'He will want,' I said, after a moment, 'to embrace you.'
Her hand grew still. I think she blinked. I think I heard it. She said,
'You mean, to stand with me in his arms?'
S h e s a i d i t , a n d I p i c t u r e d h e r , a l l a t o n c e , i n G e n t l e m a n ' s g r i p . I s a w t h e m standing— as you do see men and girls, sometimes, at night, in the Borough, in doorways or up against walls. You turn your eyes. I tried to turn my eyes, now— but, of course, could not, for there was nothing to turn them to, there was only the 89
darkness. My mind flung figures on it, bright as lantern slides.
I grew aware of her, waiting. I said, in a fretful way,
'He won't want to stand. It's rough, when you stand. You only stand when you haven't a place to lie in or must be quick. A gentleman would embrace his wife on a couch, or a bed. A bed would be best.'
A bed,' she said, 'like this?'
'Perhaps like this.— Though the feathers, I think, would be devils to shake back into shape, when you've finished!'
I laughed; but the laugh came out too loud. Maud flinched. Then she seemed to frown.
'Finished . . .' she murmured, as if puzzling over the word. Then, 'Finished what?' she said. 'The embrace?'
'Finished it,' I said.
'But do you mean, the embrace?'
' F i n i s h e d i t . ' I t u r n e d , t h e n t u r n e d a g a i n . ' H o w d a r k i t i s ! W h e r e i s t h e light?— Finished it. Can I be plainer?'
'I think you could be, Sue. You talk instead of beds, of feathers. What are they to me?
You talk of it. What's it?'
'It is what follows,' I said, 'from kissing, from embracing on a bed. It is the actual thing. The kissing only starts you off. Then it comes over you, like— like wanting to dance, to a time, to music. Have you never— ?'
'Never what?'
'Never mind,' I said. I still moved, restlessly. 'You must not mind. It will be easy. Like dancing is.'
'But dancing is not easy,' she said, pressing on. 'One must be taught to dance. You taught me.'
'This is different.'
'Why is it?'
'There are lots of ways to dance. You can only do this, one way. The way will come to you, when once you have begun.'
I felt her shake her head. 'I don't think,' she said miserably, 'it will come to me. I don't think that kisses can start me off. Mr Rivers's kisses never have. Perhaps— perhaps my mouth lacks a certain necessary muscle or nerve— ?'
I said, 'For God's sake, miss. Are you a girl, or a surgeon? Of course your mouth will work. Look here.' She had fired me up. She had wound me tight, like a spring. I rose from my pillow. 'Where are your lips?' I said.
'My lips?' she answered, in a tone of surprise. 'They are here.'
I found them, and kissed her.
I knew how to do it all right, for Dainty had shown me, once. Kissing Maud, however, was not like kissing her. It was like kissing the darkness. As if the darkness had life, had a shape, had taste, was warm and glib. Her mouth was still, at first. Then it moved against mine. Then it opened. I felt her tongue. I felt her swallow. I felt—
I had done it, only to show her. But I lay with my mouth on hers and felt, starting up in me, everything I had said would start in her, when Gentleman kissed her. It made me giddy. It made me blush, worse than before. It was like liquor. It made me drunk. I 90
drew away. When her breath came now upon my mouth, it came very cold. My mouth was wet, from hers. I said, in a whisper,
'Do you feel it?'
The words sounded queer; as if the kiss had done something to my tongue. She did not answer. She did not move. She breathed, but lay so still I thought suddenly, 'What if I've put her in a trance? Say she never comes out? What ever will I tell her uncle— ?'
Then she shifted a little. And then she spoke.
'I feel it,' she said. Her voice was as strange as mine. 'You have made me feel it. It's such a curious, wanting thing. I never— '
'It wants Mr Rivers,' I said.
'Does it?'
'I think it must.'
'I don't know. I don't know.'
She spoke, unhappily. But she shifted again, and the shift brought her nearer to me.
Her mouth came closer to mine. It was like she hardly knew what she was doing; or knew, but could not help it. She said again, 'I'm afraid.'
'Don't be frightened,' I said at once. For I knew that she mustn't be that. Say she got so frightened she cried off marrying him?
That's what I thought. I thought I must show her how to do it, or her fear would spoil our plot. So, I kissed her again. Then I touched her. I touched her face. I began at the meeting of our mouths— at the soft wet corners of our lips— then found her jaw, her cheek, her brow— I had touched her before, to wash and dress her; but never like this.
So smooth she was! So warm! It was like I was calling the heat and shape of her out of the darkness— as if the darkness was turning solid and growing quick, under my hand.
She began to shake. I supposed she was still afraid. Then I began to shake, too. I forgot to think of Gentleman, after that. I thought only of her. When her face grew wet with tears, I kissed them away.
'You pearl,' I said. So white she was! 'You pearl, you pearl, you pearl.'
It was easy to say, in the darkness. It was easy to do. But next morning I woke, saw the strips of grey light between the curtains of the bed, remembered what I had done, and thought, My God. Maud lay, still sleeping, her brows drawn together in a frown.
Her mouth was open. Her lip had grown dry. My lip was dry, too, and I brought up my hand, to touch it. Then I took the hand away. It smelt of her. The smell made me shiver, inside. The shiver was a ghost of the shiver that had seized me— seized us both— as I'd moved against her, in the night. Being fetched, the girls of the Borough call it. Did he fetch you— ? They will tell you it comes on you like a sneeze; but a sneeze is nothing to it, nothing at all—
I shivered again, remembering. I put the tip of one finger to my tongue. It tasted sharp— like vinegar, like blood.
Like money.