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.