e leave, just as e. My uncles prints are mounted and bound: akes me to vie of treat.

        Fine work, hink, Maud? hmm?

        Yes, sir.

        Do you look?

        Yes, Uncle.

        Yes. Fine work. I believe I srey and    week?    do you say? S?

        I do not ansurns to Richard.

        Rivers, o e back, as a guest, rey?

        Richard bows, looks sorry. I fear, sir, I shall be occupied elsewhere.

        Unfortunate. You , Maud? Most unfortunate . . .

        t on    . Cs    of vulsion, and runs. My uncle also shen.

        Do you see, Rivers, torments to wc boy and whip him!

        I will, sir, says Mr ay.

        Ric me, and smiles. I do not smile back. And eps, akes my    quite nervelessly against urns to my uncle: Mr Lilly. Fareo you, sir!

        A rap is dra? S you like it, to o return to our solitary ways?

        e go bato tairs at my uncles side, as I once, as a girl, climbed tiles. imes, I ted times ruck t, t spot? rait goworn? uous words ly read?—lemen?

        tairs, tlemen, tle crest I once picked out in t t covers try to imagi, eyeless. I remember co gatself toget of t, / s I s I t Briar oo.— Or else, I , ial life beyond its walls.

        I t I s, monotonous g,

        -soled feet, to ttern of a carpets.

        But perer all, I am a g already. Fo to Sue and so take, to s s all    meeting my gaze; and I cs sakes up; feel tir of    of     s last so s only . e take our luny motare at tone, feeling notreaks of mud.

        I o Riy u, t—t so mucs as by y of . I sit at my supper, I eat, I read; I return to Sue a ake and at t fully, from foot to foot. Look at tly,    it is! Look at t time is it? Not eleveo ter, no;

        to do, before I go: one deed—oerrible deed—to goad and e, tten-do Briar; and no nears, as t, still, unsuspeg, I do it. Sue leaves me, to look over s. I ening buckles.—t is all I    for.

        I go stealt need a lamp, and my dark dress o tairs, cross quickly ts of moonlig ten. Silence. So to t    t door I pause again, and listen again, to be sure t all is still hin.

        to my uncles rooms. I ered , as I guess, t greased, and turn    a sound. tep.

        look at to    my ear to take turn it. One in again. If irs, I urn and go. Does ill I , uain. t, even rasp of hing.

        ains pulled close but keeps a ligable: to me, I so be nervous of t t    moving from my place beside t me; and at last see to take. On and, beside er: c, to ; and his razor.

        I go quickly and take tly, I feel it slit my glove. If it s does not fall. t, ts clasp, at an angle, ss edge. I pull it a little freer, and turn it to t: it must be s I    it for. I t is s my el, picked out against t pass firl in an allegory. fidence Abused.

        Beo my uncles bed do not quite meet. In t of lig is , but rato , like a c is drao ig out ter dreams, pering spines. acles sit ly, as if able beside h

        t eyes ture. the razor is warming in my hand . . .

        But t t kind of story. Not yet. I stand and c a minute; and tly. I go to tairs, and from to t room I lock t my bad lig is beating , noicipation. But time is rag, and I ot . I cross to my uncles sen tain Dra: I take it, and open it, a upon    t tig. tiff, but springs t inc is its nature to cut, after all.

        Still, it is    is terribly    ot do it—to put tal for t time to t and naked paper. I am almost afraid t it does not s sigs oion; and s bee ser and more true.

        urn to Sue s t . But soo relieved to se. en it up noake y.—Not t o ooo    go. Ss o my mouteady takes my he house.

        Soft as a tells me    I ly stood, ligc ts airs are strao me, all t e to me. Sil s doo make turn. Sc ac.

        takes me into t; and the house seems queer—for of course, I have never

        before seen it at sucood at my . If I stood tugging my rees, tones and stumps of ivy? For a sed I ate, turn and ce sure t, if I only , I    ther windows. ill no-one wake, and e, and call me back?

        No-one    my urn and folloe in t again I let it fall among tand in sing a Pyramus. t black.

        o t. t sits loer—a dark-, slender, rising at t of my dreams. I e, feel Sues urn in miep from ake ts, let o my seat, uing. Saggering,    against ts, urn, and t takes us.

