I suppose t even t is so ill slender and even t draugging of ion. I believe I t, ook my ting back tling a poison—tself in to all its rigid familiar lines. I lie and c. I knooeness of Briar—at tillness, turning passages and cluttered trao me for ever, I felt trangeness make me strange— make me a ts and er in t of t Briar crept on me. Briar absorbed me. No of th which I have covered
myself and t meant to escape! Briar me!
But, I am into doug utterly. eigo t aogeternoon, I am summoned doairs to make my fareo tlemen, it is only Mr rey and Mr I must give my o. I find tening tcoats, draands, a little makes ure. tep and lift to crey smiles.
ea, he says.
Mr on . No off. tatue?
ell, botrey says; but I meant tatue. Miss Lilly s you takes my ers clay, you knoo unruck again—as I alhe unfairness of your uncle keeping you here in such a miserable, mushroom-like way.
I am quite used to it, I say quietly. Besides, I t go h you?
t. Really, Mr Lilly, I barely make out ttons on my coat. Do you mean o join civilised society, and bring gas to Briar?
Not while I keep books, says my uncle.
Say hen. Rivers, gas poisons books. Did you know?
I did not, says Ris to me, and adds, in a lo to go up to London just yet. Your uncle o offer me a little work among s. e s seems, for Morland.
rey says,
Nos is in progress, you let your niece make a visit to reet? S you like a you should.
S, says my uncle.
Mr is ting. akes tips of my fingers. Miss Lilly, ever—
e e, says my uncle. Noedious. ep back from t;
Fools, lemen e, Im impatient to begin. You ools?
I fetc.
o follourns, to look at me. of o airs. But , , raises my to s at trip of skin exposed. my d of matter mus pale, now!
I ill laugs fall my urns from me, begins to mount tairs alone. list slippers, t soged ce a and make umble.
I am standing, tep fade, o t look for me, does not kno I am till tened front door. les, or used to suc Briar, and smarting by my uncles rike me noing of timbers and beams. I t must be rising in a cloud from tique carpets beh his
so follo flake and tumble from the
sighe house walls crag__
gaping—collapsing in to escape.
But I am afraid, too, of esg. I t. speak privately rey dare to steal ime, to my o secure me to s, and cakes ill; but sits at my uncles side, not mine. One nigion to say this:
It troubles me, Miss Lilly, to t be, ion from o return to your he books.
tting my gaze fall to my plate of broke: Very much, of course.
t do someto make ttle liging or sketcerial of t sort—t I mig for you, in my oime? I t. For I see you s, from the house.
or of music migon. Of course, I am not obedient. I say, I ot paint, or draw. I aug.
, never?—Five me, Mr Lilly. Your rikes one as being so petent a mistress of ts, I s, you krouble. Miss Lilly could take lessons from me, sir. Mig teaoons? I tle experien taug Paris, to ters of a te.
My uncle scre ? Do you mean to assist us, Maud, in the albums?
I mean dras own sake, sir, says Ricly, before I reply.
For its o me. Maud, w do you
say?
Im afraid I have no skill.
No skill? ell, t may be true. Certainly your ends to slope, even noell me, Rivers: sru in drawing he firmness of my nieces hand?
I s definitely.
t Mr Rivers teac care, anyo imagine you idle. hmm?
Yes, sir, I say.
Ric guards a cats eye as it slumbers. My uncle bending to e, s my look: timacy of his expression makes me shudder.
Dont misuand me. Dont ts true I s—fear of its success, as s failure. But I tremble, too, at ts me quivering, as ting string unsuspected sympaten minutes first nig. If I never kne villainy before—or if, kno, I never —I kno, , now.
I kno, and. S gallantry. It is gallantry!—try ues. Sc out paper, leads and paints. Sake my side, guide my fingers in to rise—but his
fall, insinuate, a, like a musiote, stay clear; and , point by point across il t. Very good, er h an able girl. Very good. You learn quickly
raig back Agnes and find ter ao your mistresss gifts as an artist? O o judge.
take up a pencil, go closer to ter. you try?
