e are ciles.  for, to London. S good enoughink.

    You need not stay, Mrs Stiles, I say. And turns to go: But you  Susan. Youve  I am an orpo Briar as a c all

    to care for me. I cannot tell you all tiles  a mot time . . .

    I say tormenting of my uncles oo routine an occupation, o  is Susan I ; and c us, I drao lead o ts. Souc is as slender as Agness, but  at all , but lig; tries to make it ser. Sells me of rain from London—  of naming it, of considering it a place of destination or desire. It is a orment to me t a girl so sligrifling as s Briar; but a consolation, also— for if s not I, alents, tter?

    So I tell myself, ress, of course, e a fine lady? So look at me!

    My voice is not quite steady. But if tterness to my tone, s catc. Instead, Ooo kind a lady. And besides, s grand clot tons; but t it  inside t counts.

    Saken aken in, by ion—so innocent, not sly—I sit a moment and regard ake . her fingers move in mine.

    Lady Alice always said so, miss, she says.

    Did she?

    Yes, miss.

    to , and brings out a letter. It is folded, sealed, directed in an

    affected feminine ate, take it—rise and , far from her gaze.

    No names! it says;—but I t frestle finger smit to employ ce t. I imagine  you. S pass t pleasure.—Burn this, will you?

    I  myself as cool as , I am not, I feel c as and ter in my  once t I ood too long. If s  fold at all. I do not yet kno s read or e so muc I laug I dont quite believe  read? I say. Not a letter, not a  to take it; and urns a page, gazes  a piece of text—but all in a  is oo subtle to counterfeit.—At last, she blushes.

    take t I am not sorry, I am only amazed. Not to read! It seems to me a kind of fabulous insufficiency—like tyr or a saint, of ty for pain.

    t oclock sounds, to call me to my uncle. At t, after all, make some bluso Ric I oug sy and tells me —again—as if s. Pero a different standard, e  by  of my skirt.

    s say, but I

    imagine rying out my boots, my gloves, my sasake an eye-glass to my jeo sell t o her young man . . .

    You are distracted, Maud, my uncle says. ion to wtend?

    No, sir, I say.

    Pertle labour. Per I  you at taking you from t perics, than among books? hmm?

    No, Uncle.

    urn to es. But he goes on.

    It ter enougo summon Mrs Stiles and ake you back. You are sure you dont desire me to do t?—send for illiam Inker and t? As o study me, acles t guard it. t smiles.   voice,  you know now?

    sloion over; as if it is a biscuit t  crumbs beneatongue. I do not ans loil . Presently s  the pages upon his desk.

    So, so. tuation all complete; and mark—te the sequence here.

    It is from t I am reading ake me back to my dra ted ing finger t my uncle keeps to mark t Briar, just as I once did; and—again, like me—in  see it,

    and tries to cross it. I must keep , more even t!—and o ouc the feel of my fingers.

    I say, Dont be frighe floor.

    I ten t, of course, s look at anyt all, it would be so muceful kind of envy. I o draw back my hand from her arm, for fear I will pinch her.

    I ask o my room,  does shink of my uncle?

    Sionary.

    e sit at luncite, and pass my plate to c be an auctioneer, a : sem of cutlery as if gauging tal from . Ss tly into  s t t about t. Soucongue to some spot upon hen swallows again.

    You o Briar, I to swallow up me.

    But of course, I  o do it. I need o do it. And already I seem to feel myself beginning to give up my life. I give it up easily, as burning o tarnis guards to bind up quivering mot settling, tig  kno. S kno until, too late, s ired, restless, bored: I take  t and seops, e draes tip of t.

    You are thinking of London, I say.

    Ss her head. London, miss?

    I nod.  do ladies do t the day?

    Ladies, miss?

    Ladies, like me.

    S er a second: Make visits, miss?

    Visits?

    to other ladies?

    Ah.

    S know. S up. I am sure she is making

    it up! Even so, I t beats suddenly

    here are no ladies like me, however;

    and for a second I ening picture of myself in

    London, alone, unvisited—

    But I am alone and unvisited, now. And I shall have Richard

    to take us

    a  en—

    Are you cold, miss? she says. Perhaps I have shivered. She rises,

    to fetcche

    carpet—he lines and diamonds and squares,

    beneat.

    I cc look too long, too narro  seven oclock s ten ss me into my bed. After t, sands in  my retcs ly sooping to pick up a fallen lace; noaking up s  kneel and pray, as Agnes did. Ss on  of my sig lifts : I see toe of one s to t doo undo ttons of s it fall, steps a of ; unlaces ays, rubs , sigeps a my o follow. Sgown— shy. She yawns. I also yawn. She

    stretcretcs out , climbs into her bed—grows warm I suppose, and sleeps . . .

    S of innocence. So did I, once. I  a moment, take out my moture and  close to my mouth.

    ts s er now!

    less it seems! But  so vividly of, in years—of t ics; and of t once ttings of coir, a piece of text on t is to do t sent me. I remember an attic stair, a ness of lead beneatful drop to the ground—

    I must fall into sleep, t plunge to t layers of t. But t quite  quite draugging of tly be my form in t seems sing and queer—no say o s. I call for Agnes. I e forgotten t sten Ric. I call for Agnes, and it seems to me s so take a do it to punis take t! I say; but sakes it, serrible darkness and I , beyond tain. It seems to me t mucime passes before t comes back. But  and sees my face, she screams.

    Dont look at me! I cry. And t leave me! For I , if say, some calamity, some dreadful t kno, cannot name it—ed; and I—

    or sne—o be freckled. I gaze at  know her.

    S is strange to me: Its Sue, miss. Only Sue. You see me? You are dreaming.

    Dreaming?

    Souc like Agnes, after all, but like— Like no-one. Ss Sue. t Agnes ina, and is gone back  lie dont be ill.

    I s; t once and I kno, my ungaugeable future. Sranger to me, but part of it all.

    Dont leave me, Sue! I say.

    I feel ate. ig so climb across me, and s and lies  me,  my hair.

    S soon lie still. t. I feel t of le rumble of  you? Good girl.

    Good girl, s been since anyone at Briar believed me good? But s. S believe it, for t. I must be good, and kind, and simple. Isnt gold said to be good? I am like gold to er all. So ruin me; but, not yet. For no, to squander—

    I kno; but cannot feel it as I sill, and o tir. Souc a little of its s meets mine, quite clear, untinged  lifts and falls, and

    sour  comes gusting. I lie and remember t. Some feeling—sters about my . I put my o t cool.

    S brings er, and ster use it quick. Ss a clot and, , unasked, across my face and beneato , so suts:  tangles! trick angles is, to start at ttom ...quot;

    Agnes o ruck  for Susan—Sue, s—no patiently s from my he glass . . .

    Good girl.

    thank you, Sue, I say.

    I say it often, in ts t follo to Agnes. t or stand, lift an arm or foot. No, Sue, w pinch me.

    No, I am not cold.—But so look me over as o be quite sure; tle  my t, to keep off draugs are not taking in t sockinged ankle and taintys sake. I must not catc any cost. I must not tire. ouldnt you say you nt groouc you take a little more? I mustnt gro must be plump, to be s slaughter.

    Of course, t kno, it is s be plump—sime, to sleep, to o dress, to o a pattern, to signals and bells. Sies me! S understanding t ts and t bind me will, soon, bind her. Bind her, like morocco or like calf ... I have grown

    used to t of book. No seem to  me  not text. Se fles you pale! s not ted blood beneath.

    I oug to do it. I cannot . I am too compelled by ance, prone to nigmares come, o bring o my bed, a second nig last sinely. I t first; but it is only t trouble ands eacime ed candle, peering into t you t miging to drop? S, and s; a single beetle falls, in a s.

    Once groo t,  and comfortable o sleeping h someone; and wonder who.

    Do you ers, Sue? I ask er she river.

    No, miss.

    Brothers?

    Not as I know of, she says.

    And so you gree alone?

    ell, miss, not .

    Cousins. You mean, your aunts children?

    My aunt? She looks blank.

    Your aunt, Mr Riverss nurse.

    Oo be sure . . .

    Surns ao imagine it; and cannot. I try to imagine ongued, s, ongue—for sometimes, o my hair, or frowning over

    slit—ongue . I ch her sigh.

    Never mind, I say—like any kindly mistress . e so London. to London, I take t does not.

    S at t at me.

    thames? she says.*

    this river, here.

    trifling bit of er, tainly.  be? t—and this is narrow. Do you see?

    I say, after a moment, t I  rivers grohey flow. She shakes her head.

    trifling bit of er? ser  o it ts stern is marked in six-incters, ROt sing, not to t to t from ttering engine. See t? sedly. ts s  all t;

    S er browns, e falls; and shief again.

    You must understand, I ermined to despise o do  do?— is only t  so long togeto be intimate. And ion of intimacy is not like Agness—not like Barbaras—not like any ladys maids. Soo frank, too loose, too free. S spots and grazes. S picking over some old dry cut upon  a pin, miss? sen

    minutes probing t. to me.

    But s, taking care to keep t from my soft fingers. Dont  yourself, se forget t s ss it, too.

    One day sakes my arm as  is noto  I feel t, like a slap. Anotime, after sitting, I complain t my feet are cakes my feet in oes. So dress me as stle co my goables, and finds primroses in to put in t get t you get in London, in try, ss t tty enoug they?

    S bring extra coals for my fires, from Mr ay. Suco do!—and yet no-one  to do it before, for my sake; even I  t to do it; and so I ers. t makes to stand, ts and spirals upon trike&gt;&lt;/strike&gt;

    One time sable spread  for a second it quite disconcerts me, to imagine my motually ting ting out till sane—pering, ing . . .

    I take up a card. It slides against my glove. But in Sues s it, s, neatly and nimbly; and tween oniso learn I

    cannot play; and at once makes me sit, so seacion, but sly, almost greedily—tilting ired, sand tilt tips togetimes ructure, a kind of pyramid of cards—alop-most point, a king and a queen.

    Look ion; and as tructure topples, she will laugh.

    Srange, at Briar, as I imagine it must be in a prison or a cimes, salk of dancing. Ss , to sep. to my feet, and turns and turns me; and I feel,  of —I feel it pass from o me and become mine.

    Finally I let ed toothimble.

    Let me look, so t.

    I stand at t back my  of beer upon it—warm also. S my gum.

    ell, t is shan—

    ts tooth, Sue?

    to say. S eeth, miss?

    I t, since to bite.

    ts true, sractedly. Only, I ;

    So my dressing-room. I can see, t, t: ss may break beneatoes of careless risers and make tioned me, in a similar spirit, against tepping on, in naked feet, of

    o ter); tor-oil; and t, or fligems on my dressing-table, s, then call.

    Dont you know anyone we, Sue?

    A snake-bite, miss? Sill fro the Zoo?

    ell, per the Zoo.

    I cant say as I do.

    Curious. I ain, you kno you would.

    I smile, t. t; I see for t time

    you, sching my changing face.

    Are you sure?

    Yes, miss. If I , you may scream; and top.

    It does not , I do not scream. But it makes for a queer mix of sensations: tal, tness of udies toot at   black. I look at t, its lobe pierced ts. Pierced, o ting my finger-tips to ttle dimples in t of ice . . . ty does t for me.—Almost got it! o test tootricky to do to an infant, of course. For if you o let slip t like t.

    I do not knoongue rises and moves against  once, too big, too strange; and I tarnishe silver—

    I t   and set it running, I taste it. Pero tle longer at tooto a sort of panic; but noops. Sests again  my jahen draws back.

    I emerge from tle unsteadily. Sigo my face. I songue across my blunted toote from till upon it. t—not tarnis tarnis all.  I asted, or imagine I asted, is taste of .

    May a lady taste t makes me colour.

    And it is as I am standing, feeling to my c a girl comes to my door ter, from Ricten to expect it. I ten to t, our marriage, te. I ten to t take tter and, trembling, break its seal.

    Are you as impatient as I? es. I kno you are. Do you . Our ing is over. My business in London is done, and I am coming!

 Chapter Ten

    tter s fingers: _y I blink, look giddily about me, as if emerging from a trance. I look at Sue: at  t. I look at ts of our table-top, at te. too oo  I am still trembling, as if cold. S. Sco t is as if tter rick upon oo: for  to me—dreadfully ligs a cc meet her gaze.

    Ric, as I do? Ss, as easily as before. Ss akes out my motient dealing-out of solitary games. I stand at tion, see o take a card and place it, turn it, set it upon anothe

    kings, pull out t my face and t makes it mine: tain curve of coo full, too plump, too pink.

    At last soget if I ell me my future. S, apparently quite  irony; and despite myself I am drao , and clumsily mix takes t, s. o me: for a moment we bend our  wh—

    I  is set s. I t no in many days—of Sue, breatorially over tones, gauging th . . .

    After all,  ordinary girls, in an ordinary parlour; and serested in my fortune only as s s out of its urning t one fall, and  seen it: ted red s my o into t.

    S, o smoot; t Patience, as doggedly as before.

    I look, again, at er, and are  then will resemble my own.

    t be done. taken by a sense of duties unmet: a panicking sense t ime—ured. I pass a fretful nigo dress me, I pluck at the sleeve of her gown.

    hing you always wear?

    S. I take, from my press, a velvet go. Seps out of  and turns, in a kind of modesty, aug at ttle t o my box for a brooc broocs—and pin it carefully over .

    tand he glass.

    Margaret comes, and takes her for me.

    I o o ticularity of  t—not Suky ta a girl ory, es and likings. No once I see o me in face and figure sand, as if for t time,  is t Rico do. I place my face against t of my bed and c isfaction, turning a little to t, a little to t, brus, settling ably into ty could see me! s be ing for  dark t, tless s be, as ss off t keep tle fin-gersmits, taking out some small t of gaudy curning it, over and over, in her hands . . .

    Surn it for ever, t kno yet. Nor does Sue suppose t t time ss  of all her life.

    I t; and I am gripped  I take to be pity. It is , and am afraid. Afraid of ure may cost me. Afraid of t future itself, and of tions  might be filled.

    S kno.  not kno, eit

    afternoon—comes, as o come, in takes my o kiss my knuckles. Miss Lilly/ one of caress. ly; yet carries   of urns to Sue, and ssey. tiff-bodiced dress is not made for curtseying in,  tumble togeto ses it. But I see, too, t eness of o me. o all, and darker t. akes  ends almost to t. ress, Sue.

    S too, sir. I take a step. She is a very good girl, I say. A very good girl, indeed.

    But ty, imperfect. c  be good. No girl could , Miss Lilly, h you for her example.

    You are too kind, I say.

    No gentleman could but be, I to be kind to. , found sympato pluck me from t of Briar, unscratc be myself, niece to my uncle, if I could meet t feeling tir of some excitement, dark and a. But I feel it too  queasy. I smile; but tretcigilts  my o makes tigill, I begin to feel it as an ac my t. I avoid  makes ep to and a moment, murmuring at t—s it into

    it  tsey.

    Nourns back, I cannot look at o my dressing-room and close ter—a terrible laug courses silently ter—I sill.

    dinner, e. ing meat from t is almost translucent, t in a ting of butter and sauce. Our food comes cold to table in er. In summer it comes too warm.

    I say, Very—biddable, Mr Rivers.

    You t?

    I think so, yes.

    You  o complain, of my recommendation?

    No.

    ell, I am relieved to .

    oo muc of tcs this? he says now.

    I en.

    s against my library door.  of her?

    So me on Mr Riverss word. o remember me.

    My uncle moves ongue. as o Rico me, tle raised, as if sensing dark currents. Miss Smith, you say?

    Miss Smit steadily, .

    t! urns excitedly to . Now, Rivers, .

    Sir?

    I defy you—positively defy you, sir!—to name me any institution so nurturing of trocious acts of lecholic Church of Rome

    look at me again until supper is ended. tique text, t Against the Fryars.

    Rics and ly still. But tle o t lift  keeps tle pearl-s ancient blade s to a crescent, ter apples t grohe Briar orchard.

    Rico see t urned, t me frankly. one e,  ask you, o continue  Im returned? I s. I do not ans far enougo let me step about it; nor does  furto pass. Instead, nt be modest, nt be , are you?

    I shake my head.

    Good, t time. You must stle more labour and—o surprise your uncle s of your instruction.  do you t anot t, three?

    Again, I feel to meet it. But t, a sinking, a fluttering—a vague and nameless movement—a sort of panic. s for my reply, and ttering groed so carefully. e ted, already, one dreadful deed, and set in train anot must be done no seem

    to love  o o Sue.  s!  tate,  and release me! But no tate; and am afraid to say o the knife.

    Let us say, t.

    A look of irritation or anger disturbs t . Your talent is better t. t, I assure you.

    last and bo. And t turn, I knoc tairs—as solicitous for my safety, as any of my uncles gentlemen friends.

    ous, soon; but for no least, to somettern.  s, to my rooms, to teaco keep close to me, t is to say; to look and to murmur, o be grave and ostentatiously gallant.

    ttern—except t, whey have Sue.

    And Sue is not like Agnes. S listen and co see t Mr Rivers does not come too close, or speak too confidentially, to ress; but s urn o urn ; but I see oo, steal glances at us from tudy our reflections in tcive  as a prisoner kno seems filled h shining surfaces, each one an eye of hers.

    mine, t  passes bet look at her.

    For of course, t serfeit knoisfaction in t—in t s—is ao me. S kno urns; s point. S suspect t, in seeming to mock me, Ric after urned to e, pero smile, pero grimace, urns to me, and smiles and grimaces in earnest.

    And uring of Agnes pricked me on to little cruelties of my ooo conscious of myself—makes me, nocating. I remble. I rayed by t of my o as love.

    Ric least, kno for  , feel t of ation: feel it gaturn, groo shake his head.

    I am afraid, Miss Lilly,  you  discipline, yet. I t your touc  say youve forgotten your lessons, in my s absence. After all our labour! tist must alion of  is, ation. For t leads to er designs tand? You do understand me?

    I  anso my side.

    Never mind it, miss, sly, if Mr Rivers seems to say  your picture.  te to the life.

    You think so, Sue?

    So o s single fleck of darker bro t upon the card.

    Its a cing, Sue, I say.

    Ss  aint you learning?

    I am, but not quickly enougs, in time, t he park.

    e must ure now, he says.

    I s, I tell  I like to  to , I say again.

    ructor,  insist.

    I   t er long— seems to me, for seven years!—it lig  comes gusting about my unskirted ankles as Mr ay tugs open to take. , a dark , and lavender gloves. Mr ay observes t me in a kind of satisfaction, a kind of scorn.

    Fancy yourself a lady, do you? o me, to the ice-house. ell, well see.

    I  o today,  c circles my uncles estate, rises and overlooks tables, o  to gaze at it, and  close, t speak, but as we walk o  rises, awkwardly.

    ry to pull a me. I say at last: You need not hold me so close.

    seem convincing.

    You neednt grip me so. o  already know?

    queer, he

    says, o let slip to be near you. Anyone  queer.

    S love me. You o dote.

    S a gentleman dote, in time,  sed  jars s nature for you. No sense of fas least, are better-mannered: tailors ernal drab.  of course, you his, soon.

    I try to imagine myself in a tailors surn and, like  Sue. Sc I take to be satisfaction, t about tempt to pull from  me go? And,  care to be smot you take a deligormenting me.

    c I may not en ttention ty rapidly, after t.

    time s me go, in order to cup  a cigarette and lig. I look again at Sue. tronger, and t and hem. Behind her, her cloak billows like a sail.

    Is s? asks Ricte.

    I turn and look ae all right.

    Souter takes my arm again, and laug ans be so spinsteris o you?

    Noto me.

    udies my profile. t? Everytaken a  come cheaply, Maud

    I walk on, in silence, aware of , I suppose, ? have you?

    No.

    You are sure?

    Quite sure.

    And yet, you still delay. ? I do not ans.  is it?

    Nothing has happened, I say.

    Nothing?

    Not w we planned for.

    And you kno be done now?

    Of course.

    Do it t like a lover. Smile, blush, grow foolish.

    Do I not do things?

    You do—t you noo my arm, damn you. ill it kill you, to feel my iff at his words. I am sorry, Maud.

    Let go of my arm, I say.

    e go furt in silence. Sue plods bet of te, tears up a sco las s. , reat for little Co  turns up a flint and  stumbles. t makes s ,  to  carriages, co drive and carry you about—

    I know w I may do.

    Do you? truly? s tem of grass to ful. I ? Being alone? Is it t? You need never fear solitude, Maud, while you are rich.

    You tude? I say. e are close to t is ? I fear nothing.

    s takes up my arm. hen, he says, do you keep us here, in such dreadful suspense?

    I do not ansone has changed.

    You spoke, a moment ago, of torment. truto torment yourself, by prolonging time.

    I s feel careless. My uncle said someto me once, I say. t  to me noo . I am used to it.

    I am not, o take instruction in t, from you or anyone. I  too muc, ting. I am cleverer no manipulating events to matc is and me, Maud?

    I turn my   to understand you, I say tiredly. I  all.

    I il you hear.

    ?

    o my face. ainted ract. Remember . Remember t  I came, not quite as a gentleman, and tle to lose—unlike you, Miss Lilly, ion must count for somet ladies al naturally you kne, when you received me.

    one o it, some quality I   we   is all beo read.

    I say carefully, You call me a lady; but I am .

    And yet, I t consider you one. ill o ted?

    ed me himself!

    to taken over by anot o be the case.

    I move aand irely.  of engine, for texts.

    All t like it, w say  and makes her?

    No of t my fingers to my eyes. Dont be tiresome, Ric, how?

    home . . .

    t seems to stumble, t again t is be quite make out ly, I so you, in a madhouse.

    You are no use to me noired of t be kind to you, then.

    And is this kindness? I say.

    e  last, into s is , amused, amazed.  anything else?

    e stop, close as ss. one  again, but e  time,  o be afraid of him.

    urns and calls to Sue. Not far no to me es h her, alone.

    to secure her, I say. As you have me.

    t , sticks better.—? I  suspect  suppose  e? I so see o find out o me, today or tomorro some way, will you? Be sly.

    s ained finger to ly Sue comes, and rests at my side. S of till billoo drao toucidy o, I turn away.

    Next morning I ake o ligte from; and I stand  my dressing-room curned from me, but ract, o say. tte and stands ; the clinging red soil from his shoes.

    After t, I feel ting pressure of our plot as I t feel training of cets, tropical storms. I ! today I  and let t, puncture today, I  him claim me—!

    But, I do not. I look at Sue, and t s darkness—a panic, I suppose it, a simple fear—a quaking, a caving—a dropping, as into th of madness—

    Madness, my mots slo in me! t t makes me more frig. I take, for a day or t c.

    You groo my library, to abuse it?

    No, Uncle.

    ? Do you mumble?

    No, sir.

    s and purses udies me one is strange to me.

    age are you? ate. . Dont strike coy attitudes  age are you? Sixteen? Seventeen?—You may sonis. You to the passage of years, because I am a scholar? hmm?

    I am seventeen, Uncle.

    Seventeen. A troublesome age, if o believe our own books.

    Yes, sir.

    Yes, Maud. Only remember: your business is not  udy. Remember t too great a girl— nor am I too aged a sco iles come and ill wake a wo you. hings? ill you?

    Yes, sir, I say.

    It seems to me no remember too mucs, are set ac of striking looks and poses. I can no longer say ainty  it. easing, tening: I c to understand. Perer all. Perorment. It is certainly a torment to me noo sit at a lesson o sit at a dinner-table o read to  nig begins to be a torment, too, to pass time ines are spoiled. I am too conscious t ss, as co speak in o tell me, bluntly, eresting.

    You t flutter uneasily a s,  they?

    t—al, — sake doraig lint from t as muco calm

    o calm me. tter.—Noer, s  mustnt be creased—

    It mustnt be creased, for Mr Riverss sake: I ake .

    Oh!

    I do not knoween my fingers, my own fles an hour.

    Ohink me wicked, Sue?

    icked? shinking: A simple girl like you?

    Ss me into my bed and lies  mine; but soon ss edges, its surfaces. I t sleep, unless I touc is cold, but I go quietly from to table, carpet, press. to Sue. I o touco be sure t s. But I cannot leave  my  an inc, he pillow, her face, as she sleeps.

    I do t, pers in a rohis happens.

    Rico make us go to t far from me, against turned boat; and  my side, pretending to c. I paint t so many times, tarts to rise and crumble beneat I paint on, stubbornly, and o w fiercely:

    God damn you, Maud,  so calm and steady?  bell? ter. t we migead, you keep us here—

    ill you move? I say. You are standing in my light.

    You are standing in mine, Maud. See  is, to remove t stle step is all t must be made. Do you see? ill you look? S. Sing. t piece of— O me find a matc!

    I glance at Sue. Be quiet, Richard.

    But t last comes a day, so close and airless, t overpo, tilts  to sime, ternoon is still and almost pleasant: ter, ts. I dra across trokes, and almost fall into slumber.

    turn to look at s o ly. And ures to Sue.

    Sill sits before turned boat, but  tten ip  it, curves to te asleep. ts against  of  are trips of pinking flesh.

    I look again at Ric urn back to my painting. I say quietly,  you wake her?

    S muco sunlig fondly, but laug tc sleep. S got   kno.

    , not  as if erest at tretcs to , and sneezes. troubles s o ly sniffs. I beg your pardon,  his handkerchief.

    Sue does not  frourns her head. her lower lip

    slig keeps its curve and point. I ed my brusouc once to my crumbling painting; no, till. I suppose udies me. I suppose t—for I find it later, black paint upon my blue go mark it as it falls,  is my not marking it, t betrays me. t, or my look. Sue froctle longer. turn, and find Richards eyes upon me.

    Oh, Maud, he says.

    t is all  in  last,  her.

    For a moment eps to me and takes my . tbrush falls.

    Come quickly, he says. Come quickly, before she wakes.

    akes me, stumbling, along ter flo top, s o my s.

    O. But this—!

    I urned my face from  feel  smile, I say, s laugh.

    Laug be glad I dont do s to ites are said to be pricked, by matters like t a gentleman so muc codes. You may love and be damned, for all I care.—Dont o t from igs me lean from tle, but grips my . You may love and be damned,  keep me from my money—keep us languis back our plot, our  future—you s, no. Not norifling tay for. No  is as tiresome to me as to you,  so!—Let her wake up

    and seek us out. Let  come to me? Very good. I s  last; and so . Stand steady, now.

    . ts against t billoo a silence.

    t will bring her, he says.

    I move my arms. You are ing me.

    Stand like a lover tle as anytried to strike o make me bruise you?

    pinning doall, rong.  about my —as young mens fingers are meant to do, I believe, on ts of ts. For a time I strain against tand braced and sing as a pair of lers in a ring. But I suppose t, from a distance,  seem swaying in a kind of love.

    But I to tire. till  upon us. till c, ter still laps among t tured 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 rong, before.

    It is only—

    But, only ? Only t s ,  sed toot s me soup—clear soup—instead of an egg, and smiled to see me drink it. t  shinks me good . . .

    Riccen to me, Maud, igen! If it

    must be ced, and robbed of y, for us to be free. the girl

    tors ake, — ?

    I begin to fear t, after all, I  t for it...quot; Youve a , instead, for little fingersmitten ten? Do you suppose yourself anyto  t? You oo long among your uncles books. Girls love easily, t is t of t o be ten.

    one groell ; You s tell ing my iffening. t is ao me. tell  Briar for good. My uncle s care reats me for it.

    I s tell ,  tell  o be my wife; and so make good our escape, as you promised.

    I turn my face from  else sill iger anot s  my ear.

    to c disturb us. No her know I have you . . .

    and pressure of and and let akes one  my  and lifts my arm. , I flinc. Excuse my le way along my s ouc of his

    ngue; and I saste—o knoands and cisfaction, thinking me his.

    For o myself. o o takes my cloak, takes my ser all- sands fro tly, across  is all s I see it, and my  gives a plunge—t caving, or dropping, t , so muc fear, or madness. I curn and stretc tudied gestures I ously, so long. Is t I, of all people, s kno I t desire smaller, neater; I supposed it bound to its oaste is bound to to ts and ins me, like a sickness. It covers me, like skin.

    I t see it. No must colour or mark me—I t must mark me crimson, like paint marks t red points, tures. I am afraid, t nigo undress before o lie at o sleep. I am afraid I urn and touch her ...

    But after all, if sremble, if s beat remble for ing, still ing. Next day I take o my mot and gaze at tone, t I  so neat and free from blemiso smas imes—t my mot I migo Sue: Do you kno did it!—and it is an effort, to keep te of triumph from my voice.

    S catc. Sco o comfort me—anyt all— w she says is: Mr Rivers.

    I look from empt, to to turn my ts to marriage. t be passed. Ss for me to speak. At last I tell ifully: Mr Rivers o marry him, Sue.

    Sears, time, t wasrue ones—and w, O souches me and holds my gaze, and says: he loves you.

    You think he does?

    S. S flinc follow your .

    I am not sure, I say. If I might only be sure!

    But to love, so lose him!

    I grooo conscious of talks to me of beating blood, of t once s t I love  o fear and e him.

    Se.  will you do? she says, in a whisper.

    can I do? I say.  choice have I?

    S anso gaze for a moment at t t  turns back, her face has changed.

    Marry ells me. hing he says.

    So Briar to ruin me, to c me and do me  ell myself. See  srifling! A ttle fingersmited, so my past, kept from my future—by . t dras grow close. / s, I s—

    You are cruel, Ric t. I t Sue—I t be someone else you care for . . .

    Sometimes I see  old imes s me, so strangely—or else ouciff, so nervous and unpractised—I to leave toget tell hen.

    do you say, Suky, to this? She loves you!

    Loves me? Like a lady loves her maid?

    Like certain ladies love t stle o keep you close about ?  sroublesome dreams?—Is t ry to kiss you back . . .

    ould s seems to me siously beside me no seems to me sen c t, t o terrible life—or else, t me o life, too vivid, too o see figures start out from tterns in ty carpets and drapes, or creep, he ceilings and walls.

    Even my uncles books are co me; and t of all. I art up, are filled ammer. I lose my place. My uncle s of brass, and t at me. t steadies me, for a time. But t, from a certain o pleasure anot of a man.

    And songue to it, and into it—

    You like this, Rivers? asks my uncle.

    I confess, sir, I do.

    ell, so do many men; t is o my taste. Still, I am glad to note your interest. I address t fully, of course, in my Index. Read on, Maud. Read on.

    I do. And despite myself—and in spite of Ricormenting gaze—I feel tale  amped, after all, ter ts place in my uncles collection. I leave t and go upstairs—go sloapping toes of my slippered feet against eacep. If I strike tand in darkness. o undress me I o suffer ouc suffer t toucailor.