        No-one speaks. No-one moves, save Ricly, in silence, into our dark and separate hells.

        follo t I so keep upon t, but am made to leave it and mount a    any otime; but I sit lifelessly upon it noting it bear me—as, I t it t co. I remember t, talks of y, my o of fio anoting of a ring. I am made to say certain    I ten. I remember ter, in a surplice smudged    recall    Rig of my name. I do not remember t I recall    is a room, Sue loosening my go my

        c, coarser; and , still. Sues fingers slip from mine.

        You must be different now, surn my face.

        me. In ands Rics out s to o stifle laughter.

        Oly, s, he says; and laughs again.

        I c speak, ts pulled . I am sober, noe aep. A mouse, or bird, moves in ters. t must show in my face.

        Its queer for you, o me. Dont mind it. You s London soon. t. I say not be fey; not no, Maud! o my side. , il t the floor.

        I y eyes. tinues anot, till. But co see till moves in ts back o follos pat, and udies me again.

        And t my cly. range. Dont say youre afraid.    strike me. But    do t. tles at t. ed.    your    beats, o test, he rag of my blood.

        touc, I say. toud die. I have poison in me.

        ops, an inc. I    blinking. raig curls in s.

        Did you ted you?     speak too loudly, in case Sue satedly smoot. God damn it, akes off , tugs at to    one of    you stare so?    I already told you, you are safe? If you to be married— o t act glad,    of en?

        , exposing t t covers ttress, at ts, and aurns. o t of rousers and dra. A pen-knife.

        I see it, and t ony uncles razor. It    life,    I    stealt sleeping    tcs o t is spotted black. astefully at it, t against     uainly, flincal touche knife.

        God damn it, c look, so uselessly.    you, to save me t s again. ell, t is like you. I s t, being obliged to bleed, you migo some advantage; but, no . . .

        Do you mean, I say, to insult me, in every possible way?

        Be quiet, ill speaking in o t once, I offer it.    away. No, no, ,

        in a moment. s it in one of t takes anot! tle blood springs to t—it seems dark, in t, upon te s it fall to t muc.    t and palm, and t falls faster.    catch my eye.

        After a moment, ly: Do you suppose t enough?

        I study    you kno kno—

        But ter uous girl, t one. You ougo know.

        till feebly runs. urn a    ry on it in    antly, at ture s    to t . e tle of    monsters you females must be, to eo madness. See s? er all I cut too deep. t , provokile brandy ore me.

        to his arm. I say, I have no brandy.

        No brandy.     or ot you do.     kept?

        I ate; but noo

        rs creeping    my    and limbs. In my leattle to me, dra its stopper, puts o it, grimaces. Bring me a glass, also, I say. tle dusty er.

        Not like t, for me,    t    it quicker. akes ttle from me, uncovers , lets a single drop fall into ted fles stings.    runs, . tc my breast.

        At lengt;t," e a n on us, in the London papers.

        I ss    falls, c ttle.    first, s it out of my grasp.

        No, no,    onigs it in , and I am too o try to take it from ands and ya t    t of tating manner, at t my side; tends to shudder.

        I s be astoniser all, o o t my t. No, I s risk it.

        eps to ts ongue, puts out ts in a    of .    te. But han I do.

        And    tain back. till brig    to lie in darkness. But after all, every surface t takes up t is strao me; and    my fio some mark upon taking my touco grer. My cloak and gown and linen are closed in

        t. I look, and look, for somet last, in tand, my so toop, and place my    straigouchem again.

        ten o—for bells and gro back my    t lies Sue. If surned in . S make any sound, any at all—I c, I am certain I would.

        Ss in    creeps across time, I sleep. I sleep and dream of Briar. But t as I recall te for my uncle, and lost.

        Ser t, to o set food before me, to take aouce; but, as in t of our days at Briar, ss my gaze. ts near me, but rarely d nigry, t muddy s. rangeness. . Above all, he angular arm-chair.

        See ? It is rising from its socket—it is quite t. I srousers. I s Cer all. At te I s London only to be laugs streets.

        London, I to me now.

        , every ottes tain on o t. Nos me take a dose of my draug tle.

        Very good, c much longer, now.

        o your best goomorrow, will you?

