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.