    And yet, even  yield at last, to t of t lift and place t wo hers.

    I o dream unspeakable dreams; and to imes sirs. Sometimes s. Go back to sleep, simes I do. Sometimes I dont. Sometimes I rise and go about times, take drops. I take drops, t; turn to  sink, not into let only into more confusion. I tely read, to Rico my uncle: to me, noakes ongue—forced it rivingly—took s—opened tle—ttle cunt—

    I cannot silence t see to gato s my  kno make some sound, or movement; for wc sche bed is so dark.

    Go to sleep, shick.

    I feel my legs, very bare inside my go at he bed.

    I say, Im afraid . . .

    t is it? s Sue! If she were Agnes! If she were a girl in a book—!

    Girls love easily, t is t.

    ongue—

    Do you think me good? I say.

    Good, miss?

    S felt like safety, once. No feeis like a trap. 1 say, I wisell me—

    tell you w, miss?

    tell me. tell me a o save you. A o save myself. tly black. hip, lip—

    Girls love easily, there.

    I  is a  do, on

    And at first, it is easy. After all, t is done, in my uncles books: to embrace you. It is easy. I say my part, and stle prompting—says  is easy, it is easy .. .

    ts o mine.

    I , before, tlemans still, dry lips against my gloved , insinuating kisses upon my palm.  tly to mine, but t my face. I cannot see aste astes of sleep, sligoo sour. I part my lips—to breato s in breato dra, also. ongue comes betouches mine.

    And at t, I s is like t of sometroubling of a  slo

    our damp mouto cling toget, to tear. Sing of a , and suppose it my o it is . Sly, to tremble.

    tcement of  of her.

    Do you feel it? srangely in te darkness. Do you feel it?

    I do. I feel it as a falling, a dropping, a trickling, like sand from a bulb of glass. t dry, like sand. I am . I am running, like er, like ink.

    I begin, like o shake.

    Dont be frigc soo, so me, and my fleso rembling, rembling, from tc be frig it is sened. ill s catcips of ter against my face.

    Do you see? s is easy, it is easy. t—  to touch you.

    to touch me?

    Only touctering ouchis.

    s up my nigill. ter: t, and slide, and in sliding seem, like o quicken and drao gat of t of my natural s I longed for o feel a longing so great, so s  , and mount, and make me mad, or kill me. Yet ill. S you are! — to press. I catc makes ate, and t last she

    giving of my fles. S ate noo me and puts  my t s , so a rime, a quickening beat. Sc of me: soon I seem to be no ts at tering, bursting out of o . her voice is broken. You pearl.

    I dont knoress . Ss back t. t is still deep, till black. Our breatill come fast, our s beat loud—faster, and louder, to me, in th echoes of our voices, our whispers and cries.

    I cannot see  after a moment s, akes it to  and s speak. S is rising from . I reac up again, and lay it gently about her.

    Everyto myself, is couc back my flesill feel ill feel ing my gaze. I tell ;I meant to c you. I cannot c you no. e can make it ours.quot;—e can make it ours, I t up entirely. I need only escape from Briar: she can

    —s o London, find money for ourselves . . .

    So I calculate and plan, s , oget move a er. I rise up from my pillo: s, still , from the pressing of her hand.

    You pearl, she said.

    ts my gaze. My  leaps hin me.

    She looks away.

    I t first. I tly about taking out my petticoats and goand, so s, s. And  by  seems to me t so groc seems queer in reflection, crooked and o my  keeps ime on ain hink, She is ashamed.

    So then, I speak.

    a tly. Didnt I?

    ter. You did, she answers. No dreams.

    No dreams, save one, I say. But t  one. I t, Sue . . .

    Sc mine, t kisses, t to c  c   good. But I migo try to be. t. e can make it ours—

    In your dream? s last, moving from me. I dont t me. I ste almost smoked. You  t.

    I sit dazed for a moment, as if struck by o tcte, put back tumbling  I keep at ter  to my uncle. I  anyoo plump, too pink—plumper and pinker toucarting ailes, grinding lavender soap against my tongue, then wiping and wiping her hands upon her apron.

    Everyt all. S back my fles fleso my drac, cover up , but s look—I tly at me, again. I meant to save  o my uncle, to to Mrs Stiles, to some nees, t  up; of tes and days t stretcill to be lived. I t Ric money,  London,  liberty. it Sue.

    And so you see it is love—not scorn, not malice; only love—t makes me he end.

 Chapter Eleven

    e leave, just as e. My uncles prints are mounted and bound: akes me to vie of treat.

    Fine work, hink, Maud? hmm?

    Yes, sir.

    Do you look?

    Yes, Uncle.

    Yes. Fine work. I believe I srey and  week?  do you say? S?

    I do not ansurns to Richard.

    Rivers, o come back, as a guest, rey?

    Richard bows, looks sorry. I fear, sir, I shall be occupied elsewhere.

    Unfortunate. You , Maud? Most unfortunate . . .

    t on  . Cs  of convulsion, and runs. My uncle also shen.

    Do you see, Rivers, torments to wc boy and whip him!

    I will, sir, says Mr ay.

    Ric me, and smiles. I do not smile back. And eps, akes my  quite nervelessly against urns to my uncle: Mr Lilly. Fareo you, sir!

    A rap is dra? S you like it, to o return to our solitary ways?

    e go back into tairs at my uncles side, as I once, as a girl, climbed tiles. imes, I ted times ruck t, t spot? rait goworn? uous words ly read?—lemen?

    tairs, tlemen, tle crescent I once picked out in t t covers try to imagine it, eyeless. I remember co gatself toget of t, / s I s I t Briar oo.— Or else, I , ial life beyond its walls.

    I t I s, monotonous g,

    -soled feet, to ttern of ancient carpets.

    But perer all, I am a g already. For I go to Sue and so take, to s s all  meeting my gaze; and I cs sakes up; feel tir of  of   s last so s only . e take our lunco my motare at tone, feeling notreaks of mud.

    I o Rico my uncle. t, t—t so mucs as by y of . I sit at my supper, I eat, I read; I return to Sue and let ake and at t fully, from foot to foot. Look at tly,  it is! Look at t time is it? Not eleven, yet?—to ter, no;

    to do, before I go: one deed—one terrible deed—to goad and console me, tten-do Briar; and no nears, as t, still, unsuspecting, I do it. Sue leaves me, to look over our bags. I ening buckles.—t is all I  for.

    I go stealt need a lamp, and my dark dress o tairs, cross quickly ts of moonlig ten. Silence. So to t  t door I pause again, and listen again, to be sure t all is still hin.

    to my uncles rooms. I ered , as I guess, t greased, and turn  a sound. tep.

    look at to  my ear to take turn it. One incen again. If irs, I urn and go. Does ill I , uncertain. t, even rasp of hing.

    ains pulled close but keeps a ligable: to me, I so be nervous of t t  moving from my place beside t me; and at last see to take. On and, beside er: c, to ; and his razor.

    I go quickly and take tly, I feel it slit my glove. If it s does not fall. t, ts clasp, at an angle, ss edge. I pull it a little freer, and turn it to t: it must be s I  it for. I t is s my el, picked out against t pass for a girl in an allegory. Confidence Abused.

    Beo my uncles bed do not quite meet. In t of lig is , but rato , like a c is drao ig out ter dreams, pering spines. acles sit neatly, as if able beside h

    t eyes ture. the razor is warming in my hand . . .

    But t t kind of story. Not yet. I stand and c a minute; and tly. I go to tairs, and from to t room I lock t my back and lig is beating , noicipation. But time is racing, and I cannot . I cross to my uncles sen tain Dra: I take it, and open it, and set it upon  t tig. tiff, but springs t inc is its nature to cut, after all.

    Still, it is  is terribly  cannot do it—to put tal for t time to t and naked paper. I am almost afraid t it does not s sigs oion; and s become ser and more true.

    urn to Sue s t . But soo relieved to scold me. en it up noake your bag.—Not t one, t ones too  go. Ss o my mouteady takes my he house.

    Soft as a tells me  I ly stood, ligc ts airs are strange to me, all t of trange to me. Sil s doo make turn. Sc ac.

    takes me into t; and the house seems queer—for of course, I have never

    before seen it at sucood at my . If I stood tugging my rees, tones and stumps of ivy? For a second I ate, turn and ce sure t, if I only , I  ther windows. ill no-one wake, and come, and call me back?

    No-one  my urn and folloe in t again I let it fall among tand in sing a Pyramus. t black.

    o t. t sits loer—a dark-, slender, rising at t of my dreams. I c come, feel Sues urn in mine; tep from ake ts, let o my seat, unresisting. Saggering,  against ts, urn, and t takes us.

    No-one speaks. No-one moves, save Ricly, in silence, into our dark and separate hells.

    follo t I so keep upon t, but am made to leave it and mount a  any otime; but I sit lifelessly upon it noting it bear me—as, I t it t co. I remember t, talks of y, my o of fingers to anoting of a ring. I am made to say certain  I ten. I remember ter, in a surplice smudged  recall  Ricing of my name. I do not remember t I recall next is a room, Sue loosening my go my

    c, coarser; and , still. Sues fingers slip from mine.

    You must be different now, surn my face.

    me. In ands Rics out s to o stifle laughter.

    Oly, s, he says; and laughs again.

    I c speak, ts pulled . I am sober, noe aep. A mouse, or bird, moves in ters. t must show in my face.

    Its queer for you, o me. Dont mind it. You s London soon. t. I say not be fey; not no, Maud! o my side. , il t the floor.

    I close my eyes. tinues anot, till. But co see till moves in ts back o follos pat, and udies me again.

    And t my cly. range. Dont say youre afraid.  strike me. But  do t. tles at t. ed.  your  beats, o test, he racing of my blood.

    touc, I say. touc, and die. I have poison in me.

    ops, an inc. I  blinking. raigchen curls in scorn.

    Did you ted you?   speak too loudly, in case Sue satedly smoot. God damn it, akes off , tugs at to  one of  you stare so?  I already told you, you are safe? If you to be married— o t act glad,  of en?

    , exposing t t covers ttress, at ts, and aurns. o t of rousers and dra. A pen-knife.

    I see it, and t once of my uncles razor. It  life,  I  stealt sleeping  tcs o t is spotted black. astefully at it, t against   uncertainly, flincal touche knife.

    God damn it, c look, so uselessly.  you, to save me t s again. ell, t is like you. I s t, being obliged to bleed, you migo some advantage; but, no . . .

    Do you mean, I say, to insult me, in every possible way?

    Be quiet, ill speaking in o t once, I offer it.  away. No, no, ,

    in a moment. s it in one of t takes anot! tle blood springs to t—it seems dark, in t, upon te s it fall to t muc.  t and palm, and t falls faster.  catch my eye.

    After a moment, ly: Do you suppose t enough?

    I study  you kno kno—

    But ter uous girl, t one. You ougo know.

    till feebly runs. urn a  ry on it in  antly, at ture s  to t . e tle of  monsters you females must be, to endure to madness. See s? er all I cut too deep. t , provoking me. tle brandy ore me.

    to his arm. I say, I have no brandy.

    No brandy.   or ot you do.   kept?

    I ate; but noo

    rnake its creeping  my  and limbs. In my leattle to me, dra its stopper, puts o it, grimaces. Bring me a glass, also, I say. tle dusty er.

    Not like t, for me,  t  it quicker. akes ttle from me, uncovers , lets a single drop fall into ted fles stings.  runs, . tc my breast.

    At lengt;t,quot; e a column on us, in the London papers.

    I ss  falls, covering ttle.  first, s it out of my grasp.

    No, no,  onigs it in , and I am too o try to take it from ands and ya t  t of tating manner, at t my side; tends to shudder.

    I s be astoniser all, o o t my t. No, I s risk it.

    eps to ts ongue, puts out ts in a  of .  te. But han I do.

    And  tain back. till brig  to lie in darkness. But after all, every surface t takes up t is strange to me; and  my fingers to some mark upon taking my touco groranger. My cloak and gown and linen are closed in

    t. I look, and look, for somet last, in tand, my so toop, and place my  straigouchem again.

    ten o—for bells and gro back my  t lies Sue. If surned in . S make any sound, any at all—I c, I am certain I would.

    Ss in  creeps across time, I sleep. I sleep and dream of Briar. But t as I recall te for my uncle, and lost.

    Ser t, to o set food before me, to take aouce; but, as in t of our days at Briar, ss my gaze. ts near me, but rarely do , roug nigry, t muddy s. rangeness. . Above all, he angular arm-chair.

    See ? It is rising from its socket—it is quite t. I srousers. I s Cer all. At te I s London only to be laugs streets.

    London, I to me now.

    , every ottes tain on o t. Nos me take a dose of my draug tle.

    Very good, c much longer, now.

    o your best goomorrow, will you?

    I do. I o bring an end to our long . I end fear, and nervousness, and  looking at Sue—or else, looking at ely, to see if s I remember sliding upon me, pressing, turning, opening me up—oucly lifeless and ors.

    e —I cannot say  last: tomorrooday. You remember?

    I errible dreams.

    I cannot see t send t come anotime.

    Dont be tiresome, Maud.

    ands and dresses, fastening ie.  lies neatly on the bed.

    I  see them! I say.

    You ion. You e it ime to leave.

    I am too nervous.

    anso raise a bruso —find t, ttle of drops—but o me and plucks it from my hand.

    O. I   be quite clear in your mind.

    urns ttle to t. hen I reach again, he dodges.

    Let me , I say. Ric me . One drop only, I s t t to remove the impression of my fingers.

    Not yet, .

    I cannot! I s be calm,  a dose of it.

    You sry, for my sake. For our sake, Maud.

    Damn you!

    Yes, yes, damn us all, damn us all. urns to the

    bruser a moment I sink back, ches

    my eye.

    antrum,  kindly. And t to do, . Be modest. eep if you must, a little. You are sure o say?

    I am, despite myself; for , ts at , at ttle of drops. ts on every street corner, there.

    My moutrembles in scorn. You till  my medicine, in London?

    to my ears. urns akes up ands at to cast slivers of dirt, fastidiously, into the flames.

    akes t to talk urned mad, t, speaking in to a maids room. I airs and floorboards beneats. I onous—but not t  all. I sit upon til tand and curtsey. Susan, says Ricly. My . But I t be strange. I see tudying me. Ricchen he comes close.

    A faito tors. rengtaxed, t ts me in t of t here,

    ly, in your mistresss clemen only rifling questions. You must ansly.

    to reassure or to  one of mine. I still wear my wedding-ring.  free and ,  his palm.

    Very good, says one of tors, more satisfied noes in a book. I curn a page and, suddenly, long for paper. Very good. e ress. You do o t and o tell you to be your name, ory one t resembles yours? You kno?

    Ricches.

    Yes, sir, I say, in a whisper.

    And your name is Susan Smith?

    Yes, sir.

    And you o Mrs Rivers—Miss Lilly, as was—in her uncles house, of Briar, before her marriage?

    I nod.

    And before t— treet, Mayfair?

    No, sir. I never hey are all Mrs Riverss fancy.

    I speak, as a servant migantly, some otance, o provide tory ors to seek t. e do not they will, however.

    tor nods again. And Mrs Rivers, ;fancyquot;. hen did such fancies begin?

    I srange, I say quietly. ts at Briar e righer was mad, sir.

    Noing. tors dont  to s. Go on ions, only.

    Yes, sir, I say. I gaze at ters rising from thick as needles.

    And Mrs Riverss marriage, says tor.  affect her?

    It , sir, I say, ime, so love Mr Rivers; and   of , sarted up very queer ...quot;

    tor looks at  matc is quite remarkable!—as if, in making a burden of o  burden to anotter able to bear it. Sion of urns to me. A fiction, indeed, fully. tell me tress care for books? for reading?

    I meet  my t seems to close, or be splintered, like t anserary life. ed to t of learning, and sao ion as  o a sons. Mrs Riverss first passion was books.

    t! says tor. leman I dont doubt. But to literature— t. e are raising a nation of brain-cultured ress, Im afraid to say, is part of a ure of our race, Mr Rivers, I may tell you noart of t recent bout of insanity? Could t—or  ouc for t . I noted, too, t she wears no marriage ring.

    Ricarts into life at tends to dra. tune favours villains.

    is,  t

    it from  noes at  imagine tions t produced, sir, in my breast. s o s  it. to t, a pallet of straw—! s enoug h his own roguery.

    A cor. But o sural fancy—

    Unnatural? says Ricrange. A knoo keep it from you. I feel no.

    Indeed? says tor. ther pauses, his pencil raised.

    Rics  once I knourn my face to . he speaks, before I can.

    Susan, o feel sress. You need feel none,  attaco you. You did noto invite or encourage ttentions my empted to force on you—

    es at ors stare, turn to gaze at me.

    Miss Smit, leaning closer, is true?

    I t as s be noisfied to rayed me, glad to suppose  to return at last to  down, You pearl. . .

    Miss Smith?

    I o weep.

    Surely, says Rico me, putting ears speak for to name t o reful poses—to ed  lemen?

    Of course, says tor quickly, moving back. Of course. Miss Smit. You need not fear for your safety, no fear for ty of your mistress.  yours. tand—a case sucreatment may hy one . . .?

    t papers, and look for a surface on  t. Ricable of brus c, but ogeto saircase t beside tands in to they drive off.

    teps to me and tosses to my lap. oget capers.

    You devil, I say,  passion, ears from my cheek.

    s. o ts o my o eitilts it back until our gazes meet. Look at me, ell me, ly, t you dont admire me.

    I e you.

    e yourself, t to love us, for ts? t does! t to be got from love; from scorn,  ricer may be  is true. You are like me. I say it again: e me, e yourself.

    least. I close my eyes.

    I say, I do.

    to knock upon our door.  calls for o enter.

    Look e c your mistress. Dont you ttle brig day, for the madhouse.

    So dress me, for time.

    t on or draill, t Briar, t is spotted er. S  is turned to t taking up my linen, my sting tined for London, t, as s is o co see ticoat, a pair of stockings or so kno to take, in case ts are cool. No and ttle of drops, my gloves) s her bag.

    And one ot  s kno Briar, ed tooth.

    t . oo tall for tilting ep outside, retc to my room so long,  to me. I  t give it up—give it up, for ever!—I tate.

    Noiment.

    t, as more tter of galloping urning  journey, iles, from to Briar: I put my face to the window

    as t expect to see tcill, I kno. But, t er. It ics, only. t  in bare earts door—tall floips like spikes.

    I fall back in my seat. Ricches my eye.

    Dont be afraid, he says.

    take o tands before me at t.

    ait, I  are you doing? tlemen! Gentlemen!—an odd and formal phrase.

    tors speak in sootones, until so curse; tilts, tilted, earing from its pins. e. her look is wild, already.

    like a stone, until Ricakes my arm and presses, .

    Speak, , clear, mechanically:

    Oress!  darker fleck. umbling  is breaking!

    to ring about ter Rico life and turned us. e do not speak. Beside Ric I see ill struggling, lifting o point or reacrees. I take off my  to tcrembling hands.

    ell— he says.

    Dont speak to me, I say, almost spitting to me, I shall kill you.

    tempts to smile. But rangely and ly  one  lengtakes a cigarette from , and a matcries to dra  come. aggers, beats upon to stop t o ts o t imes. I ch him.

    akes  again, you are now.

    And h a sneer.

    turns s  ting cusends, co sleep.

    My oay open. I gaze t travelled—a , like a t.

    e make part of our journey like t t give up take a train. I rain before. e  at a country station. e  at an inn, since Ricill afraid t my uncle  men to c us in a private room and bring me tea and bread-and-butter. I  look at tray. tea groands at ttles t, ts out: God damn you, do you take food for you, for free? s tter , after t lemans labour, receiving  leman in cuffs.  damn porter? o sickets, I wonder?

    At last a boy appears to fetcake our bags. e stand on tation platform and study they shine, as if polished.

    In time to purr, and tly, like nerves in failing teeto rain comes ling about track, a plume of smoke at its s many doors unfolding. I keep my veil about my face. Rico to it, per my  quite private, till London? takes han ever.

    t I must pay a man to t cely, tle virgin of a  me tell you noe account of ts of to c your share.

    I say notrain en o roll upon its tracks. I feel t, and grip trap of leatil my ers in its glove.

    So t seems to me t  cross vast distances of space.—For you and t my sense of distance and space is ratrange. e stop at a village of red-bricked  anot a t every station t seems to me a press of people clamouring to board, train—perurn it.

    I to be crusrain; and almost hey do.

    t. treets and treets and spires t seen; more eady traffic of cattle and ve. But Ricudies me as I gaze, and smiles unpleasantly. Your natural op at tation and I see t: MAIDENhEAD.

    tly y miles, and y to go. I sit, still gripping trap, leaning close to t tation is filled he men idly walking; and from

    train gives a s bulk, and so terrible life. e leave treets of Maidenrees. Beyond trees t as my uncles, some greater. tages  icks for climbing beans, and rees, on buss of broken carts—laundry everywhere, drooping and yellow.

    I keep my pose and c all. Look, Maud, I ture. y, unfolding like a bolt of cloth . . .

    I hey have her in, now.

    Ricries to see beyond my veil. Youre not rouble over it still.

    I say, Dont look at me.

    S Briar, . You kno, soon, t it. Believe me, I kno only be patient. e must botient noogetune becomes ours. I am sorry I spoke  London, soon. t to you t;

    I do not ans last,  up. to ty. treaks of soot upon ttages o be replaced by o patco ditcco dark canals, to dreary es of road, to mounds of stones or soil or asill, Even as of your freedom—and I feel, despite myself, t of excitement. But tement becomes unease. I  rising, straig

    supposed it  complete: but nocretc red land, and gaping trenc  celess roofs and jutting spars of wood, naked as bones.

    Nos upon ts in train begins to rise. I dont like tion. e begin to cross streets—grey streets, black streets—so many monotonous streets, I to tell t! Sucalloton aste. ords, every.—Broug Carriages.—Paper-Stainers.—Supported Entirely.—to Let!— to Let!—By Voluntary Subscription.—

    t,  train and cast t, vast, vaulting roof of tarnis eam and fluttering birds. e so a frig. t seems to me—of a thousand people.

    Paddington terminus, says Richard. Come on.

    look at me—I ake our bags. e stand in a line of people—a queue, I kno for a carriage—a  y ells ones driver to go about ts Park. I knoy of opportunities fulfilled. tling and clamour, I do not kno is t understand. It is marked  I cannot read it. ty, tition, of

    brick, of reet, of person—of dress, and feature, and expression—stuns and exs me. I stand at Ricle is blos—ordinary men, gentlemen—pass by us, running-

    e take our place in t last, and are jerked out of terminus into cense. Are you startled, by treets?  pass t did you expect? ty,  mind it. Dont mind it at all. e are going to your new home.

    to our , I , I will sleep.

    to our udies me a moment longer, t troubles you— he blind.

    And so once again , and so tion of a coac, time, by all t see it  see e takes, at all: per kno, if I did, tudied maps of ty, and kno say, ir of my senses and . Be bold, I am this. Be bold!

    Ricurns for our bags. From  ed, and blink at t— t  ty fleece of a sed to find myself at to  tered streets t appear to me unspeakably s, dead ained arcc his arm.

    Is t? I say.

    Quite rig be alarmed. e cannot live grandly, yet. And  make our entrance t s all.

    You are still afraid t my uncle may  men, to ch

    usr

    alk soon, indoors. Not s.

    o follo. Not far, nourn into anotained and broken face of ake to be a single great  errace of narroc makes me er. Soon urn again, into a lane of cruncanding idly about a bird, s o tug at my sleeve, my cloak, my veil. Rice, turn to take anotier, patime gripping me er, faster, certain of  mind t a little furt.

    And at last, , tles. te from o one of to dra, so black and foul is it, I suddenly ate, and pull against his grip.

    Come on, urning round, not smiling.

    Come to where? I ask him.

    to your ne ed for you to start it, too long. to our s us. Come, now.—Or shall I leave you here?

    ired, her pas-

    sages, but tening o let us come, to trap me.

    can I do? I cannot go back, alone, to treet, ty. I cannot go back to Sue. I am not meant to. Everyto t. I must go foro exist. I t is ing for me: of ts key t urn; of the bed, on which I shall lie and sleep, and sleep—

    I ate, one second more; t o t is s, and ends  of sairs, leading dourn, end at a door, on , quick footsteps, a grinding bolt. t. t Richard and nods.

    All right? he says.

    All rigy o stay.

    ting to make out tures beo let us pass  tig our backs.

    tcs kitc is small, and , and one or table and—perer all, ters—a brazier in a cage, ools about it. Beside ts do-faced, red-ceetrip of dry meat, and dressed—I notice traordinary coat, t seems pieced togeties of fur. s jao keep it from barking.  Ric me.  and gloves and bonnet. les.

    price togs, he says.

    t creaks as it tilts—a rike cs it doruggles from , and tonised brazier, t of fur—it is a sleeping, swollen-.

    I look at Ric aken ands  smiling oddly. Everyone is silent. No-one moves save te-  table. Saffeta, t rustles. o me, sands before me, ries to catcures. Ss ill close and terribly eager.  red o me, I flinc ill does not is so arange, compels me. I stand and let s it back. And tranger still,  h her fingers.

    S speaks to Ricears of age, or of emotion.

    Good boy, she says.

 Chapter Twelve

    there comes a kind of chaos.

    ts blanket gives a cry; anot I  noticed—it lies in a tin box, beneatable—begins to cry also. Ricakes off  and , sets doretc hin.

    It aint Sue, he says.

    Miss Lilly, says tly. Aint you just tired, dear? You e a journey

    It aint Sue, says ttle louder.

    C catcays °n beo take care of a fe points.—Mr Ibbs, how are you, sir?

    S, son, taken off ing to us has

    gone. ttle brazier is cooling and ticking and grotle and a spoon, but is still stealing looks at me.

    t get it. You will, answers Rics  h, and winks.

    till before me, still describing my face elling off my features as if tring. Broers. Nice and dainty at teete as c, I dare say? Oh!

    I ood, as if in a trance, and let ter against my face, I start away from her.

    o me?  me, any of you? And you— I go to Riccoat.  is t me to?  do they know of Sue, here?

    he woman looks rueful.

    Got a voice, dont she girl.

    Like t clean.

    Rics my gaze, t can I say? he shrugs. I am a villain.

    Damn your attitudes noell me  yours?

    Is it .

    Jo, or Ill t mind !

    I can feel  do not look at ell me, I say.

    Not mine,  last.

    Not ours? hen?

    ired. It is to the Borough.

    tand for a moment in silence, thinking back across his

    drops. Sues hieves.

    to t know us!

    I t! I  spit at cc. It seems darker, too, and close. I still coat. ries to pull a as  me o be rid of me. o keep my money for o give trifling s of my s drops again, as I t—Sue t all.

    You s do it! I say, my voice rising. You t knoo do? All of you?  trick?

    You dont knories to dra let , tainly kill me. For a second ruggle. titcc ead.

    take me back, I say. I say it, t let t my voice  make it firm. take me back, at once, to treets and hackneys.

    do it.

    take me noudied it,  a—a policeman!

    the dog barks.

    Noroking ac be careful alk, dear, in a his.

    It is you o anot is it you t is you  is all of you! And you, Ric be most careful of all, so talk.

    But Riching. Do you hear me? I cry.

    ts o o clear it of o everyone. Aint it?

    Damn you! I say. I look  me for a moment, t my bag. Ric first,   across t playfully. takes it up, and  in o pick at the blade flashes.

    Ric leave, Maud,  go, hing.

    o to stand before it. t lead, pero a street, pero ot one. I am sorry, he says.

    t itself is like a blade, and astonis I  Briar?  I felt it rising from me, and been glad? Noo kill me; and I am more afraid t possible to be, of anyt all.

    You fool, I say to myself. But to t. You s! I run one , not for t Ric for t, and s, and put my o its neck. You s! I say again. Damn you, do you t t!—I t.—See, ifle it!

    terested. t t no six, if you . Make it—ure to tin box beneatable—make it five. It is all to me. I fancy I am about to give the business up, anyway.

    ture in my arms slumbers on, but gives a kick. I feel tation of its  beneathere is a

    fluttering at top of its scs ^er o  for a cigarette. , Put t you?

    mildly; and I become a. I set table, among tes and c once, takes  over its head.

    do it. John Vroom shall have him—lips, nose and ears!

    tickled. ts enougs to be  of to t y, see to little Sidney before ed girl. I expected not you dont imagine o  you? So me again. S stand  toucs rokes my sleeve. You dont imagine you aint more welcome han anyone?

    I still stle. I cant imagine, I say, pulling myself a in keeping me o leave.

    Silts , Mr Ibbs? srokes me again. Sit do t from a very grand place, it miging for you. ont you take off your cloak, and your bonnet? You ser, c you slip off your gloves?—ell, you kno.

    I cly, is raticular about to  feed way— by her uncle.

    the woman looks sage.

    Your uncle, s  a lot of filtouch you, dear,

    to  no, ter your oranger, I al a shame?

    I , to disguise trembling of my legs; but o t, it is , it is terribly , my c I must not move, I must till picks at till at my side. t of t s it.

    I turn my  not my gaze. Ric ansens tring of my bonnet and dra from my s my akes up a lock of it and rubs it between her fingers.

    Quite fair, s of e fair, like gold almost.

    Do you mean to sell it? I say take it! I snatc t up and rip it from its pins. You see, I say,  me go.

    Sty  I said? e dont mean to  y: you sime. And Mr ing for you— you, Mr Ibbs? And ing for you,  of all. Dear me,  has been.

    S o me. Aint s to be— ongue, lets  ward?

    ts cly at me: Miss Lilly is tunes h ours. Miss Lilly

    dont kno—as , t empt you? Sogetton cc a stall on ty s, bring it back, fry it up, quick as  ces, look, fit for royalty. e got silver forks— Mr Ibbs, pass me one of ttle roug t it? Dont mind it, darling. ts  off. Feel t of it, t t  t be fishe

    chop?

    Sands, bending to me, o my face. I push

    it aside.

    Do you suppose, I say, I mean to sit and eat a supper o call you servants! tunes her die!

    t a dander, says t she?

    But t admiring. Daintys got a dander, s one myself. Any ordinary girl can  a lady  do t, Gentleman? So Riciredly to tug upon the slavering dog.

    eur,  looking up.

    eur, ss.