        I do. I    ao our long . I end fear, and nervousness, and    looking at Sue—or else, looking at ely, to see if s I remember sliding upon me, pressing, turning, opening me up—oucly lifeless and ors.

        e —I ot say    last: tomorrooday. You remember?

        I errible dreams.

        I ot see t send t e anotime.

        Doiresome, Maud.

        ands and dresses, fastening ie.    lies ly on the bed.

        I    see them! I say.

        You ion. You e it ime to leave.

        I am too nervous.

        anso raise a bruso —find t, ttle of drops—but o me and plucks it from my hand.

        O. I     be quite clear in your mind.

        urns ttle to t. hen I reach again, he dodges.

        Let me , I say. Ric me . One drop only, I s t t to remove the impression of my fingers.

        Not yet, .

        I ot! I s be calm,    a dose of it.

        You sry, for my sake. For our sake, Maud.

        Damn you!

        Yes, yes, damn us all, damn us all. urns to the

        bruser a moment I sink back, ches

        my eye.

        antrum,    kindly. And t to do, . Be modest. eep if you must, a little. You are sure o say?

        I am, despite myself; for , ts at , at ttle of drops. ts on every street er, there.

        My moutrembles in s. You till    my medie, in London?

        to my ears. urns akes up ands at to cast slivers of dirt, fastidiously, into the flames.

        akes t to talk urned mad, t, speaking in to a maids room. I airs and floorboards bes. I onous—but not t    all. I sit upon til tand and curtsey. Susan, says Ricly. My . But I t be strange. I see tudying me. Ri he es close.

        A faito tors. rengtaxed, t ts me in t of t here,

        ly, in your mistresss clemen only rifling questions. You must ansly.

        to reassure or to    one of mine. I still wear my wedding-ring.    free and ,    his palm.

        Very good, says one of tors, more satisfied noes in a book. I    a page and, suddenly, long for paper. Very good. e ress. You do o t and o tell you to be your name, ory o resembles yours? You kno?

        Ricches.

        Yes, sir, I say, in a whisper.

        And your name is Susan Smith?

        Yes, sir.

        And you o Mrs Rivers—Miss Lilly, as was—in her uncles house, of Briar, before her marriage?

        I nod.

        And before t— treet, Mayfair?

        No, sir. I never hey are all Mrs Riverss fancy.

        I speak, as a servant migantly, some otance, o provide tory ors to seek t. e do not they will, however.

        tor nods again. And Mrs Rivers, ;fancy". hen did such fancies begin?

        I srange, I say quietly. ts at Briar e righer was mad, sir.

        Noing. tors dont    to s. Go on ions, only.

        Yes, sir, I say. I gaze at ters rising from thick as needles.

        And Mrs Riverss marriage, says tor.    affect her?

        It , sir, I say, ime, so love Mr Rivers; and     of , sarted up very queer ..."

        tor looks at    matc is quite remarkable!—as if, in making a burden of o    burden to anotter able to bear it. Sion of urns to me. A fi, indeed, fully. tell me tress care for books? for reading?

        I meet    my t seems to close, or be splintered, like t anserary life. ed to t of learning, and sao ion as    o a sons. Mrs Riverss first passion was books.

        t! says tor. leman I dont doubt. But to literature— t. e are raising a nation of brain-cultured ress, Im afraid to say, is part of a ure of our race, Mr Rivers, I may tell you noart of t ret bout of insanity? Could t—or    ouc for t . I oo, t she wears ne ring.

        Ricarts into life at tends to dra. tune favours villains.

        is,    t

        it from        imagiions t produced, sir, in my breast. s o s    it. to t, a pallet of straw—! s enoug h his uery.

        A cor. But o sural fancy—

        Unnatural? says Rige. A knoo keep it from you. I feel no.

        Indeed? says tor. ther pauses, his pencil raised.

        Rics    once I knourn my face to . he speaks, before I .

        Susan, o feel sress. You need feel none,    attaco you. You did noto invite or ence ttentions my empted to for you—

        es at ors stare, turn to gaze at me.

        Miss Smit, leaning closer, is true?

        I t as s be noisfied to rayed me, glad to suppose    to return at last to    down, You pearl. . .

        Miss Smith?

        I o weep.

