'Mr Hawtrey,' he says, his tone a little changed. 'Mr Hawtrey doesn't work in the shop.
You oughtn't to have come to the shop. Have you got an appointment?'
'Mr Hawtrey knows me,' I say. 'I don't need an appointment.' He glances at the customers. He says, 'What's your business with him?'
'It's private,' I say. 'Will you take me to him? Will you bring him to me?'
There must be something to my look, however, or my voice. He grows more guarded, steps back.
'I'm not sure, after all, if he's in,' he says. 'Really, you oughtn't to have come to the shop. The shop is for selling books and prints— d o y o u k n o w w h a t k i n d ? M r Hawtrey's rooms are upstairs.'
There's a door, at his back. 'Will you let me go to him?' I say. He shakes his head. 'You may send up a card, something like that.'
'I don't have a card,' I say. 'But give me a paper, and I'll write him out my name. He'll come, when he reads it. Will you give me a paper?'
fie does not move. He says again, 'I don't believe he's in the house.'
'Then I'll wait, if I must,' I say.
'You cannot wait here!'
'Then I think,' I answer, 'you must have an office, some room like that; and I will wait there.'
He looks again at the customers; picks up a pencil and puts it down.
'If you will?' I say.
He makes a face. Then he finds me a slip of paper and a pen. 'But you shan't,' he says,
'be able to wait, if it turns out he's not in.1 I nod. 'Put your name on there,' he says, pointing.
I begin to write. Then I remember what Richard told me once— how the booksellers speak of me, in the shops of London. I am afraid to write, Maud Lilly. I am afraid the youth will see. At last— remembering something else— I put this: Galatea.
I fold it, and hand it to him. He opens the door, whistles into the passage beyond. He listens, then whistles again. There come footsteps. He leans and murmurs, gestures to me. I wait.
And, as I do, one of the customers closes his album and catches my eye. 'Don't mind him,' he says softly, meaning the youth. 'He supposes you gay, that's all. Anyone can see, though, that you're a lady . . .' He looks me over, then nods to the shelves of books. 'You like them, hmm?' he says, in a different tone. 'Of course you do. Why shouldn't you?'
I say nothing, do nothing. The youth steps back.
'We're seeing,' he says, 'if he's in.'
There are pictures behind his head, pinned to the wall in wax-paper wrappers: a girl on a swing, showing her legs; a girl in a boat, about to slip; a girl falling, falling from the breaking branch of a tree ... I close my eyes. He calls to one of the men: 'Do you wish to buy that book, sir— ?'
Presently, however, there come more footsteps, and the door is opened again.
242
It is Mr Hawtrey.
He looks shorter, and slighter, than I remember him. His coat
and trousers are creased. He stands in the passage in some agitation, does not come into the shop— meets my gaze, but does not smile— looks about me, as if to be sure I am alone; then beckons me t o h i m . T h e y o u t h s t e p s b a c k t o l e t m e p a s s . ' M r Hawtrey— ' I say. He shakes his head, however; waits until the door is closed behind me before he will speak. What he says then— in a whisper so fierce it is almost a hiss— is:
'Good God! Is it you? Have you really come here, to me?'
I say nothing, only stand with my eyes on his. He puts his hand, in distraction, to his head. Then he takes my arm. 'This way,' he says, leading me to a set of stairs. The steps have boxes upon them. 'Be careful. Be careful,' he says, as we climb them. And then, at the top: 'In here.'
There are three rooms, set up for the printing and binding of books. In one, two men work, loading type; another, I think, is Mr Hawtrey's own office. The third is small, and smells strongly of glue. It's in there that he shows me. The tables are piled with papers— loose papers, ragged at the edges: the leaves of unfinished books. The floor is bare and dusty. One wall— the wall to the typesetters' room— has frosted glass panels in it. The men are just visible, bending over their work.
There is a single chair, but he does not ask me to sit. He closes the door and stands before it. He takes out a handkerchief and wipes his face. His face is yellowish-white.
'Good God,' he says again. And then: 'Forgive me. Forgive me. It's only the surprise of the thing.'
He says it, more kindly; and I hear him and half turn away.
'I'm sorry,' I say. My voice is not steady. 'I'm afraid I will weep. I have not come to you to weep.'
'You may weep, if you like!' he says, with a glance at the frosted glass.
But I will not weep. He watches me struggling against my tears for a moment, then shakes his head.
'My dear,' he says gently at last. 'What have you done?'
'Don't ask me.'
'You have run away.'
'From my uncle, yes.'
'From your husband, I think.'
'My husband?' I swallow. 'Do you know, then, of that?'
He shrugs, colours, looks away.
I say, 'You think me wrong. You do not know what I have been made to suffer! Don't worry'— for he has lifted his eyes to glance, again, at the panels of glass— 'don't worry, I shan't grow wild. You may think what you like of me, I don't care. But you must help me.
Will you?'
'My dear— '
'You will. You must. I have nothing. I need money, a house to stay in. You used to like to say you would make me welcome— '
243
Despite myself, my voice is rising.