    Mersee, says te, after all, to ook it for common bad manners, and punched her.

    urns to tc you learned yet,  prise it, boy, and mass s little  about to bust it.

    tab  time I he word used as

    a curse. akes t of ts it to t and stop , sly, in one long gash.

    ell, ts like you, says tly.

    aken out a pipe, and lig. ts o t in tc and, till burning from t of tting of to tremble.

    Please, I say. Please give me back my t trouble about t is mine, and let me go.

    I suppose my voice eous note to it; for nourn tudy me, and trokes my hair.

    Not frigill? s frig being playful.—Jo your knife a, dear? s a creased old t looks like it aint been used in fifty years. e s you a proper one. S hough!

    t gives up t to me I take it and . tears, rising in my t.

    Boo-, ter, he says, when you was a chair.

    I am sure . t to look at Ric it enougo ricked me? and so coolly  me?

    roking o t you a quieter place, for o sit in?

    A quieter place? so warm  down o come up, dear, now? Make your ? ash your hands?

    I so be so treet, and a , only t.

    ell,  treet from t me take t old bag.— ant to keep it? All rig your grip a strong one! Gentleman, you come along, too, ake your old room, at top?

    I will, .

    t ands close. I soo, and bet menace a so a pen—tcoaircase.  is darker and cooler, and I feel t perreet-door, and sloeps; but I too, of  t call from it, or drop from it—or fling myself from it—sry to  me. taircase is narro; eps, are cer, ing ing shadows.

    Lift your skirts, dear, above the woman, going up before me. Richard comes, very close, behind.

    At top t: t, and s to a small square room. A bed, a ly cross. It is narroogetreet, a ment-coloured sters -s in yellow chalks.

    I stand and study it all, my bag still clutco me, but my arms groairs; t to tand and pours a little er from to take, in coming so quickly to tands betout, and

    puso surprise her.

    Per tand, ilted, but sche same close, eager, half-awed, half-admiring way as before.

    ed soap, sotle and to me,  bared and made   you care, she says, for lavender?

    I epped acart! I dont care, I say, taking anotep, to be tricked. Seps, too.  trickery, darling?

    Do you t to come o stay?

    I tartled. I t quite yourself. Not quite myself? s myself to you? o say  or mig be?

    At t, , returns to tand, toucoairs, a cairs, Ricters. If I am to run, I must do it notom, t t? I am not sure. Never mind, I t I do not. ts cate; and in t of t ation Riceps airs. o tte beo er.

    . take your cloak off, Maud, o strangle me.

    t keep my cloak quite fastened, and move backhe window. I will

    as . I reet. Ricches me and sighs. he makes his eyes wide. You need

    t . Do you to  you?

    And do you trust you not to? You told me vourself, at Briar, o, for moneys sake. I  mean to c me of all my fortune. tell me you s get it, tcer some slig contracts. Clever Sue. Good girl.

    S up, Maud.

    . the deed upon your conscience. I suppose you have one?

    Not one, ly, t roubled by to  like it.

    till gazing at t speaking. You do everyt her word?

    Everyt meaningfully; and e, not understanding, en to me, Maud. t. From start to finis I am, I am not so great a s I would swindle .

    —but t  to me before. You are lying, I say.

    No. truth.

    believe it. S sent you to Briar, to my uncle? And before t, to Paris? to Mr rey?

    S sent me to you. No matter all ting patook to reac aken t kno t  eps.

    I glance betune, ter a moment. So anyone mig of the house?

    S anyone.

    ts o mine again at last, and nods. I kneher, she says.

    My moto my t—a curious trait lies s ribbon fraying, I   in years. My moto London to escape  once, I t Briar—untended, untrimmed, its one creeping h grey.

    till c my hand drop.

    I dont believe you, I say. My mot was her name?__

    tell me t.

    So look sly. I kno, s  say it just yet. Ill tell you tter t started it, t arts your name. Ill tell you tter. t oo! t letter, t. t was aR . . .

    S, I kno? ho is she?

    A nurse, I say. You were a nurse—

    But s smiles. Now, w?

    You dont kno kno I was born in a madhouse!

    as you? she answers quickly. hy do you say so?

    You t remember my own home?

    I stle.  mean here.

    I , I say.

    You old it, I expect.

    Every one of my uncles servants kno!

    told it, too, per make it true? Maybe, j Maybe not.

    As sand to ts upon it, sloness

    s, Gentleman?—I  last t t?  me again. e keeps t room, s, friendly, dangerous tone, for Gentleman to kip in  of room it is, I can tell you. Seen all manner of business up ts of tricks. People been knoo come —sends surprise— t be found—do you see?—whey come here. Chaps, girls, kids, ladies

    After t   you sit, dear girl? Dont care to? e, t upon it—a quilt of coloured squares, rougted, and rougogeto pluck at one of its seams, as if in distraction. Now, w was I speaking of? she says, her eyes on mine.

    Of ladies, says Richard.

    Ss s rigrue ladies, you find ticks in ticular, t came—oeen years? Seventeen? Eigcime to you, s, I dare say. Seems a lifetime, dont it? Only , dear girl, till you are my age. togetogetears . . . Ss. But I ill, and cold, and cautious, and say nothen she goes on.

    ell, ticular lady, s muc  s my name from a  did girls and ts. You knoopped? S. t  of my line. My idea   going to kill you on its , then have

    it, and sell it; or ter, give it to me and let me sell it for you!—I mean, to people t  infants, for servants or apprentices, or for regular sons and daug t?—and people like me, providing ts? No? Again, I make no ans eitill so me. Poor tried to  soo far on, s sick. quot;; I said, before I took ; follo about kill  o t. As for tleman t arted roubles all off, by saying lemen, of course, will do.

    ook  airs. Pernt to . Mr Ibbs did say I oug to. For I  and fretful—more fretful, t borne a little infant of my o  talk of t,  talk of t.

    S , as if in searcory. to find tcures up t is a dirty yellohe smoke of lamps.

    Up t lemans room. And all day long I  beside  I would urning in her bed, and crying. Nearly broke your

    . S die. Mr Ibbs supposed it. I t, for s to go anot s rengto go  time. But maybe t, too—times. For s and it starts coming. takes a day and a nigo come, all rigs a s te made rags of. t;s t, Mrs Sucksby?quot; s;ts your baby, my dear!quot; I tell ;My baby?quot; says s;Is my baby a boy, or a girl?quot; quot;Its a girl,quot; I say. And ;to girls. I wis;

    Ss s t t: aken up t of t across tle lohose backwards, rueful sighs.

    ty, crying again . . . S  I, Miss Lilly? Not finding me tiresome, dear? Aint muco erest, perales ...quot;

    Go on, I say. My mouticks. Go on, about the woman.

    t tle girl? Suc little scrap of a girl, s blue, of course; and broer . . .

    So my o my voice I make flat. Go on, I say again. I knoo tell me. tell me noer dead.  then?

    isimes. And sometimes t. Not  co her, and when I said she had much

    better give o me, te ;, you dont mean to raise ; I said. quot;You, a lady,  a ; S to go abroad, ;Ill see my daugo a poor man before s; s;Im ty life.quot; t  no amount of sensible talking from me could s s , to t to start for France so soon as rengtell you t s I o  simple and good.

    S its t are meant to suffer in t it, t very ime, of France, it il one nigting o cs t first put o me: I see rouble. t do you tracked er all. quot;t; says t;Lord  to tell t t; Ss black. quot;t; s;and a bully to  your lady out nory to !quot;

    ell! t all, and started s;O; s;O only  to France!quot;—but trip doairs ;take my baby!quot; s;take

    as omb! take urn  against me—o even named  even named ; ts all s;I  even named ;—quot;Name ; I said, just to make . quot;Name ill got t; quot;I ; she said.

    quot;But, ;ell,quot; I said, quot;to be a lady after all, t no s your o; t;My names a eful one, Id sooner curse  anyone call ;

    Sops, seeing my face. It ed—t tory must reac, and ood, feeling my breater, my stomacale proceeds. I dras not true, I say. My mot a her was a soldier. I have his ring. Look here, look here!

    I o my bag, and I stoop to it, and pull at torn leattle square of linen t  t up. My udies it and shrugs.

    Rings may be got, s about anywhere.

    From him, I say.

    From anyen like t, amped V.R.—ould t make the Queens?

    I cannot ans  a her— My uncle— I look up. My uncle. hy should my uncle lie?

    ell trut last. I dare ss t of unluckiness—  a man doesnt care to talk about too freely . . .

    I gaze again at t upon it I liked, as a girl, to suppose made by a bayonet. No, as if pierced and made hollow.

    My motrapped to a table.—No. I put my o my eyes. t part, per not t. My mot in to be mindful of  I s.

    Sainly, once t  in a cell, says Ricime to time, for tisfaction of gentlemen.—ell, no more of t, just yet.  Mrs Sucksbys eye. And you ainly kept in fear of follo do to you?—save make you anxious, obedient, careless of your os—in otly fit you to your uncles fancy? Didnt I tell you once, w a scoundrel he was?

    You are aken.

    No mistake, answers Mrs Sucksby.

    You may be lying, even noh of you!

    e may be. Saps  you see, dear girl, .

    My uncle, I say again. My uncles servants. Mr ay, Mrs Stiles . . .

    But I say it, and I feel—t of a pressure—Mr ays s my ribs, iless  my cheek:

    une, surned out trash—/

    I kno, I kno. I still  to threw cups and saucers.

    Damn  t of my uncles bed, turn upon  tell me, at Briar? Dont you t , and bring me o to trick and surprise me?

    Surprise you?  Maud, o do t.

    I dont understand ry to. I am till of my uncle, my mots o  the

    mouts ticipation, I tion. I am t t t tomime, o let fly the fairies.

    Mrs Sucksby ates, to a ss out a bottle. S tumblers  t.

    I  suppose t of to; but a bit of  brandy, meant for use noell me, w?

    No  all, says Rico me and, so confused am I—so dazed and enraged—I take it at once, and sip it as if it ches me swallow.

    Got a good mouts, she says approvingly.

    Got a moutheyre marked up, Medicine. hey, Maud?

    I  ans. I sit, at last, upon ten turning into nigs s are papered tern of floands out against t be, and buzzes in  the glass.

    I sit  s run, but run uselessly. I do not ask—as I ory and I  or  told—I do not ask o do o profit from ting and stunning of me. I only rage, still, against my uncle. I only t mad, not mad . . .

    I suppose my expression is a strange one. Ric me. Dont t t woman, Marianne.

    I s, my fatleman? t an orpill live? Did he never—?

    Maud, Maud, o  t you. tc you migs, no more t?

    I dont knotle time, to tell me—

    But Mrs Sucksby o me, and ligouches my arm.

    ait up, dear girl, sly. Ss a finger to  up, and listen. You aint ory. tter parts to come. For ts been made rags of. time. t;ll  your o;, and t. You remember, my dear? quot;As for being ter of a lady,quot; says t, quot;you tell me t does being a lady do for you, except let you be ruined? I  ; s;like a girl of t ; quot;You name ; I say—still meaning, as it o ;I ; s;I  t o me once—kinder t ;

    Maud, I say, c  it. range. range. Sates, for anothen says:

    Susan.

    Riccill. My ts, t o turn like grinding op. Susan. Susan. I  let t speak. I  move, for

    fear I sumble or sakes anots again, beside me, upon the bed.

    Susan, ss o  baby for a servant, dont it? So I t, any ill sill saying as ake te ;O; s;I   can I do? o you noook any ot;

    s, briefly—very fast—in ts o it, th.

    ts s s t are lying about to art up crying at once. t to  o tairs, just outside t door—silts s ops. S me, and I see ;e cant!quot; I say. quot; ; s;You er s up a lady.  let some ottle mot, in , too! But I stle a une on . S, if youll only take , and keep  ance till s! Dont you ; s;some moto my fat you? Dont you? For Gods sake, say you do! ty pounds in t of my goell a living soul youve done it.quot;

    Per in treet—I do not kno  if to be asked to do. ouldnt you say, dear girl? . I t  I said at last ;Keep your money. Keep your fifty pounds. I dont  it.  I , is tleman, and gents are tricky. Ill keep your baby, but I  for you to e me out a paper, saying all you mean to do, and signing it, and sealing it; and t makes it binding.quot; quot;Ill do it!quot; sraig;Ill do it!quot; And  all do as I old you, t Susan Lilly is   tunes are to be cut, and so on—and s and seals it s on t t it aint to be opened till ter turns eigy-one, sed to make it: but my mind  must be eignt to risk taking  was w. S. S.

    And t t s—an old one, and a younger—getting out, and o and, tearing t of my o tcicular baby t is to turn out fair, like airs. I said, quot;ake o s a name for a lady after all. Remember your ; quot;Remember yours!quot; take it, and bring it do in ty cot. . .

    Srifling little t o do! se. Done, ill  t;; t;e kno ; No stopping ts t

    tairs by her

    pa—he mark of her

    brotick on  oo late to c, took   tell you. I dare say s often of Sue; but no more t.

    Surns  keep it from spilling. roking t red t in its slipper goes tap upon t taken ime sil now.

    My o is made by my palms. t lengthens. Mrs Sucksby leans closer.

    Dear girl, s you say a o us? Soucill I  speak or move. s, ratures to Rics before me.

    You understand, Maud, rying to see about my fingers,  your mot your uncle. Your life  t you  to live, but Sues; and Sue lived yours ...quot;

    t dying men see, played before tness, ton of ring of beads, my uncles naked eyes, t and useless, like ter. I suts. But,  back. I am not errible laug be gly.

    O t! tare?  are you gazing at? Do you suppose a girl is sitting  girl is lost! Sripped we! Se as a page of paper! Sed—

    I try to take a breat as  t does not come. I gasp, and sands and ches.

    No madness, Maud, aste. Remember. You  no close to my face. Dear girl— But I ser still—a er—and I jerk, as a fis jerk on to my bag and grope inside it, bring out my bottle of medicine: s times, into to my lips. I taste it, t my o my mout kno at lengt t covers t my s. I lie—still tcime to time, in ch me.

    Presently, tle nearer. Noly, are you better, darling? I do not ans o go, and let her sleep?

    Sleep be damned, ill believe s aps my face. Open your eyes, he says.

    I say, I aken them from me.

    c s better. Notle more

    for you to kno a little more, and ten to me. Listen! Dont ask me,  to, I s t. Do you feel trikes me. Very good.

    t so  mig ried to c.

    Gentleman! s. No call at all. emper, cant you? I believe youve bruised her. Oh, dear girl.

    Soo be grateful, raigting back  I  done ime in t t to kno again, and count it not Briar, a sort of gentleman. I make a ry, and?

    I lie, nursing my cakes tte from bes it to ch.

    Go on, Mrs Sucksby, . tell t. As for you, Maud: listen  last w your life was lived for.

    My life  lived, I say in a  ion.

    ell—crikes it—fictions must end. o.

    It  ious. My  not so t I cannot, noo be fearful of ell me next, o keep me, o keep me for ...

    Mrs Sucksby sees me groful, and nods. Noart to get it, sarting to see. I got ts better, I got t it? Souctle closer. Like to see it? s sort of voice. Like to see the ladys word?

    Ss. I do not ans s Ricurns o tons of affeta rustles. -o me, into —and t a folded paper. Kept t to me, all t than gold! Look, here.

    tter, and bears a tilting instruction: to Be Opened on teenter, Susan Lilly.—I see t name, and s s jealously and, like my uncle—not my uncle, noique book,  let me take it; ss me touc,  of . te unbroken. tamp is my mot mine, not mine—

    M.L.

    You see it, dear girl? Mrs Sucksby says. trembles. S back to ure and look—lifts it to s o it, turns ores it to its place inside tons  Ricc says nothing.

    I speak, instead. Se it, I say. My voice is te it. took  then?

    Mrs Sucksby turns. ly smoot sractedly. tone c me,  linger on anot! ? t mont us. For noo. No penny to go to ter—meaning you, dear girl, so far as till ter marries. tlemen for you—aint it? S me a note to tell me, by a nurse. t o t soon finis o  turn out no sook ion from the

    t of my y. Poor girl! S sorry.—t was her slip.

    Rico look crafty. As for me, s t to get tune  be, t I een years for figuring it out in. I t many times of you.

    I turn my face. I never asked for your ts, I say. I dont  them now.

    Ungrateful, Maud! says Ricting so  girls seek only to be t fancy inguished.

    I look from o Mrs Sucksby, saying not often of you, s on. I supposed you   you mig your grand-dad and uncle sake you a. t your grand-dad died. tly, in try; and  you in a quiet oo. tter—Means  o me,  Sue to pin it to? t I   reet like ours; to keep . t over— kno use  t, but never quite knoo come clear, leman— t you migly married, turns into my kno  must secretly marry you . . . Its te, to look at Sue and knoh her. She shrugs. ell, and

    no. Sues you, dear girl. And  you here for is—

    Listen, Maud! says Ricurned my o me, lifts o stroke my hair.

    o start being Sue. Only t, dear girl! Only t.

    I open my eyes, and suppose look stupid.

    Do you see? says Ricatement, une—Mauds so me. I so say I  of it; but ter all, and o her. he makes a bow.

    ts fair, aint it? says Mrs Sucksby, still stroking my hair.

    But to say, Sues real sands also to get. tatement names en less tunes . . . t all means not ts Maud Lilly—true Maud Lilly— t ed? to vanise ago, t you

    you, to be passed off as Sue, and so make Mrs Sucksby rich?

    Make us bot so less, dear, as to rob you quite of everyt you, and o ss une. I got plans for us bot, t grand!—Saps her nose.

    I pus am too giddy, still, to stand. You are mad, I say to th. You are mad! I— Pass me off as Sue?

    ? says Richink we shall.

    Convince him, how?

    have been

    like parents to you, and so migo knooo—to any kind of misc met you at Briar, er my lemens ends to be struck . But of course you ry are a pair of doctors—t you, only yesterday, give tsey, and stand in a good lige ty minutes, ansions to the name of Susan?

    s me consider t. t,  o lose? Dear Maud, you o your name—w so much as a name!

    I  my fingers to my mout do it? Suppose, well him—

    tell ? tell ted to s girl?—looked on, ?

    I sit and c last I say, in a urn to Mrs Sucksby. And you, I say. Are you so o think, of Sue— Are you so vile?

    Ss. ickedness,  terms! terms of fiction. Do you t  in ttas—for comedys sake? Look about you, Maud. Step to to treet. t fiction. It is  is c .—C! s retcired I am!  a days o a mad s? er? t may come later, I suppose. No matter if it does. Sues birthday

    falls at tart of August. e o persuade you into our plot. I t.

    I am gazing at  cannot speak. I am till, of Sue. ilts  say . her, he adds, would have been sorry, also.

    My motart to say.—I tc, I  t of tcs o retc, and coug deliberate kind of way.

    Noleman, says Mrs Sucksby anxiously as , dont tease her.

    tease ill pulls at  c t, from talking.

    You oo mucs  it?—Miss Lilly, dont mind y of time for talking of t.

    Of my motrue mot you made out to be Sues. t c choked, on a pin.

    On a pin! says Ric? Mrs Sucksby bites o them.

    in me, noo be astonis hief I suppose will do . . .

    Ric, grave. Gentleman, s got noto tell Miss Lilly, noo say to a girl in private.

    o hem.

    Ss, but  leave. Ss beside me; again, I flinch away.

    Dear girl, s of it is, t a pleasant o tell it; and I ougo kno once already, to Sue. Your mots  Richard.

    tell her, he says. Or I will.

    So took before ts, not just for t for killing a man; and—o!

    hanged?

    A murderess, Maud, says Riche window of my room—

    Gentleman, I mean it!

    . I say again, hanged!

    ever it means,  better. tudies my face. Dear girl, dont t, s does it matter no you? rouble  you here.

    Ss a lamp: a score of gaudy surfaces—tead, cs upon tel-sart out of to tand, and again s soap! Got from a s. Come in a year ago—I sa come and t, quot;No!quot; Kept it ime. And o a nap like a peac! Dont care for lavender,  you one of rose. Are you looking, dear? So t of dra draicoats, and stockings, and stays! Bless me, al drops— one pair of blue, one red. t comes of my not knoo matcy she blue pair . . .

    Scals turn. to blur. I o weep.

    As if weeping could save me.

    Mrs Sucksby sees me, and tuts. O t a sleman, you see ?

    Crying, I say bitterly, unsteadily, to find myself o t the closeness and foulness of you!

    Sepped back. Dear girl, s Ricting take you?

    I despise you, I say, for bringing me back!

    Sares, t smiles. Sures about t t, I mean for you to keep at Lant Street! Dear girl, dear girl, you aken from  make a lady of you. And a lady t je ting your s I said? I  you by me, dear, ake companions? Only  till I  my une; t take t  carriages and footmen well  pearls, w dresses!

    Ss o kiss me, to eat me. I rise and s tay ched scheme is done?

    else? s to  me? It une took you; it is me t  you back. I been  over for seventeen years. I been plotting and te since I first laid you in t Sue—

    Sill harder. Sue, I say. Oh, Sue . . .

    No I do everyt as ed?—kept  idy, made a commonplace

    girl of   give he life you had from

    her?

    You have killed her! I say.

    Killed ors about  dont come cell you.

    It certainly doesnt, says Ric, dont forget. I sy asylum,  doo

    me.

    You see, dear girl? Killed   for me!  nursed ook sick?  t do you t o me, er, s, in comparison s been made of you.

    I stare at her. My God! I say. how could you? how could you?

    Again, s?

    But, to c o leave here—!

    Ss my sleeve. You let take  er, then?

    From ter. Ricands c till buzzes, still beats against tops. As if it is a signal, I turn, and sink out of Mrs Sucksbys grasp. I sink to my knees at t. I ermined. I ten doy, desire, love, for t freedom being taken from me utterly, is it to be  if I fancy myself defeated?

    I give myself up to darkness; and  my o t.

 Chapter Thirteen

    t  te  rise and go doo tc Rico me, and again puts o my skirts, to nudge me, tands and laug stir, t someone brings me soup, . t taken a I must rise at last, to visit t t-faced girl—Dainty—is made to so it, tands at to keep me from running from it into t. I remember t I  I am undressed and put in a nig my o I sleep, per I am ling of taffeta— t I look in o see Mrs Sucksby  do o the bed beside me. I remember

    t ss o me, tc to h.

    I kno I am conscious of t of s of  sly into an even sleep, and snores,  in and out of slumber. tful sleeping makes t seems to me t s in it—s!—ts of smoke, I am compelled to stumble. I  Briar; no Mrs Creams; noable beside me. I o moan and long for slumber—for al t, comes truly lie,  I am.

    At last I  sleep again. ttle. treet-lamp burning, t  t scarf  t is put out. t turns filtime, to a sickly yello creeps, and  creeps sound—softly at first, taggering crescendo: croing, tramp of feet, ting of  comes, out of t of London. It is six or seven oclock. Mrs Sucksby sleeps on at my side, but I am c my stomac is May, and milder  Briar—I sill  my clot  dressed, .— I remember , noood dosed and dazed before  to tly, and gro my ts are  get out. I must get out! I must get out of London—go any get money. / must, I t t of all—/ must get

    Sue! Mrs Sucksby breat s taffeta goo it and pat ts of its skirt. Empty. I stand and study t of draelpiece— no keys; but many places, I suppose, w be concealed.

    tirs—does not  moves o remember . . . Sy movement of al. I take a step. ed, e ep again, and tand at  a moment, uncertain; t my fingers beneathe edge of pillow and slowly, slowly, reach.

    Sakes my , and smiles. She coughs.

    My dear, I loves you for trying, s t been born ts got touc  past me, rong about my arm; turns to a caress. I s you cold! s, let us cover you up. Sted quilt from ts it about me. Better, dear girl?

    My angled, and .

    I wish I were dead, I say.

    O kind of talk is t?

    I wishen.

    Sill smiles. ild ? ts Mr Ibbs, a-cooking up our breakfasts. Lets see  a plate of bloaters before her!

    S t in ticoat; noo affeta goo dip er and brusra la, hee hee, she sings brokenly, as she

    does it. I keep my oangled c are cracked, and bulge at toe.  o ockings, s and permanently marked by ters.

    tarted crying. t  my otheir pap.

    Come do go doo escape. But I look at myself. Like t you give me back my gown, my shoes?

    Per too keenly, ion, in it. Sates, t dusty old frock? ts? s akes up t ladies  oo. S you look . No need to be s rise before tleman—ate of dis consider no of—s say an uncle. Eh?

    I turn aeful to me; but I  go o t dark kitctle longer; turns in the lock.

    I step at once to t o try t is s up tigout.

    So to to pus t, by an incing nails t keep t I t give, if I pus t; and I am still undressed. orse t, treet ; and t first I to call to to break to signal and ser a second I begin to look more closely at ty clots t run and tumble at twelve

    is  is c . . .

    At to tters -sy bandage sits and feeds s c at me.

    I start back from th my hands.

    hen Mrs Sucksby comes again, however, I am ready.

    Listen to me, I say, going to  Ricook me away from my uncles ?

    Your uncle? s me a tray, but stands in til I move back.

    Mr Lilly, I say, as I do it. You kno least. Dont you suppose his?

    I s it. Aint we made you cosy, dear?

    You kno you?

    All rig is Mr Ibbs. My voice   of tco t of tairs. Ricoo, irred in en.

    All rigly. to me. And , look, growing chilly.

    Ss tray upon t I kno Mr Ibbs still stands at t of tairs, t Rics and listens at top. tray e and a fork upon it, and a linen napkin. Upon te tter and er. t ttle like t  for my especial use at Briar; but  tial.

    Please let me go, I say.

    Mrs Sucksby shakes her head. Dear girl, she says, go where?

    Ss and, w answer, leaves me. Rico his bed. I hear him humming.

    I taking up te,  against t be strong. You must be strong and ready to run. And so I sit and eat—sloc tained; and I o replace them.

    After an o take ty plate. Anotand, again, at to t, and pace again. I pass from fury to maudlin grief, to stupor. But tering rage. I make a run at o strike he floor and kick, and kick—

    two passes in darkness.

    , it is again unnaturally early. ttle basket ced gold,  cus. I take it to t  me, until Mrs Sucksby yawns and opens her eyes.

    Dear girl, all rigy of tion—o be so  rat—prompts me to grind my teet my

    ty to taking t be over, ? Im ready to bust.

    I do not move. After a second sc  is a te c, , in t of morning, I queasily took to be clumps of

    ion merely—a great eye  it, in a plain black fount, a motto:

    use me  tell of w ive seen!

    a present from wales

    t or t Mrs Sucksby sets t dos , and stoops. hen I shudder, she makes a face.

    Not nice, is it, dear? Never mind. e s, in our grand house.

    Sraigticoat between hen she rubs her hands.

    No do you say to t oday, make you look , its a dull old t it? And queer and old-fas ry you in somet dresses saved for you—got em  fine, you  believe it.  say y in and get em fitted up? Daintys clever  ss just  you  broug dragged up. But s .

    Stention, no escape.

    S of fis it. S as syrup: it makes my  beat  er. Ss a tories to   take to my face, under my arms, bet time, in all my life, t I washed myself.

    ty. t them

    doie trings and dra goy sees t, rimming it, anotripe, and a ty takes up an edge of clotrokes it.

    Pongee? she says, as if in wonder.

    Pongee,  of ones. Ss t, ed ligained h cochineal.

    Sc do you say, my dear, to these?

    I  knoreets of London. My  hey are hideous, hideous.

    S no you been kept too long in t dreary great  to be  if youve no more idea of fas? , dear girl, upon to. S takes your fancy? the silver?

    you a grey, I say, or a brown, or a black?

    Dainty looks at me in disgust.

    Grey, brown or black? says Mrs Sucksby. ?

    Make it t, t last. I tripe o t of dra up. S stockings, and stays, and coloured petticoats. tticoats astonis linen must be  as,  all black books must turn out Bibles.

    But I must be coloured nowo girls dressing a doll.

    No? says Mrs Sucksby, studying till, my dear, akes her measure. Lord,

    look at your .—eady! A person dont  to ell you.—ts better. too loose, is it? ell,  be particular about ts em.

    take a bring me ne t  o o . . .?

    S distractedly. S y stitc to t of table in t co sort tems inside. I cs my jetle linen packet, un and tips tents into her lap.

    No once ures ss it quickly aside. A bracelet of emeralds, s, in fas time of King George; but ones. e ss too  is, for a girl  you a nice set of beads—glass beads, but  you mucter. And— Os t t a beauty? Look Dainty, look at tunning great stones in t!

    Dainty looks.  a spanker! she says.

    It is ts I once imagined Sue breat ing eye. Noudies it  sparkles. It sparkles, even here.

    I kno mind? Ss clasp and pins it to ty lets fall o ch her.

    Oh, Mrs S! she says. You looks like a regular queen.

    My  beats ainly—not knoo compliment or mock. I do not know, myself.

    For a time, ty finiss and pins it into a knot. tand, so t survey me. tant, tilt t ty rubs her nose. Mrs Sucksby drums her fingers across her lips, and frowns.

    ter s about it: I turn, and see . I barely recognise myself. My moute. My eyes are sure and colour of yellos of t my t.

    Per, after all, says Mrs Sucksby, aint t too like bruises. And as for your c say you give it a bit of a pinc t? No? Let Dainty try for you t a grip like thunder, she has.

    Dainty comes and seizes my c and t from her grasp.

    All rig! sossing amping. Im sure, you can keep your yellow face!

    o like one. You put t lip in. Dainty o pout. ts better. Miss Lilly,  ake try touc green—  all, so long as you keep from sing too he bodice.

    But I cannot bear to be  let en t dress. You like it, dear girl? ser. t last. Noun ts? Miss Lilly?—Dainty, you go on first. tairs are tricky, I se for Miss Lilly to take a tumble.

    Sy passes before me and, after a second, I folloill  I o Briar.  t of tairs, t I ougo take? I am not sure. I cannot see. Dainty raordinary sound—a sound, like trembling, to silence. I start, and turn. Mrs Sucksby urned. Go on, you old bird! s. And to me, more sly: Not frigs only Mr Ibbss aged sister, t is kept to o the horrors.

    S and en doairs—my limbs ac, and my breaty s at ttom. to fill it. In o tcreet-door bes across it. I sloep. But toucs rigep again, and almost stumble.

    tcting at table playing at dice. t t! y, say it was you and Ill kiss you.

    Ill bruise your eyes, get my ired. Get out of t ctle er, and let  down.

    S ing tcrying t.—Keep ts out, sching her.

    Jos ty seat. Come, Maud,  beside me. And if you  to fly at my eyes—

    as you did, you kno to knock you down again.

    Jo you make so free  make free h yours—you hear me?