        Surely, says Rie, putting ears speak for to    o reful poses—to ed    lemen?

        Of course, says tor quickly, moving back. Of course. Miss Smit. You need not fear for your safety, no fear for ty of your mistress.    yours. tand—a case sucreatment may hy one . . .?

        t papers, and look for a surfa    t. Ricable of brus c, but ogeto saircase t beside tands in to they drive off.

        teps to me and tosses to my lap. oget capers.

        You devil, I say,    passion, ears from my cheek.

        s. o ts o my o eitilts it batil azes meet. Look at me, ell me, ly, t you dont admire me.

        I e you.

        e yourself, t to love us, for ts? t does! t to be got from love; from s,    ricer may be    is true. You are like me. I say it again: e me, e yourself.

        least. I y eyes.

        I say, I do.

        to knock upon our door.    calls for o enter.

        Look e istress. Dont you ttle brig day, for the madhouse.

        So dress me, for time.

        t on or draill, t Briar, t is spotted er. S    is turo t taking up my linen, my sting tined for London, t, as s is o co see ticoat, a pair of stogs or so kno to take, in case ts are cool. No and ttle of drops, my gloves) s her bag.

        And o    s kno Briar, ed tooth.

        t . oo tall for tilting ep outside, rety room so long,    to me. I    t give it up—give it up, for ever!—I tate.

        .

        t, as more tter of galloping urning    journey, iles, from to Briar: I put my face to the window

        as t expect to see tcill, I kno. But, t er. It ics, only. t    in bare earts door—tall floips like spikes.

        I fall ba my seat. Ricches my eye.

        Dont be afraid, he says.

        take o tands before me at t.

        ait, I    are you doing? tlemelemen!—an odd and formal phrase.

        tors speak in sootones, until so curse; tilts, tilted, earing from its pins. e. her look is wild, already.

        like a stone, until Ricakes my arm and presses, .

        Speak, , clear, meically:

        Oress!    darker fleck. umbling    is breaking!

        t about ter Rico life and turned us. e do not speak. Beside Ric I see ill struggling, lifting o point or reacrees. I take off my    to tcrembling hands.

        ell— he says.

        Dont speak to me, I say, almost spitting to me, I shall kill you.

        tempts to smile. But rangely and ly    one    lengtakes a cigarette from , and a matcries to dra    e. aggers, beats upon to stop t o ts o t imes. I ch him.

        akes    again, you are now.

        And h a sneer.

        turns s    ting ds, co sleep.

        My oay open. I gaze t travelled—a , like a t.

        e make part of our journey like t t give up take a train. I rain before. e    at a try statio an inn, since Ricill afraid t my uncle    men to c us in a private room and briea and bread-and-butter. I    look at tray. tea groands at ttles t, ts out: God damn you, do you take food for you, for free? s tter , after t lemans labour, receiving    leman in cuffs.    damn porter? o sickets, I wonder?

        At last a boy appears to fetcake s. e stand on tation platform and study they shine, as if polished.

        In time to purr, and tly, like nerves in failio rain es ling about track, a plume of smoke at its s many doors unfolding. I keep my veil about my face. Rico to it, per my    quite private, till London? takes han ever.

        t I must pay a man to t cely, tle virgin of a    me tell you noe at of ts of to c your share.

        I say notrain en o roll upon its tracks. I feel t, and grip trap of leatil my ers in its glove.

        So t seems to me t    cross vast distances of space.—For you and t my sense of distand space is ratrange. e stop at a village of red-bricked    anot a t every station t seems to me a press of people clam to board, train—perurn it.

        I to be crusrain; and almost hey do.

        t. treets and treets and spires t seen; more eady traffic of cattle and ve. But Ricudies me as I gaze, and smiles unpleasantly. Your natural op at tation and I see t: MAIDENhEAD.

        tly y miles, and y to go. I sit, still gripping trap, leaning close to t tation is filled he men idly walking; and from

        train gives a s bulk, and so terrible life. e leave treets of Maidenrees. Beyond trees t as my uncles, some greater. tages    icks for climbing beans, and rees, on buss of broken carts—laundry everywhere, drooping and yellow.

        I keep my pose and c all. Look, Maud, I ture. y, unfolding like a bolt of cloth . . .

        I hey have her in, now.

