Something has happened, since I saw you last. What is it?'
'Nothing has happened,' I say.
'Nothing?'
'Nothing, but what we planned for.'
'And you know what must be done now?'
'Of course.'
'Do it then, will you? Act like a lover. Smile, blush, grow foolish.'
'Do I not do those things?'
'You do— then spoil them, with a grimace or a flinch. Look at you now. Lean into my arm, damn you. Will it kill you, to feel my hand upon yours?— I am sorry' I have grown stiff at his words. 'I am sorry, Maud.'
'Let go of my arm,' I say.
We go further, side by side but in silence. Sue plods behind— I hear her breaths, like sighs. Richard throws down the butt of his cigarette, tears up a switch of grass and begins to lash at his boots. 'How filthy red this earth is!' he says. 'But, what a treat for little Charles . . .' He smiles to himself. Then his foot turns up a flint and he almost stumbles. That makes him curse. He rights himself, and looks me over. 'I see you walk more nimbly. You like it, hmm? You may walk in London like this, you know. On the parks and heaths. Did you know? Or else, you may choose not to walk, ever again—
you may rent carriages, chairs, men to drive and carry you about— '
'I know what I may do.'
'Do you? Truly?' He puts the stem of grass to his mouth and grows thoughtful. 'I wonder. You are afraid, I think. Of what? Being alone? Is it that? You need never fear solitude, Maud, while you are rich.'
170
'You think I feax solitude?' I say. We are close to the wall of my uncle's park. It is high, grey, dry as powder. 'You think I fear that? I fear nothing, nothing.'
He casts the grass aside, takes up my arm. 'Why, then,' he says, 'do you keep us here, in such dreadful suspense?'
I do not answer. We have slowed our step. Now we hear Sue, still breathing hard behind us, and walk on more quickly. When he speaks again, his tone has changed.
'You spoke, a moment ago, of torment. The truth is, I think you like to torment yourself, by prolonging this time.'
I shrug, as if in carelessness; though I do not feel careless. 'My uncle said something similar to me once,' I say. 'That was before I became like him. It is hardly a torment to me now, to wait. I am used to it.'
'I am not, however,' he replies. 'Nor do I wish to take instruction in the art, from you or anyone. I have lost too much, in the past, through waiting. I am cleverer now, at manipulating events to match my needs. That is what I have learned, while you have learned patience. Do you understand me, Maud?'
I turn my head, half-close my eyes. 'I don't want to understand you,' I say tiredly. 'I wish you would not speak at all.'
'I will speak, until you hear.'
'Hear what?'
'Hear this.' He brings his mouth close to my face. His beard, his lips, his breath, are tainted with smoke, like a devil's. He says: 'Remember our contract. Remember how we made it. Remember that when I came to you first I came, not quite as a gentleman, and with little to lose— unlike you, Miss Lilly, who saw me alone, at midnight, in your own room ..." He draws back. 'I suppose your reputation must count for something, even here; I'm afraid that ladies' always do.— But naturally you knew that, when you received me.'
His tone has some new edge to it, some quality I have not heard before. But we have changed our course: when I gaze at his face the light is all behind him, making his expression hard to read.
I say carefully, 'You call me a lady; but I am hardly that.'
'And yet, I think your uncle must consider you one. Will he like to think you corrupted?'
'He has corrupted me himself!'
'Then, will he like to think the work taken over by another man's hand?— I a m speaking only, of course, of what he will suppose to be the case.'
I move away. 'You misunderstand him, entirely. He considers me a sort of engine, for the reading and copying of texts.'
'All the worse. He shan't like it, when the engine bucks. What say he disposes of it and makes himself another?'
Now I can feel the beat of the blood in my brow. I put my fingers to my eyes. 'Don't be tiresome, Richard. Disposes of it, how?'
'Why, by sending it home . . .'
T he beat seems to stumble, then quickens. I draw back my fingers, but again the light is behind him and I cannot quite make out his face. I say, very quietly, 'I shall be no 171
use to you, in a madhouse.'
'You are no use to me now, while you delay! Be careful I don't grow tired of this scheme. I shan't be kind to you, then.'
And is this kindness?' I say.
We have moved, at last, into shadow, and I see his look: it is honest, amused, amazed.
He says: 'This is dreadful villainy, Maud. When did I ever call it anything else?'
We stop, close as sweethearts. His tone has grown light again, but his eye is hard— quite hard. I feel, for the first time, what it would be to be afraid of him.
He turns and calls to Sue. 'Not far now, Suky! We are almost there, I think.' To me he murmurs: 'I shall need some minutes with her, alone.'
'To secure her,' I say. As you have me.'
'That work is done,' he says complacently; 'and she, at least, sticks better.— What?' I have shuddered, or my look has changed. 'You don't suspect her of qualms? Maud?
You don't suppose her weakening, or playing us false? Is that why you hesitate?' I shake my head. 'Well,' he goes on, 'all the more reason for me to see her, to find out how she thinks we do. Have her come to me, today or tomorrow. Find out some way, will you? Be sly.'
He puts his smoke-stained finger to his mouth. Presently Sue comes, and rests at my side. She is flushed from the weight of the bags. Her cloak still billows, her hair still whips, and I want more than anything to draw her to me, to touch and tidy her. I think I begin to, I think I half-reach for her; then I become conscious of Richard and his shrewd, considering gaze. I cross my arms before me and turn away.
Next morning I have her take him a coal from the fire, to light his cigarette from; and I stand with my brow against my dressing-room window and watch them whisper. She keeps her head turned from me, but when she leaves him he raises his eyes to me and holds my gaze, as he held it once before, in darkness. Remember our contract, he seems again to say. Then he drops his cigarette and stands heavily upon it; then shakes free the clinging red soil from his shoes.
After that, I feel the mounting pressure of our plot as I think men must feel the straining of checked machinery, tethered beasts, the gathering of tropical storms. I wake each day and think: Today I will do it! Today I will draw free the bolt and let the engine race, unleash the beast, puncture the lowering clouds! Today, I will let him claim me— !
But, I do not. I look at Sue, and there comes, always, that shadow, that darkness— a panic, I suppose it, a simple fear— a quaking, a caving— a dropping, as into the sour mouth of madness—