    Ric answer.  us be friends again, hmm?

    s o me, and I dodge it, dras aening of tc care, I say, to be t a friend of yours. I dont care to be t a friend to any of you. I come among you because I must; because Mrs Sucksby , and I  life left in me to t , remember the you all.

    And I sit, not in ty place beside  in t rocking-c table. I sit in it and it creaks. Joy gaze quickly at Mrs Sucksby, imes.

    And , forcing a laugake ts and ?

    Gone off on a job, says Joook Charley ag.

    Ss sleeping?

    Gentleman give em a dose, half an hour ago.

    Good boy, good boy. Keep it nice and quiet. S me. All rig of tea, per ans rock in my cs  coffee, ty,  up some er.—Like a cake, dear girl, to c do and fetc care for cakes?

    t could be served to me   be to me as ashes.

    S a mout, for poetry! As for the cake, now—? I look away.

    Dainty sets about making ticks, and strikes tte. tobacco smoke, and smoke from tting candles, already drifts from wall

    to ly gleam, as if painted ures—of csmen, raits—of Mr Ced to a board of cork; and are muc-holes.

    If I , I t ten t, make Mrs Sucksby give up tle. If I had a knife.

    Rics te, narroty dress,  trimmings, and I  ut, tut, emper not muc you en up in confinement. As apples do. And veal-calves.

    Go to hell, will you? I say.

    t, s, sounds a, sounds almost s. Still, dear—able, drops nt speak so nasty.

    I o me, do you?

    Ster and she looks away.

    I drink my coffee, t speak again. Mrs Sucksby sits, softly beating able-top, ogeto a froy s to steam and stink. I close my eyes. My stomachink again. Or an axe . . .

    But tiflingly , and I am so  aurned. Mrs Sucksby is feeding babies, and Dainty is cooking a supper. Bacon, cabbage, crumbling pota-

    toes and bread: te and, miserably picking free trips of fat from ts from ts of fis it. t out glasses. Care for some tipple, Miss Lilly? Mrs Sucksby says. A stout, or a

    sherry?

    A gin? says Richard, some look of mischief in his eye.

    I take a gin. taste of it is bitter to me, but triking t stirs, brings a vague and nameless comfort.

    So t day passes. So pass t folloo bed— am undressed, every time, by Mrs Sucksby, ticoats and locks t in ttle gold cails of my confinement,  my plan of escape. For I must escape. I o Sue.  are took  remember.  kno. First, to Briar, beg money from my uncle—ill believe s! Ill beg from Mrs Stiles! Or, Ill steal! Ill steal a book from t book, and sell it—!

    Or, no, I  do t.—For t of returning to Briar makes me s occurs to me in time t I er all. I rey. Mr o see me climb a staircase. Could I go to  myself in e enougrey, ed me to o reet.—I treet cannot be far—can it? I do not kno I s trey will rey will help me find Sue . . .

    So my ts run, w me; wers, wer screams,

    wleman cougurns in hers, and snores, and sighs.

    If only t keep me so close! One day, I time a door is made fast at my back, one day t to lock it. tired of alc, t. I complain of ted air. I complain of ting . I ask to go, oftener to t t dark and dusty passage at t. I knoo freedom, if I  t come: Dainty ime, and s until I come out.—Once I do try to run, and scs ting me go.

    Ricakes me upstairs, and s me.

    Im sorry, . But you kno, for t ing, you told me once.  you oblige us?

    t ened, t bruise quite fades, I will escape!

    I pass many , in tc t—Per me, I times it almost seems t tir of ty and Jo cards and dice. Noo be sold to Mr Ibbs and tonisuff, it seems to me, all of it: s, ill bound umbling stream of t like t came to Briar, t came as if sinking to rest on t fatains, the rods . . .

    ts ahe making of money.

    And test money-making thing of all, is me.

    Not c peckis taking a fever, I   ans uck rugs about me, I let  and c look at t going to smile? Not even—s to come. t follo aint so long, is it?

    S, almost pleadingly; but I gaze steadily into o say t a day, an oo long, wh her.

    O my . Still seems rato you, does it, s? s can  you, t  your spirits? ty rinket box? A singing bird, in a cage? Per. As a bad one, so  over fast—nip out and get Miss Lilly a bird in a cage.—Yelloter, Jos pretty . . .

    Surns in . t t, t from a beam, t to make it flutter; C. It  sing, oo dark—it  and pluck at its e ts cage. At last t it. Joakes to feeding it tcime, to make it so ignite it.

    Of Sue, no-one speaks at all. Once, Dainty looks at me as ss out our suppers, and scratches her ear.

    Funny t come back from try, yet. Aint it?

    Mrs Sucksby glances at Ric Mr Ibbs, and t me. Ss o Dainty, I  ed to talk about it, but you mig, norut coming back, not ever. t last little bit of business t Gentleman left o see to  for , Dainty, he cash.

    Daintys moutrinder?   to come doo guess ook all of Mrs Sucksbys money, and ts . Just about broke Mrs Sucksbys . If o kill her.

    Done a flit? Sue trinder? s. S got the nerve.

    ell, s.

    S, says Mrs Sucksby,  me, and I dont  to s all.

    Sue trinder, turned out a sharper! says John.

    ts bad blood for you, says Ric me. Shows up in queer ways.

    did I just say? says Mrs Sucksby  s . But le. ter a moment, he laughs.

    More meat for us, t it? e. —Or   for there.

    Mrs Sucksby sees  me; and leans and s him.

    After t, if to ter Sue, taken aside and told, like Joy, t surned out rinder?  s t is, coming out in t it seems to me, too, t t  seems to me t even Joy forget  is a s-memoried er all. It is a

    s-memoried district. Many times I  to tsteps, taking fligly, in darkness. tep of tters -saken by anoturn, moves on, to be replaced by anots Sue, to them?

    s Sue, to me? Im afraid, o remember t Im afraid, too, of forgetting. I ake out ture of tures ted c. Scfully. Finally sakes ture away.

    Dont you be t are done and cant be c, dear girl? You time to come.

    S. But I am still brooding on my future. I am still curned—soon one  in a lock, I kno. I am cy and Jooo used to me. turn careless, t. Soon, I think. Soon, Maud.

    So I til this happens.

    Ricakes to leaving t saying o y streets, or to sit in t and tcifles  stifles me. One day,  returns in an , for once: Mr Ibbs and Jo, and Dainty is sleeping in a cs o tc and kisses her cheek. his face is flushed and his eyes are gleaming.

    ell, hink? he says.

    Dear boy, I cant imagine!  once?

    Better t,  do you t of t look so fierce! Save t, till youve  concerns you, rather.

    o o table. I sting, the shape of my life.

    Youll see. Look s o coat pocket and dra. A paper. .

    A bond, dear boy? says Mrs Sucksby, stepping to his side.

    A letter,  you play? S is someone you know. A friend, very dear.

    My  gives a lurc once. But s.

    Not  Dainty;  guess?

    I turn my face. o tell me, dont you?

    s anot; t ed. You are interested!

    Let me see, I say. Perer all.

    Noer  , not yours.

    Let me see!

    I rise, pull down hen push him away.

    ts not my uncles ed, I could strike him.

    I never said it ers from  sent by anoteward, Mr ay.

    Mr ay?

    More curious still, and t, o me. Read t. Its a postscript; and explains, at least— so queer—will now . . .

    tilt to catc lighen read.

    Dear Sir.—I found today among my masters private papers, tter, amp; do suppose  it to be sent; only, o a grave indisposition sly after e it, sir, o tiles amp; me did t first, t to notice, sir, t   to onis deed; as, begging leave again sir, no more fully, sir, and presume to  finds you cin ay, Steward of Briar.

    I look up, but say not, urn tter is s, and dated 3rd of May—seven  says this.

    to Mr Ricopaken my niece, Maud Lilly. I , and sincts, if not o t I take comfort in my loss, from t I fancy you, sir, a man ing of a whore.—C.L.

    I read it, times; t again; t it fall. Mrs Sucksby instantly takes it up, to read he words, she grows flushed. hen she has finished, she gives a cry:

    t blackguard! Oh!

    y. ho, Mrs Sucksby? ho? she says.

    A s all. A o be. No-one you knoo sleep. She reaches for me. Oh, my dear—

    Leave me alone, I say.

    tter  me, more than I should have believed. I

    dont kno is t ; or to give, to Mrs Sucksbys story. But I cannot bear to be cir. I eps-— to tco anoto a door; and I seize and vainly turn the handle.

    Let me out, I say.

    Mrs Sucksby comes to me. So reac for t for my face. I puso t me out! Let me out! She follows.

    Dear girl, s let yourself be upset by t old villain.  ears!

    ill you let me out?

    Let you out, to  you need no everythem gowns—

    Sep back to t my o it—a fist—and beat and beat it. ts pages sc, and pluck it from its pin. Dear girl— Mrs Sucksby says again. I turn and t at her.

    But afterears  ter aken it from me. t it stay t groeadily blacker, as es. to be filled o a fury: ing.—You knolemans son? , to look at me now? ould you?

    I do not ans. I o any kind of solicitor or la I pass my days in a sort of restless let nig is too  to sleep—at night I

    d at the narrow window in Mrs Sucksbys room, gazing blankly

    at treet.

    tome a, Mrs Sucksby  take a fever, from t?

    May one take a fever, from a draugid air? I lie do il so to the deeper.

    I almost forget t I mean to escape. Per. For at last ternoon—at tart of July, I ty to guard me.

    You cells o , my dear? I s be gone an , shall I?

    I do not ansy lets , ts ts, draable-top, and takes up   titcolen  listlessly, o do to try?

    I s my eyelids fall; and presently, s; and am suddenly ry teal t! So s. ticks off tes—fifteen, ty, ty-five.  go.

    Sleep, Dainty. Dainty, sleep. Sleep, sleep . . . Sleep, damn you!

    But s up.

    Dainty, I say.

    S is it?

    Im afraid— Im afraid I must visit the privy.

    Ss down  you? Rige?

    Yes. I place my omachink I am sick.

    S titution?

    I t must be. Im sorry, Dainty. ill you open the door5

    Ill go hough.

    You neednt. You migay at your se;

    Mrs Sucksby says I must go ime; else Ill catc. here.

    Sretcained beneatain edged  to tc me: I kno, even if I mig  once and c knock  t I imagine doing it, and my s gro think I could.

    Go on, sate. s up?

    Notc to me, slo , I say.

    No, Ill . S take the air.

    t is  I step inside and close t it; t me. ttle s broken pane stopped up  is cracked and smeared. I stand and te. All rigy. I do not ansamped e. From a . Ladies and Gentlemens Cast-off Clotion, anted for— elston amp; New-laid Eggs—

    think, Maud.

    I turn to face t my mouto a gap in the wood.

    Dainty, I say quietly.

    is it?

    Dainty, I am not  fetching.

    ? Sries t, miss.

    I cant. I darent. Dainty, you must go to t

    in my room upstairs. ill you? there. ill

    you? O rushes! I am afraid of

    the men coming back—

    Oanding me at last. S you out ?

    ill you go for me, Dainty? But Im not to leave you, miss!

    I must keep il Mrs Sucksby comes! But say t Jo! Or say I she door

    is bolted!  ters. And t of drawers, you

    say?

    top-most dra. ill you

    ust make myself neat, and take it so

    badly—

    All right.

    Be quick!

    All right!

    o t, tc and run. I run out of to t—I remember ttles, t me. But I run furty pat  before; but I see it, and kno—I kno!—it leads to an alley and turn, leads to anotreet and leads me— recognise, t runs under t remember it nearer, lower. I recall a here is no wall here.

    No matter. Keep going. Keep t your back, and run. take , and are dark, you must not get caugter t t and ao you. No matter t London is loud. No matter t tter t tare—no matter t t;

    t tter t your slippers are silk, t your feet are cut by every stone and cinder—

    So I  myself into t is only my e, my distraction—t, and per makes t t me, and snaps at my skirt. I time—to see me stagger. You, I say,  my side, ell me, ? o reet?—but at they fall back.

    I go more slo, treets beyond t I go? I ; for no streets and streets better if I gro? I am lost already . . .

    t t, dark and ips of broken roofs, its gold cross gleaming, t Pauls. I kno, from illustrations; and I treet is near it. I turn, pick up my skirts, make for it. t t seems! turns green, t stumble. I ed a street, a square. Instead, I am at top of a set of crooked stairs, leading doo filter. I  Pauls is close, after all; but tween us.

    I stand and gaze at it, in a sort of  of a Briar. I remember seeing it seem to fret and  its banks: I t it longed—as I did—to quicken, to spread. I did not kno o t flos surface is littered ter—earings of cloth cork

    and tilting bottles. It moves, not as a river moves, but as a sea: it  breaks, against ts, and  tairs and t rise from it, it froths like sour milk.

    It is an agony of er and of e; but t, confident as rats—pulling ts, tugging at sails. And  t-backed—are ter like gleaners in a field.

    t look up, and do not see me, tand for a minute and co,  tly, as I become a me—spot my go stare, t jerks me out of my daze. I turn—go back along take up t I must cross to reac Pauls, but it seems to me t I am lo to be, and I cannot find t reets I am ill reeking of dirty er. too—men of ts and o catcle and sometimes call; t touc my er. At last I find a boy, dressed like a servant. o ts me out a fligeps, and stares as I climb them.

    Everybody stares—men, earing off a fold of skirt to cover my naked  coin to beg for,   me, . But I knoo tear. Dont mind it, Maud. If you start to mind it, you o rise, and I see again ter. t last!—t makes me  ear more; and after a moment, I am obliged to stop. t tart of the bridge

    into it, a sone benc is a belt of cork—meant for t says upon a sign, to ties upon the river.

    I sit. t. I  makes me dizzy. I touc on a public bridge? I do not knoraffic passes, s and unbroken, like roaring er. Suppose Ric, and Ill go on. t. A moment, to find my breatare, I cannot see them.

    tands before me, and speaks. Im afraid youre unwell.

    I open my eyes. A man, ratranger to me. I let my hand fall.

    Dont be afraid,  mean to surprise you.

    ouc, makes a sort of bow.  be a friend of

    my uncles. lemans voice, and e.

    udies me closer. his face is kind. Are you unwell?

    ill you help me? I say. he hears my voice and his look

    changes.

    Of course,  is it? Are you ? Not , I say. But I o suffer dreadfully. I— I cast a look at tain people. ill you help me? Oh, I wish you would say you will!

    I , already. But, traordinary! And you, a lady— ill you come  tell me all your story; I s all. Dont try to speak, just yet. Can you rise? Im afraid youre injured about t. Dear, dear! Let me look for a cab. ts right.

    ake it and stand. Relief , listen to me. I grip o pay you h—

    Money? s  take it. Dont t!

    —But I  ake me

    to him?

    Of course, of course.  else? Come, look,   of tream of traffic and s before us. tleman seizes t back. take care, ake care. tep is rather high.

    ting my foot. he comes behind me

    as I do it.

    ts rigtily you

    climb!

    I stop,  upon tep. s . Go on, o the coach.

    I step back.

    After all, I say quickly, I tell me the way?

    too  to oo weary. Go on.

    ill.  a struggle.

    Nohen! he says, smiling.

    I have changed my mind.

    Come, now.

    Let go of me.   i

    Do you wiso cause a fuss? Come, now. I know a house—

    A  I told you t I  only to see my friend?

    ell, ter, I tockings and taken a tea. Or else—wter.—hmm?

    ill kind, ill smiles; but akes my  and moves , and tries, again, to o truggle properly, nories to intervene. From te urn their heads.

    to  you see? I call.

    take ing me.—ts me go, t till calling up. ill you take me? ill you take me, alone? I so pay you, I give you my word, when we arrive.

    turns s. No fare, no passage, he says.

    t smiling, no are you playing at? Its clear youre in some sort of fix. S you like tockings, tea?

    But I still call up to tell me, t  reacreet. ill you tell me, ake, for there?

    s—in scorn, or laug tell. But   Street.

    to  go of me, I say.

    You dont mean it. Let go!

    I almost s. tle teaser.

    I  run. But ter a moment, to matcleman looks out. his face has changed again.

    Im sorry, ake you to your friend, I s. Look nt go to reet, t at all like me. Come no;

    So il finally a line of   go on. ts up  out my breato so stop, to rest; I dare not, now.

    t leave ts anot more anonymous too, I teful for t, terrible. Never mind, never mind, pused.

    Noreet c is lined and to be, at last: for ts.—Otle money! I tleman offered, from t, and run? too late to  noter. Go on. ing ts er.  I to take? A  out and tands staring as I take it.

    But reet at last!—Only, noe. ? Not like t so narroill , still brigurning into reet, o step into t s colours. I y, broken, unpaved. t up, on eitattered cloty picture-frames and coloured glasses spilling from t, ate again, o come so suddenly upon to see trays, or piled, s; to see torn, and foxed, and bleace unnerves me. I stop, and cakes one up. trap of Love.—I kno, I  title so many times to my uncle I kno almost by !

    ts ching; and I walk on. More shops, more books, more men; and finally a window, a

    little brig. ts, rings. treys name upon it, in letters of flaking gold. I see it, and s stumble.

    Inside, t expected t. to books and prints, and ts, besides. tand at tently t look up ep and my skirts give a rustle, turn tare. But I am used to stares, by no ttle ing-table, ting at it, dressed in a coat and sleeves. ares, as ts up.  are you looking for? h is dry.

    I say, quietly, Im looking for Mr rey. I rey.

    omers s a little, and look me oVfer again. Mr rey, one a little crey doesnt nt to o t an appointment?

    Mr rey kno need an appointment.  tomers. s your business h him?

    Its private, I say. ill you take me to o me?

    t be someto my look, eps back.

    Im not sure, after all, if nt to o ts—do you knoairs.

    t  me go to .

    I dont  give me a paper, and Ill e  my name. . ill you give me a paper?

    fie does not move.  believe he

    house.

    t, if I must, I say.

    You cannot  here!

    t ; and I  there.

    tomers; picks up a pencil and puts it

    down.

    If you will? I say.

    you s, o , if it turns out  in.1 I nod. Put your name on ting.

    I begin to e. t Ricold me once— o e, Maud Lilly. I am afraid t last— remembering somet tea.

    I fold it, and  to les into tens, tles again. tsteps. ures to me. I .

    And, as I do, one of tomers closes c mind ly, meaning ts all. Anyone can see, t youre a lady . . . o t tone. Of course you do.  you?

    I say noteps back.

    ere seeing, he says, if hes in.

    tures beo t, about to slip; a girl falling, falling from tree ... I close my eyes. o one of to buy t book, sir—?

    Presently, steps, and the door is opened again.

    It is Mr rey.

    er, and slig

    and trousers are creased. ands in tation, does not come into ts my gaze, but does not smile— looks about me, as if to be sure I am alone; to eps back to let me pass. Mr rey— I say. s until t  is almost a hiss—is:

    Good God! Is it you? o me?

    I say notand s raction, to akes my arm. to a set of stairs. teps  top: In here.

    t up for ting and binding of books. In one, type; anotreys orongly of glue. Its in t ables are piled  ty. One o typesetters room—ed glass panels in it. t visible, bending over their work.

    t  ask me to sit. ands before it. akes out a e.

    Good God, s only thing.

    , more kindly; and I urn away.

    Im sorry, I say. My voice is not steady. Im afraid I o you to weep.

    You may ed glass.

    But I   my tears for a moment, then shakes his head.

    My dear, ly at last.  have you done?

    Dont ask me.

    You have run away.

    From my uncle, yes.

    From your hink.

    My ?

    he shrugs, colours, looks away.

    I say, You t kno  t  you like of me, I dont care. But you must help me.

    ill you?

    My dear—

    You . I o stay in. You used to like to say you would make me welcome—

    Despite myself, my voice is rising.

    Be calmer, ing o soot not moving from  t are my staff to tly, sending up a riddling name . . .   ers say, my wife?

    I am sorry.

    Again s out ell me, o me. You mustnt take your part against your uncle. I never liked to see  nt kno  you off, you kno, ?

    I so me, now.

    But o me, you understand. If he should hear of your coming—

    .

    ell. roubled again. But to come to me! to come akes in my gaudy dress and gloves—y, lustreless, we. I sill frowning, you seem so c, and your ?

    t time—

    s at t; t, and starts.  your slippers! Your feet are bleeding! Did you leave,  shoes?

    I must. I hing!

    Not shoes?

    No. Not so muc.

    Rivers keeps you  shoes?

    believe it. If I mig  listening.   time tables, takes up a fe.

    You oug to . Look at t this!

    I catc of a line of print. —you s you, and I sry and , I say, from me? I  Briar. ten?

    t Briar. You dont understand. lemen, t is Rivers I blame for t—aken you—at least to  you closer.  you were.

    You dont kno know how hes used me!

    I dont  to kno is not my place to kno tell me.—O yourself! Do you knos? You cant iced, surely?

    I gaze do my skirt, my slippers. t  to   only— My voice begins to shake.

    You see?  o my staff, to my stock—if to come doer as t your feet! Are truly?

    o t  door. ait o typesetters in it. I see t their heads, hear his

    nice.—I dont knoell t care. In sitting, I ired; and t, . ts oables: I lean upon it, and gaze across it—at trimmed, unseurbed or concealed by Mr rey.—and I sill t is ne t is t? I kno, but—it troubles me—I cannot name it.

    —so, so, so, so, so, you like the birch, do you?

    Mr rey returns. er; also a glass, er for me to drink.

    ting tting t to me; t? Just enougo take the blood away, for now

    ter is cold.  I  t and  to my face. Mr rey looks round and sees me do it. Youre not feveris ill?—I am only tle of it. Very good, he says.

    I look again at t upon table; but t escapes me, still. Mr rey ccs o es at thumb, and frowns.

    I say, You are good, to her men would blame me.

    No, no.  I said? It is Rivers I blame. Never mind. tell me, no money have you, upon you now?

    I have none.

    No money at all?

    I  ake a plainer one, anyway.

    Sell your gown?  speak so oddly, will you? hen you go back—

    Go back? to Briar?

    to Briar? I mean, to your husband.

    to  . I cannot go back to  aken me to escape him!

    he shakes his head. Mrs Rivers— he says. I shudder.

    Dont call me t, I say, I beg you.

    Again, so odd!  ougo call you, if not t?

    Call me Maud. You asked me, just no, and nothing else.

    be foolisen to me, now. I am sorry for you. You  you—?

    I laugarts; and typesetters look up. , turns back to me.

    ill you be reasonable? ly, warningly.

    But ?

    A quarrel, I say. You t a quarrel. You t, ? You kno guess , I cant tell you. Its too great a thing.

    is?

    A secret t say. I cannot— O . you like t is type? I say. ill you tell me?

    ype? e changed.

    t.

    For a second  ansly.

    Clarendon. Clarendon. I kne, after all. I continue to gaze at t my fingers to t—until Mr rey comes and places a blank s upon it, as hers.

    Dont look t stare so!  is tter  be ill.

    I am not ill, I ansired. I close my eyes. I ay here, and sleep.

    Stay ay  sound of t  eadily, I am only tired. But  anse, again, at tciously, from trey— I

    say.

    I  is you mean to do. o get you from t bring a cab, I suppose, to the building.

    ill you do t?

    You o go, to sleep? to eat?

    I have nowhere!

    You must go hen.

    I cannot do t. I tle money, a little time. to find, to save—

    to save?

    to find. to find. And, tle ed, Mr rey. I  find an  man— You knoo be. Again, c does not speak. I say, You know I am rich. If youll only help me, now. If youll only keep me—

    Keep you! Do you know w you are saying? Keep you, where?

    Not in your own house?

    My house?

    I t—

    My ers? No, no. o pace.

    But at Briar you said, many times—

    I told you? t Briar. t like Briar. You must find t out.  leave a  live, in London, on nothink you will live?

    I do not know. I supposed— I supposed you would give me money,

    I  to say. I look about me. truck  I not, I say, work for you?

    ands still. For me?

    Mig ing togeting, even? I kno  room!—I sake it secretly, Ric for me. I stle money— enougo find out my friend, to find out an  la is it?

    still, all time; but his look has changed, is odd.

    Noter.

    I suppose I am flus of ter inside my breast, like a sable and leans upon it, not looking at me, but t dourns back.  catch my eye.

    Listen to me, ly. You cannot stay . I must send for a cab, to take you. I— I must send for some o go h you.

    Go h me, where?

    to some—el. Noo set doion upon a slip of paper. Some , ake a supper.

    ? I say. I dont t, ever again! But a room! A room!—And o me tonig answer. Mr rey?

    Not tonigill ing. tonig.

    tomorrohen.

    o dry it; t. tomorrow, he says. If I can.

    You must!

    Yes, yes.

    And t? Say you will!

    . Yes.

    thank God!

    I put my ay  go from here.

    I ep, to t door; and o one of typesetters—see t, trey comes back. o my feet.

    Put your surning a be

    ready

    You are kind, Mr rey, I say, as I lean to tug on my broken slippers. God kno.

    tractedly. Dont t, now . . .

    t in silence. s, takes out co top of tairs, to stand and listen. At last he goes and comes quickly back.

    this way, carefully.

    akes me do of rooms, piled es and boxes, and t of scullery, to a door. to a little grey area: teps from to an alley. A cab s t, a woman. She sees us and nods.

    You knoo do? Mr rey says to ten. o be kind to her. have you some shawl?

    Ss about me, to cover up my  against my cill  is almost treet.

    At to turn. I take Mr reys hand.

    You omorrow?

    Of course.

    You  talk of to anyone? Youll remember the danger I spoke of?

    ly. tter than I.  ?

    trey!

    o tates, before lifting my fingers to .   of turning ake out urn, pull out of treet—nortell; for I kno certain—t  cross the river.

    e go very fitfully, raffic is t t first, creets, t t and study treets from there.

    Only after some time of t tches my eye.

    All rig smiling. her voice is rough as her fingers.

    Do I begin, to feel  sure. I ter all, Mr rey  time to be careful, in  matter if s kind, so long as s? I look more closely at  is a rusty black. exture of roasted meat. Ss placidly, not speaking, ws.

    Must .

    Not too far, dearie.

    ill roug expression. I say, fretfully, Do you call me t? I wis.

    Sure is so bold and yet so careless, I t my face again to to try to dra come. reet, I think, from here?

    I dont like turning back to t walk?

    alk, in ts. S. heres

    Camden to back and be

    good.

    ill you talk to me, so? I say again. I am not a child.

    And again, senser. e  ts and sreet—some street of plain buildings. e turn a corner, and till. Presently , grey  t of its steps. A girl in a ragged apron is reacaper to lig. ts sreet is perfectly silent.

    s to topped and I understand it  go on.

    heres your house, she says.

    tel?

    el? S t. Sc my .

    ait, I say—feeling real fear no last.  do you mean? rey directed you to?

    o here!

    And w is here?

    Its a  it?  is it to you, ? You s your supper all t leave off gripping me, mind!

    Not until you tell me where I am.

    Sries to pull  I  let eeth.

    house for ladies, she says, like you.

    Like me?

    Like you. Poor ladies, here!

    I   aside.

    I dont believe you, I say. I am meant to come to an el. Mr rey paid you for t—

    Paid me to bring you o leave you. Most particular. If you dont like it— So . hy, heres his very hand.

    S out a piece of paper. It is t Mr rey put about t __

    A , for destitute gentle I gaze at t of disbelief: as if my gazing at t take, I say.  mean

    tood, or you  take me back__

    Im to bring you, and leave you, most particular, subbornly again. quot;Poor lady, o a cy place.quot; ty, aint it?

    So t ans go back to reet!—and yet, even as I t, I knoraction of my , rey gone, to  be anyer t, treet—treet in darkness.—? , in London, on my own?

    I begin to s am I to do? I say.

    , but go over, says to taper is gone, and ttered, t front door at Briar. I see it, and am gripped by panic.

    I cannot, I say. I cannot!

    Again teetter t t it? Its one or to bring you s all. Go on out, no me get home.

    I cannot, I say again. I grab at  take me, somewhere else.

    Must I? S sead, her look changes. ell, I will, she says; if youll pay me.

    Pay you? I o pay you h!

    S?

    S my skirt.

    O it in desperation. I !

    ould you?

    take the shawl!

    ts. Sill looks at my skirt. tilts  you got, sly, underneath?

    I sticoats—tticoats te and one crimson. Shem, and nods.

    theyll do.

    , botake both?

    t t pay me, once for myself; and once for him.

    I ate—but  my skirt  trings at my  and pull tly as I can, draticoats doucks tly under .

    tleman dont kno I tell the driver?

    So call. I sit  myself, feeling t my bare think I would weep, if I had life enough.

    o? sreet is filled , slender, filthy-brown.

    I bo of my o go. I tell , and tarts up. Stles ably in , rearranges . S me.

    All rig ans mind it no, now.

    Lant Street is dark o stop at,

    from t—tment-coloured sters, t I  so e. ares Fuck,  o akes me directly into tc from Ric in searcy is ands, e as poill. But ruck.

    Oh, my girl, she says.

    I dont knoer t. Dainty screams, I t looking. I go up tairs to Mrs Sucksbys room— my room, our room, I suppose I must call it no upon to t . My feet o bleed.

    Se, before sly. S at urning tly in to ands at my side. S try to touc srembling.

    Dear girl, s. e supposed you drowned, or murdered—

    c does not break. Ss and, , she says.

    I do. Sakes tays. S ask icoats. S exclaim over my slippers and feet—tockings. Ss me, naked, into t to my jas beside me. Srokes my eases out tangles ugs. there, now, she says.

    t. I talking, but

    talking in where, now, she ays again; and I shiver, for her voice is Sues.

    brougs o t I feel h. I close my eyes.

    e t you lost, s you came back. Dear girl, I knew you should!

    I  I kne; I never kne till now. I hing. No home—

    here is your home! she says.

    No friends—

    here are your friends!

    No love—

    Shen speaks, in a whisper.

    Dear girl, dont you kno I said, a imes—?

    I begin to ration, exion. ? I cry, tears.  it enougo  me  you also love me?  you smotorment me, er my ?

    I  takes t of my strengt speak. Scs, until I ill. turns ilts it. I t she is smiling.

    ts are gone! Aint it? Surns back to me. I ell you, dear girl, sly, t I once bore an infant of my o died? Round about time t t lady, Sues mot told, round  queer . . .?

    to o s, and reaco stroke my tangled e safe, noroking stops. S up a lock of  tone, about your e, and your  and hands I knew would be

    slender. Only your  rat pictured

    t from treet-lamp, and from tarnis once I see  is plump and must, I understand suddenly, must once s h. Dear girl, she says. My own, my own dear girl—

    Sates anot; t last.

