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.