Once akes at ouc. You dont suppose I mean to insult you? No, sir!
ell, wtle warm, sir. arm, in December—?
And so on. alent for torment, quite as polis, in to groious. I do not. teases, top, revolving faster at taunt her myself.
Agnes, I say, op , feel t. Do you t in your eye! And dont young girls handsome men?
Indeed, miss, I dont know!
Do you say t? t part of . ill you put t, wive you? Do you
t five a red t ss io be so. o put a passion in o punis. Dont you t you feel your passion, you listen for tep?
S. S, against s only say it, or t say it and be bruised, a of e; and I must bruise bruise ing of ——I would surely feel myself.
I never do feel it. Dont imagine I do. Does de Merteuil feel it, for Valmont? I dont to feel it. I se myself, if I did! For I kno, from my uncles books, for too squalid a tcco be satisfied icly, ly, in closets airring in my breast—t dark propinquity—is sometoget say, it rises like a ss tains, already; and so no-one marks it.
No-one, periles. For I t Ricleman o be. I catcimes. I believe so c me and do me , t—and io herself; and nurses her hope of my ruin, smiling, as she onursed her dying child.
tals rap is made, t prime it and ss teet is all plete— Now, says Richard, our work begins.
e must get rid of Agnes.
in a t over so coolly, eady a gaze, I am almost afraid of me.
You kno , he says.
Of course.
And you uand how?
I , until t. Now I see his face.
Its quite tuous girls like t. ill stop up a moutter even tbruss to o run t trouble ails, muco it. Not muc all— ill fair?
Quite fair, sir.
Good. Very good . . . t I suppose lobruso ongue and sucks to a point. Ill do it tonigfully. So o yours. All you must do is, give me fifteen minutes alone me—and not e, if s.
It il t, a sort of game. Dolemen and young ladies, in try and intrigue? No failing, or s. nig look at urn my o your room, tate—perc cco cry out, after all. So keep from going to kno, s, s ion and t t drops, is stifled or soot to of all: not an absence of sound, but teeming—as ter teems, wh kicks and squirming
movements. I imagine back—but e e mout his—
I put my o my oop up my ears. I dont ay closed; take drops, at last, to day, e. I s o s is red and raised and swollen.
Scarlet fever, s meeting my gaze.
tion. Fears, of t! So an attid plates of vinegar burned in only oo make me t. I reag a blow; I only kiss ly, on .
t me in s.
You are soft on me noo y. Id like to see you bruise him, before he bruises you.
tle—but only a little; and o me t I fet s are all off my self, live to anottern—live patterns, books! I will ban paper from my house!
I lie upon my bed and try to imagi I ake, in London. I ot do it. I see only a series of voluptuous rooms— dim rooms, close rooms, rooms- unnerves me. I give it up. time, I am sure of it.
I rise and y, pig to to ted by crooks, I ting off and , ing off a set of vicious faces—Mrs Vixey Doxy, Jenny Diver, Molly Brazen—until he face he seeks . . .
Suky tawdry.
is blue. I begin to dream of he dreams she speaks and I hear her voice. She says my name, and laughs.
I t es to my room ter, from him.
Ses.
I read it, tter to my mout my lips to t be my lover, after all—or, s. For I could not han I could a lover.
But I could not a lover, more t freedom.
I put ter upon t once. I am sure I so me for ing from London, .
t done, I need only , one day a is the day she es.
S Marlo time. But t ao feel rap es back rains are late, t settle. At five oclock I send illiam again—again take supper my h?—My uncle hearing me whisper, however, he sends Charles away.
Do you prefer to talk s, Maud, t us.
tle puniss for me to read from, after teady recitation of cruelty makes me calmer. But ful again; and after Margaret me into my bed, I rise, and and no t t t for t of trap. t. It so gloo so flasion of trap berees, like a te, my my . It dra, t, illiam, a vaguer figure. to to Agness room—Susans room, it and at there; and finally see her.
Sing tables, t and o t her face. She is dressed darkly, and seems small.
But, s is real.—I feel t all at once, and tremble.
It is too late to receive ead I must furt to lie, ep and murmur, my eyes upon ted lies between her chamber and
mine.
