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.