He will grow more solicitous, soon; but for now, at least, the days fall back into 167
something like a familiar pattern. He passes his mornings at work on the prints, then comes to my rooms, to teach me drawing— to keep close to me, that is to say; to look and to murmur, while I daub paint on card; to be grave and ostentatiously gallant.
The days fall back in their pattern— except that, where before they had Agnes in them, now they have Sue.
And Sue is not like Agnes. She knows more. She knows her own worth and purpose.
She knows she must listen and watch, to see that Mr Rivers does not come too close, or speak too confidentially, to her mistress; but she also knows that when he does come near she is to turn her head aside and be deaf to his whispers. She does turn her head, I see her do it; but I see her, too, steal glances at us from the edge of her eye— study our reflections in the chimney- glass and windows— watch our very shadows! The room, in which I have passed so many captive hours I know it as a prisoner knows his cell— the room seems changed to me now. It seems filled with shining surfaces, each one an eye of hers.
When those eyes meet mine, they are veiled and blameless. But when they meet Richard's, I see the leap of knowledge or understanding that passes between them; and I cannot look at her.
For of course, though she knows much, what she has is a counterfeit knowledge, and worthless; and her satisfaction in the keeping of it— in the nursing of what she supposes her secret— is awful to me. She does not know she is the hinge of all our scheme, the point about which our plot turns; she thinks I am that point. She does not suspect that, in seeming to mock me, Richard mocks her: that after he has turned to her in private, perhaps to smile, perhaps to grimace, he turns to me, and smiles and grimaces in earnest.
And where his torturing of Agnes pricked me on to little cruelties of my own, now I a m o n l y u n n e r v e d . M y c o n s c i o u s n e s s o f S u e m a k e s m e t o o c o n s c i o u s o f myself— makes me, now reckless, as Richard is sometimes reckless, in the gross performance of our sham passion; now guarded and watchful, hesitating. I will be bold for an hour— or meek, or coy— and then, in the final minute of his stay, I will tremble. I will be betrayed by the movement of my own limbs, my blood, my breath.— I suppose she reads that as love.
Richard, at least, knows it for weakness. The days creep by: the first week passes, and we begin the second. I sense his bafflement, feel the weight of his expectation: feel it gather, turn, grow sour. He looks at my work, and begins to shake his head.
'I am afraid, Miss Lilly,' he says, more than once, 'that you want discipline, yet. I thought your touch firmer than this. I am sure it was firmer, a month ago. Don't say you've forgotten your lessons, in my short absence. After all our labour! There is one thing an artist must always avoid, in the execution of his work: that is, hesitation. For that leads to weakness; and through weakness, greater designs than this one have foundered. You understand? You do understand me?'
I will not answer. He leaves, and I keep at my place. Sue comes to my side.
'Never mind it, miss,' she says gently, 'if Mr Rivers seems to say hard things about your picture. Why, you got those pears, quite to the life.'
'You think so, Sue?'
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She nods. I look into her face— into her eye, with its single fleck of darker brown.
Then I look at the shapeless daubs of colour I have put upon the card.
'It's a wretched painting, Sue,' I say.
She puts her hand upon mine. 'Well,' she says, 'but ain't you learning?'
I am, but not quickly enough. He suggests, in time, that we go walking in the park.
'We must work from nature now,' he says.
'I should rather not,' I tell him. I have my paths, that I like to walk with Sue beside me.
I think that to walk them with him will spoil them. 'I should rather not,' I say again.
He frowns, then smiles. As your instructor,' he says, 'I must insist.'
I hope it will rain. But though the sky above Briar has been grey all that winter long— has been grey, it seems to me, for seven years!— it lightens now, for him. There is only a quick, soft wind, that comes gusting about my unskirted ankles as Mr Way tugs open the door.— 'Thank you, Mr Way,' says Richard, bending his arm for me to take. He wears a low black hat, a dark wool coat, and lavender gloves. Mr Way observes the gloves, then looks at me in a kind of satisfaction, a kind of scorn.
Fancy yourself a lady, do you? he said to me, the day he carried me, kicking, to the ice- house. Well, we'll see.
I will not walk to the ice- house today, with Richard, but choose another path— a longer, blander path, that circles my uncle's estate, rises and overlooks the rear of the house, the stables, woods, and chapel. I know the view too well to want to gaze at it, and walk with my eyes upon the ground. He keeps my arm in his, and Sue follows behind us— first close, then falling back when he makes our pace grow brisk. We do not speak, but as we walk he slowly draws me to him. My skirt rises, awkwardly.
When I try to pull away, however, he will not let me. I say at last: 'You need not hold me so close.'
He smiles. 'We must seem convincing.'
'You needn't grip me so. Have you anything to whisper, that I don't already know?'
He gazes quickly over his shoulder. 'She would think it queer,' he says, 'were I to let slip these chances to be near you. Anyone would think that queer.'
'She knows you do not love me. You have no need to dote.'
'Shouldn't a gentleman dote, in the springtime, when he has the chance?' He puts back his head. 'Look at this sky, Maud. See how sickeningly blue it shows. So blue'— he has lifted his hand— 'it jars with my gloves. That's nature for you. No sense of fashion.
London skies, at least, are better- mannered: they're like tailors' walls, an eternal drab.'
He smiles again, and draws me closer. 'But of course, you will know this, soon.'
I try to imagine myself in a tailor's shop. I recall scenes from The Whipping Milliners.
I turn and, like him, quickly glance at Sue. She is watching, with a frown of what I take to be satisfaction, the bulging of my skirt about his leg. Again I attempt to pull from him, and again he keeps me close. I say, 'Will you let me go?' And, when he does nothing: 'I must suppose, then, since you know I don't care to be smothered, that you take a delight in tormenting me.'
He catches my eye. 'I am like any man,' he says, 'preoccupied with what I may not have. Hasten the day of our union. I think you'll find my attention will cool pretty rapidly, after that.'
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Then I say nothing. We walk on, and in time he lets me go, in order to cup his hands about a cigarette and light it. I look again at Sue. The ground has risen, the breeze is stronger, and two or three lengths of brown hair have come loose from beneath her bonnet and whip about her face. She carries our bags and baskets, and has no hand free to secure them. Behind her, her cloak billows like a sail.
'Is she all right?' asks Richard, drawing on his cigarette.
I turn and look ahead. 'Quite all right.'
'She is stouter than Agnes, anyway. Poor Agnes! I wonder how she does, hey?' He takes my arm again, and laughs. I do not answer, and his laughter fades. 'Come, Maud,' he says, in a cooler tone, 'don't be so spinsterish. What has happened to you?'
'Nothing has happened to me.'
He studies my profile. 'Then, why do you make us wait? Everything is in place.
Everything is ready. I have taken a house for us, in London. London houses do not come cheaply, Maud
I walk on, in silence, aware of his gaze. He pulls me close again. 'You have not, I suppose,' he says, 'had a change of heart? Have you?'
'No.'
'You are sure?'
'Quite sure.'