Her words shake me a little— but only a little; and when she is gone, it seems to me that I forget her. For Richard is also gone— gone three days before, on my uncle's business, and on ours— and my thoughts are all with him, with him and with London.
London! where I have never been, but which I have imagined so fiercely, so often, I am sure I know. London, where I will find my liberty, cast off my self, live to another pattern— live without patterns, without hides and bindings— without books! I will ban paper from my house!
I lie upon my bed and try to imagine the house that I will take, in London. I cannot do i t . I s e e o n l y a s e r i e s o f v o l u p t u o u s r o o m s — d i m r o o m s , c l o s e r o o m s , rooms-within- rooms— dungeons and cells— the rooms of Priapus and Venus.— The thought unnerves me. I give it up. The house will come clearer in time, I am sure of it.
I rise and walk and think again of Richard, making his passage across the city, picking his way through the night to the dark thieves' den, close to the river. I think of him roughly greeted by crooks, I think of him casting off his coat and hat, warming his hands at a fire, looking about him. I think of him, Macheath- like, counting off a set of vicious faces— Mrs Vixen, Betty Doxy, Jenny Diver, Molly Brazen— until he finds the 152
face he seeks . . .
Suky Tawdry.
Her. I think of her. I think so hard of her I think I know her colour— fair— her figure— plump— her walk, the shade of her eye.— I am sure it is blue. I begin to dream of her. In the dreams she speaks and I hear her voice. She says my name, and laughs.
I think I am dreaming of her when Margaret comes to my room with a letter, from him.
She's ours, he writes.
I read it, then fall back upon my pillow and hold the letter to my mouth. I put my lips to the paper. He might be my lover, after all— or, she might. For I could not want her now, more than I could a lover.
But I could not want a lover, more than I want freedom.
I put his letter upon the fire, then draw up my reply: Send her at once. I am sure I shall love her. She shall be the dearer to me for coming from London, where you are!— we settled on the wording before he left.
That done, I need only wait, one day and then another. The day after that is the day she comes.
She is due at Marlow at three o'clock. I send William Inker for her, in good time. But though I sit and seem to feel her drawing close, the trap comes back without her: the trains are late, there are fogs. I pace, and cannot settle. At five o'clock I send William again— again he comes back. Then I must take supper with my uncle. While Charles pours out my wine I ask him, 'Any news yet, of Miss Smith?'— My uncle hearing me whisper, however, he sends Charles away.
'Do you prefer to talk with servants, Maud, than with me?' he says. He is peevish, since Richard left us.
He chooses a book of little punishments for me to read from, after the meal: the steady recitation of cruelty makes me calmer. But when I go up to my chill and silent rooms, I grow fretful again; and after Margaret has undressed me and put me into my bed, I rise, and walk— stand now at the fire, now at the door, now at the window, looking out for the light of the trap. Then I see it. It shows feebly in the fog— seems to glow, rather than to shine— and to flash, with the motion of the horse and the passage of the trap behind the trees, like a thing of warning. I watch it come, my hand at my heart. It draws close— slows, narrows, fades— I see beyond it, then, the horse, the cart, William, a vaguer figure. They drive to the rear of the house, and I run to Agnes's room— Susan's room, it will be now— and stand at the window there; and finally see her.
She is lifting her head, gazing up at the stables, the clock. William jumps from his seat and helps her to the ground. She holds a hood about her face. She is dressed darkly, and seems small.
But, she is real. The plot is real.— I feel the force of it all at once, and tremble.
It is too late to receive her, now. Instead I must wait further, while she is given a supper and brought to her room; and then I must lie, hearing her step and murmur, my eyes upon the door— an inch or two of desiccated wood!— that lies between her 153
chamber and
mine.
Once I rise and go stealthily to it, and put my ear to the panels; but hear nothing.
Next morning I have Margaret carefully dress me, and while she pulls at my laces I say, 'I believe Miss Smith has come. Did you see her, Margaret?'
'Yes, miss.'
'Do you think she will do?'
'Do, miss?'
'As girl to me.'
She tosses her head. 'Seemed rather low in her manners,' she says. 'Been half a dozen times to France and I don't know where, though. Made sure Mr Inker knew that.'