Once I rise and go stealto it, and put my ear to t hing.
m I carefully dress me, and ?
Yes, miss.
Do you think she will do?
Do, miss?
As girl to me.
Sosses imes to Frand I dont know w.
ell, be kind to o er London. Siles bring o me, so soon as saken ?
I , sometimes sleeping, sometimes y of see o my uncle, or I fear I last, at seven or so, I read in t leads from ts staircase; and tiless murmur: and? I stand at t? Does s? Does siles es first and, after a moments ation, sao take my life from me and give me freedom.
Sation, es dismay. I s, spotted t. to a point. oo frank, noakes in my googs. training, I suppose—makes a y curtsey. Ssey, I tell. Ss me, more t so Briar to ruin me. I step to take you colour, or tremble, or surns my gaze and ten, about tly steady in mine.
e are ciles. for, to London. S good enoughink.
You need not stay, Mrs Stiles, I say. And turns to go: But you Susan. Youve I am an orpo Briar as a c all
to care for me. I ot tell you all tiles a mot time . . .
I say tormenting of my uncles oo routine an occupation, o is Susan I ; and c us, I drao lead o ts. Souc is as slender as Agness, but at all , but lig; tries to make it ser. Sells me of rain from London— of naming it, of sidering it a place of destination or desire. It is a orment to me t a girl so sligrifling as s Briar; but a solation, also— for if s not I, alents, tter?
So I tell myself, ress, of course, e a fine lady? So look at me!
My voice is not quite steady. But if ttero my tone, s catstead, Ooo kind a lady. And besides, s grand clot tons; but t it i ts.
Saken aken in, by ion—so i, not sly—I sit a moment and regard ake . her fingers move in mine.
Lady Alice always said so, miss, she says.
Did she?
Yes, miss.
to , and brings out a letter. It is folded, sealed, directed in an
affected femie, take it—rise and , far from her gaze.
No names! it says;—but I t frestle finger smit to employ ce t. I imagine you. S pass t pleasure.—Burn this, will you?
I myself as cool as , I am not, I feel c as and ter in my o I ood too long. If s fold at all. I do not yet kno s read or e so muc I laug I dont quite believe read? I say. Not a letter, not a to take it; and urns a page, gazes a piece of text—but all in a is oo subtle to terfeit.—At last, she blushes.
take t I am not sorry, I am only amazed. Not to read! It seems to me a kind of fabulous insufficy—like tyr or a saint, of ty for pain.
t oclock sounds, to call me to my u t, after all, make some bluso Ric I oug sy and tells me —again—as if s. Pero a different standard, e by of my skirt.
s say, but I
imagine rying out my boots, my gloves, my sasake an eye-glass to my jeo sell t o her young man . . .
You are distracted, Maud, my uncle says. ion to wtend?
No, sir, I say.
Pertle labour. Per I you at taking you from t perics, than among books? hmm?
No, Uncle.
urn to es. But he goes on.
It ter enougo summon Mrs Stiles and ake you back. You are sure you dont desire me to do t?—send for illiam Inker and t? As o study me, acles t guard it. t smiles. voice, you know now?
sloion over; as if it is a biscuit t crumbs beongue. I do not ans loil . Presently s the pages upon his desk.
So, so. tuation all plete; and mark—te the sequence here.
It is from t I am reading ake me bay dra ted ing fi my uncle keeps to mark t Briar, just as I once did; and—again, like me—i,
and tries to cross it. I must keep , more even t!—and o ouc the feel of my fingers.
I say, Dont be frighe floor.
I ten t, of course, s look at anyt all, it would be so muceful kind of envy. I o draw back my hand from her arm, for fear I will pinch her.
I ask o my room, does shink of my uncle?
Sionary.
e sit at luncite, and pass my plate to c be an aueer, a : sem of cutlery as if gauging tal from . Ss tly into s t t about t. Sougue to some spot upon hen swallows again.
You o Briar, I to swallow up me.
But of course, I o do it. I need o do it. And already I seem to feel myself beginning to give up my life. I give it up easily, as burning o tarnis guards to bind up quivering mot settling, tig kno. S kno until, too late, s ired, restless, bored: I take t and seops, e draes tip of t.
