His voice is tired, hard. I look behind me. I see the other passages, but the muddy path he has led me down is hidden— as if the glistening walls have parted to let us come, then closed to trap me.
What can I do? I cannot go back, alone, to the children, the labyrinth of lanes, the street, the city. I cannot go back to Sue. I am not meant to. Everything has been impelling me here, to this dark point. I must go forward, or cease to exist. I think again of the room that is waiting for me: of the door, with its key that will turn; of the bed, on which I shall lie and sleep, and sleep—
I hesitate, one second more; then let him draw me into the passage. It is short, and ends with a flight of shallow stairs, leading downwards; and these, in turn, end at a door, on which he knocks. From beyond the door there comes at once the barking of a dog, then soft, quick footsteps, a grinding bolt. The dog falls silent. The door is opened, by a fair- haired boy— I suppose, the housekeeper's boy. He looks at Richard and nods.
'All right?' he says.
'All right,' answers Richard. 'Is Aunty home? Here's a lady, look, come to stay.'
The boy surveys me, I see him squinting to make out the features behind my veil.
Then he smiles, nods again, draws back the door to let us pass him; closes it tightly at our backs.
The room beyond is a kind of kitchen— I suppose, a servants' kitchen, for it is small, and windowless, dark and unwholesome, and chokingly hot: there is a good fire lit, and one or two smoking lamps upon a table and— perhaps, after all, these are the grooms' quarters— a brazier in a cage, with tools about it. Beside the brazier is a pale man in an apron who, on seeing us come, sets down some fork or file and wipes his hands and looks me over, frankly. Before the fire sit a young woman and a boy: the girl fat- faced, red-haired, also watching me freely; the boy sallow and scowling, chewing with broken teeth on a strip of dry meat, and dressed— I notice this, even in my confusion— in an extraordinary coat, that seems pieced together from many varieties of fur. He holds, between his knees, a squirming dog, his hand about its jaws 199
to keep it from barking. He looks at Richard and then at me. He surveys my coat and gloves and bonnet. He whistles.
'What price them togs,' he says.
Then he flinches as, from another chair— a rocking chair, that creaks as it tilts— a white- haired woman leans to strike him. I suppose her the housekeeper. She has watched me, more closely and more eagerly than any of the others. She holds a bundle: now she puts it down and struggles from her seat, and the bundle gives a shudder. This is more astonishing than the lighted brazier, the coat of fur— it is a sleeping, swollen- headed baby in a blanket.
I look at Richard. I think he will speak, or lead me on. But he has taken his hand from me and stands with folded arms, very leisurely. He is smiling, but smiling oddly.
Everyone is silent. No-one moves save the white- haired woman. She has left her chair and comes about the table. She is dressed in taffeta, that rustles. Her face has a blush, and shines. She comes to me, she stands before me, her head weaves as she tries to catch the line of my features. She moves her mouth, wets her lips. Her gaze is still c l o s e a n d t e r r i b l y e a g e r . W h e n s h e r a i s e s h e r b l u n t r e d h a n d s t o m e , I flinch.— 'Richard,' I say. But he still does nothing, and the woman's look, that is so awful and so strange, compels me. I stand and let her fumble for my veil. She puts it back. And then her gaze changes, grows stranger still, when she sees my face. She touches my cheek, as if uncertain it will remain beneath her fingers.
She keeps her eyes on mine, but speaks to Richard. Her voice is thick with the tears of age, or of emotion.
'Good boy,' she says.
C h a p t e r T w e lve
Then there comes a kind of chaos.
The dog barks and leaps, the baby in its blanket gives a cry; another baby, that I have not noticed— it lies in a tin box, beneath the table— begins to cry also. Richard takes off his hat and his coat, sets down our bags, and stretches. The scowling boy drops open his mouth and shows the meat within.
'It ain't Sue,' he says.
'Miss Lilly,' says the woman before me, quietly. 'Ain't you just the darling. Are you very tired, dear? You have come quite a journey'
'It ain't Sue,' says the boy again, a little louder.
'Change of plan,' says Richard, not catching my eye. 'Sue stays °n behind, to take care of a few last points.— Mr Ibbs, how are you, sir?'
'Sweet, son,' the pale man answers. He has taken off his apron and is quieting the dog.
The boy who opened the door to us has
gone. The little brazier is cooling and ticking and growing grey. The red-haired girl 200
bends over the screaming babies with a bottle and a spoon, but is still stealing looks at me.
The scowling boy says, 'Change of plan? I don't get it.' 'You will,' answers Richard.
'Unless— ' He puts his finger against his mouth, and winks.
The woman, meanwhile, is still before me, still describing my face with her hands, telling off my features as if they were beads upon a string. 'Brown eyes,' she says, beneath her breath; her breath is sweet as sugar. 'Pink lips, two pouters. Nice and dainty at the chin. Teeth, white as china. Cheeks— rather soft, I dare say? Oh!'
I have stood, as if in a trance, and let her murmur; now, feeling her fingers flutter against my face, I start away from her.
'How dare you?' I say. 'How dare you speak to me? How dare you look at me, any of you? And you— ' I go to Richard and seize his waistcoat. 'What is this? Where have you brought me to? What do they know of Sue, here?'
'Hey, hey,' calls the pale man mildly. The boy laughs. The woman looks rueful.
'Got a voice, don't she?' says the girl.
'Like the blade on a knife,' says the man. 'That clean.'
R ichard meets my gaze, then looks away. 'What can I say?' He shrugs. 'I am a villain.'
'Damn your attitudes now!' I say. 'Tell me what this means. Whose house is this? Is it yours?'
'Is it his!' The boy laughs harder, and chokes on his meat.
'John, be quiet, or I'll thrash you,' says the woman. 'Don't mind him, Miss Lilly, I implore you now, don't!'
I can feel her wringing her hands, but do not look at her. I keep my eyes upon Richard.
'Tell me,' I say.
'Not mine,' he answers at last.
'Not ours?' He shakes his head. 'Whose, then? Where, then?'
He rubs at his eye. He is tired. 'It is theirs,' he says, nodding to the woman, the man.
'Their house, in the Borough.'
The Borough ... I have heard him say the name, once or twice before. I stand for a moment in silence, thinking back across his
words; then my heart drops. 'Sue's house,' I say. 'Sue's house, of thieves.'
'Honest thieves,' says the woman, creeping closer, 'to those that know us!'
I think: Sue's aunt! I was sorry for her, once. Now I turn and almost spit at her. 'Will you keep from me, you witch?' The kitchen grows silent. It seems darker, too, and close. I still have Richard gripped by the waistcoat. When he tries to pull away, I hold him tighter. My thoughts are leaping, fast as hares. I think, He has married me, and has brought me here, as a place to be rid of me. He means to keep my money for himself. He means to give them some trifling share for the killing of me, and Sue— even in the midst of my shock and confusion, my heart drops again, as I think it— Sue they will free. Sue knows it all.
'You shan't do it!' I say, my voice rising. 'You think I don't know what you mean to do?