'A wicked man, that's all. A wicked man, who is ill, as he ought to be. No-one you know. Go back to sleep.' She reaches for me. 'Oh, my dear— '
'Leave me alone,' I say.
234
The letter has upset me, more than I should have believed. I
don't know if it is the words that have wounded me most; or the final proof they seem to give, to Mrs Sucksby's story. But I cannot bear to be watched by her, and by Richard, with my feelings in such a stir. I walk as far from them as I may— some two or three steps-— to the brown kitchen wall; then I walk from there to another wall and from there to a door; and I seize and vainly turn the handle.
'Let me out,' I say.
Mrs Sucksby comes to me. She makes to reach, not for the door, but for my face. I push her off— go quickly, to the second door, and then the third.— 'Let me out! Let me out!' She follows.
'Dear girl,' she says, 'don't let yourself be upset by that old villain. Why, he ain't worth your tears!'
'Will you let me out?'
'Let you out, to where? Ain't everything here, that you need now? Ain't everything here, or coming? Think of them jewels, them gowns— '
She has come close again. Again, I push her away. I step back to the gravy- coloured wall, and put my hand to it— a fist— and beat and beat it. Then I look up. Before my eyes is the almanack, its pages swarming with crosses of black. I catch hold of it, and pluck it from its pin. 'Dear girl— ' Mrs Sucksby says again. I turn and throw it at her.
But afterwards, I fall weeping; and when the fit of tears has passed, I think I am changed. My spirit has gone. The letter has taken it from me. The almanack goes back upon the wall, and I let it stay there. It grows steadily blacker, as we all inch nearer to our fates. The season advances. June grows warm, then even warmer. The house begins to be filled with flies. They drive Richard to a fury: he pursues them with a slipper, red-faced and sweating.— 'You know I am a gentleman's son?' he will say.
'Would you think it, to look at me now? Would you?'
I do not answer. I have begun, like him, to long for the coming of Sue's birthday in August. I will say anything they wish, I think, to any kind of solicitor or lawyer. But I pass my days in a sort of restless lethargy; and at night— for it is too hot to sleep— at night I
d at the narrow window in Mrs Sucksby's room, gazing blankly
at the street.
Tome away from there, sweetheart,' Mrs Sucksby will murmur f he wakes. They say there is cholera in the Borough. 'Who knows but you won't take a fever, from the draught?'
May one take a fever, from a draught of foetid air? I lie down at her side until she sleeps; then go back to the window, press my face to the gap between the sashes, breathe deeper.
I almost forget that I mean to escape. Perhaps they sense it. For at last they leave me, one afternoon— at the start of July, I think— with only Dainty to guard me.
'You watch her close,' Mrs Sucksby tells her, drawing on gloves. 'Anything happen to her, I'll kill you.' Me, she kisses. All right, my dear? I shan't be gone an hour. Bring you back a present, shall I?'
I do not answer. Dainty lets her out, then pockets the key. She sits, draws a lamp 235
across the table- top, and takes up work. Not washing napkins— for there are fewer babies, now: Mrs Sucksby has begun to find homes for them, and the house is daily growing stiller— but the pulling of silk stitches from stolen handkerchiefs. She does it listlessly, however. 'Dull work,' she says, seeing me look. 'Sue used to do this. Care to try?'
I shake my head, let my eyelids fall; and presently, she yawns. I hear that; and am suddenly wide awake. If she will sleep, I think, I might try the doors— steal the key f r o m h e r p o c k e t ! S h e y a w n s a g a i n . I b e g i n t o s w e a t . T h e c l o c k t i c k s o f f t h e minutes— fifteen, twenty, twenty- five. Half an hour. I am dressed in the violet gown and white silk slippers. I have no hat, no money— never mind, never mind. Mr Hawtrey will give you that.
Sleep, Dainty. Dainty, sleep. Sleep, sleep . . . Sleep, damn you!
But she only yawns, and nods. The hour is almost up.
'Dainty,' I say.
She jumps. 'What is it?'
'I'm afraid— I'm afraid I must visit the privy.'
She puts down her work, pulls a face. 'Must you? Right now, this minute?'
Yes.' I place my hand on my stomach. 'I think I am sick.'
She rolls her eyes. 'Never knew a girl for sickness, like you. Is th what they call a lady's constitution?'
'I think it must be. I'm sorry, Dainty. Will you open the door5'
'I'll go with you, though.'
'You needn't. You might stay at your sewing, if you like ..."
'Mrs Sucksby says I must go with you, every time; else I'll catch it. Here.'
She sighs, and stretches. The silk of her gown is stained beneath the arms, the stain edged white. She takes out the key, unlocks the door, leads me into the passage. I go slowly, watching the lurching of her back. I remember having run from her before, and how she caught me: I know that, even if I might hit her aside now, she would only rise again at once and chase me. I might knock her head against the bricks . . . But I imagine doing it, and my wrists grow weak, I don't think I could.
'Go on,' she says, when I hesitate. 'Why, what's up?'
'Nothing.' I catch hold of the privy door and draw it to me, slowly. 'You needn't wait,' I say.
'No, I'll wait.' She leans against the wall. 'Do me good, take the air.'
The air is warm and foul. In the privy it is warmer, and fouler. But I step inside and close the door and bolt it; then look about me. There is a little window, no bigger than my head, its broken pane stopped up with rag. There are spiders, and flies. The privy seat is cracked and smeared. I stand and think, perhaps for a minute. All right?' calls Dainty. I do not answer. The floor is earth, stamped hard. The walls are powdery white. From a wire hang strips of news-print. Ladies' and Gentlemen's Cast-off Clothing, in Good or Inferior Condition, Wanted for— Welsh Mutton & New-laid Eggs—
Think, Maud.
I turn to face the door, put my mouth to a gap in the wood.
236
'Dainty,' I say quietly.
'What is it?'
'Dainty, I am not well. You must fetch me something.'
'What?' She tries the door. 'Come out, miss.'
I can't. I daren't. Dainty, you must go to the drawer, in the chest in my room upstairs. Will you? There is something there. Will
you? Oh, I wish you would hurry! Oh, how it rushes! I am afraid of the men coming back— '