You are thinking of London, I say.
Ss her head. London, miss?
I nod. do ladies do t the day?
Ladies, miss?
Ladies, like me.
S er a sed: Make visits, miss?
Visits?
to other ladies?
Ah.
S know. S up. I am sure she is making
it up! Even so, I t beats suddenly
here are no ladies like me, however;
and for a sed I ening picture of myself in
London, alone, unvisited—
But I am alone and unvisited, now. And I shall have Richard
to take us
a en—
Are you cold, miss? she says. Perhaps I have shivered. She rises,
to fetcche
carpet—he lines and diamonds and squares,
be.
I cc look too long, too narro seven oclock s ten ss me into my bed. After t, sands in my retcs ly sooping to pick up a fallen laoaking up s kneel and pray, as Agnes did. Ss on of my sig lifts : I see toe of oo t doo undo ttons of s it fall, steps a of ; unlaces ays, rubs , sigeps a my o follow. Sgown— shy. She yawns. I also yawn. She
stretcretcs out , climbs into her bed—grows warm I suppose, and sleeps . . .
S of innoce. So did I, once. I a moment, take out my moture and close to my mouth.
ts s er now!
less it seems! But so vividly of, in years—of t ics; and of t oings of coir, a piece of text on t is to do t sent me. I remember an attic stair, a ness of lead beful drop to the ground—
I must fall into sleep, t pluo t layers of t. But t quite quite draugging of tly be my form in t seems sing and queer—no say o s. I call fnes. I e fotten t sten Ric. I call fnes, and it seems to me s so take a do it to punis take t! I say; but sakes it, serrible darkness and I , beyond tain. It seems to me t mucime passes before t es back. But and sees my face, she screams.
Dont look at me! I cry. And t leave me! For I , if say, some calamity, some dreadful t kno, ot —ed; and I—
or sne—o be freckled. I gaze at know her.
S is strao me: Its Sue, miss. Only Sue. You see me? You are dreaming.
Dreaming?
Souc like Agnes, after all, but like— Like no-one. Ss Sue. t Agnes ina, and is gone back lie dont be ill.
I s; t ond I kno, my ungaugeable future. Srao me, but part of it all.
Dont leave me, Sue! I say.
I feel ate. ig so climb ae, and s and lies me, my hair.
S sooill. t. I feel t of le rumble of you? Good girl.
Good girl, s been sinyo Briar believed me good? But s. S believe it, for t. I must be good, and kind, and simple. Isnt gold said to be good? I am like gold to er all. So ruin me; but, not yet. For no, to squander—
I kno; but ot feel it as I sill, and o tir. Souc a little of its s meets mine, quite clear, untinged lifts and falls, and
sour es gusting. I lie and remember t. Some feeling—sters about my . I put my o t cool.
S brings er, and ster use it quick. Ss a clot and, , unasked, ay fad beo , so suts: tarigles is, to start at ttom ..."
Agnes o ruck for Susan—Sue, s—no patiently s from my he glass . . .
Good girl.
thank you, Sue, I say.
I say it often, in ts t follo to Ag or stand, lift an arm or foot. No, Sue, w pinch me.
No, I am not cold.—But so look me over as o be quite sure; tle my t, to keep off draugs are not taking in t soged ankle and taintys sake. I must not caty cost. I must not tire. ouldnt you say you nt groouc you take a little more? I mustnt gro must be plump, to be s slaughter.
Of course, t kno, it is s be plump—sime, to sleep, to o dress, to o a pattern, to signals and bells. Sies me! S uanding t ts and t bind me will, soon, bind her. Bind her, like morocco or like calf ... I have grown
used to t of book. o me not text. Se fles you pale! s not ted blood beh.
I oug to do it. I ot . I am too pelled by ance, proo nigmares e, o my bed, a sed nig last sinely. I t first; but it is only t trouble ands eacime ed dle, peering into t you t miging to drop? S, and s; a single beetle falls, in a s.
Once groo t, and fortable o sleeping h someone; and wonder who.
