that covers the library windows: I try to imagine it, eyeless. I remember how once I woke and watched my room seem to gather itself together out of the dark, and thought,
/ shall never escape! Now I know that I shall. But I think that Briar will haunt me, too.— Or else, I will haunt it, while living out some dim and partial life beyond its walls.
I think of the ghost I shall make: a neat, monotonous ghost,
walking for ever on soft-soled feet, through a broken house, to the pattern of ancient carpets.
But perhaps, after all, I am a ghost already. For I go to Sue and she shows me the gowns and linens she means for us to take, the jewels she means to shine, the bags she will fill; but she does it all without meeting my gaze; and I watch, and say nothing. I am more aware of her hands than of the objects she takes up; feel the stir of her breath, see the movement of her lip, but her words slip from my memory the moment she has said them. At last she has nothing more to show. We must only wait. We take our lunch. We walk to my mother's grave. I stare at the stone, feeling nothing. The day is mild, and damp: our shoes, as we walk, press dew from the springing green earth and mark our gowns with streaks of mud.
I have surrendered myself to Richard's plan, as I once gave myself to my uncle. The plot, the flight— they seem fired, now, not so much by my wants as by his. I am empty of want. I sit at my supper, I eat, I read; I return to Sue and let her dress me as she likes, take wine when she offers it, stand at the window at her side. She moves fretfully, from foot to foot. 'Look at the moon,' she says softly, 'how bright it is! Look at the shadows on the grass.— What time is it? Not eleven, yet?— To think of Mr Rivers, somewhere upon the water, now ..."
There is only one thing I mean to do, before I go: one deed— one terrible deed— the vision of which has risen, to goad and console me, through all the bitten-down rages, the dark and uneasy sleeps, of my life at Briar; and now, as the hour of our flight nears, as the house falls silent, still, unsuspecting, I do it. Sue leaves me, to look over our bags. I hear her, unfastening buckles.— That is all I wait for.
I go stealthily from the room. I know my way, I do not need a lamp, and my dark dress hides me. I go to the head of the stairs, cross quickly the broken carpets of moonlight that the windows there throw upon the floor. Then I pause, and listen.
Silence. So then I go on, into the corridor which faces mine, along a path which is the mirror of the path that has led from my own rooms. At the first door I pause again, and listen again, to be sure that all is still within.
This is the door to my uncle's rooms. I have never entered here, before. But, as I guess, the handle and hinges are kept greased, and turn without a sound. The rug is a thick one, and makes a whisper of my step.
His drawing- room is even darker, and seems smaller, than mine: he has hangings upon the walls, and more book-presses. I don't look at them. I go to his dressing- room door, put my ear to the wood; take the handle and turn it. One inch, two inches, three.— I hold my breath, my hand upon my heart. No sound. I push the door further, stand and listen again. If he stirs, I will turn and go. Does he move? For a second there is nothing. Still I wait, uncertain. Then comes the soft, even rasp of his breathing.
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He has his bed-curtains pulled close but keeps a light, as I do, upon a table: this seems curious to me, I should never have supposed him to be nervous of the dark. But the dim light helps me. Without moving from my place beside the door, I look about me; and at last see the two things I have come to take. On his dressing- stand, beside his jug of water: his watch-chain with, upon it, the key to his library, bound in faded velvet; and his razor.
I go quickly and take them up— the chain uncurling softly, I feel it slither against my glove. If it should fall— ! It does not fall. The door-key swings like a pendulum. The razor is heavier than I expect, the blade is free of its clasp, at an angle, showing its edge. I pull it a little freer, and turn it to the light: it must be sharp, for what I want it for. I think it is sharp enough. I lift my head. In the glass above the mantel, picked out against the shadows of the room, I see myself— my hands: in one a key, in the other a blade. I might pass for a girl in an allegory. Confidence Abused.
Behind me, the drapes to my uncle's bed do not quite meet. In the space between them a shaft of light— so weak it is hardly light, but rather a lessening of darkness— leads to his face. I have never seen him sleep before. In form he seems slight, like a child. The blanket is drawn to his chin, uncreased, pulled tight. His lips let out his breath in a puff. He is dreaming— black- letter dreams, perhaps, or pica, morocco, calf. He is counting spines. His spectacles sit neatly, as if with folded arms, on the table beside his head. Beneath
the lashes of one of his soft eyes there is a gleaming line of moisture. The razor is warming in my hand . . .
But this is not that kind of story. Not yet. I stand and watch him sleep for almost a minute; and then I leave him. I go as I have come— carefully, silently. I go to the stairs, and from there to the library, and once inside that room I lock the door at my back and light a lamp. My heart is beating hardest, now. I am queasy with fear and anticipation.
But time is racing, and I cannot wait. I cross to my uncle's shelves and unfasten the glass before the presses. I begin with The Curtain Drawn Up, the book he gave me first: I take it, and open it, and set it upon his desk. Then I lift the razor, grip it tight, and fully unclasp it. The blade is stiff, but springs the last inch. It is its nature to cut, after all.
Still, it is hard— it is terribly hard, I almost cannot do it— to put the metal for the first time to the neat and naked paper. I am almost afraid the book will shriek, and so discover me. But it does not shriek. Rather, it sighs, as if in longing for its own laceration; and when I hear that, my cuts become swifter and more true.
When I return to Sue she is at the window, wringing her hands. Midnight has sounded.