'Well, we must be kind to her. It will seem dull to her here, perhaps, after London.'
She says nothing. 'Will you have Mrs Stiles bring her to me, so soon as she has taken her breakfast?'
I have lain all night, sometimes sleeping, sometimes waking, oppressed with the nearness and obscurity of her. I must see her now, before I go to my uncle, or I fear I will grow ill. At last, at half-past seven or so, I hear an unfamiliar tread in the passage that leads from the servants' staircase; and then Mrs Stiles's murmur: 'Here we are.'
There comes a knock upon my door. How should I stand? I stand at the fire. Does my voice sound queer, when I call out? Does she mark it? Does she hold her breath? I know I hold mine; then I feel myself colour, and will the blood from my face. The door is opened. Mrs Stiles comes first and, after a moment's hesitation, she is before me: Susan— Susan Smith— Suky Tawdry— the gullible girl, who is to take my life from me and give me freedom.
Sharper than expectation, comes dismay. I have supposed she will resemble me, I have supposed she will be handsome: but she is a small, slight, spotted thing, with hair the colour of dust. Her chin comes almost to a point. Her eyes are brown, darker than mine. Her gaze is now too frank, now sly: she gives me a single, searching look that takes in my gown, my gloves, my slippers, the very clocks upon my stockings.
Then she blinks— remembers her training, I suppose— makes a hasty curtsey. She is pleased with the curtsey, I can tell. She is pleased with me. She thinks me a fool. The idea upsets me, more than it should. I think, You have come to Briar to ruin me. I step to take her hand. Won't you colour, or tremble, or hide your eyes? But she returns my gaze and her fingers— which are bitten, about the nails— are cold and hard and perfectly steady in mine.
We are watched by Mrs Stiles. Her look says plainly: 'Here is the girl you sent for, to London. She is about good enough for you, I think.'
'You need not stay, Mrs Stiles,' I say. And then, as she turns to go: 'But you will have been kind to Miss Smith, I know.' I look again at Susan. 'You've heard, perhaps, that I am an orphan, Susan; like you. I came to Briar as a child— very young, and with no-one at all
to care for me. I cannot tell you all the ways in which Mrs Stiles has made me know what a mother's love is, since that time . . .'
I say this, smiling. The tormenting of my uncle's housekeeper is too routine an 154
occupation, however, to hold me. It is Susan I want; and when Mrs Stiles has twitched and coloured and left us, I draw her to me, to lead her to the fire. She walks. She sits.
She is warm and quick. I touch her arm. It is as slender as Agnes's, but hard. I can smell beer upon her breath. She speaks. Her voice is not at all how I have dreamed it, but light and pert; though she tries to make it sweeter. She tells me of her journey, of the train from London— when she says the word, London, she seems conscious of the sound; I suppose she is not in the habit of naming it, of considering it a place of destination or desire. It is a wonder and a torment to me that a girl so slight, so trifling as she, should have lived her life in London, while mine has been all at Briar; but a consolation, also— for if she can thrive there, then might not I, with all my talents, thrive better?
So I tell myself, while describing her duties. Again I see her eye my gown and slippers and now, recognising the pity in her gaze as well as the scorn, I think I blush.
I say, 'Your last mistress, of course, was quite a fine lady? She would laugh, I suppose, to look at me!'
My voice is not quite steady. But if there is a bitterness to my tone, she does not catch it. Instead, 'Oh, no, miss,' she says. 'She was far too kind a lady. And besides, she always said that grand clothes weren't worth buttons; but that it was the heart inside them that counts.'
She looks so taken with this— so taken in, by her own fiction— so innocent, not sly— I sit a moment and regard her in silence. Then I take her hand again. 'You are a good girl, Susan, I think,' I say. She smiles and looks modest. Her fingers move in mine.
'Lady Alice always said so, miss,' she says.
'Did she?'
'Yes, miss.'
Then she remembers something. She pulls from me, reaches into her pocket, and brings out a letter. It is folded, sealed, directed in an
affected feminine hand; and of course comes from Richard. I hesitate, then take it— rise and walk, unfold it, far from her gaze.