 Part Three Chapter Fourteen

    I sruggled like a fiend. But ted, tigleman fall back in  and tart up and begin to turn. I sa o t sight of her eyes, I shrieked again.

    ting my ing. t let  you fucking let her go—!

    But t and gravel as t up its speed; and ter it , t. Noor came foro ie. too. trying to pull me closer to t let tting a be. Sed me up teps t led to t door, as if I mighers in a bag.

    Nos trouble tors?

    o my ear,  I   my ook it sharply back.

    Oh! she cried. her grip grew slack. Oh! Oh!

    Sed, said Dr Cie. I t alking about  me. ook a  a blow.

    For Gods sake, I cried,  you ricked me, tricked me—!

    t t, time; and as I turned in  me s of omac in sucors did not see. I gave a jerk, and s again. s! she said.

    atch your hands! called Dr Graves. She may snap.

    Meano tle  anot-sleeves. t look like doctors. t hold of my ankles.

    Keep eady, said Dr Graves. S out s.

    I could not tell t I  in a fit, but only  t me; t I  a lunatic, but sane as t say anytrying to find my breatraigs rose to my knees. I began to be afraid of ts rising  made me t about, I suppose.

    igie.  out a t flat spoon, made of o my side and  to my mouteet

    me. I t I s it, to keep it from going do. It tasted bad.

    I still t must have gone in, before mine.

    akes it! s rigeady.  Dr Graves. to t room? I think so. Nurse Spiller?

    t  . I saurned so t t o t t and began to struggle again. I  tleman and Maud. I omac by t, once t me into a room, they would kill me.

    A t ster grip on my ankle.

    A very bad case, said Dr Cie. o my face. t least.  be afraid, Mrs Rivers! e kno you. e are your friends. e  you o make you well.

    I tried to speak. ried to say. But t also made me dribble; and a bit of dribble fle of my moutruck Dr Cies c I  it. Any his handkerchief.

    Very good, o t ake her.

    t of doors and a room; to a landing, anotried to study t t only so many drab-coloured ceilings and er about a minute I kne me deep into t I . I could not cry out. t  my t, and I still aircase took me do, saying, to you, Mr Bates, and, atcurn, its a tig be, not a sack of feathers

    no a trunk or a piano. Not once did to une, and to beat out time of it, h his finger-ends, on my leg.

    topped. Careful, nohey said.

    t doook  tle pus, t, I found I staggered and fell. I fell upon my . One of to take it.  from it. Please, I said.

    You may say please, noo teps. Look tle devil!

    S  to me. Noers, or Rivers? Does he?

    Please, I said again. I aint Mrs Rivers. S Mrs Rivers? , Mr Bates? And I aint Nurse Spiller, I dare say. And Mr  himself. Very likely.

    So me, and s my ; and s say s sed me  me fall; and me being just then so dazed and so weak, I fell badly.

    ts for cracking my face, s on stairs, or a roof. Crack me again—s oo. ts noto me.  small little ? Used to better, are you? I s Ive  keep ladies maids, es. till stood, c them over?

    I supposed s to strip me bare;  on to my knees and ted from her.

    You may call c. You aint having my dress.

    ch, am I? she answered. ell!

    And so a fist, and s me.

    I e dodger and t I . t out of my  my o my face, and lay doo getting goics, and rick for it; and next s  and took t. took my garters, and tockings, and finally my hair-pins.

    tood, darker-faced ting.

    tticoat and sll be no business of ours. You -Mrs-Rivers? You sit in t, and steemper from a fit. Kick all you like in  out your joints, congue off. Keep you quiet. e prefers t, makes our job nicer.

    S, and s me. t  me, and done notcake my stockings and stays. I o , and tling grew very mucer.

    I could no longer , I got to my feet. trembling. I  to put too fine a point on it, properly funked. I , on my knees, to to look at tself y canvas, padded rahe walls were covered in padded

    canvas, too. t. t, very mucorn and stained. ttle tin pot I  to piddle in. t came in green and dark, like ter in a pond.

    I stood and looked at it all, in a sort of daze— t on t it  t struck. turned back to t my fingers to it—to to to to try and pull it. But it ig ood plucking at it I began to make out little dints and tears in ty canvas—little crescents, ood all at once must be t by tics—all tics, I mean— room before me. t t I anding, doing just epped a. I flung myself back, and began to beat at t.

    range. O me in or! help! Can you hear me? I coughed again. help! Can you hear me—?

    And so on. I stood and called, and coug upon topping, noo put my ear to it, to try to tell if t be anyone near—for I cant say oo t o lunatics calling, and  to mind. So tried ting, I put t and ttle tin pot togetrying to reac tin pot buckled, and t slithered and I fell.

    At last I sat on tears stung me. I put my finger-tips to my c about my

    s my  to take t, and it lay all about my sook up a lengt, meaning to comb it, some of it came a say I  I t of a girl I kne t , perer; but t muc, after all. In t up and put it in a corner.

    And as I did t, I sa looked like a crumpled art, at first; t it   of my bosom  of sig, and one of its buttons was crushed.

    It  glove of Mauds, t I aken t morning from  to o, as a keepsake of her.

    I picked it up and turned it over and over in my  myself funked, a minute before— funking o  no t glove, trick t sleman o anot to anotried to be still, it ing on needles and pins—I started up, crying out and sing. I t of all my time at Briar,  of t,   you? I o o  mind him, miss. he loves you, miss. Marry him. he loves you.

    like this . . .

    Oing of it, even no really ed. I   slap, slap, slap on t to my mout it. ed no better of. It —t

    bitc snake, t— Oo t aken . to t o to t so tlemans name. to touco to think—!

    to t of  ears. to t, if I ened, I mig I? mighe sound of her sighs.

    I could not bear it. I forgot, for t, ttle detail of urned my orick back on myself. I ed t glove, until t beyond to look at me. No-one brougockings. And t first, from all t last I greired I found I must lie upon t or drop, I became cold; and t get warm again.

    I did not sleep. From t of ten, queer noises—ss, and running feet and, once, tors  some  it began to rain, and ter  drip against t and began to t of Maud, but of Cy place beside ing for me. ?

    leman go to   t, so bury.—I t of my funeral, and  in marso prove it. Could t say I aken my s.

    , I kne. But Mrs Sucksby  believe  me out. S kept me seventeen years to lose me noil she found me!

    ts , as I gre I must only speak ors and take and let me go; but t any like t.

    And er, after all?—I would kill her.

    You can see tle idea I he fix I was really in.

    Next morning, t came back for me. S es and Mr   t t out and  big o tood and looked me over. Nurse Spiller said,

    here she is.

    ther, who was dark, said,

    Young, to be mad.

    Listen . I  to my feet and put my petticoat straigidied my en . I am not tors suppose me to be, at all. t lady, and  about everybody; and it is very important t tors kno, so I may be let out and t. I—

    Rig h her head.

    S o o , faintest mark of crimson. My o black. But I said, still carefully,

    I am sorry I  your face. I o be brougic;

    to come.

    Again tood and looked me over.

    You must call us nurse  last. But bet speak to us at all. e  muc be bat Doctor Cie may look at you. You must be put in a gotle girl! You must be no more teen.

    So catc my arm. I drew away from her.

    ill you listen to me? I said.

    Listen to you? La, if I listened to all this house, I should go mad myself. Come on, now.

    arted off mild, grech.

    I said, If youll only not touc.

    eful, Im sure.

    Sugged against o  ted me, more or less dragged me, out of t—Nurse Spiller got t o my arm-pit, and jabbed. You cant see bruises in an arm-pit. I t. S.

    ts my  of tighter and shook me.

    t. I aking—at t of t ss part.  o nurses. e met ts, or bottles, or ss.

    Good morning, t.

    Good morning, my nurses answered.

    Ne last,  me. Come up from the pads? Is she bad?

    Cracked Nancy on the cheek.

    Sled. t she?

    Sixteen, if shes a day.

    Im seventeen, I said.

    t me, in a considering sort of way.

    Ser a minute.

    Aint shough?

    s rouble? Delusions?

    And t, said the one—you know?

    terested. too slig.

    ell, they come in all sizes . . .

    I didnt kno. But being rangers to study, and talk and smile over, made me as silent. t off on igook me, doo a little room. It migry—it iless pantry, at Briar—for t do sig er in ty flannel.

    you? Lets see you wash.

    ter  my face and arms, to was.

    t ie cares y your toes are? s see your linen. S urned o Nurse Spiller, ? too good for

    tll boil up to not ug. You take t off, dear. e s, quite safe, against t, are you shy?

    S e our time. And you, a married lady.

    I aint married, I said. And Ill to keep your  my oockings and sie, and then youll be sorry.

    t me and laughed.

    y-toity! cried ts no use gro s noto me and Nurse Spiller, its t, look, and a gown and—look here—slippers.

    So one of t out a set of greyiss. So me,   ripped me bare. ook off my petticoat, t glove of Mauds fell out. I  under tband. I bent and caug up. s t? t once. t  titc.

    s pretty  is.

    You s ! I cried, snatc back. taken my clot I orn and bitten t glove all nig o take it, I siced a look in my eye.

    One gloves no use, after all, said to Nurse Spiller, quietly. And remember Miss taylor,  sake t tried to get a hose!

    So t me keep it; and tood limp and let thes were

    all mad ead of laces, and oo big for me.—Never mind, ts like boats. Plenty of room for gro to be a tartan, but tockings he shoes were of india-rubber.

    ting t, in those!

    te a minute. t me in t into plaits; and took out a needle and cotton, and ses to my head.

    Its t it, truggled; and no skin off my nose either way.

    Let me see to it, said Nurse Spiller. S off—times, as if by accident, putting t of to my scalp. t is anot dont ss and bruises.

    And so, bet me ready; and took me to t o be mine.

    Mind, noart going off your he pads, or plunge you.

    t fair! I said. t fair, at all!

    t ans and, again, tried o study took me. I  from a picture, or a play—of  like it. I t, t me in tors and nurses live. Noake me to t.—I t   door after drab-coloured door, and I began to look about me and see little t rong  tc ugly locks; and t looked as t, if you turned them,

    ring bells. And finally it broke upon me t ter all; t it lemans  to ures and looking-glasses on to  t no o mad it s  and self.

    And I cant say er all.

    I sep, t stumbled. ts were o walk in.

    Come on, said Nurse Spiller, giving me a prod.

    ? asked t the doors.

    Fourteen. here we are.

    All ttle plates screo topped at one of t a key to turned it. t it on a c.

    took us into  a proper room, but   top, t let in lig, but ts o, along  ting dressed. One bed was bare.

    to be yours, said Nurse Spiller, taking me to it. It . ts our questionable ladies. try a queer trick  it. S you, Nurse Bacon?

    t room. O t made  and pink, like sausages—an unlucky ailment, I suppose, for someone o rub ten. S all they had,

    Young, aint you?

    Sixteen, said the dark nurse.

    Seventeen, I said.

    Sixteen? e s  for Betty. Look ty!  your age. I s of stairs. I s neat y?

    So a  t fat stomac  first; but  a simpleton. S me in a troubled sort of  later t t, and  of c—ter of a very grand family.

    S a fe my feet—as if to see for  be, really. At last one of tly,

    Dont mind tty. to provoke you.

    o you? said Nurse Spiller at once.

    t, and very pale in t my eye, then glanced away as if ashamed.

    S I looked at  Betty, and at tood, gazing at not t, for all I kne be so many maniacs; and o make a bed among t to the nurses. I said,

    I  stay  make me.

    Cant  it?

    But take!

    Nurse Bacon yawned and rolled s enough.

    My name aint Maud, I ansell you? It aint Maud Rivers!

    S Nurse Bacons eye. ? S, by the hour.

    Nurse Bacon put o hem.

    Dont care to speak nicely? s t a suation as a nurse. See . Spoil e little hough.

    Still rubbing  , s mine. I gazed  them behind my back. I said,

    I only got e to a lady. It  lady t tricked me. I—

    Maid to a lady! t t take t plenty girls suppose t one t t s novel, t is. e so put you in tch.

    I stamped my foot.

    For fucks sake! I cried.

    t stopped t  me again about t as before—t so  t and gave a cry. Betty, t girl, began to moan.

    t tors due, any minute.

    S me stagger a straigors o t to Betty, to bully  of ears. to the old woman.

    You finisening your buttons, you creature! sake your  your moutant.  I told you a imes, you s, and c know why I warn you, we should all be glad if you did . . .

    I looked at t it open, and I  from t to

    ours—and t  meant tors were coming.

    And I t, after all, t I ster case for myself in standing and talking quietly ie, t s. I moved close to my bed, putting my knee to it to keep my leg from trembling; and I felt for my o tidy it—forgetting, for t, t titc to my  off, running. t of us stood in silence, listening out for tors footsteps. Nurse Spiller s me.

    You congue, you trollop, she said.

    e ed for about ten minutes, tir in tie and Dr Graves came o t over Dr Gravess note-book.

    Dear ladies, good morning, said Dr Cie, looking up.  first to Betty. ty? Good girl. You  your medicine, of course.

    o  and broug a piece of sugar. Sook it, and curtseyed.

    Good girl,  ell me you o tears. t is not good.   shink?

    S know, sir.

    hmm?

    ook , all time murmuring to Dr Graves, he pale old lady.

    Miss ilson, s oday? asked Dr Cie.

    None but the usual ones, she answered.

    ell,  repeat them.

    t of pure air, she said quickly.

    Yes, yes.  Dr Gravess book.

    And of wholesome food.

    You .

    ter.

    A tonic, for stered nerves. You knohis, Miss ilson.

    S. t once s: thieves!

    I jumped at tie looked up at s enougongue.  ?

    thieves! Devils!

    Your tongue, Miss ilson!  do ? hmm?

    Ser a minute:

    A curb.

    t is rig tigurned and called to o ly. Miss ilson put o o feel for a c my eye, and tered, and she seemed ashamed.

    I s any otime; but for noen more ladies like old me my   ed only until Dr Cie ructions to th and leaned and said,

    Dr Cie, sir! urned and came towards me.

    Mrs Rivers. ook my  t, not smiling. how are you?

    Sir, I said. Sir, I—

    Pulse ratly, to Dr Graves. Dr Graves made a note of it. urned back to me. You  your face, I am sorry to see.

    Nurse Spiller spoke before I could.

    Cast o tie, s

    Aion in w?

    Slept? No, I—

    Dear, dear. e cannot . I s. You s slumber.

    o Nurse Bacon. She nodded back.

    Dr Cie, I said, more loudly.

    Pulse quickening, now, he murmured.

    I pulled my en to me? You  me ake.

    Is t so? o my mouteetrid,  tell us, if tart troubling you.

    tm not staying here, I said.

    Not staying, Mrs Rivers?

    Mrs Rivers? For Gods sake, ood and saw o me, and heard me speak. I—

    So I did, old me resss  be kept quiet and free from imes it is easier—is it not?—to ask for assistance in beand you, Mrs Rivers, very well.

    I am not Maud Rivers!

    smiled.

    You are not ready to admit t you are Maud Rivers.  is quite a different to admit to it, our hen—

    You s keep me ! You keep me, whose swindling villains—

    he folded his arms. hich swindling villains, Mrs Rivers?

    I am not Maud Rivers! My name is Susan—

    Yes?

    But  time, I faltered.

    Susan Smith, I said finally.

    Susan Smit, Dr Graves? Of reet, Mayfair?

    I did not answer.

    Come, come,  on. t is all your fancy, is it not?

    It lemans fancy, I said, t devil—!

    leman, Mrs Rivers?

    Richard Rivers, I answered.

    Your husband.

    her husband.

    Ah.

    ell you! I sa t did it. You may bring Mrs Cream!

    Mrs Cream, t lengtold us, very sadly, of temper t stole upon you, in her house.

    She was speaking of Maud.

    Of course.

    S me. You bring  s iles, t Briar. Bring old Mr Lilly!

    you t be supposed to kno.  o o make ?

    Oing my ogetly.) S, to trick you! S an actress!

    An actress? Your maid?

    Maud Lilly! Dont you  me ed and tricked me—think me her, and her me!

    smiled. then he said, slowly and very easily:

    But, my dear Mrs Rivers, rouble of doing t?

    I opened my mout. For, ill supposed t if I only told rut. But trutted to steal a ladys fortune; t I  a servant, ired, and so bruised from my nig  up a clever story. No t all. Nurse Bacon rubbed ie still ch a humouring expression on his face.

    Mrs Rivers? he said.

    I dont kno last.

    Ah.

    o Dr Graves, and to move off.

    ait! ait! I cried.

    Nurse Spiller came fors enouging tors time.

    I did not look at cie turn from me, and say, t girl, , I dont care if t me in a prison for it! Better a prison, han a madhouse! I said,

    Dr Cie, sir! Dr Graves! Listen to me!

    ts enoug you knoors are? Dont you t better to do t back!

    I epped after Dr Cie and was reac.

    Please, sir, I said. Listen to me. I  been perfectly straig Susan Smiter all.

    o surned a little to me.

    Mrs Rivers, he began.

    Susan trinder, sir. Sue trinder, of— I  to say, Lant Street; t of course I must not say it, for fear it so Mr Ibbss shop. I closed my eyes and

    s . Dr Cie drew himself from my hand.

    You must not touc, erner.

    I clutc again. Only , I beg you! Only let me tell you of terrible plot I o be part of, by Ric devil!  you, sir!  all of us! olen a fortune. een thousand pounds!

    I  let go of . My voice  o  t it  trut to be deluded. I sie got out le, just like before. tes and Mr ty bellowed.

    t me back in t me s, ea.

    out, youll be sorry! I said, as t a mothe land!

    Nurse Spiller nodded. Is ss yours, and all our othen; and she laughed.

    I tea—ed bitter—must  in it. I slept t migo stupid. I let take me, stumbling, back to tie made our, and .

    You are calmer today, Mrs Rivers,  and from sleeping, it ick my tongue from my gums, to answer,

    I aint Mrs Rivers!

    And .

    My ried to to our rooms in the

    morning, and  to sit and be silent—or to read, if  books t  put up on a stool, looking over ttle magazine—no red fingers, to turn a page; and nohen chuckling.

    And t t yaook us doairs for our dinners. Anoto hey said. No dawdling.

    e  my back.

    Dont be frig turn your   be frightened, she said, of your soup.

    ter, to be nearer Nurse Bacon.

    So t our line cy or so ladies kept in t o me noer my spell in t and s of fas t some  to t teeteetaken from ts and bruises, and ots or muffs—t saying t all mad, in to me, just t t er all, as t maniacs. tty, ons. One liked to s bad s. t  and turned their laps, and mumbled, and sighed.

    I sat among te t was soup, as Miss ilson  me, nodding her

    ; but I  catc catcupid, before; no of frig of fever of friging, and tc t. But t kno of tools I suppose I mig I  any kind of tool—not so muco make one e our soup in, and so soft, t  hem.

    Dinner lasted cout men—Mr Bates and Mr ood at tables. ced up my hand and said,

    Please, sir, wors? Sir? May I see Dr Cie, sir?

    Dr Cie is busy, . he walked on.

    A lady said, You s see tors no you know?

    Sher.

    .

    From London, I said, still looking after think I come from somewhere else.

    From London! s, too: London! A!

    And t beginning. t is very ?

    I said, Out?

    ho are your people?

    ? tout man urned and oed my . ill you tell me, I said to ie? Sir? Please, sir?

    Be quiet! .

    t  be familiar, son.

    ? I said. No.

    I srees are all in leaf.

    I dont kno knohem.

    ho are your people?

    tout man urned and folded  no it droop.

    My people are thieves, I said miserably.

    Ohe ladies made faces. Queer girl. . .

    the woman beside me, however, beckoned me close.

    Your property gone? soo. But see  sring, around  , and ed stones. al, sy. Sucked toucers aken t. t his, however! Oh, no!

    I spoke to no-one, after t. ook us to a garden and made us  it for an e: te  you could see ts bars to t of t t in. trees to t park e of t. I ree in my life, but  be? If I mig to a  freedom.

    If Mrs Sucksby didnt come first.

    But till supposed, too, t I sie. I meant to s taken back to to sit, until tea-time, in a great grey room t smelt of leaking gas, t t—still tcill sing—and said not tty—did: I washed my face

    and  tand, eet my eful tartan goidy -go to tea and gave me a basin of it, I took it, but did not drink it. I tipped it on t no-one  steamed for a second, t my foot on tipped it. I looked up, and saty ching.

    Made a mess, she said loudly. She had a voice like a mans. Bad girl.

    Bad girl? said Nurse Bacon, turning round. I knoo your bed. Quick! quick! all of you. God bless me, w a life!

    So be quiet, o lie still. If , t first nigurned and trembled. Stop moving!

    S up, reading, and t of er  doo  a ligill burning, so sirred in t; and t straigo sleep and started snoring. han ever.

    Sook o bed   about her neck.

    I lay e glove in my fist, and no tip of one of its fingers to my mout ; and I bit and bit.

    But I slept, at last; and ors came back on th Nurse Spiller, I was ready.

    Mrs Rivers, ie, after ty  a minute looking over Mrs Price and Miss ilson.

    I am perfectly clear in my head, I said.

    ch. Splendid!

    Dr Cie, I beg you—!

    I dipped my  old ory, all over again— Maud Rivers, but  in errible trick;  Briar as Maud Lillys servant, so I migero be mad. aken une, all for themselves.

    t you! You dont believe me? Bring anyone from Briar! Bring t c t to them, my own!

    are you calling it, norinder?

    Susan— No! I said. Not in t book. It is Susan Smithere.

    Susan Smith, again!

    Only in t it.  you see?

    But no o look grim. I  you say too muced. e cannot . e must  all times. these fancies of yours—

    Fancies? God s t truth!

    Fancies, Mrs Rivers. If you migerrible plots? Laugolen fortunes and girls made out to be mad? tuff of lurid fiction! e  a ic one. You o overindulge yourself in literature; and have inflamed your organs of fancy.

    Inflamed? I said. Over-indulge? Literature?

    You oo much.

    I looked at  speak.

    God  last, as urned aing—give me a pencil, and Ill put you

    dos as muco put, t me dory it for a year!

    o o t o keep me from folloer. o tors backs! Dont pull from me! I so be put back in tie?

    But Dr Cie urned at t me in a ne of way,   Dr Graves. ly,

    It ent of to startle  of it.  do you say? Yes, give me a page from your note-book. Nurse Spiller, let Mrs Rivers go. Mrs Rivers— o me and gave me ttle piece of paper t Dr Graves orn from  o  and broug a pencil, and made to give me t.

    atc. Shis one!

    Very good, I see  I do not think she means us any harm. Do you, Mrs Rivers?

    No, sir, I said. I took t trembled. ched me.

    You may  better t, I think, he said.

    I moved it in my fingers, and it fell. I picked it up. atcco make anot me.

    I am not used to holding pencils, I said.

    Dr Cie nodded. I te me a line upon this paper.

    I cant, I said.

    Of course you can. Sit neatly on t t is  to e, is it not? You kno is. Noe me your name. You can do t, at least. You old us so. Go on.

    I ated, te it. tore beneathe lead. Dr

    Cie cook t from me and s to Dr Graves. they frowned.

    You ten Susan, said Dr Cie. ?

    It is my name.

    You ten badly. Did you do so on purpose? e me out a line, as I requested first.

    I cant. I cant!

    Yes, you can. rite a single e me te: speckle.

    I shook my head.

    Come, come,  difficult. And you kno letter of it,  already.

    Again, I ated. And tcilted to see me do it—I e an S. t tters. t on and on, and gree.

    You still press ie said.

    Do I?

    You knoters are muddled, and very ill-formed.  letter is t is one of your oo understand t your uncle—a scenance ant?

    . I quivered rigies gaze and said, as steadily as I could:

    I  an uncle to my name. You mean old Mr Lilly. I dare say es neatly enoug you see, I aint her.

    apped at his chin.

    For you, rinder.

    I quivered again. Sir, I am!

    . I t, ts it! and almost surned to Dr Graves and shook his head.

    Quite complete,  it? I dont believe I ever saending even to tor faculties. Its t study on this,

    until our course of treatment is decided. Mrs Rivers, my pencil if you please. Ladies, good-day.

    urned, and left us. Dr Graves and Nurse Spiller   turn t  as if sruck me or knocked me do crying. Sut—but too used to tears in t  o see a ting at dinner, o  tut turned into a yas, so me or to all of us. orments, ard on. orments, ty, be a good girl to your poor old nurse. Fetc my ointment, will you?

    Sill  of tty took it to t out a jar of grease. te and ty sat, took a , and began to  into Nurse Bacons sh.

    t finds tty chuckled.

    I turned my o my pilloty a demon at  cil I could cry no more.

    And t beside my bed, and tle.

    Come, my dear. You must not give in to tears.

    It  out o me. I sa, and flinched.

    A  it. I am not quite in my rigo t,  a ches. hush!

    Saken a  I s soft; and tness of it, and t s piece of kindness t anyone o to cry again. Nurse Bacon looked over. Ive got my eye on you, so me. Dont t. ttled back in ty still o her fingers.

    I said quietly,

    You mustnt t home.

    I am sure you do not, answered Miss ilson.

    Im only so frighey say I am mad.

    You must keep your spirit. t so  nor is it perfectly kind. t  breatall. t t pap!—I so see it served to a gardeners boy.

    her voice had risen. Nurse Bacon looked over again, and curled her lip.

    I so see you blusom! she said.

    Miss ilson worked h and looked embarrassed.

    A reference, so me, to my pallor. ill you believe me if I tell you, tance in ter ed to c, !

    S so mad, my  quite sank.

    tering hand had fallen.

    I believe—let me see—tle of the passing seasons ... I should say, many years.

    ty, said Nurse Bacon, still listening. For you e an old ?— een years, tumn.—Aty, there! Good girl.

    S out h, and her eyes closed. I

    t in y years!—and t must have shown on my face, for Miss ilson said,

    You must not tay so long as t. Mrs Price comes, every year; but  of . It  men  ers. ongue— You understand.

    t  me ends to be my husband.

    t is  is t of all.

    I touc, t —so   me.

    You believe it, I said. I looked at Nurse Bacon; but she had heard me and opened her eyes.

    Dont make anyt, sable voice. Miss ilson believes all sorts of nonsense. Only ask  creatures live in the moon.

    Curse you! said Miss ilson. I told you t as a confidence!— You may see, Mrs Rivers, o diminisanding.—Does my broto abuse me? thieves! Devils!

    Nurse Bacon made a so fists; and Miss ilson gre again. I said, after a moment,

    You may t you like about t you? But ie s out, in time.

    I  you kno is your  sign you out.

    I stared at  Nurse Bacon. Is t true? I asked. Nurse Bacon nodded. I began to  ser never, never will!

    Miss ilson s perhaps he

    ill visit, and take a c? t let us see our vis-tors, you kno is the law.

    I wiped my face.  come, I said. , if he did, I would kill him!

    S  of fear. You must not say suc be good. Dont you kno taking you, of binding you— t ter—

    ater, murmured Mrs Price, in a shuddering way.

    ts enoug—s me—stop stirring up the ladies.

    And again, s.

    So t. Betty e or t t back to   out a murmur or a moan from be door t of ragged s of Mr Ibbss sister. I t of all my . I began, again, to s. I felt suddenly I t feel, o my feet and o ther, and back.

    If only t see out. And t the Borough!

    ill you sit down? said Nurse Bacon.

    t t get up from o ans. It ed until togetole back to Miss ilson. Desperation o make me sly.

    Listen to me, I said quietly. I must get out of  kno? Ill pay you fork, I swear.

    S me, and tone, I  suppose t I  up to speak in whispers?

    Nurse Bacon looked round and stared.

    You, Maud, s are you doing now?

    ty, in her gruff voice.

    ! Get back to your bed and leave Miss ilson alone. Cant I turn my back a minute  you start up trying to tamper he ladies?

    I supposed srying to escape. I  back to my bed. Sood at to y  I  me, before.

    I ill too ignorant to knoy look meant. God o find out, soon enough.

 Chapter Fifteen

    Until t trouble myself to ill supposed I s out. Even . I only understood at last t I must give up my idea t Dr Cie o release me— for if  I ime  on only seemed to serve to make , ill o  I s only be made to e. You  too muco literary  is t. But sometimes ors must o put you to literary o restore you. Look  me somet e and c e before you, ten me out—neatly, mind!—your name. Your true name, I mean. tomorroart of

    an account of your life; and you so it, on eac folloy he pen

    And so ting  a stretce noto a poing of my palm. ty slate, and froe a ime to make you eful, I call t.

    your teettled out of your il you  tell ted ted me. t t ural to me, I did it to tease t it out t I got special attentions from Dr Cie, tending to be lo made te me, too. Only mad Miss ilson o me. Once se and, e me out my name—Mauds name, I mean. But, t it ; for ,  day, I again could make not scribbles, of course  me shamming.

    Keep ernly, until ses again.

    So te out: Susan, Susan—I e it, fifty times. Nurse Bacon  me. Nurse Spiller  me, too. Dr Cie s, and needed anote— into my moutalked of bringing a leeco bleed my o t a made-up language she said

    er t ime ing paper bags beer—looking for o startle o speaking English.

    I o me, ime for sitting and planning my escape in. For I still t of not of t. It got to June. I ime in May. But I still  enougo learn to study t for ime Nurse Bacon took out c. I sa, as far as t, one key  key from a nurses cain of it. But tout; and eac  be crafty—kept  of all. So Betty  out from ook t once, and dropped to .

    I never sa trembling in a  seemed too  I—of all people in t so lo  even a fancy key, but a plain one, raigs upon it t, given t kind of blank and file, I kneo fake up. I t it, a imes a day. I t it as I  it as I tle garden; as I sat in ts imes over. But my ts were more like poisons. I hey made me sick.

    It  of sickness, not like t , in my first days t was a kind

    of creeping misery, t crept so slos of t kno il too late. I still said, to everyone  I e in my rig I ake— t I  Maud Rivers, and must be let out at once. But I said it so often, t—like coins losing too muc. One day at last, I  again; and t me in pity.

    I t t you see, Im afraid you must be mad, since you are  us all. You need only look about you. You need only look at yourself.

    S, as before, sy; topped,  t, I could not say in  look, to otie kept no looking-glasses, for fear t smas seemed to me no t time I  my o Mrs Creams— at Mrs Creams?—le mirror. I put my o my eyes. tain of it.  o taken it from me—and taken, too, Mauds mot —tead— I looked do myself, at tartan dress and rubber boots. I  used to t t see tter. t to cting  a little to t of  looked into t was dark, and sopped, and  her face.—I blinked. She blinked. She was me.

    I  sloowards her, and looked myself over, in horror.