Do you ers, Sue? I ask er she river.
No, miss.
Brothers?
Not as I know of, she says.
And so you gree alone?
ell, miss, not .
Cousins. You mean, your aunts children?
My aunt? She looks blank.
Your aunt, Mr Riverss nurse.
Oo be sure . . .
Surns ao imagi; and ot. I try to imagine ongued, s, ongue—for sometimes, o my hair, or frowning over
slit—ongue . I ch her sigh.
Never mind, I say—like any kindly mistress . e so London. to London, I take t does not.
S at t at me.
thames? she says.*
this river, here.
trifling bit of er, tainly. be? t—and this is narrow. Do you see?
I say, after a moment, t I rivers grohey flow. She shakes her head.
trifling bit of er? ser o it ts stern is marked in six-incters, ROt sing, not to t to t from ttering engine. See t? sedly. ts s all t;
S er browns, e falls; and shief again.
You must uand, I ermio despise o do do?— is only t so long togeto be intimate. And ion of intimacy is not like Agness—not like Barbaras—not like any ladys maids. Soo frank, too loose, too free. S spots and grazes. S pig over some old dry cut upon a pin, miss? sen
minutes probing t. to me.
But s, taking care to keep t from my soft fingers. Dont yourself, se fet t s ss it, too.
One day sakes my arm as is noto I feel t, like a slap. Anotime, after sitting, I plain t my feet are cakes my feet in oes. So dress me as stle y goables, and finds primroses in to put in t get t you get in London, in try, ss t tty enoug they?
S brira coals for my fires, from Mr ay. Suco do!—a no-oo do it before, for my sake; even I t to do it; and so I ers. t makes to stand, ts and spirals upon the glass.
Oime sable spread for a sed it quite discerts me, to imagine my motually ting ting out till sane—pering, ing . . .
I take up a card. It slides against my glove. But in Sues s it, s, ly and nimbly; and tween oniso learn I
ot play; and at once makes me sit, so sea, but sly, almost greedily—tilting ired, sand tilt tips togetimes ructure, a kind of pyramid of cards—alop-most point, a king and a queen.
Look ion; and as tructure topples, she will laugh.
Sra Briar, as I imagi must be in a prison or a cimes, salk of dang. Ss , to sep. to my feet, and turns and turns me; and I feel, of —I feel it pass from o me and beine.
Finally I let ed toothimble.
Let me look, so t.
I stand at t back my of beer upon it—warm also. S my gum.
ell, t is shan—
ts tooth, Sue?
to say. S eeth, miss?
I t, sio bite.
ts true, sractedly. Only, I ;
So my dressing-room. I see, t, t: ss may break beoes of careless risers and make tioned me, in a similar spirit, against tepping on, in naked feet, of
o ter); tor-oil; and t, or fligems on my dressing-table, s, then call.
Dont you know anyone we, Sue?
A se, miss? Sill fro the Zoo?
ell, per the Zoo.
I t say as I do.
Curious. I ain, you kno you would.
I smile, t. t; I see for t time you, sg my ging face.
Are you sure?
Yes, miss. If I , you may scream; and top.
It does not , I do not scream. But it makes for a queer mix of sensations: tal, tness of udies toot at black. I look at t, its lobe pierced ts. Pierced, o ting my fiips to ttle dimples in t of ice . . . ty does t for me.—Almost got it! o test tootricky to do to an infant, of course. For if you o let slip t like t.
I do not knoongue rises and moves against ooo big, toe; and I tarnishe silver—
I t a running, I taste it. Pero tle lo tooto a sort of panic; but noops. Sests again my jahen draws back.
I emerge from tle unsteadily. Sigo my face. I songue ay bluoote from till upon it. t—not tarnis tarnis all. I asted, or imagine I asted, is taste of .
May a lady taste t makes me colour.
And it is as I am standing, feeling to my c a girl es to my door ter, from Ri to expect it. I ten to t, our marriage, te. I ten to t take tter and, trembling, break its seal.
Are you as impatient as I? es. I kno you are. Do you . is over. My business in London is done, and I am ing!
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