She took up her glass in both her hands, and swallowed what was left in it.
'You haven't got the money?'
She put the glass back down. 'Not yet.'
'That's something, then,' I said. 'I shall want a share of that. I shall want half of it. Mrs Sucksby, do you hear? They shall give me half their fortune, at least. Not a stinking three thousand, but a half. Think what we shall do, with that!'
But I did not want the money; and when I spoke, my voice sounded hateful to me.
Mrs Sucksby said nothing. Maud said,
'You shall have what you like. I will give you anything, anything at all— if you will only go from here, now, before Richard comes back.'
'Go from here? Because you tell me to? This is my home! Mrs Sucksby— M r s Sucksby, will you tell her?'
Mrs Sucksby again passed a hand across her mouth.
'There again, Susie,' she said slowly, 'Miss Lilly might be right. If there is the money to be thought of, you might do well, for now, to keep out of Gentleman's way. Let me speak with him, first. I'll give him a taste of my temper, though!'
She said it in a queer, half- hearted way, with a try at a smile— as she might have said it, I thought, if she had just found out that Gentleman had swindled her out of two or three shillings at cards. I guessed she was thinking about Maud's fortune, and how it might be cut. I couldn't help but wish that, after all, the money was nothing to her. I said,
'Will you make me go?' The words came out like a whisper. I looked away from her, about the kitchen— at the old Dutch clock on the shelf, and the pictures on the walls.
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On the floor by the door to
the stairs was the white china chamber-pot, with the dark eye in it, from my own room, that must have been brought down to be washed and then forgotten. I would not have forgotten it. On the table beneath my hand was a heart: I had scratched it into the wood, the summer before. I had been like a child still, then. I had been like an infant— I looked about me again. Why were there no babies? The kitchen was still.
Everyone was still, and watching me.
'Will you make me go,' I said again to Mrs Sucksby, 'and let her stay?' Now my voice was broken as a boy's. 'Will you trust them, not to send Dr Christie to me? Will you—
Will you take her gowns, will you take the pins from her head, will you kiss her, will you let her sleep beside you in my old place, while I lie in a bed with— with red hairs in it?'
'Sleep beside me?' said Mrs Sucksby quickly. 'Who told you that?'
'Red hairs?'said John.
But Maud had lifted her head, her gaze grown sharp. 'You have watched us!' she said.
And then, when she had thought it through: At the shutter!'
'I've watched you,' I answered, more strongly. 'I've watched you, you spider! taking everything of mine. You would rather do that— God damn you!— than sleep with your own husband!'
'Sleep with— with Richard?' She looked astounded. 'You don't suppose— ?'
'Susie,' said Mrs Sucksby, putting her hand upon me.
'Sue,' said Maud at the same time, leaning across the table and also reaching for me.
'You don't suppose him anything to me? You don't think him a husband to me, in anything but name? Don't you know I hate him? Don't you know I hated him, at Briar?'
'Will you make out now,' I said, in a kind of trembling scorn, 'that you only did what you did because he made you?'
'He did make me!— But, not in the way you mean.'
I said, 'Will you pretend, that you aren't a swindling cheat?'
She said, 'Will you?'
And again, she held my gaze; and again, I was almost shamed by it, and looked away.
Then after a moment I said, more quietly,
'I hated it. I didn't smile, with him, when your back was turned.'
'You think I did?'
'Why not? You are an actress.-You are acting now!'
'Am I?'
She said it, still with her eyes on my face, still with her hand reaching for mine but falling short of taking it. The light was all upon us, the rest of the kitchen almost dark.
I looked at her fingers. They were marked with dirt, or bruised. I said,
'If you hated him, why did you do it?'
'There was no other way,' she said. 'You saw my life. I needed you, to be me.'
'So you might come here, and be me!1 She did not answer. I said, 'We might have cheated him. If you had told me. We might have— '
'What?'
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'Anything. Something. I don't know what. . .'
She shook her head. 'How much,' she asked quietly, 'would you have given up?'
Her gaze was so dark, yet so steady and true; but I grew aware, all at once, of Mrs Sucksby— of John and Dainty, Mr Ibbs— all of them, watching, silent and curious, thinking, What's this . . .? And in that moment, I saw into my own cowardly heart and knew that I would have given up nothing for her, nothing at all; and that, sooner than be shamed by her now, I would die.
She reached again. Her fingers brushed my wrist. I took up the knife and jabbed at her hand.
'Don't touch me!' I said, as I did it. I got to my feet. 'Don't any of you touch me!' My voice was wild. 'Not any of you! Do you hear me? I came back here, thinking this my home; now you want to cast me out again. I hate you all! I wish I had stayed in the country!'