    I looked, as tic. My ill

    seo my  s stitcood out in tufts. My face  marked, s and scratc of sleep, I suppose—and red at tick. tartan goy ips of t I still  to my . You could just make out, on teeth.

    I looked, for pere. I looked, and t of all times t Mrs Sucksby  of  me in it, so I s take c of ting aside, for me, tenderest morsels of meat; and smooteet; and passing o be sure t traig me, all to Briar, to make my fortune, so I mig une  and given me o be —as say, in milliners sted res; or in  dancing—every glass so be everyt— to be handsome, and cheerful, and proud, and free—

    I migo. tened me. I stood, not knoy woke up, and came and jabbed me.

    All rigy, s, too. So lets see em. So turning line; and I bos, ts of t—anyt all, to save me from lifting my gaze to the look in my own mad eye.

    t, I suppose,  t might have been sooner,

    t es  ell so mucead of spending all morning on your bed, you o stand in ten  o s do, for every Sunday t came round; but of course, for many —eacime one came I t t, by t, I s out. to gro seemed to me t some o ell for certain  spring urned to summer: for t, like an oven.

    I remember t, almost more t self. tance, became like soup. I tually died, t air—tie o pass off trokes. I . tempered as ts. tay er you, in ,  tunbridge Asylum, whe nurses all wear poplin—!

    But t of it   too easy. talked all time of roublesome and sly t of course, too dazed and miserable to be sly, trouble came all from t. t of time test one you can imagine, for t us in bed at seven oclock—gave us ts, to make us sleep—t till midnigoast and cocoa, doing fancy-ing, standing at to eac of eacheir ladies locked up and unguarded.

    And in tie ake off tockings and lift ts; and tand beside t we legs.

    Nurse Bacon did, anycty rubbing grease into en times a day. Sometimes s its  s ter. t gave her dreams.

    oo slippy! s. And t ;

    I also dreamed. I seemed to dream every time I closed my eyes. I dreamed, as you mig Street, of troubling dreams, en I . Noill to do—and yet, t as well hose dreams bewildered me.

    t dreams of all, o s greer and I began to get more and more muddled in my mind. they were dreams of Briar, and of Maud.

    For I never dreamed of leman. I only ever used to dream t  be blamed, can you, for o kill  sometimes I , not kno me, and turned and fretted in ttys great bare leg, Nurse Bacons sing face, Miss ilsons arm. Mrs

    Price put back , rat Maud o do: I  e forget t  t from Briar, forget t c t Mrs Creams, to trick; forget I meant to escape, and o do ant, be not in my bed at all but in ains  doonig voice; and then: Im afraid! Im afraid—!

    Dont be frig be frig t moment, to t, like Nurse Bacon, I migerrible sed ed  I kne, every time, I secretly o its end.

    I began to be afraid I ried to kiss Mrs Price, or Betty? But if I tried to stay as upid, it also no ladies—even quiet, obedient ladies—into fits. You caugion of it from your bed: t. It broke into t and silent nigime,  ill trangely—and sometimes one lady  off anot mig set off you, and you o feel t gatart to s, pero tcs! Betty migart to en. top, tsteps begin to fade. ts got  t word, plunge,

    Betty  must involve being pumped, like a drain,  t o soo.

    I dont kno, so all of us, nastily, as s back to  one of you t  off, ?

    But time, it o ting  for tie came running: tairs, and er and s being plunged meant being dropped in a bat gave me some comfort, at least; for it seemed to me t being bat be nearly so bad as being suckered and pumped . . .

    I still kne all.

    t test day of all t stifling summer—t turned out to be Nurse Bacons birt of it, sly to our room, to give ty. times, as I t alloo, and talking made it  of us to sleep; but or—for t it doo delusions and, after,  us. till,  playing cards or dominoes, drinking lemonade and, sometimes, beer.

    t, on account of it being Nurse Bacons birt; and because it ook too muc and got drunk. I lay  across my face, but kept my eyes  try to sleep  you mig Dr Cie, I suppose, might call—a morbid fear, of

    giving myself a I ougo keep ao a stupor; for teal their keys . . .

    t, ead, tter. I t noo a doze: I began to en one of t, or snort er; t er t o myself, . At last I looked at t red sing faces and t  open mout t boasting of o comparing grips. t to one anoto palm, to see hem showed her arm.

    Let us see yours, Belinda, anoty names like t. You could imagine t t us see it.

    Nurse Bacon pretended to look modest; t back  , it bulged. ts Iris it, and hem said,

    I s, youre almost a match for Nurse Flew.

    Nurse Fleo ron in a gaol. Noco see s all. ter. A matcc!

    ty and Mrs Price. Sirring. Get back to sleep, s see me, cch, indeed, she

    grumbled. So one of tcta, you get a string.

    tittered, and t off. t came back after a minute  o undress me on my first day. togetairs. Nurse Spiller looked about h her hands on her hips and said,

    ell, if Dr Cie could see you! Ss t arms?

    Sook it in turns to measure tc, as a man in a darkened o arm, and it trange lig queer s, and tement of to lurch and hop.

    Fifteen! teen!— Seventeen!—Eigeen! Nurse Flew !

    t do, and fell about quarrelling—not so muced to attoos. Nurse Bacons face han ever. She said sulkily,

    As to arms,  Nurse Fleake it time; t oug to count t. No weig up han me?

    At once, t up beside ried to pick to prove it. One of them fell down.

    Its no good, t so,  tell. e need anot say you stand upon a c.

    say, said tty? See who makes her creak.

    See who makes her squeak!

    t Bettys bed. Betty  t to shake.

    Nurse Spiller snorted. Sime. Dont make it  aint fair. Make it old Miss ilson.

    S!

    Or, Mrs Price.

    Shed cry! Cryings no—

    Make it Maud!

    One of t—I dont kno eachen Nurse Spiller spoke.

    Pass a canding on—

    ait! ait! cried anot are you t jump on ll kill o wipe ead.

    And at t, I put back t from my face and opened my eyes up  ter all, t I put back t, and tarted laugoook t, and anot. t  sing beast y y panting moutruggled, they pinched me. I said,

    You leave me alone!

    S up, t going to  you. e only  to see  of Nurse Bacon, Nurse Spiller and Nurse Fle to see w. Are you ready?

    Get off me! Get off me! Ill tell Dr Cie!

    Someone  me in t, to go on ?

    I le for o come forward. S her? she said.

    eve got her.

    Rigill

    tig s and t to s, at t moment, arent fit to be described. I ear tarted to s and, again, I ruck in t; so t. t on to ting up , knelt astride of me. to fall upon me. But to take it. Nurse Bacon opped her.

    No dropping, s be fair. Go do at all.

    So Nurse Fleil  . I tead of a bed, so run. Please—! I said.

    S means five points to Nurse Flew!

    tugging me, t off me, and I sactered and cougigurn. S  more aiff one,  seemed to cut me like a sa sour, and tle bitco me, sing out!—but I , t last ts for Nurse Spiller at all!—and so  off. I lifted my head

    from ttress. My eyes reaming er, but beyond tty and Miss ilson and Mrs Price, looking on and s pretending to sleep. t migo t blame t my  tigill flus te of  have had gloves on.

    S astride of me as Nurse Flew had, and flexed her fingers.

    No and made it tidy. Sted my leg. No. hos my own good girl?

    ter t of , and ten points! t t, like rolling-pins; and t made me scre louder. t  omacill ain way. My eyes flew open. She gave me a leer.

    Like it, do you? sill moving. No? e heard you did.

    And at t, t me t nasty look I  never understood. I understood it no once I guessed  o Dr Cie, t time at Mrs Creams. t t s—t s, before Gentleman, as a  to be mad—struck me like a bloo t. I  Briar; but t t. It  been toucco struggle, and to shriek.

    Get off me! I s off me! Get off me! Get off!

    Nurse Bacon felt me ted it  crack. Shere came blood on my cheek.

    t quite say  I t on struggling and sill. Nurse Bacon rolled from me; I t someone—probably, Nurse Spiller— me; yet still my fit kept on. I  Betty started up bello otook up ts from ours. I tctles and cups! I  aken frig  men and ter anote, Dr Cie. . ill kicking and the blood from Nurse Bacons nose upon me.

    S  set her off?

    Nurse Bacon said not   ? Dr Cie said again. A dream?

    A dream, s arted into life. Oie, s!

    t made me sie said, Rigreatment for paroxysms. You men, and Nurse Spiller. Cold er plunge. ty minutes.

    t  it seemed to me no me uprig I o float. In fact, toes, next day. But I dont remember, noaken do floor, to t of t remember passing to t dark corridor, to t ts, tiles beneat—but, only dimly.  I recall most is to, at t, as t up and s over ter; t, as I pulled against traps.

    t fly the shock,

    as t it—ter over my face, t into my moutried to gasp—t, wtered and coughed.

    I t they had hanged me.

    I t I e to o plunge. Fifteen plunges in all. Fifteen seen tugs on the rope of my life.

    After t, I dont remember anything.

    t er all. I lay in darkness. I did not dream. I did not t say I e myself, again. For s and took me back to my old room, and I   like a lamb. I   t  and, like t notalk of putting canvas bracelets on me, in case I s in anot; but I lay so quietly, tie, in my beted it, and I supposed t, getting me alone, s—I t, if saken t it seemed to me t s me oddly; and  me. No  it? e must  of fun, mustnt we? or we should go mad . . .

    I turned my face aill c care. I cared for not up my nerve and my spirit, all t time. I ed for my c noo gro ering curtain across it. ried to go over treets of t my  reets. If

    ty—a place so different from ty I kne migo anso Maud and Mrs Rivers; sometimes it seemed to me I must be Maud, since so many people said I imes I even seemed to dream, not my o imes to remember t shem.

    t Nurse Bacon—greer t I  I got used to being s used to seeing oturn. I got used to it all. I got used to my bed, to to Miss ilson and Mrs Price, to Betty, to Dr Cie. I s, no I ter, but only t my malady aken a different turn, and urn back. Until it did, t in trying to cure me; so opped trying. I  trutoget so , and t money. No and looked into my mout stay long in t all, once t most of our time t used to t.

    God knoo. God kno place—maybe, years. Maybe as long as poor Miss ilson: for per put  be today. I still t and s never  out; and Mrs Sucksby and Mr Ibbs, and Gentleman, and Maud— whey be, now?

    I t, too.

    But t out. Blame Fortune. Fortunes blind, and une sent roy to t

    it?—and a prince, to ty. Fortune kept me at Dr Cies nearly all t summer long; ten to  me.

    ter time in July. tupid I  by till a  in ted for to be rung; and, in ternoons, you o to do. to stay aime pass. I slept as muc so muc o come or, to ell me again; and .

    A visitor? I said.

    Nurse Spiller folded

    Nurse Bacon, will rubbing her knuckles and wincing. Bad? she said.

    Like scorpions stings, Nurse Spiller.

    Nurse Spiller tutted. I said again,

    A visitor? For me?

    Soday, or not?

    I did not kno I rose, on s—for if tor , leman. My  point, t I only kne I  . I looked at Miss ilson. I  I o  if Gentleman came I , t of seeing ed, it made me sick.

    Nurse Spiller sae. Come on, s mind your  my o my o be, tter. Saves disappointment, dont it? S Nurse Bacon. then: Come on!

    scumbled after o tairs.

    It   kno yet, for on ednesdays Dr Cie and Dr Graves  off in to drum up neics, and t. Some nurses, and one or tanding about in taking breatte and,  look at me,  t o come, and feeling sicker and stranger by the second.

    In o my arm and pulled me to  been used in a wors are away. You hear me?

    So t voice, to ting there.

    I ed Gentleman. It

    second of my seeing  a rusment so s s ranger, and supposed t take,  ures in a be of  last, at last—as if o ts or cloudy er—at last I kne. ilted  me, and past Nurse Spiller, as if  t Maud must be coming along be me again, and his eyes grew wide.

    And it , t saved me.  time t  Mrs Creams, t  me and seen, not Maud, but Sue. t. ture, too—for in tanding in ting  slip from me and then come

    back baffled, my oo leave me and I formed a plan. I formed it .

    It e.

    C used to speaking, and it came out like a croak. C be very c oo come and make a visit to your old mistress!

    And I  to   taking my eyes away from o me and I w weeping, in his ear:

    Say Im  all! Say Im her! Oh, please say Im her!

    I kept . epped back.   a scarlet line across  all over. h. he said,

    Miss, I— Miss—

    Of course, , at Briar. t of nasty satisfaction, ell, aint it marvellous  Dr Cie be pleased?

    I turned and cauganding? t s rig. Not too close, t say art clas better. Nos kicking up, you sing out—all right?

    e , in till looked beood in t c surned o to nod and murmur to the nurses beyond.

    I still  give it up. I leaned towards rembling, and spoke in a whisper. I said,

    Co see anyone, anyone in all my life! You o help me.

    he same low voice,

    You are Miss Smith?

    o er. But you mustnt say it  say— I glanced at Nurse Spiller, tly still. You must say Im Miss Lilly. Dont

    ask me why.

    Dr Cie  my malady aken a different turn, but being sure, in time, to turn back. I  if  I  Maud,  find a o keep me closer—peroo.—In oterror urned my brain. But I also  plan. It he second.

    Dont ask me rick  Im mad, Charles.

    a great el. I supposed I should find Miss Lilly here. And—and Mr Rivers.

    Mr Rivers, I said. O devil! o London  o be mine.  a pair! t me o die—!

    My voice  : someone else—someone really mad—mig of my mouto keep from talking louder. I squeezed t out of ts. And I glanced fearfully to turned. So t and  opped me. urned from flaming scarlet, to we. he said, in a whisper,

    Mr Rivers, gone to London?

    to London, I said, or to o  wonder!

    core h his hands.

    O as I hen Im ruined!

    And to my very great astonis, o cry.

    ory came leaking out, tears. It turned out t—just as I  s Briar seemed a life not leman  it so o mope. eward aken a wo him.

    t ing, miss, of my disappointed .

    , in a  made me tised it; tiff, as if  o suffer any blo terly— .

    I  to notice.  a gentleman! O aint he?

    arted crying again. Nurse Spiller looked over and curled  t ives, at Dr Cies.

    o turned back to C tle longer and, as , studied  I  seen at first—t y, and range—iff  to make it lie smoot.

    ly,

    Be a good boy noell me trut you, from Briar?

    h.

    Mr Rivers used to say to me, miss,  ake me on to man for , I  all, tay at Briar. But o find , in London? t stir, aking off. ts er  np-one e sure. t a scandal. o anotc cooks. Mr Lilly aint in  mind. Mr ay o feed him his dinners off a spoon!

    Mrs Cakebread, I said, fros: eacime one , anot of my brain greh Mr Rivers?

    I dont knoook o feel it. For  first; to some of . t on  s , in a great  sent to my auntys, to look at  c never cured mine, t;

    I opped listening. t in my  ook his hand again. Black-faced pigs? I said, screwing up my eyes. he nodded.

    y was Mrs Cream.

    I suppose its like t in try. I  to ask  name.  in tratress, t y o talk of tleman and lady t ly married,  once oget son, he

    coac ties  was.

    I supposed it a great el,   ts before, and  in ditcoo late, o turn back, e for Mr Rivers. t mean  a kind lady Miss Maud al if anyone salk Mr Rivers round to taking me on, she should. And now—!

    o tremble. Really, Mr ay o be so tearful, and at any otime, in any ot  for no ears, and to my bruised and desperate eyes they were like so many pick-locks and keys.

    Co o seem calm. You cant go back to Briar.

    I cant, miss, ! Mr ay would skin me alive!

    And I dare say your aunty dont  you. s Mr Rivers youre after.  ill crying.

    ten to me, I said—barely speaking at all, barely o me. I can take you to ake you to  first, you must  of here.

    If it  quite true t I kne  quite a lie, eitty certain t, once I reac  I oo. Cared at me, and , miss, just whenever you please?

    I s keeps me s t nurse? See  ty nurses ; and to use em. No my face. Am I mad?

    he looked, and blinked. ell—

    Of course I aint. But ics so crafty, tors and nurses cant see them.

    Again   me—just as, a moment before, I   time.  my s. I dre under my skirt.

    I— Im not sure, he said.

    Not sure? Not sure of o go back to your auntys and live  to go and be man to Mr Rivers, in London—London, mind! Remember ts a boy can ride on for a sricky c.

    Nurse Spiller. Saken out a ch.

    Pigs? I said quickly. Or eleps?  to be? For Gods sake, which?

    he worked his lips.   v

    Eleps, er a terrible silence

    Good boy. Good boy. ten. ?

    he swallowed. Five shillings and sixpence, he said.

    All rig you must do. You must go to any to you must ask to my eyes. I t I felt t cloudy er rising again, t flapping curtain. I nearly screamed in frigain dreer s it. If t sell it, you must steal one. No look like t! e s t safe. Go next to a blacksmit a file—see

    my fingers?—same  it. Keep t  ednesday, only ednesday and me? Charles?

    ared. I o gro t me and c the door-place and was headed our way.

    times up, she said.

    e stood. I kept o keep from sinking. I looked at Co   now reac again.

    Youll remember,  you, w Ive said?

    ened   let them go.

    Dont leave me! I said. t leave me, please!

    he jumped.

    Noime for this. Come on.

    So ungrip my fingers. It took  or t o h.

    Sad, aint it? Nurse Spiller said to  my o, t takes tter not to come at all, ter not to remind em of igo tell your people t, w a sad way you found  you?

    o me, and nodded. I said,

    Ceettering about t mind it. Its not all.

    But I could see  me no I must be mad, after all; and if  t, t Dr Cies house for ever, I should never see Mrs

    Sucksby and never  t  let me go. Anoto see Co t me c o keep from running after. As , urned, and stumbled, and met my gaze. tried to smile, and suppose the smile was dreadful.

    Youll remember! I called, my voice range. Youll remember ts!

    ter trengts! tood and laug me, until t.

    t errible one. I  my oo it. Say I greo it again, in seven days? Say I greupid? Say Coo funked to knoo keep myself from slipping into a dream again. I pincil t my oongue. Eac days  noticed.  day is today? Id ask Miss ilson and Mrs Price. Of course, t, Good Friday. then Id ask Nurse Bacon.

    day is today, Nurse Bacon?

    Punis Day, shed answer, wincing and rubbing her hands.

    t, after all, C come— t I oo mad—t aken by disaster. I t of all t mig people,  rained, and I t of tcer and ning; and I imagined ering under a tree, h a file in his hand . . .

    t. tie  off in te in t to our room, looked at me and said, ell, aint . e sting out t te ...quot; S, she said.

    time, C in ts as before and, again, Nurse Spiller stood in t for a minute in silence. e as chalk. I said, in a whisper,

    C?

    he nodded.

    the blank?

    he nodded again.

    the file?

    Anot my hand before my eyes.

    But tone, cost nearly all my money. t some blanks are blanker told me t. I got t he had.

    I parted my fingers, and met his gaze.

    how much did you give him? I asked.

    three shillings, miss.

    then, Never mind, I said. Never mind. Good boy . . .

    told   do next. I said   for me, t nigies park  ree gre for me t  all nigo—for I could not say, for sure, ake me.  only , and be ready to run. And if I did not come at all,  kno someto stop me; and t come back t nig again— do t, ts over.

    And if you dont come, then? he asked, his eyes wide.

    If I dont come to London, and you find out a street named Lant Street, and a lady t lives there,

    named Mrs Sucksby; and you tell  lady loves me!—and s to do.

    I turned my er. You got it? I said at last. You swear?

    s let ry and slip me t t, and I  just before I left o see  up my sleeve. to—t upstairs, I stooped as if to tug up a stocking, and let it fall into one of my boots.

    t of all ts. I  do  o make my copy.

    I did it like this.

    t nig in her chair and flexed her fingers, I said,

    Let me rub your onigead of Betty. Betty doesnt like it. She grease makes her smell like a chop.

    Bettys mouth fell open. Oh! Oh! she cried.

    God   enoug, Betty!—Like a cer all my kindness?

    I never! said Betty. I never!

    S me do it instead. Look  and soft my hands are.

    Nurse Bacon looked, not at my fingers, but at my face. tty, s up! s a ro Id rat girl t tip of o the

    edge of t in  and pulled it back. Fetc, so me.

    S ated, t in my  of c. t littlest one, s and let t to t out tty lay on omaco  back and put up  beside ment in, all about  as I  done a imes. I rubbed for  me from beneatful  smiled.

    Not so bad, is it? she murmured. Eh?

    I didnt ans of  of t and to come. If my colour  for a blusrange, and conscious of myself,  to range, t last sretc gave a t s see it. I moved from o take tment back to its cupboard. My  to do o do. ted—to t. I did not plan to steal it, siced if I  men came all time to Lant Street, s of soap, and putty, and  into the jar.

    took tting, good as anyt it once, t ts s only pretended to lock. took it back to Nurse Bacon, and s ip of humb, like before.

    Rigo put in to ttom. ts right.

    I  meet  to my bed, and s in il Nurse Spiller brougs. I  used to taking mine, along

    tonigipped it ao ttress, time—ty boc of fever, to see . If so tting, or any small to t open, and locked it, and spoiled my plan, I cant say o despair of  and dropped it; ground t till s on. t up, and put goand, rubbing omacton of  all t me, seeming to turn some idea over in her mind . . .

    But t . S t into arted snoring.

    I counted ed ty I rose, like a g, crept back to t out the jar of grease.

    t my copy. I cant say  took. I only kno took s and blankets bunc my o muffle till t in time to Nurse Bacons snores. And I could not file too quickly even to be matcs op and flex t, t errible o be doing in a desperate mood. I seemed to feel t slipping a me and be brougo myself—to till I feared t time opped and I s in it for ever. No-one called out

    t nig as  I kne Cing, on ties ing for me; and t, beyond ing—per my name ... It must  of t, t gave me courage and made true.

    For at last time o t ts all matc, in a sort of daze. My fingers ained from t numb from gripping. I dared not stay to bind tartan goook up my rubber boots. I also took Nurse Bacons comb.—t  t. I lifted it from off able, and, as I did, s s ood quite still, looking into . I t, ed sricked  of , when Id said I would rub her hands.

    Queer, t sucimes. I ce, t to t turned it. Please, God, I  of my days, I s cauguck. Fuck! Fuck! I said. t cut true after all: no  turn, eiter! O ried again—still not last I let it go. I  silently back to my bed, got Nurse Bacons ointment jar, stole back  to t grease across t into t fainting ime—time, it worked.

    to be got ter t. t stuck, and must be greased— and every time, I so he

    lock, and  on faster. But no-one  and quiet, tairs and e still. t door ed and latc need a key for t. I left it open be ime t I  a frigo cross t of gravel tep, and tly, , and almost died. I t it es, I t your— one of t t  t stifled, and there came silence.

    I did not  to see ly, at first, across trip of gravel—t and  look back at t t till inside it. I so say I  and to ttle o find; but I did not. I didnt save anyone but myself. I oo afraid. I found tallest tree: it took me anoto get myself up ts in its trunk—to fall, to try again—to fall a second time, a to o its lo branco climb from to to  I did not . I jumped. I  t ruck him.

    t t dog set off anot h.

    Come on! I said.

    I caugurned our backs to the wall, and ran and ran.

    e ran t ill dark, too afraid, at first, to take time to

    find t. Every noumble, or sloo press o ilt my en; but to  birds, and breezes, and mice. Soon ter, and  trip of a road.  kno ood on any kind of pato co take. I looked about me, and tening sky seemed suddenly vast and fearful. ting. I t of London. to he fear passed from me.

    It , time  tand for a minute and t as if I ington, to me o take. o , but I  t or coac  out after us, from t of a gate in a donkey-cart, did I t one of Dr Cies men:  ourselves in  us ride beside  ts and stitc stood up like coir, and I , so put a  my  er, and going back to London after a stay y.

    London, ey years t  right?

    us do t toake from t nine or ten miles. e y more to do. till early morning. e found a bakers s bread; but t my s, I ones. tarted.

    Seven oclock, I said. I felt suddenly gloomy. I looked at Nurse

    Bacons comb. ty bed; if t found it already

    Mr ay will be poliso

    jump.

    ts, I said quickly. I bet t a polislemans shoes.

    Is it?

    t made ter. e finis by  us rathe bakers shop had.

    tinkers, said Cched him pass.

    But I imagined men coming from t after a girl in a tartan dress and rubber boots. Lets go, I said, and  took a quiet pat  off across fields. e kept as muco to walk on.

    tterflies, and bees. Noopped and untied t my  been furttle  ters on my , e s to London!

    But eacime I t it, I t of Mrs Sucksby, and imagined turned up at t Street door. t of Maud, wherever she was; and imagined her face.

    o me, hered me. I said,

    tell me, C colour are Miss Lillys eyes? Are they brown, or blue?

    me strangely.

    I they are brown, miss.

    Are you sure?

    I think so, miss.

    I too.

    But I  sure. I tle faster. Cing.

    Near noon t day tle cottages, on to a village. I made Cop, and ood bec one, a girl stood ser a minute s inside, and t anot passed back and fort looking out. t cottage do I guessed t be sometealing: I t of going to trying tc as I stood,   te tle cying on a bonnet and kissing the children good-bye.

    No, so t one, mind you co give you your egg. You may he needle.

    Yes, Ma, said t o be kissed, tood on te and s. tage—past me and C kno; for ill hidden behind our hedge.

    I co ttle girl—e nootage door. t Charles. I said,

    Ce turned our  last. Give me a sixpence,  in . Not t one.  you got a brighter?

    I took test  an extra she sleeve of my gown.

    are you going to do, miss? he asked.

    Never mind. Stay le.

    I stood and straig; t out from bely over to te of ttage, as if I

    tle girl turned her head and saw

    me.

    All rig. I just met your ma. Look here,

    a nice one? S;Please give to my little girl Janet, and tell o please go quick to t; Said s, just no you? Good girl. Kno is suctle girl, tell o  over, for ss.quot; As, do you? So do I. Nice, aint t eet got all your teet. O tring! Better nip do come up. Ill stay  t sixpence stle brot you  to take h you? Good girl

    It  trick ted doing it; but ime I spoke, I  me, at ttages, and along t no-one came. ttle girl put t of aggered ac, ted into t ty poor place, but in a trunk upstairs I found a pair of black s dress, put in paper. I t t  to God! I almost didnt take it; but in the end, I did.

    And I also took a black stra, a sockings, a pie from try; and a knife.

    to the hedge where Charles was hiding.

    turn round, I said, as I curn round! Dont look so frightened, you bloody big girl. Damn her! Damn her!

    I meant Maud. I tle girl, Janet, coming back to ttage s. I ime for tea, and finding her wedding-gown gone.

    Damn her!

    I got  till titc to t. Ccerror on his face.

    Dont look at me, you infant! I said. O tened of someone coming. I took t it back next to my bosom, and tied up trings of t. I ts into a ditcers on my feet  tockings . ttern of roses on it, and t  t look—like a picture, I t, of a milkmaid on a dairy wall.

    But t  try. e left t back to ter a time anothen we walked again.

    e still  h:

    You took t go asking. I took t youll eat it, tful. e spent t in to me,  run off to Briar ed until , tied ts to tried to. ing boy; but I kneer   no if I o, I ill seemed far off. till smelled too pure. Some time in t I ood in a circle and looked us over, and one of t tell me ts natural. I ried to run—of course, ook my foot off. I undid our laces. e

    back of the sun

    rise over a hill.

    t means east, said C er, but teep one and o top, tening up. I t, t of t  ry of England, s rivers and its roads and its s cs cs rising taller, try spread; until at last, at t point of all, tain, a darkness—a darkness, like t ips of domes and steeples, tering points of light.

    London, I said. Oh, London!

 Chapter Sixteen

    Still, it took all t day to reac. e mig tation and taken a train: but I t tle money  on  o a place ables for ty markets. e  of traffic, but  a ride, in taking scarlet beans to  sort of face—so I let t toget in t,   a crate, my eyes on ttle nearer. I mig; but I couldnt keep from cco be busier and try o give o palings and c, tches

    kerb-stones.  dreo t ed, tering bills, I reacore free a strip of poster— for a second, t it fly. It ure of a , ol. It left soot on my fingers. then I knew I was home.

    From  part of London range to me, but I found I kneake at a fork. Cimes catcook o lead reet, and  ay ted in t s, —he bloody ood.

    tminster, and got our first proper vieo stop.

    ait, Cting my o my  and turning a o see me so stirred up. But t part of my feelings being over, I began to think.

    e oug to cross ter just yet, I said, as  bump into. Suppose  a  fifteen to o do  t of til no me, in a new way. C.

    is it, miss? he said.

    Notill be men, sent out by Dr Cie. Lets cut down here.

    I took reet. But t, a dark and narroreet  kind of street to be caugurned instead—rand; and after a time o t tle stalls, selling second- to t o, and boug a veil. t to me teased me.

    Dont care for a , instead? oo pretty to hide.

    I  my , I said, impatient. Sos my arse.

    C care. I put on t better. It looked badly above my bonnet and pale print go I t I mig of t  t I said,

    If I get taken by Dr Cies spies before I bring you to Mr Rivers,  do you t, then?

    o t Ludgate  raffic  its .

    to her does he live?

    Not muc all. But,  be careful. I o t us find somew

    e ended up at St Pauls. e  in, and I sat in one of t and looked at tatues. I t, I must only get to Lant Street, and t  of tory t Gentleman mig about ts turned against me? Say I met Jo did not need turning; and  be careful. I so study t ious and slo I t of my mot been cautious enoug o her.

    I s Pauls  ts colours, as ternoon turned to nig Dr Cies, noo take us doo our suppers. e er, and a pint of tea . . . C beside me. I ly pink.

    te go about icks of brass, lig   in among them, in a gown of his

    own.

    t . It her

    marked by dust.

    how much money have we now, Charles? I said.

    e ook o a pareet, and wo shillings.

    over.

    O a boy in s-sleeves!

    I said  t back in a day or ter, and a cup of tea.

    London s they lovely?

    ans.

    e crossed t Blackfriars, and from t more carefully still. e kept auck to ter even to ep ook, aking me closer to o see certain familiar tain familiar people—and felt, again, a stir in my , t I t e undo me. turned up to t end of Lant Street and stood looking along it; and my blood rus and my  rose so  I sed against and let my il t slower. hick. I said,

    See t black door, C? ts to my oo run to t door; but I s. It aint safe.

    Not safe?  reets—t looked so dear to my eyes I could  o his.

    Not safe, I said again, ill behind us.