        Ricries to see beyond my veil. Youre not rouble over it still.

        I say, Dont look at me.

        S Briar, . You kno, soon, t it. Believe me, I kno only be patient. e must botient une bees ours. I am sorry I spoke    London, soon. t to you t;

        I do not ans last,    up. to ty. treaks of soot upon ttages o be replaced by o patco ditcco dark als, to dreary es of road, to mounds of stones or soil or asill, Even as of your freedom—and I feel, despite myself, t of excitement. But tement bees unease. I    rising, straig

        supposed it    plete: but c red land, and gaping trenc    celess roofs and jutting spars of wood, naked as bones.

        Nos upon ts in train begins to rise. I dont like tion. e begin to cross streets—grey streets, black streets—so many monotonous streets, I to tell t! Sucalloton aste. ords, every.—Broug Carriages.—Paper-Stainers.—Supported Entirely.—to Let!— to Let!—By Voluntary Subscription.—

        t,    train and cast t, vast, vaulting roof of tarnis eam and fluttering birds. e so a frig. t seems to me—of a thousand people.

        Paddington terminus, says Richard. e on.

        look at me—I ake s. e stand in a line of people—a queue, I kno for a carriage—a    y ells ones driver to go about ts Park. I knoy of opportunities fulfilled. tling and clamour, I do not kno is t uand. It is marked    I ot read it. ty, tition, of

        brick, of reet, of person—of dress, aure, and expression—stuns and exs me. I stand at Ricle is blos—ordinary melemen—pass by us, running-

        e take our pla t last, and are jerked out of terminus into se. Are you startled, by treets?    pass t did you expect? ty,    mind it. Dont mind it at all. e are going to your new home.

        to our , I , I will sleep.

        to our udies me a moment lo troubles you— he blind.

        And so once again , and so tion of a coac, time, by all t see it    see e takes, at all: per kno, if I did, tudied maps of ty, and kno say, ir of my senses and . Be bold, I am this. Be bold!

        Ris for s. From    ed, and blink at t— t    ty fleece of a sed to find myself at to    tered streets t appear to me unspeakably s, dead ained arcc his arm.

        Is t? I say.

        Quite rig be alarmed. e ot live grandly, yet. And    make our entra s all.

        You are still afraid t my uncle may    men, to ch

        usr

        alk soon, indoors. Not s.

        o follo. Not far, nourn into anotained and broken face of ake to be a single great    errace of narroc makes me er. Soain, into a lane of ding idly about a bird, s o tug at my sleeve, my cloak, my veil. Rice, turn to take anotier, patime gripping me er, faster, certain of    mind t a little furt.

        And at last, , tles. te from o one of to dra, so blad foul is it, I suddenly ate, and pull against his grip.

        e on, urning round, not smiling.

        e to where? I ask him.

        to your ne ed for you to start it, too long. to our s us. e, now.—Or shall I leave you here?

        ired, her pas-

        sages, but tening o let us e, to trap me.

        I do? I ot go back, aloo treet, ty. I ot go back to Sue. I am not meant to. Everyto t. I must go foro exist. I t is ing for me: of ts key t urn; of the bed, on which I shall lie and sleep, and sleep—

        I ate, one seore; t o t is s, and ends    of sairs, leading dourn, end at a door, on , quick footsteps, a grinding bolt. t. t Richard and nods.

        All right? he says.

        All rigy o stay.

        ting to make out tures beo let us pass    tig our backs.

        tcs kitc is small, and , and one or table and—perer all, ters—a brazier in a cage, ools about it. Beside ts do-faced, red-ceetrip of dry meat, and dressed—I notice traordinary coat, t seems pieced togeties of fur. s jao keep it from barking.    Ric me.    and gloves and bo. les.

        price togs, he says.

        t creaks as it tilts—a rike cs it dles from , and tonised brazier, t of fur—it is a sleeping, swollen-.

        I look at Ric aken ands    smiling oddly. Everyone is silent. No-one moves save te-    table. Saffeta, t rustles. o me, sands before me, ries to catcures. Ss ill close and terribly eager.    red o me, I flinc ill does not is se, pels me. I stand a s it back. And traill,    h her fingers.

        S speaks to Ricears of age, or of emotion.

        Good boy, she says.
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