She supposed me lost. But she is too relieved to scold me. 'Here's your cloak,' she says. 'Fasten it up now, quick. Take your bag.— Not that one, that one's too heavy for you. Now, we must go.' She thinks me nervous. She puts her finger to my mouth. She says, 'Be steady' Then she takes my hand and leads me through the house.
Soft as a thief, she goes. She tells me where I may walk. She does not know that I have recently stood, light as a shadow, and watched my uncle sleep. But then, we go by the servants' way, and the naked passages and stairs are strange to me, all this part of the house is strange to me. She keeps her hand in mine until we reach the basement 185
door. Then she sets down her bag, so she may smear the key and the bolts with grease, to make them turn. She catches my eye and winks, like a boy. My heart aches in my breast.
Then the door is opened and she takes me into the night; and the park is changed, the house seems queer— for of course, I have never
before seen it at such an hour as this, I have only stood at my window and gazed out.
If I stood there now, would I see myself running, Sue tugging my hand? Would I seem so bleached of depth and colour, like the lawn, the trees, the stones and stumps of ivy?
For a second I hesitate, turn and watch the glass, quite sure that, if I only wait, I will see my face. Then I look at the other windows. Will no-one wake, and come, and call me back?
No-one wakes, no-one calls. Sue pulls at my hand again, and I turn and follow. I have the key to the gate in the wall: when we are through and the lock is fast again I let it fall among the rushes. The sky is clear. We stand in shadow, saying nothing— two Thisbes, awaiting a Pyramus. The moon makes the river half silver, half deepest black.
He keeps to the black part. The boat sits low upon the water— a dark-hulled boat, slender, rising at the prow. The dark boat of my dreams. I watch it come, feel Sue's hand turn in mine; then step from her, take the rope he casts, let him guide me to my seat, unresisting. She comes beside me, staggering, her balance all gone. He braces the boat against the bank with a single oar, and as she sits, we turn, and the current takes us.
No-one speaks. No-one moves, save Richard as he rows. We glide, softly, in silence, into our dark and separate hells.
What follows? I know that the journey upon the river is a smooth one: that I should like to keep upon the boat, but am made to leave it and mount a horse. I should be afraid of the horse, at any other time; but I sit lifelessly upon it now, letting it bear me— as, I think, I would let it throw me, if it chose to. I remember the church of flint, the stalks of honesty, my own white gloves— my hand, that is bared then passed from one set of fingers to another, then bruised by the thrusting of a ring. I am made to say certain words, that I have now forgotten. I remember the minister, in a surplice smudged with grey. I do not recall his face. I know that Richard kisses me. I remember a book, the handling of a pen, the writing of my name. I do not remember the walk from the church: what I recall next is a room, Sue loosening my gown; and then a pillow, coarse against my
cheek; a blanket, coarser; and weeping. My hand is bare and has that ring upon it, still.
Sue's fingers slip from mine.
'You must be different now,' she says, and I turn my face.
When I look again, she has left me. In her place stands Richard. He keeps for a second before the door, his eyes on mine; then he lets out his breath, puts the back of his hand to his mouth to stifle laughter.
'Oh, Maud,' he says quietly, shaking his head. He wipes his beard and lips. 'Our wedding- night,' he says; and laughs again.
I watch him and do not speak, the blankets pulled high before my breast. I am sober, 186
now. I am quite awake. When he falls quiet, I hear the house beyond him: the stairs expand, throw off the pressure of his step. A mouse, or bird, moves in the space above the rafters. The sounds are wrong. The thought must show in my face.
'It's queer for you, here,' he says, coming closer to me. 'Don't mind it. You shall be at London soon. There's more life there. Think of that.' I say nothing. 'Will you speak?
Hmm, Maud? Come, you needn't be fey; not now, with me. Our wedding- night, Maud!' He has come to my side. He raises his hand and grips the head-board above my pillow and shakes it, hard, until the legs of the bed lurch and grind against the floor.
I close my eyes. The shuddering continues another moment, then the bed grows still.
But he keeps his arm above me, and I feel him watching. I feel the bulk of him— seem to see the darkness of him, even through my eyelids. I sense him change. The mouse or bird still moves in the ceiling of the room, and I think he puts back his head, to follow its path. Then the house falls quiet, and he studies me again.
And then his breath comes, quick, against my cheek. He has blown in my face. I open my eyes. 'Hey,' he says softly. His look is strange. 'Don't say you're afraid.' He swallows. Then he brings back his arm from the head-board, slowly. I flinch, thinking he might strike me. But he does not do that. His gaze moves over my face, then settles at the hollow of my throat. He looks, as if fascinated. 'How fast your heart beats,' he whispers. He lowers his hand, as if he means to test, with his finger, the racing of my blood.
'Touch it,' I say. 'Touch it, and die. I have poison in me.'
His hand stops, an inch from my throat. I hold his gaze, not blinking. He straightens.
His mouth gives a twitch, then curls in scorn.
'Did you think I wanted you?' he says. 'Did you?' He almost hisses the words— for of course, he cannot speak too loudly, in case Sue should hear. He moves away, agitatedly smoothing his hair behind his ears. A bag lies in his path, and he kicks it.
'God damn it,' he says. He takes off his coat, then tugs at the link in a cuff, begins to work savagely at one of his sleeves. 'Must you stare so?' he says, as he bares his arm.
'Haven't I already told you, you are safe? If you think I am any gladder than you, to be married— ' He comes back to the bed. 'I must act glad, however,' he says moodily.