The debate will go on, he cannot escape. He answers, then catches my eye as if in apology , r i s e s , g o e s t o m y u n c l e ' s s i d e . T h e y t a l k u n t i l t h e s t r i k i n g o f t e n o'clock— which is when I leave them.
That is the Thursday night. Mr Rivers is due to remain at Briar until Sunday. Next day I am kept from the library while the men look over the books; at supper he watches me, and afterwards hears me read, but then is obliged to sit again with my uncle and cannot come to my side. Saturday I walk in the park with Agnes, and do not see him; Saturday night, however, my uncle has me read from an antique book, one of his finest— and then, when I have finished, Mr Rivers comes and sits beside me, to study its singular covers.
'You like it, Rivers?' asks my uncle as he does so. 'You know it is very rare?'
'I should say it must be, sir.'
'And you think I mean by that, that there are few other copies?'
'I had supposed that, yes.'
'So you might. But we collectors, we gauge rarity by other means. You think a unique item rare, if no-one wants it? We call that a dead
book. But, say a score of identical copies are sought by a thousand men: each of those single books is rarer than the unique one. You understand me?'
Mr Rivers nods. 'I do. The rareness of the article is relative to the desire of the heart 137
which seeks it.' He glances at me. 'That is very quaint. And how many men seek this book, that we have just heard?'
My uncle grows coy. 'How many indeed, sir? I'll answer you like this: put it up for auction, and see! Ha?'
Mr Rivers laughs. 'To be sure, yes . . .'
But beyond the film of his politeness, he looks thoughtful. He bites his lip)— his teeth showing yellow, wolfish, against the dark of his beard, but his mouth a soft and surprising pink. He says nothing while my uncle sips at his drink and Mr Hawtrey fusses with the fire. Then he speaks again.
'And what of a pair of books, Mr Lilly,' he says, 'sought by a single buyer? How are they to be valued?'
A pair?' My uncle puts down his glass. 'A set, of two volumes?'
'A pair of complementary titles. A man has one, and seeks to secure the other. The second will greatly add to the value of the first?'
'Of course, sir!'
'I thought it.'
'Men pay absurdly for such things,' says Mr Huss.
'They do,' says my uncle. 'They do. You will find a reference to such matters, of course, in my Index ..."
'The Index,' says Mr Rivers softly; and the others talk on. We sit and listen— or pretend to— and soon he turns and studies my face. 'May I ask you something, Miss Lilly?' he says. And then, when I nod: 'What do you see, for yourself, after the completion of your uncle's work?— Now, why do you do that?'
I have given him what I suppose must be a bitter sort of smile. I say, 'Your question means nothing, I can hardly answer it. My uncle's work will never be finished. There are too many new books written that must be added to the old; too many lost books to be rediscovered; too much uncertainty. He and Mr Hawtrey will
debate it for ever. Look at them now. Should he publish the Index as he intends, he will only at once begin its supplements.'
'You mean to keep beside him, then, for all that time?'— I will not answer.— 'You are as dedicated as he?'
'I have no choice,' I say at last. 'My skills are few and, as you have already noted, quite uncommon.'
'You are a lady,' he says softly, 'and young, and handsome.— I don't speak from gallantry now, you know that. I say only what is true. You might do anything.'
'You are a man,' I answer. 'Men's truths are different from ladies'. I may do nothing, I assure you.'
He hesitates— perhaps, catches his breath. Then: 'You might— marry,' he says. 'That is something.'
He says it, with his eyes upon the book that I have read from; and I hear him, and laugh aloud. My uncle, supposing I have laughed at some parched joke of his, looks over and nods. 'You think so, Maud? You see, Huss, even my niece believes it so . . .'
I wait until his face is turned from me again, his attention captured. Then I reach for the book on its stand and gently lift its cover. 'Look here, Mr Rivers,' I say. 'This is my 138
uncle's plate, that is attached to all his books. Do you see the device of it?'
The plate bears his emblem, a clever thing of his own design— a lily, drawn strangely, to resemble a phallus; and wound about with a stem of briar at the root. Mr Rivers tilts his head to study it, and nods. I let the cover close.
'Sometimes,' I say, not looking up, 'I suppose such a plate must be pasted upon my own flesh— that I have been ticketed, and noted and shelved— so nearly do I resemble one of my uncle's books.' I raise my eyes to his. My face is warm, but I am speaking coolly, still. 'You said, two nights ago, that you have studied the ways of this house.
Surely, then, you have understood. We are not meant for common usage, my fellow books and I. My uncle keeps us separate from the world. He will call us poisons; he says we will hurt unguarded eyes. Then aga i n , h e n a m e s u s h i s c h i l d r e n , h i s foundlings, that have come to him, from every corner of the world— some rich and handsomely provided for, some shabby, some
injured, some broken about the spine, some gaudy, some gross. For all that he speaks against them, I believe he likes the gross ones best; for they are the ones that other parents— other bookmen and collectors, I mean— cast out. I was like them, and had a home, and lost it— '
Now I do not speak coolly. I have been overtaken by my own words. Mr Rivers watches, then leans to take my uncle's book very gently from its stand.
'Your home,' he murmurs, as his face comes close to mine. 'The madhouse. Do you think very often of your time there? Do you think of your mother, and feel her madness in you?— Mr Lilly, your book.' My uncle has looked over. 'Do you mind my handling it? Won't you show me, sir, the features that mark it as rare . . .?'
He has spoken very swiftly; and has startled me, horribly. I don't like to be startled. I don't like to lose my place. But now, as he rises and returns, with the book, to the fire, a second or two passes that I cannot account for. I discover at last that I have put my hand to my breast. That I am breathing quickly. That the shadows in which I sit are all at once denser than before— so dense, my skirt seems bleeding into the fabric of the sofa and my hand, rising and falling above my heart, is pale as a leaf upon a swelling pool of darkness.
I will not swoon. Only girls in books do that, for the convenience of gentlemen. But I suppose I whiten and look strange, for when Mr Hawtrey gazes my way, smiling, his smile quite falls. 'Miss Lilly!' he says. He comes and takes my hand.
Mr Huss comes also. 'Dear child, what is it?' He holds me close, about the armpit.
Mr Rivers hangs back. My uncle looks peevish. 'Well, well,' he says. 'What now?' He shuts his book, but keeps his finger, carefully, between the pages.
They ring for Agnes. She comes, blinking at the gentlemen, curtseying at my uncle, a look of terror on her face. It is not yet ten o'clock. 'I am perfectly well,' I say. 'You must not trouble. I am only tired, suddenly. I am sorry.'
'Sorry? Pooh!' says Mr Hawtrey. 'It is we who should be sorry. Mr Lilly, you are a tyrant, and overtask your niece most miserably.
I always said it, and here is the proof. Agnes, take your mistress's arm. Go steadily, now.'
'Shall you manage the stairs?' Mr Huss asks anxiously. He stands in the hall as we 139
prepare to mount them. Behind him I see Mr Rivers; but I do not catch his eye.
When the drawing- room door is closed I push Agnes away, and in my own room I look about me for some cool thing to put upon my face. I finally go to the mantel, and lean my cheek against the looking- glass.
'Your skirts, miss!' says Agnes. She draws them from the fire.
I feel queer, dislocated. The house clock has not chimed. When it sounds, I will feel better. I will not think of Mr Rivers— of what he must know of me, how he might know it, what he means by seeking me out. Agnes stands awkwardly, half- crouched, my skirts still gathered in her hands.