'I am sorry.'
Again he wipes his face. He lets out his breath. 'I wish you would tell me,' he says,
'why you have come, to me. You mustn't think I will take your part against your uncle.
I never liked to see him keep you so meanly, but he mustn't know you've come here.
Nor must you think— is it what you are hoping?— that I'll help you back into his favours. He has quite cast you off, you know. Besides that, he is ill— seriously ill— over this business. Did you know that?'
I shake my head. 'My uncle is nothing to me, now.'
'But he is something to me, you understand. If he should hear of your coming— '
'He will not.'
'Well.' He sighs. Then his face grows troubled again. 'But to come to me! To come here!' And he looks me over, takes in my gaudy dress and gloves— which are filthy; my hair— which I think is tangled; my face— which must be dusty, lustreless, white. 'I should hardly have known you,' he says, still frowning, 'you seem so changed. Where is your coat, and your hat?'
'There was not time— '
He looks appalled. 'Did you come, like this?' He squints at the hem of my skirt; then he sees my feet, and starts. 'Why, look at your slippers! Your feet are bleeding! Did you leave, without shoes?'
'I must. I have nothing!'
'Not shoes?'
'No. Not so much as that.'
'Rivers keeps you without shoes?'
He does not believe it. 'If I might only,' I say, 'make you know— ' But he is not listening. He is looking about him, as if seeing for the first time the tables, the piles of paper. He takes up a few blank sheets, begins hurriedly to cover up the naked print.
'You oughtn't to have come here,' he says, as he does it. 'Look at this! Look at this!'
I catch sight of a line of print. '— you shall have enough, I warrant you, and I shall whip, whip— ' 'Do you try and hide it,' I say, 'from me? I have seen worse at Briar.
Have you forgotten?'
'This is not Briar. You don't understand. How could you? You were among gentlemen, there. It is Rivers I blame for this. He ought— having taken you— at least to have kept you closer. He saw what you were.'
'You don't know,' I say. 'You don't know how he's used me!'
'I don't want to know! It is not my place to know! Don't tell me.— Oh, only look at yourself! Do you know how you will have seemed, upon the streets? You can't have come unnoticed, surely?'
I gaze down at my skirt, my slippers. 'There was a man,' I say, 'upon the bridge. I thought he meant to help me. But he meant only— ' My voice begins to shake.
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'You see?' he says then. 'You see? Suppose a policeman should have seen you, and followed you here? Do you know what would happen to me— to my staff, to my stock— if the police were to come down heavily upon us? They might, for such a matter as this.— Oh, God, only look at your feet! Are they bleeding, truly?'
He helps me into the chair, then gazes about him. 'There's a sink,' he says, 'next door.
Wait here, will you?' He goes off, to the room with the typesetters in it. I see them lift their heads, hear his
nice.— I don't know what he must tell them. I don't care. In sitting, I have grown tired; and the soles of my feet, which until now have been almost numb, have begun to smart. The room has no window of its own, and no chimney, and the smell of glue seems stronger. I have come close to one of the tables: I lean upon it, and gaze across it— at the piles of pages, untrimmed, unsewn, some of them disturbed or concealed by Mr Hawtrey.'— and I shall whip, whip, whip, your backside till the blood runs down your heels
' The print is new, and black; but the paper is poor, the ink has feathered.
What is the fount? I know it, but— it troubles me— I cannot name it.
'— so, so, so, so, so, you like the birch, do you?'
Mr Hawtrey returns. He has a cloth, and a bowl, half- filled with water; also a glass, with water for me to drink.
'Here you are,' he says, putting the bowl before me, wetting the cloth and handing it to me; then glancing nervously away. 'Can you do it? Just enough to take the blood away, for now
The water is cold. When I have wiped my feet I wet the cloth again and, for a second, sit and hold it to my face. Mr Hawtrey looks round and sees me do it. 'You're not feverish?' he says. 'You're not ill?'— 'I am only warm,' I say. He nods, and comes and takes the bowl. Then he gives me the glass, and I drink a little of it. 'Very good,' he says.
I look again at the leaves of print upon the table; but the name of the fount escapes me, still. Mr Hawtrey checks his watch. Then he puts his hand to his mouth and bites at the skin of his thumb, and frowns.
I say, 'You are good, to help me. I think other men would blame me.'
'No, no. Haven't I said? It is Rivers I blame. Never mind. Tell me, now. Be honest with me. What money have you, upon you now?'
'I have none.'
'No money at all?'
'I have only this gown. But we might sell it, I think? I should sooner take a plainer one, anyway.'
'Sell your gown?' His frown grows deeper. 'Don't speak so oddly, will you? When you go back— '
'Go back? To Briar?'
'To Briar? I mean, to your husband.'
'To him?' I look at him in amazement. 'I cannot go back to him! It has taken me two months to escape him!'
He shakes his head. 'Mrs Rivers— ' he says. I shudder.
'Don't call me that,' I say, 'I beg you.'
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'Again, so odd! What ought I to call you, if not that?'
'Call me Maud. You asked me, just now, what I have that is mine. I have that name; that, and nothing else.'