    But I looked along treet, at Mr Ibbss door, and t t. It o temptation to go closer to it oo great. I caugood at a  by, and laug my veil. I kneo be afraid again, of being seen, and recognised. I t I er all, to reet; t,  I just make a run at t for Mrs Sucksby? Maybe Id . I cant say. For I urned, as if to rearrange my bonnet; and will making up my mind C o , Oh!

    t  my veil reet, and ted, to let someone  leman.  old slouc, and  clot . cer. I tling. t Mr Ibbss so a stop.  o t of  and dre a key.  against tep—first t, t—to knock t from tted t, and  inside.  all, in t and most familiar way you can imagine.

    I sa my feelings o o  o  ruck  t of  to ill at Dr Cies and mig any moment be taken, ser. My breatrangely, in little catc ticed. -sleeves.—Oill said. Oh! Oh!

    t on his cuffs.

    I cauged to run—back, ted to run, more t did. Come on, I said. Come, quick. t Mr Ibbss door— t of Mrs Sucksby be—t of Gentleman, cool and easy at  be cay, but  Street, but furt. t side. e reac beds? I said, to t t  enoug to t . t last ep  know  was good.

    Got a room? I said quickly.

    Migrying to see beyond my veil.

    At t? I looked up and pointed. t one?

    t one costs more.

    ell  for t tomorrow.

    S sed gin, I kne. All rig to , put tep, and took us up a slippery staircase. to to o it, only a stone for propping it s. ters closed before it, on treet-side, and tick  to t for opening them.

    You do it like to sopped  care for sunlight.

    For I raig tters tle  in t  for ed; and he door

    beook off my veil and bonnet, t myself at t.

    to see, ill s, and Mrs Sucksbys ce a minute before I remembered Canding, gazing at me, squeezing ween , and he jumped.

    Sit do my face back^to the window.

    I  my jacket, he said.

    You cant . t it tomorrow.

    I dont believe you. You told a lie to t lady, about ook t go pie. t pie made me sick. You  me to a horrible house.

    I  you to London. Aint t ed?

    I t London .

    You  seen t parts yet. Go to sleep. ell get your jacket back in then.

    it? You just gave our so t lady

    I s us anotomorrow.

    how?

    You mustnt ask. Go to sleep. Aint you tired?

    t black .

    take ther.

    t one has red hairs.

    Red   you.

    I  and rub   be about to cry again. But ter a minute he spoke, and his voice had changed.

    erent Mr Riverss whough? he said.

    erent t tter still. Id say o trim them.

    Dont !

    ting  c t cs keep c mouse- minding t t . t grew dark, and

    treet—t reet, in summer—grey and still, to the floor; a baby cried. A

    girl—sill I

    cruck off t   every one of t last came tening out for ters—still cill ing; but beginning to   I would see—whis happened:

    t and a s nearly fleo bits. e, and saffeta gourned from me, alking to someone else fart t ... I saaking off  to ted o rest it upon tood , and greill. Only  t, It cant be her.

    ted  of treet-lamp fell full upon it; and I cried out loud.

    S  turned o look at me, to y street and te a minute. I dont t time. I dont tayed open— I sa last. turned back into took a step ao ed o unfasten t the back of her collar.

    then came darkness.

    I moved back from te face ed

    treetligriking it—on t. I turned from the glass. My cry had woken Charles, and I suppose my look was peculiar.

    Miss, ? he said in a whisper.

    I put my h.

    Oook a couple of staggering steps toell me who I am!

    ho, miss?

    Not miss, dont call me missl I never  one.—Oaken everytaken everyt e. Sonight!

    I ran in a kind of fever, back to tter, to look at t I climb to t, creep in, and stab  knife?

    I ran again, and caug up and tried its edge. Not s me, tone t op, and dre. Like to C edge? Come on, come on. Youre t you?

    cerror; trembling fingers, ss good, I said. t s point against . topped. But, dont you t, after all, a deatabbing comes rat ougo find a slo of stifling, strangling, beating  ake longer; and oo s tter?

    o tood  it, and begun to quiver.

    — You aint to be at Briar!

    I said, Look at you. You aint t boy had nerve.

    I  Mr Rivers!

    I laug ne quite t you t her. Mr Rivers is a devil and a rogue.

    epped forward. !

    old everyone I was  me in a mad was, signed my order?

    If , it must rue!

    hes a villain.

    Briar said so.

    tten.

    o fists. I dont care! he cried.

    You  to man for a devil?

    Better t, t upon te you!

    And I e you, I said, you fucking nancy

    I still one in my  at him.

    It missed  a foot; but t striking t as badly as  t it from me. I touc . I  to C beside ried to push me away.

    Get off me!  care!

    Cen to me, I said, in a steadier voice. I dont e you, truly. And you mustnt e me. I am all youve got. You  your place at Briar, and your aunty dont  you. You cant go back to try no my o beaken by ter of a s? Dont cry, for Gods sake!—o sob.—You t like to cry? I ed, and t ced me  is lying at t in my o er tand. tter of life and death. I was

    fooliso say I  me t, Coo  o t;

    ill crying; and no last, I began to cry, too. I put my arm about o my sil, finally, someone in t door began to bang on t for us to stop.

    t afraid, now? Youll sleep, like a good boy?

    oget, and , ed, and h.

    But I kept  nig of Maud, across treet, lying breat perfectly slender, and perfectly we and bare.

    By time t. I stood at tcime but tirring, gave it up. t could .  I needed no it. I made C a parting in it, took ly from took o ec, far enougo risk going about  my veil. I found a spot on treet.

    Stand  nigs see you do it again.

    Lets w?

    I caug. o snivel. I put my reet, in an anxious  us. I beckoned them over.

    Please, sir, please, lady, I said. I just come upon try t er.

    Can you spare a couple of fart  kno know C  in ers

    cart. —__God bless you, sir! Dont cry, mate! Look, tleman is

    giving you t they . . .?

    Of course, tleman giving ears s. e made t first day—er, on a different street,  got us our suppers. t  over after t I kept, along icket to C, in my smy jacket, Cimes an ime Id ansomorro one more day . . .

    And tand at tters, my eye at t-sc its s. I , patient as a cracksman. I sao Mr Ibbs: I sa of  face, made me  to  I go to tle later, Id see Gentleman, and be filled again  to stand t tcy, ening up  nigting it doress of it to .

    it tood at, it s frame. And at nigake up my candle and o another.

    t ty, and Mr Ibbs, and Mrs Sucksby; and I dare say Jo spiders, t to be careful, C ie, t Ive escaped? t knoing,

    Cing for me. Ss clever!—for, in keeping ting, too. t kno.  time . t get me. ell send t  of t! hey, Charles?

    C  dark room, doing not pale, and o gro my jacket, ill said, no of bleat; but I t forgotten   for. For at last time  it. eve ed long enougodays our day; and instead of looking pleased, ared and looked frightened.

    Per ain feveris kno seemed to me I  time in my life. I took o atling Street and got  out of pa I kept . took reat, I said. Look out t the shops.

    I found us places next to a  across my lap. t t my eye, and I smiled.

    Pretty boy, s  sleep for o Bow; now were on our way back.

    roked  ts,  he!

    t stop came, I made C off. t I didnt tle ladies c o C it as t  mige  t? he said.

    Someone gave it to me. I dont believe you. Give me my jacket. In a minute. Give me my coat!

    e  over ts better. Noell me this: can you

    e?

    ansil I o t over; to cry again, but said t tle furtil ook Co our room and  and e out a letter. I stood ched.

    rite, Mrs Sucksby, I said.

    ?

    Dont you know?

    e. It looked all rigo me. I said,

    Noe te: /  in t villain your friend—so called!—Gentleman—

    You are going too fast, e. ilted  villain your friend—

    —so called!—Gentleman; and t bitc make tand out.

    topped. he blushed.

    I  e t word, he said.

    word?

    t B-word.

    ?

    Before Miss Lilly.

    I pince it, I said. You e thAN hIM!

    ated; t e.

    ts good. No: Mrs Sucksby, I  ing

    trust er— t leave a space.

    ook te, at ttom, my name.

    Dont look at me! I said, as I did it; tten, and folded the paper up.

    you must do next, I said tonigleman—Mr Rivers—leaves t go over, and knock, and ask to see Mr Ibbs. Say youve got a to sell raigall, and trims  be sure,  a brougo o say, quot;t; If  say, quot;George Joslin, dos.quot; George who, down where?

    George Joslin, down— Ohis!

    Shings, Jamaica?

    s, he said.

    Good boy. Next you c  aint enougc knoc ake t o look about. ting in a rocking-cs Mrs Sucksby, t brougo reacter to , C listen , keep clear of  us. Same goes for a red- viper Miss Maud Lilly is anywand

    me?  If shen we are done

    for.

    te on t and

    looked fearfully at it. ised ood at tced. First came t at an angle and t scarlet clot . I sao be sure; t Charles.

    Put your coat on, I said. Its time.

    urned up his

    collar.

    tter? Very good. Be brave, now. No funny

    stuff. Ill be c forget.

    speak. , and after a moment I sa and stand before Mr Ibbss. o ttle  o er.—Dont look round, you fool! I t,   run from tep. o. But before y. t ing o Mr Ibbs; treet. Like a fool, o see urning tc we ed.

    Say five minutes passed. Say ten.

    did I suppose ,  so , make a sign—I dont kno tayed quiet, and  ty still be. Cood, and quivered. I o  t our

    running.—Dont you run, you fuckster! I said, and  t, for  do and up tairs. By time ears and snot.

    God  mean to do it! ing in. God  and made me!

    Made you le tick?

    I got  his hands before his face.

    S tter off me and read it! he said. ho did?

    Miss Maud! Miss Maud!

    I looked at  all, just as you said. I gave tcall man took it and opened its back.  my scarf oot eeteasing. t give me a look. But tried to reac Miss Maud sater in my  me, and kneable, and ster under table and read it, and sed my fingers so hard—

    o dissolve, like salt in ter of ears.

    Stop crying! I said. Stop crying for once in your life, or I sell me now, w did she do?

    ook a breat o , and broug.

    S sook it from table o me, as if it mig; and tall man closed tcook it, and t me

    out. Miss Maud c s  it for you but, o God  its for!

    over. S very small, and it took me a moment to unfold it and kno urned it, turned it again; tood gazing stupidly at

    it.

    Just this? I said. Charles nodded.

    It   Briar. It   greasy, and  in it; but it still  crease, in ts painted red pips.

    I , and remembered sitting o tell une. S ening me! she had said.

    it, later!

    S perfectly steady. S me t, no mark or sign?—s me to tease me. hy else?

    Miss, I dont kno from table-top. Sook it quick, and t her eye.

    sort of a wildness?

    I cant say. S like  like to say—I t .

    Gin?

    e looked at eacher.

    shall we do? he asked me.

    I did not know.

    I must to . I must t sell Gentleman— ster. to find us. t see you come back ve, t be sure. eve urning. Oh,

    if only Id never taken t  une. Lucks like tide: it turns, ts faster and cant be stopped.

    Dont say it! cried C you?

    You cant c luck like t. t you can do is, try and outface it. Outface it?

    I  to t t one ?  myself be frigy I t o  at all. Give me my knife. e are going over.

    ood, open-mout took  and led aircase. A man and a girl stood at ttom, quarrelling; but turned to c by. Pero . treet  s of grit and paper, t still . My rinder; but it oo late to care. I ran o Mr Ibbss door, knocked on it, t ep o ter a minute, just an inch.

    Youve come too late. It ys voice. Mr Ibbs says— Os you again.  now? Changed your mind?

    ttle furtood, and licked ys. t me; and  hen she screamed.

    Mrs Sucksby! I cried. I made a c ty  flying. I caugo ted again. I ran to tain and knocked it back. tumbled, and Cumbled  the end,

    and t open. t, and smoke, and lig made me . o ting. opped, and flung up ; be table, in Mrs Sucksbys great chair, was Maud.

    Beneato bark at tion. Noo give me  back.  ttled. I flinced my arms. tc seen my knife before, t now. Mrs Sucksby opened h. She said,

    Sue, I— Sue—

    ty came running in behind me, from Mr Ibbss shop.

    o fists. Samped. Youve got some cc about broke Mrs Sucksbys !

    Keep off me, I said,  in astonis, t; for t it. Sy, after all. to shake.

    Mrs Sucksby, I said, turning to old you lies. I never— t aken me all time—all time, since May!—to get back to you.

    Mrs Sucksby  . S miging t. S Mr Ibbs, and t Maud. to come to ook teps across tc  me, tight.

    Dear girl, she said.

    S ruck my c was Mauds diamond brooch.

    O it. And I struggled ah jewels and lies!

    Dear girl, said Mrs Sucksby again.

    But I looked at Maud. S flincarted, at sig like Mrs Sucksby— lifted o . S  back from t, rembling, though.

    ts rig. You shake.

    Ster not ter ayed away

    You can say so! I cried. . I remembered , no t, you snake, you viper!

    Girl-figh a clap of his hands.

    aken out a  Mrs Sucksby. Sill  me, and I could not see  I felt o take t  tly on table. I leaned and snatc up again.

    Dont leave it, I said,  it! O know w a devil she is!

    Sue, listen to me, said Maud.

    Dear girl, said Mrs Sucksby again, over onis you! Like a regular—  say you sit doairs, if looking at s you? Ey: lets ask to slip upstairs, too?

    Dont let ty began to move. Not  tay, I said. And to Mrs Sucksby and Mr Ibbs: tleman! Dont trust them!

    S  t.

    I said, stay! I cried.

    Mrs Sucksby. S Mr Ibbs.

    Sit doly. Jo. I nodded to Charles.

    Cand beo to it, sry

    aken off ing t.  to t seemed to glow.

    Jo him and laughed.

    You leave  once. o me, more ever t back to you,   free of—of the madhouse.

    S o , did o pay . S we, Mr Ibbs?

    Mr Ibbs said nothing. Maud leaned from her chair.

    You must go, C go from  me. trange. You must botleman comes back.

    I curled my lip at leman, I said. Gentleman. You s very quick.

    t w I was.

    You are not, I said.

    S  t toget jingle of metal: s, to like to ill; ted  my gaze. I said, in a eady voice:

    as being a lady not enoug you must come to take t were ours?

    S answer.

    ell? I said.

    So try to draake t  them!

    You t them?

    Mrs Sucksby stepped forowards Mauds.

    Let tay! she cried.

    me, t of laugs silver, in ts silver, compared  one o , and leaned ed on ty, sc a tumbler of brandy, urn of te undone me.

    Like Mr Ibbs, sook out a  over y gave , and sat.

    Come beside me, so me. Put do old knife,  you? And tated: , afraid of Miss Lilly? ito mind you? Come, sit.

    I looked again at Maud. I  , in t moved about, and I sa of it  and pale and tired s Mrs Sucksbys cry, sill; ill sed  t of it  rands of o it.  to o glitter.

    I sat, and put took my hand. I said,

    I have been done very wrong, Mrs Sucksby.

    Mrs Sucksby slo, she said.

    God knoold you! trut art. t me up, beto take  me in to be her—

    Joled. Double-cross, —oh! he laughed. You pigeon!

    I  did not seem to matter. Mrs Sucksby looked, not at me, but at our joined  tunned her.

    A bad business, sly.

    orse t! I cried. O  and starved me! I ime, so h—!

    S before her face.

    No more, dear girl! No more. I cant bear to .

    Did torture you, ongs? asked Jo you in a strait-coat?

    t me in a tartan gos of—

    Of iron?

    I ated, t Charles.

    Boots  laces, I said. t t, if they gave me laces, I should hang myself. And my hair—

    Did t it? said Dainty, sitting, putting a —from Jo off?

    I ated again, t to my head.

    ears. O it wc now!

    ts all rig to knourned again to Mrs Sucksby, and touc of my dress. tole, I said. And to London. My only t o get back o you. For  o me in t of t Gentleman must old you, about ,  I had died.

    Sook my , s of it.

    But I knew you would ask for my body.

    ouldnt I! Straight off!

    t  ed you all.

    oot you  the nerve.

    I looked into Mrs Sucksbys face. But I kne believe it, I said, of your own daugigil you found me.

    Dear girl, I— O you, too, in anot my searc from Joy

    Did you, Mrs Sucksby? said Dainty.

    My dear, I did. I sent out a man, confidentially

    S Maud. But Maud  lit  mine, for sly and suddenly,

    You look ill, Sue.

    It ime s and— despite myself—I t of times s, so softly as t, and felt myself colour.

    You do look done up, said Dainty. You look like you aint slept in a week.

    I , I said.

    to rise,  you go upstairs no your omorroy will come and fix you up in one of your old gowns, and dress your hair—

    Dont go to sleep ting oheres danger here.

    I took up my knife again, and she drew her hand back. I said,

    You t kno, in looking at you, Im not seeing danger ress moutreacherous eyes?

    tongue: t I must spit t or s seem treac all. I turned the

    blade took up t of t it darting across her cheek.

    I came o kill you, I said.

    Mrs Sucksby sed in . Maud kept tering gaze on mine.

    You came to Briar, so do t. . .

    t t suddenly tired, and sick. I felt all tc it urned to Mrs Sucksby.

    Can you sit, I said, and ease me? Can you knorick s  to ttle  it; and yet it sounded like bluster, too. I looked around ty, s you like to so pieces, in my behalf?

    S I! said Dainty. S. C my best pal,  it sink. S my eye. Seems an a to be suc, and all. And brave? I done  o taking stitc, t natural—

    All rigy, said Mrs Sucksby quickly.

    I looked again at Maud—at  ear  on a  t o t it seemed all of a piece —above tle cage of .

    I felt tears rise into my t.

    You aken everyt , and made it better.

    I took it, s !

    you? hy?

    So speak. t Mrs Sucksby and her face changed.

    For villainys sake, sly. For villainys sake. Because you ell lies, my eyes— My eyes— So rise. S flat again. Ric, after all,   for our money, longer t.

    Sook up   in it.

    You  got the money?

    S t yet.

    ts somet a s. I s . Mrs Sucksby, do you une, at least. Not a stinking t a  we s!

    But I did not  teful to me. Mrs Sucksby said nothing. Maud said,

    You s you like. I  all—if you will only go from here, now, before Richard comes back.

    Go from ell me to? tell her?

    Mrs Sucksby again passed a h.

    t be rigo be t of, you migo keep out of Gentlemans  me speak . Ill give aste of my temper, though!

    S in a queer, ed ry at a smile—as s , I t, if s found out t Gentleman  of t cards. I guessed s Mauds fortune, and  mig. I couldnt  er all, to her. I said,

    ill you make me go? t like a c tcures on to

    tairs e c, , from my o must  doo be en. I  ten it. On table beneat: I c into till, t— I looked about me again. cill. Everyone ill, and ching me.

    ill you make me go, I said again to Mrs Sucksby, and let ay? Norust t to send Dr Cie to me? ill you— ill you take ake t ?

    Sleep beside me? said Mrs Sucksby quickly. old you t?

    Red hairs?said John.

    But Maud ed c it t tter!

    Ive crongly. Ive caking everyt— God damn you!—th your own husband!

    Sleep ounded. You dont suppose—?

    Susie, said Mrs Sucksby, putting her hand upon me.

    Sue, said Maud at time, leaning across table and also reac suppose o me? You dont to me, in anyt name? Dont you know I e  you know I ed  Briar?

    ill you make out norembling scorn, t you only did w you did because he made you?

    , not in the way you mean.

    I said, ill you pretend, t you arent a swindling c?

    She said, ill you?

    And again, s s, and looked aer a moment I said, more quietly,

    I ed it. I didnt smile, urned.

    You think I did?

    ? You are an actress.-You are acting now!

    Am I?

    S, still ill  falling s of taking it. t  of tc dark. I looked at , or bruised. I said,

    If you ed ?

    to be me.

    So you mig ans have—

    ?

    Anyt know w. . .

    Sly, would you have given up?

    so steady and true; but I gre once, of Mrs Sucksby—of Joy, Mr Ibbs—all of tc and curious, ts t moment, I sao my o I , sooner than be shamed by her now, I would die.

    S. I took up t her hand.

    Dont touc. I got to my feet. Dont any of you touc any of you! Do you  to cast me out again. I e you all! I ry!

    I looked from face to face. Dainty o cry. Jo, open-moutonis his cheek. Maud nursed her bleeding fingers. Charles shook. Mrs Sucksby said,

    Sue, put do you out? the idea! I—

    topped. Ced his head. From Mr

    Ibbss surning in a lock. ts; tling.

    Gentleman! s Maud, at Mr Ibbs, at me. S up, and leaned to catc my arm. Sue, s. S  a airs . . .?

    But I did not ansleman led again, a lazy z tune, and c t ing into tle died. raighem.

    me, and at my knife. ook off  and began to un clot. I supposed you mig it anot noed a letter, from t fool Cie. ainly dragged ting me knoo recapture you before o. Bad publicity, wics run.

    t clot and let took out a cigarette.

    Youre fucking cool, I said. I was shing.

    hey do.

    Gentleman! said Mrs Sucksby. Listen to me. Sue old us terrible t you to go.

    Dont let ie! I waved my knife. Cop him!

    Gentleman  te, but apart from t  moved. urned to look at Caken a couple of doubtful steps towards  o Charless hair.

    So, Charley, he said.

    Please, sir, said Charles.

    You  a villain.

    Co tremble.  to God, Mr Rivers, I never meant to!

    tleman. roked C to , t  know w. he blushed.

    Sit down, John, said Mrs Sucksby.

    and if I like.

    Sit down, or Ill  you.

    me?  ted to Gentleman and Cook teps, and struck ruck  boto  ween his elbows.

    You old cow! ouc!

    ; but tears and o snivel. o t. C leman looked from one to t Maud in pretend amazement.

    Is it doo me,  small boys weep?

    Fuck you, I aint small! said John.

    ill you be quiet? said Maud, in s enough.

    Charles wiped his nose. Yes, miss.

    Gentleman leaned against t of till smoking. So, Suky, he said. You know all now.

    I kno I kne, six monts all, to trust you.

    Dear girl, said Mrs Sucksby quickly, lemans face. Dear girl, to let you.

    Gentleman aken te from o blo its tip. Noe still for a second   of laugh—and shook his head.

    S C, ly.

    I t she had shamed him.

    All rig. Sed ood, like a man on a raft—like so make too s t knife doo be y. C doleman. Gentleman.

    Mrs Sucksby, he said.

    No-one to be ?

    me. tell it to Sue,  me ances, I dont quite care for t.

    Circumstances? I said. You mean, your  me to die? I s your bloody head off!

    one to your voice at times? old you t?

    I made a lunge at  trutill beired, and tc flincood  of t. t t. I put it do it doable—at table, just beyond t t there.

    No t nicer? said Mrs Sucksby.

    Joears

    Gentleman, but nodded to me.

    S for Miss Lilly just now, o kUl her.

    Gentleman gazed at Maud, wo .

    Jos a une.

    Does sleman, slowly.

    Jo up, said Mrs Sucksby. Gentleman, dont mind him.

    rouble. Sue said a  t le queerly about t me, and at Maud. S  only, s, for thinking in!

    tleman easily, sourly. I am longing to knoh.

    So am I, said Mr Ibbs.  quietly. Gentleman caught his eye, and raised a brow.

    Sticky,  you say, sir? too sticky, said Mr Ibbs. You think so?

    Mr Ibbs gave a nod. Gentleman said, You t simpler? Are you mad? I said. Cant you see, ill do anyt let ie. Dont let o Mrs Sucksby. Dont you to Gentleman.

    ed me to leave, tes ago!

    I  Mr Ibbs; who looked away.

    Gentleman took off . Fuck me, ; and  nicely. Its too his.

    Fuck you, I said. You fucking villain. You do ?

    Like you,  on a chair. Yes.

    ed. You poor little bitch.

    Ric to  and able. Sen to me. t, and  will? said John.

    But Gentleman snorted again. tell me, o Maud, arted learning to be kind. s it to you, w Sue

    kno till? And do you look at Mrs Sucksby? Dont say you care w sher.

    So . No at ood,   diamond brooc  Maud, and let her hand fall.

    Gentlemans laugood very still.

    s this? he said.

    s w?said John.

    Noy—

    Oleman. Ocepped about table. to Maud, in an excited sort of  back from his brow.

    No, !

    You see notaking a step to me. Riching.

    a fool Ive been, not to  sooner! O you! I al t. Poor Maud! he laughed, properly. And, oh, Mrs Sucksby, poor you!

    ts enoug  spoke of!

    Sook a step towards him.

    Poor you, ill laugoo?

    Mr Ibbs did not answer.

    Knos.  me. Know w?

    I dont know, I said.

    Knoill moving slo black, notered ime on Gentlemans face. I sao guide  it. Mrs Sucksby sa too, I tarted, and then spoke quickly.

    Susie, s you to go. take your pal and go. Im not going anywhere, I said.

    No Susie, you stay, said Gentleman, in a ric of voice. Dont mind Mrs Sucksbys o you, after all? Ric pleading.

    Gentleman, said Mrs Sucksby, ill on Maud. Dear boy. Be silent, will you? I am afraid.

    Afraid?  is beating perfectly quietly now, be.

    At co the bodice of her dress.

    Feel it! sion ell me I aint afraid!

    Feel t?   t your daugo do it, ice.

    I cannot say for certain . I kno, ook a step torike . I kno Maud and Mrs Sucksby reac. I do not knoed at  , taffeta and silk, t. Grace! Grace!  it a queer to call; until I realised it  name, t we never heard used.

    And so, it c  see it o stagger. But I   sort of groan.

    me? range.

    then I looked.

    , too.  omacood a little before  noell you. Mrs Sucksby o ainly t   , and  me? he said again.

    I dont know, she said.

    I dont tood in t  at last ook a coat and  before e of h blood.

    My God! hen.

    Dainty shrieked.

    Bring a lig!

    Jo up t, surned suddenly crimson. Gentlemans coat and trousers , and Mrs Sucksbys taffeta gown was red and running where she had held him.

    I alked, an  table. It  this. I grew sick.

    No, I said. No, no!

    Mrs Sucksby gripped Gentlemans arm. take your ill clutcomach.

    I cant.

    take your hand away!

    Sed to see . coat, a bubble—like a bubble of soap, but s of blood, t fell and struck ter or soup would make.

    Dainty s wobbled. Fuck! Fuck! said John.

    Set c. Fetco catcching—

    leman. !

    ts and sig ood and looked on, o Gentlemans side and  against time ook omaced. Fetc or a pot, sy ran to t up t t  t it and set it doriking t of t, against te, and against t great dark eye—leman  and greened.

    O! , Im dying! In bettering moan, t  op. Oh, Jesus, save me!

    touco tell of it.

    Not like t like t. ? O! I need a surgeon. Do I?

    Bring o Dainty; but he shook his head.

    No liquor. A smoke, t, here.

    o coat, and Jo out a packet of cigarettes, and anotches.

    tes

    it at  it in Gentlemans.

    Good boy, said Gentleman, coug te fell. Jo it up in trembling fingers and set it back beto— as if it er. Gentleman began to shake.

    Maud. S moved since stepping from o fall. S still as me,   Jo Mr Ibbs, at me. and and cor. Bring a surgeon!

    I ty took a step. Mr Ibbs caught her arm.

    No surgeons , to this

    house.

    No men like t? cried Gentleman. tte fell.  are you saying? Look at me! C! Dont you kno me! Im dying! Mrs Sucksby, you love me. Bring a man, I beg you.

    Dear boy, be still, sill pressing too t.  in pain and fear.

    Damn you! ches! John—

    Jo doo rying to .

    Joed again. Noted, h red, his cheek gleaming like lard.

    Jo! Dont ask me!

    Gentleman turned to me. Suky! heyve killed me—

    No surgeons, said Mr Ibbs again, w , and were done for.

    take o treet, I said. Cant you? Call a doctor to treet.

    too bad. Look at  oo much blood.

    t no filled t. Gentlemans moans o groer.

    Damn you! ly. o cry. . here? Maud?

    as pale as e we.

    Maud? Maud? he said.

    Shen she said, in a whisper: I am sorry. I am sorry.

    God damn you! tle at  later, a guso it—sa of t, and began to struggle, as if to raise ing about tc C and made to draime in terror on  Gentlemans lips and curned and ran.  o Mr Ibbss so o o make op, o Lant Street:

    Murder! help! help! Murder!

    At t e! said Mr Ibbs. too late. ood and listened. t  carried   at first ronger, and I understood it   sound of all, to us—ttle, rising and falling on ting wind; and drawing nearer.

    turned, and came to Dainty. Dainty,

    run! ood for a second, t—the back way__

    tearing ts from t  go ead,  to Gentlemans side.

    e migake o Mrs Sucksby.  me, and t Maud. e migake ween us, if we are quick.

    Mrs Sucksby slemans oill bubbled at , and bubbled again.

    Save yourself, so Joake Sue.

    But  go; and I kneill—t I   Mr Ibbs. o tc one of t later t  money tely, in an old cigarette box.  tcoat. to look about  ts on to see  be, t  look at Gentleman or Mrs Sucksby.  look at me— once  me aside, to reac me for a porcelain cup; and   to trangled sort of bark, he kicked him.

    Meantles greleman lifted  the corner of his eye.

    Do you ? he said weakly.

    Dear boy, I do, said Mrs Sucksby. Sill knelt at his side.

    sound is it?

    S une, she said.

    S me, and t Maud. You might run.

    I said not from t now.

    You know w follows?

    S me, and t Maud, then closed her eyes. She sighed, as if weary.

    to  you once, dear girl, so lose you again—

    You s lose me! I cried; and  understanding. t Joilted his head.

    hey come! he said.

    Mr Ibbs   no furt dark little court at t c Gentleman, and at t of blood, and— to look for or to  t kicked into t; and tend to do he Borough.

    ty  it? ts see how bad.

    took lemans  for t hey said,

    t?

    Maud moved, or took a step. But John moved quicker.

    S,  a ation. ruck before. ed ed. S. I saw her.

    ed at Mrs Sucksby.

    I sa act. I only said, —? and Maud, I t, —? or ait—!

    But Mrs Sucksby rose from Gentlemans side. affeta dress o a broocip to . Sure of a murderess from one of the penny papers.

    I done it, s no I done it. And t girls, and kno all about it; and have harmed no-one.

 Chapter Seventeen

    My name, in trinder. Noo an end.

    took every one of us, save Dainty. took us, and kept us in gaol  Street kitcas us in separate cells, and every day t of questions.

    o you?

    I said he was a friend of Mrs Sucksbys.

    Been long, at Lant Street?

    I said I here.

    did you see, on t of the crime?

    umbled. Sometimes it seemed to me t I ake up times I even seemed to remember seeing . I knoop, I knoter of tepped aleman started to stagger. But Mrs Sucksby here,

    too, simes I t it  I told trut I did not kno matter, any need me. On ter took us, t me go.

    t longer.

    Mr Ibbs e first. rial lasted er all, not on account of t lying about tcoo good at taking tampings off, for t—but for tes in te box. t turned out, c Mr Ibbss s P remember, erm in gaol, at any cost—to plant tes on o olen goods:  to Pentonville. Of course,  be supposed to ime among t t, eful to get an extra sside, noe turned against ime  to visit er  in.   do me so queerly, I could not bear it. I didnt go again.

    er, poor t Lant Street, al. too great a shock for her; and she died.

    Jo be pinned to any crime, save—t—to t old one of dog-stealing.  off s in toto flog  tras above  after, y met  the prison

    gate, and  o  s clean off from Lant Street.

    I never spoke to ook a room for y in anot out of my -room, at Mrs Sucksbys trial.

    trial came up very quick. I spent ts before it at Lant Street, lying aimes Dainty came back, to sleep beside me and keep me company. S of all my old pals, , before—t I  came out t I aken t room, in t seemed a sneaking sort of  a  of talked about my mot flo say I

    ter all; and Mrs Sucksby— bad—aken the blame . . .

    in tone at me.

    At any otime it  care. I , and t o see Mrs Sucksby as often as I could. t all my days tting on tep outside te, oo early to be let in; talking o plead . Some pal of Mr Ibbss o  sort of villains from t old me, ly, t our case  he sake of her age.

    More t could be proved s?

    ted to it. ?

    I did not kno anse of tepping into treet and calling out for a cab-man; and Id c my , and ttle of  of people, tones beneat, er t ougo  times I op, and remember Gentleman, gripping tomac our oo say it, noo everyone I sach me . . .?

    I en letters; if I o e, and o. I o be judge; if I o find it. But I did not.  little comfort I got, I got at Mrs Sucksbys side; and t  least . I got to spend more time t to  me younger and less of a ser, te to Mrs Sucksbys cell; and every time, s udy my face, or glance beyond my sroubled look—as if, I t, not quite believing t me come again and meant to let me stay.

    try at a smile. Dear girl. Quite alone?

    Quite alone, Id answer.

    ts good, ser.a moment, taking my  it? Just you and me. ts good.

    So sit  like to talk.  first Id ake back ory, my  her I feared shed grow ill.

    No more, s about t, ts all. I dont  to  it.

    So t dander of , and only smooto groime I saw  e

    untouc of t  me, more t seemed to me t everyt  rigo be   Lant Street, on finding a la all t I could make no on little diso try and tempt -puddings. Once I took  remember time s me in old me about Nancy from Oliver t. I dont took it and set it distractedly aside, saying sry it later, like sold me to save my money. So them.

    Many times simes so speak on some ater; but al t, surn tter aside and it . If t roubled by queer ideas, and doubts—I kept quiet as s time alked instead of me—of ure.

    Youll keep up t Lant Street? shed say.

    ont I! Id answer.

    You  think of leaving?

    Leaving? o keep it ready, against t you out. . .

    I did not tell  ser,  tell  neig off calling; t a girl tone at me; t people—strangers—and, for  a time, at tleman  say y, to take tain from ts of er   up, because tant scrubbing began to lift turn the pale

    tell ures on ts upon tel, tes, t reaks and splaslemans blood.

    And I did not say  and scrubbed tctle reminders of my old life—dog-s on to mark my  as I gre every one.

    At nig, I dreamed of murder. I dreamed I killed a man, and o reets of London oo small to . I dreamed of Gentleman. I dreamed I met  ttle red c Briar and omb of omb , and I  cut to fit; and every nig to  ime, just as t done, some queer disaster en in my fingers; t—t—I could not make, never make in time . . .

    too late, Gentleman would say.

    One time the voice was Mauds.

    too late.

    I looked, but could not see her.

    I  seen  t Gentleman died. I didnt kno into tie sa. I , from t t , lemans o do o let ic, or w. Dr Cie said only o examine

    ill couldnt go near batubs. But  o stagger and groion, to find ly cured. ails of  lots of neients out of it, I te made une.

    Maud  at liberty, ter t, so vaniso Briar. I kno Street. I supposed oo afraid!—for of course, I led her if she had.

    I did : Peromorrow . . .

    But, as I  came instead, rial. It came in t. t on blazing all t a—being packed co ter on to try and cool it. I sat y. Id  sit in t t. t alone, and  cuffs on  made  yello  against t. S came up, and sarangers t o see ried. t my face among t, more easy. o mine, after t, as t on—too, about t, as if in searc t, however, her gaze would always fall.

    abbed Gentleman in a moment of anger, m a quarrel over money ing of her room.

    Sting of rooms? asked ting lawyer.

    Yes, she said.

    And not from tolen goods, or ts?

    No.

    t in men to say t different times,  bits of poke; and—w was worse—found women w erwards died . . .

    t  like a clerks, and combed and s t took place in t Street kitcal nig in take t! And  least a minute, before she did.

    At least a minute? te sure? You kno t clock, tc of t;

    e all c s fell still, to do it. I never knee so long. t John.

    As long as t? he said.

    Joo cry. Yes, sir, ears.

    t t, for o say it  in murmurs  be sure to note  naturally  it  t made Gentlemans ory about t—

    I nearly started out of my seat,  Mrs Sucksbys eye. S me to be silent, I fell back; and it never came out t t because s, but because I o tand. Mrs Sucksby  let t  so hard, and shook so

    badly, t.  back to ys.

    No-one old about me, and Maud. No-one mentioned Briar or old Mr Lilly. No-one came foro say t Gentleman  ried to rob  erfeit stock. t t  young man ure; t Mrs Sucksby  t  s to trial—and youll never believe it, but it turned out t all ales of being a gentlemans son  off ter taug Ric .

    ture in to  it out and  next to ts.

    But  picture—and , and of vices, and sordid trades— it seemed to me as t be talking of sometirely, not of Gentleman, being , by mistake, in my oc. Even ed, and cting ready to run  as soon as it came; even ood and gave back t God  as you  so many dark and sober gentlemen speaking so many grave and monotonous  and t and the lives of people like me and Mrs Sucksby.

    t  and  and colour , already. S  t, and I rose, and lifted my  s my eye, and  c roam about the room, as if looking for

    someone or somet settled and seemed to clear, and I follo and picked out, at tc s putting do ing to see ell you t fle fle. Sting alone. S of sign—to me, I mean; and none to Mrs Sucksby.

    to o sy o  Mrs Sucksby again, ; and when I looked for Maud, she had gone.

    t passed after t I remember, no a  all, but as a single great endless day. It  sleep—for  take as of Mrs Sucksby,  ,  darkness—for t lig burned all t; and in t be  lig Lant Street—every lig I could borro alone,  and c be ill at my side. I e. I  o o o be o walk slowly back,  here.

    trons  t stout  Dr Cies, and tco start up ace find it in my  to like ts—for surely, if truly  Mrs Sucksby go? Instead to come and hang her.

    I tried not to t, her, like before, I

    found I could not t, could not believe it. , I cant say. I kno to  some  sold me o like not to speak at all, only to feel tle oo,  me imes to grohings unsaid . . .

    But so me, t s for me to remember; and t —time I ever sao  almost breaking, and t I s t, s  o my aking t and letting it fall, until it lay across   to curl it. It seemed to me t I s enough, ever again.

    you? I said.

    I felt some tremor pass tter, dear girl, sh me.

    No!

    Ster, by far.

    ? ayed leman to Briar— O your side!

    I , and  again.

    roked my  my side. But I sat and let  be a c last . ttle  in trips of sunligcone flags of t could creep like t. It crept, like fingers. And  from one o anotep, t the

    matron lean to lay s time, s?

    e stood. I looked at Mrs Sucksby. ill, but , o tremble.

    Dear Sue, so me— So   my ear. It  tc mig dre say it! I t.—t kno  say it! Sigcomorrohink back—

    I , error,  o ron I suppose must ouc umbling, into te.—I dont recall.  I remember next is passing turning a  till shere . . .

    t, but not tron at my side. She nodded.

    One of em, s me. this morning

    I only er oo dazed and miserable to  of trance, back to Lant Street—only keeping, as muco t of t to Mr Ibbss sep—to t,  t kicked tood a minute to get my breato look about me—at ter, streaked ; and

    tools and key-blanks, t  tain, t  torn from its loops and csteps cruncime—I couldnt say and, and coals and cinders still lay scattered on t seemed too ordinary a to do, to s t; and anyorn up boards. Underneat seemed dark, till you broug: t beloer s, and beetles and wriggling worms.

    table o t and sat at it, in Mrs Sucksbys old c—poor C barked since Mr Ibbs  ail, and came and let me tug  th his head on his paws.

    I sat, as still and quiet as  an y came. S us a supper. I didnt  it, and neit solen a purse to buy it, and so I got out boe it sloime, as  tcel—t eadily ticking, ticking a feo feel t to feel eace, eac you let me stay? said Dainty, ime for o go. It dont seem rig I said t t ; and finally s; and t  me and C us. I lit more lig of Mrs Sucksby, in  cell. I t of  t cea, lifting up  kiss it. I t of ,  seemed to me, t icked before. I put my able, upon my arms. ired I  . I meant to keep a I closed my eyes, and slept.

    I slept, for once,  dreaming; and I ramping and scuffing of feet, and treet outside. I t, in my  must be a oday, t be a fair.  day is it?—t o puddles of s; but t of t o be ime. to o get tc Street first, for a look at the house.

    t on. as it ical spot. t and so ed in it.—t against ifled babies.—t.—Puts you into a creep, dont it?— Serves .—they say—

    top a minute, and to ttled tcood at tried to see tters; but I kept everyt. I dont kno us in! A s of tabbed, come back to  you!—but I t to tease t to tease me. I ed to  close at my side, and sarted and tried to bark, tle.—At last I took airs,  ter a ill; and t  meant t ts for c  time. I left C set of stairs alone—climbed tood at ttic door, afraid to go in. tand, t of oil-clotacked to t time I had come here,

    Gentleman y and Joairs. I ood at t my to t turn to dirty er. Mrs Sucksby roked my  to t, and looked, and almost sreets of t y t, and filled anding in topping traffic; and besides to posts and trees and cter vie o keep turned one way.

    t te of t. A man , examining the drop.

    I sa calm, feeling almost sick. I remembered o me: t I sc I s. It seemed suctle to bear, compared  s suffer . . . Noaken testing t. tretc see. I began to be afraid. Still I t,  I co till I said to myself, I  for  else can I do for  this?

    But I said it; and teady striking of ten oclock. t tood doo teps  of t do it. I put my back to th my hands.

    I kne rose up from treets. t at triking of tart up s—t, I kne ter. s greant, turned again, moved

    faster, like a sreets: t out: s off!, and s of dreadful laug rying to see rangers eyes straining out of ts to see  being able to look, myself; but I could not, I could not. I could not turn, or tear ting en. I er co murmurs and calls for  meant t on, and on. My os seemed to fill it. till travelling about treets, ots of ts t  t— broke out in an uneasy sort of murmur. t taken up by every t—turned, to somet meant t to t tying ting, about he noose . . .

    And t—just a single moment, less time t takes to say it—of perfect, aillness: of topping of babies cries, to s and open mout: t be, t be, t, t— And, next, too soon, too quick, ttle of t fell—ts lengtomac .

    No for a second. I opened turned, and sa Mrs Sucksby, not Mrs Sucksby at all, but o look like a  and a go uffed raw—-

    I moved a  to t. topped t. ts, more cries, more dreadful laugo cheer myself,

    at ot . Noened as t up, and it seemed to me, even in my grief, t I understood. S as . Shes dead—and were alive.

    Dainty came again t nigo bring me anot eat any of it. e only  togetalked of o tc off to climb it. I  didnt say t to Dainty. S t, said t it rue, after all,   t, o dropping  Mrs Sucksby had held herself very boldly, and died very game.

    I remembered t dangling tailors figure, gripped tigs corset and gown; and I wondered .

    But t  to be t on. to see to, no folloo look about me, ; to understand t t make my o, quite alone. I  on t: a man y bared   us alone since t knoo take it. But I kneime. I kne, I supposed, take a regular job, at a dairy, a dyers, a furriers— t of it, however, made

    me  to be sick. Everybody in my  regular ay crooked. Dainty said sreet-ted a fourt s, not quite catc street-tty poor lay, compared to o.

    But it  mig t for finding out anytter. I  t or t for anyt all. Bit by bit, everyt  at Lant Street ill  dress I ry!—and no looked  Dr Cies, and till. Dainty said I  so ston, you could h me.

    And so, uff I ed to take o ool of t to call on, to say good-bye to, I could not t do, before I ; and t hings, from horsemonger Lane.

    I took Dainty  t I could bear it all alone. e , one day in September—more ter trial. London urned, and t last. treets  and stra ter t me t me, I t, in pity. So did trons. tied rings. Released, to Dauge in a book; and t my name te my name quick as anyone noime at Dr Cies . . . tone upon her grave, so no-one could come and mourn her; and

    took me out under te, s lo roof,  roof every day of t o to say goodbye, to take my  give it.

    t. I carried it  of dread; and to make it ime I reac Street, I  staggering: I  quickly  to tcable, and set it do and look at all  of  be inside: ockings, perill in toes and ticoats; — Dont do it! I t. Leave it! ! Open it some otime, not today, not now—.

    I sat, and looked at Dainty.

    Dainty, I said, I dont think I can.

    S her hand over mine.

    I t to, ser  our mots back from t t packet in a dra look at it for nearly a year; and ted t peris to noter on to remember Mot all; save a little che end, for gin-money . . .

    I sa face ears.

    All rig. Ill do it.

    My ill so me and tried to undo its strings, I found trons ied too tigy tried. S undo t time, after Gentleman died, o look at any kind of blade,  ake t a single s me—in tugged and picked at ts again, but no damp. At last,

    I lifted to my moutook s eetrings unravelled and t of its folds. I started back. Mrs Sucksbys sticoats and comb came tumbling out upon table-top, looking just as I ar, came affeta gown.

    I  t of t.  I? It  t looked like Mrs Sucksby  of sill o its breast. Someone —I didnt care about t—but t

    poaffeta itself iff. t rusty. t raced about e: t, and ain h chalk.

    to me like marks on Mrs Sucksbys own body.

    Oy, I said, I cant bear it! Fetcer, o rub. Dainty rubbed, too. e rubbed in t  t. t up to me and began to .

    And, as I did, tling, sound.

    Dainty put do? s knohe sound came again.

    Is it a moty. Is it flapping about, inside?

    I s t sounds like a paper. Perrons  somethere

    But , and looked inside, t all. tling came again,  seemed to me t it came from part of t part of t of t  my o it, and felt about. taffeta tiff—stiff not just from taining of Gentlemans blood, but from somet

    stuck, or been put, be, bet and tin lining of t ? I could not tell, from feeling. So turned t, and looked at tin   to fray. It made a sort of pocket, in t Dainty; t in my  rustled again, and she drew back.

    Are you sure it aint a mot?

    But  ter. Mrs Sucksby   guess. I t at first t s  it t sten it, in gaol—t it o find, after t made me nervous. But tter lemans blood; and so must   least. t seemed to me t it must : for as I looked more closely at it I sa. taffeta bodice , tig ays. the seal—

    I looked at Dainty. t? ter, so close, so carefully, so long—and yet not read it? I turned it in my  tion. here? I said. Can you see?

    Dainty looked, t you? s I could not. ing ly smeared and spotted ains, I  to tter close to t seemed to me at last t if any name ten t  an S, and t follo; and then, again, an s—

    I gre? said Dainty, seeing my face.

    I dont knoters for me.

    S o her! she said.

    My mother?

    to open it.

    I dont know.

    But say it tells you— Say it tells you s a map!

    I didnt t  my stomac tter, at t, I said. Dainty licked ook it, slourned it, and slo, I tumbling of to t words, she said.

    I  to  so nervous and afraid—so sure t tter  for me, yet o some a till, to  open before me, not being able to understand  said, hing.

    Come on, I said to Dainty. I got , and found mine. Come out to treet, and o read it for us.

    e  t ask anyone I kneranger. So  nort fast, toray on a string about meg-graters and t  knoelligent look.

    I said,hell do.

    a grater, girls?

    I sen ried to say, for taken te from me. I put my o my . Do you read? I asked  last.

    he said, Read?

    Letters, in ladies  books, I mean.

    tilted his head.

    -anyone

    to be opened, eent t.  notice. Instead, raig in my line,  o stand  letters. t aint a-going to make t. . .?

    Some people  y did the same.

    Sevenpence, I said, ogeturned they good? Good enough, I said.

    . ook t s see,  up, tung by t not  it to come out later, as ouc. . .   ready to read.

    All t are there, I said, as he did. Every one. Do you hear?

    o be opened on teenter, Susan Lilly—

    I put trinder, I said. Susan trinder, you mean. You are reading it wrong.

    Susan Lilly, it says,  up, nourn it. s t, I said, if you aint going to read here . . .?

    But my voice  to  my , a snake: it ight.

    Come on, eresting, t is it? A , or a testament? t statement— t Lant Street, Soutember 1844, in topped.  of voice. , tiff stuff, aint it?

    I did not ans tains.

    Per. No , all rigs see. s  closer. 7, Marianne Lilly, of—? Bear  my o daug about? ts better——o t srue birto be made knoo eent 1862; on o e fortune.

    In excs into my care er MAUD— Bless me, if you aint doing it again!  nice, cant you?—dear daug s of il tioned date; on  is my desire t to une.

    to be a true and legally binding statement of my  beto be recognised in Law.

    Susan Lilly to kno t srove to keep her from care.

    Maud Sucksby to be raised a gentleo kno raigell me t   , mind, I s  more.— going to faint, are you?

    I c ray. ers  sliding. Noake care, do! ock, look, going to tumble and get mashed—

    Dainty came and caught me. I am sorry, I said. I am sorry.

    All rig ters straight.

    Yes.

    Come as a s?

    I s remember—and

    gripped tter, and stumbled from y, I said. Dainty—

    S me do a ? s did it mean?

    till looked. I s er, he called.

    But I didnt  er, and I  let Dainty go. I clutco me and put my face against o so sed lock must sumblers lift against t is forced loose and flies. My mot finis oo muco say— too muco kno believe it. I t of ture of t Briar. I t of t Maud o rub and trim. I t of Maud, and Mrs Sucksby; and tleman. O! , too. Noo tell me, at t t so long?  my mot a murderess, sune, t s to be split . . .

    // you shink back—

    I t, and t; and began to gro tter before my face and groaned. till stood a little cood coo. Drunk, is s t,  a spoon in ongue. I could not bear ty and got to my feet; s  me and agger o drink. S me at table. Mrs Sucksbys dress still lay upon it: I took it up and  in my ts, and s folds; t, and cast it to t tter, and looked again at t to my feet and began to walk.

    Dainty, I said in a sort of pant, as I did. Dainty, s have

    kno Gentlemans side, kno last to— O me t place and bring  was only ever Maud sed. S me safe, and gave me up, so Maud, so Maud—

    But till. I arting up ting me e  me, to save me kno...

    I put my  out y began to oo.

    is it? s is it?

    t tears. t thing of all!

    I sa, sning in a sky of black. Maud ried to save me, and I  knoo kill ime—

    And I let ting up and . here is she, now?

    y, almost shrieking.

    Maud!I said. Oh, Maud!

    Miss Lilly?

    Miss Sucksby, call o t s  you all in o time wood, pinning up urned— If I had known— I would have kissed her—

    Kissed y.

    Kissed y, you would oo! Anyone would! S hrown her away—!

    So I  on. Dainty tried to calm me, and could not. I  last, I sank and  rise. Dainty  and pleaded—took up er and t in my face— ran doreet to a neigtle of salts; but I lay, as if dead. I  sick. I  sick in a moment, like t.

    So my old room and put me to sleep in my oo take my goalked like a madartan, and india-rubber boots, and—most especially—of sometaken, t I s. ? s? O so often, so pitifully, s me all my t finally s of my goe creased and black and bitten; and t ook it from  and  over it as if my  would break.

    I dont remember. I kept in a fever for nearly a er t so feeble I migill. Dainty nursed me, all t time—feeding me tea and soups and gruels, lifting me so I mig,  from my face. I still , and cursed and ted,  I  more, ime I   of dam about my , keeping out my love: no, my   I s gre seemed to me at last t I  o Dainty; Id say it, over and over. But Id say it steadily—in a ; t back my strengt  I mean to find  care if it takes me all my life. Ill find , and tell  I kno be married! I dont care. Ill find ell ;

    It  of. I ing, to be art. And at last I t I ed enoug o seem to tilt and turn, ill. I o take o oolter, and tucked it into my goy t I

    must o my fever. t I o cry.

    ? s to start my searc Briar. But  t, s  y minutes. c , so long ago, in tarc s use to bury ake it. I kissed  know . . .

    And so I left time, and made to Briar, over again. time. train ran smoot Marlo me o take t ttle bag I ? And t time: Is no-one come to meet you?

    I said I opped to rest on a stile, and a man and a girl  by, , and t me and must  I oo: for t me sit on t. t  about my shoulders.

    Going far? he said.

    I said I o Briar, they could drop me anywhere near Briar—

    to Briar! t. But, w you know?

    Nobody t  to be fed off a spoon. tleman! they said. he

    of  terrible . tank, in t t run off leman—did you kno t?—I didnt anso nurse e s up.

    So Maud urned my c it doo ting of t. I said,

    And t  o her?

    But t know. Some people said so o France . . .

    Planning on visiting one of ts,  my print dress. tsve all gone, too.—All gone but one, o keep t. S like ed, now.

    . But I ed bloo suffer to Marlo t must be Mr ay. I t, Ill find ell me where shes gone . . .

    So t me doarted; and from t. t  ting to creep and rise. t it in illiam Inkers trap: I  like an  marked te, and t. I quickened my step—but t quite sank. t up and dark. tes ened  ruck t made a lo of moaning sound. And o tes and pushey creaked and creaked.

    Mr ay! I called. Mr ay! Anyone!

    My voice made a dozen black birds start out of t, Surely t  it didnt: t caime; and no-one came. So t t o keep out co, Its not against to  hrough.

    toget my back, arted up again. Still no-one came, though.

    I gave it a minute, to walk.

    It seemed quieter inside t er, and queer. I kept to trees seem to , and clung to my skirt. er. oo, and parc beaten about  urning to slime at its tips, and smelt peculiar. I t. Pers. I hem scurrying as I walked.

    I began to go quicker. to climb. I remembered driving along it  urned, and ; but it still made me start, to come so suddenly upon to see it seem to rise out of topped, on t afraid. It ly quiet and dark. ttered. t its  front door—t  leaves. It seemed like a  meant for people but for gs.

    I remembered, suddenly,  it being ed . . .

    t made me s me—back, to dark and tangled o take  back my ting rain. till c, If I can only find Mr ay! o o to tables and yards. I  carefully, for my steps sounded loud. But   as quiet and empty as everyed barking. table doors   tuck, t cime I  , I t range. Mr ay! I called—but I called it softly. It seemed o call out, here. Mr ay! Mr ay!

    t gave me . I  to tcapped. No ansried t to t I  nig  around to t again. I  to a er, and looked inside. I could not see. I put my o to give against its bolt... I ated for almost a minute; t fles screed myself up on to the sill, and jumped inside.

    tood, quite still. t must  if Mr ay  and came  like a burglar, no of my mot . I began to ly about. t. I  I o try and imagine Maud, as s,

    o imagine ttle bites sake at ... I stepped to table. It ill set, icks, a knife and a fork, a plate of apples; but it  and cobted. tal glass,  the rim.

    t t  still, , it moved perfectly silently. All tly, in t y carpet, t smoteps.

    So  o to it and looked inside. t room e. t t Mr Lilly and Gentleman must once , to listen , t I imagined ting t voice.

    I forgot to t Mr ay, remembering t. I forgot to t   of. I  to go doo tcead I  slo t door. I climbed tairs. I ed to go to ed to stand,  t ted to lie upon ed to t her . . .

    I  as a g ly, not minding tears as tears enougime o tanding part-ures ill , s one glass eye and pointed teet of  my fingers to it, t time I came for Maud. I ed outside t of  so fiercely of it, it seemed

    to me at last t I could almost . I could  as a he house.

    I caugopped, tarted again. It  in my o came, from to sed after all. Or pero t a trembling o it, and pus open. tood, and blinked. t  bare of books. A little fire burned in te. I puss lamp .

    And in t, was Maud.

    Sting, ing. Surned . o a froce a line. ted turned and turned it, as if not sure o put next. Again s h.

    te again; and to dip , sching.

    S start. Sly still. S cry out. S say anyt first. S onis on ook a step; and as I did, s to , letting t roll across to te. So take  migo fall, or sep, s harder.

    o kill me?

    S, in a sort of a just from astonis, but also from fear. t errible. I turned away, and hid my own face

    in my  ill , from my falling tears. Noears came and made it ter. Oh, Maud! I said- Oh, Maud!

    I o , I er everyt trangeness of it. I pressed my fingers o my eyes. I  ago, of . I  to find , to come upon  oo much.

    I dont— I said. I cant— S come. Sood, still ill gripping teadily. there was a paper, I said. I found a paper, hidden in Mrs Sucksbys gown . . .

    I felt tter, stiff, in my o s ans—and sa s paper it , and  said. Despite myself, I  of ing bier t a single moment; and  left me  to t sit upon to read it to me. And t sick.

    I am sorry, she said. Sue, I am sorry.

    Sill did not come to me, though. I wiped my face again.

    I said, I got a lift here was nobody here, save Mr ay—

    Mr ay? She frowned. Mr ay is gone -

    A servant, they said.

    illiam Inker, t . ays s all.

    Only t  me, and s you groened?

    S  o be frightened of, rnow?

    to to trie  first. ly.

    us, about— Did you kno tart?0

    Sly, too. Not t until Ricook me to London. t lifted old.

    Not before? I said.

    Not before.

    tricked you, too, then.

    I so t, once. No errible t nine monte,  myself sink against t my c till. It struck t c brancangled  make out ted roof of ttle red chapel.

    My moto look at  my mother was a murderess.

    I t my motead—

    S say it. Neit yet. But I turned to look at her again, and swallowed, and said,

    You  to see  trons words.

    She nodded. She spoke of you, she said.

    Of me?  did she say?

    t s s en times over, before you s s t to make you a commonplace girl. t t aking a je. t dust falls away

    I closed my eyes.  last come closer.

    Sue, shis house is yours.

    I dont  it, I said.

    t, if you wis. You shall be rich.

    I dont  to be riced to.be ric—

    But I ated. My  oo full. oo close, too clear. I t —not at trial, but on t t Gentleman died. tered. t glitter no it back and tied it  tremble. ts and smudges of ink. , too, from  quite to t  fastened at t. t  undone. I saing of  be. I looked away.

    to her eyes.

    I only  you, I said.

    took anotep to me and almost, almost reac turned and lo t o the paper and pen.

    You do not knohings—

    S go on.  t ans closer to  things?

    My uncle— s me good. Didnt you? I . I  to struggle  to took up a book. S, tigo ; turned and broug to me. S up in tle. And t voice so read.

    eous neck and bare ivory s my bosom in wild confusion—

    ? I said.

    S ans look up; but turned t page and read from another.

    I scarcely kne; everytive exertion—tongues, lips, bellies, arms, ttoms, every part in voluptuous motion.

    Now my own c? I said, in a whisper.

    Surned more pages, read again.

    Quickly my daring  secret treasure, regardless of  complaints, ed into the covered way of love—

    Sopped.  ing  . My oing ratill not quite understanding:

    Your uncles books?

    She nodded.

    All, like this?

    She nodded again.

    Every one of this? Are you sure?

    Quite sure.

    I took t t on t looked like any book o me. So I put it do to t looked took up anot ures. You never saures like t Maud, and my  seemed to shrink.

    You kne all, I said. ts t t. You said t you kneime—

    I did knohing, she said.

    You kne all! You made me kiss you. You made me  to kiss you again! ime, you had been coming here and—

    My voice broke off. Sc of times I o t of o gentlemen—to Gentleman—ing tarts and custards iles and Mr ay. I put my o my . It ig  me.

    Oo to cry. to to my mout t ill  it and let it drop as if it burned me. Oh!

    It ood very still,  the smears of ink on her fingers.

    ?

    S answer.

    to t sod! Oinking oo good for o look at you and see you ill  you—!

    I gazed across ted to smas to o dra any otime I should have called proud.

    Dont pity me, s I am still  my living.

    S I e on. till damp. I asked a friend of my uncles, once, s e for  me to a ressed gentle e suc, I am not a lady

    I looked at  understanding. I looked at t missed its beat.

    You are ing books, like  speaking.  kno! I said. I cant believe it. Of all t Id find you— And to find you  house—

    I am not alone, sold you: I o care for me.

    to find you ing books like t?-V

    Again, s proud.  I? she said.

    I did not kno just dont seem right, I said. A girl, like you—

    Like me? there are no girls like me.

    I did not ans. I looked again at tly,

    Is t?

    Stle, se sly.

    And you— You like it?

    Sill  it. . . S ill ce me for it? she said.

    e you! I said. y proper reasons for ing you, already; and only—

    Only love you, I ed to say. I didnt say it, t can I tell you? If sill be proud, t need to say it, anyill couldnt bear it. I quickly reacopped ; t my to rub at t, te skin; but s my ill. My t moved to  like a pearl, urned   my palm. . tayed black upon er all, I t, was only ink.

    it o make o soo. I  I mig! e moved apart. S  . Sill  fluttered to tooped and caug up and smoot.

    does it say? I said, when I had.

    S is filled  you . . . Look.

    Sook up t darker, till beat against t so t, and sat beside me. s rose in a rus t; and began to sten, one by one.

    Notes

    Many books provided orical detail and inspiration. Im particularly indebted to V.A.C. Gatrells tree: Execution and tention in a Private Asylum (London, 1910).

    top ated bibliograporum: being Notes Bio- Biblio- Icono- grapical, on Curious and Uncommon Books (London, 1877); Centuria Librorum Absconditorum: being Notes Bio- Biblio- Icono- grapical, on Curious and Uncommon Books (London, 1879); and Catena Librorum tacendorum: being Notes Bio- Biblio- Icono- grapical, on Curious and Uncommon Books (London, 1885). Mr Lillys statements on book-collecting ec in all ots irely fictitious.

    All of texts cited by Maud are real. tival of tain Dra, and tful turk. For publisails of these see Ashbee, above.