What was she, to me? It was Maud I thought of. I had meant to go down to the kitchen. Instead I went slowly about the hall, by the swollen front door. I climbed the stairs. I wanted to go to her old rooms. I wanted to stand, where she had stood— at the window, at the glass. I wanted to lie upon her bed. I wanted to think how I had kissed her and lost her . . .
347
I walked, as I have said, as a ghost might walk; and when I wept, I wept as a ghost would: silently, not minding the tears as they came falling— as though I knew I had tears enough for a hundred years, and in time would weep them all. I reached the gallery. The door to the library was there, standing part-way open. The creature's head still hung beside it, with its one glass eye and pointed teeth. I thought of how I had put my fingers to it, the first time I came for Maud. I had waited outside the door, I had heard her reading.— Again, I thought of her voice. I thought so fiercely of it, it seemed
to me at last that I could almost hear it. I could hear it as a whisper, as a murmur, in the stillness of the house.
I caught my breath. The murmur stopped, then started again. It was not in my own head, I could hear it— it came, from the library ... I began to shake. Perhaps the house was haunted after all. Or perhaps, perhaps— I moved to the door and put a trembling hand to it, and pushed it open. Then I stood, and blinked. The room was changed. The paint had all been scraped from the windows, the finger of brass prised from the floor.
The shelves were almost bare of books. A little fire burned in the grate. I pushed the door further. There was Mr Lilly's old desk. Its lamp was lit.
And in the glow of it, was Maud.
She was sitting, writing. She had an elbow on the desk, a cheek upon her upturned hand, her fingers half-curled over her eyes. I saw her clearly, because of the light. Her brows were drawn into a frown. Her hands were bare, her sleeves put back, her fingers dark with smudges of ink. I stood and watched her write a line. The page was thick with lines already. Then she lifted the pen, and turned and turned it, as if not sure what to put next. Again she murmured, beneath her breath. She bit her mouth.
Then she wrote again; and then she moved to dip her pen in ajar of ink. And as she did that, she drew her fingers from her eyes, her face came up; and she saw me watching.
She did not start. She grew perfectly still. She did not cry out. She did not say anything, at first. She only sat with her eyes on mine, a look of astonishment on her face. Then I took a step; and as I did, she got to her feet, letting the pen with the ink upon it roll across the papers and desk and drop to the floor. Her cheek had grown white. She gripped the back of her chair, as if to take her hand from it might mean to fall, or swoon. When I took another step, she gripped it harder.
'Have you come,' she said, 'to kill me?'
She said it, in a sort of awful whisper; and I heard her, and saw that her face was white, not just from astonishment, but also from fear. The thought was terrible. I turned away, and hid my own face
in my hands. It was still wet, from my falling tears. Now other tears came and made it wetter. 'Oh, Maud!' I said- 'Oh, Maud!'
I had never spoken her name to her before like that, I had only ever said miss; and even now, even here, after everything, I felt the strangeness of it. I pressed my fingers hard into my eyes. I had been thinking, a moment ago, of how I loved her. I'd supposed her lost. I had meant to find her out, through years of searching. To come upon her now— so warm, so real— w hen I had ached and ached for her— It was too much.
348
'I don't— ' I said. 'I can't— ' She did not come. She only stood, still white, still gripping the back of the chair. So then I wiped my face upon my sleeve, and spoke more steadily. 'There was a paper,' I said. 'I found a paper, hidden in Mrs Sucksby's gown . . .'
I felt the letter, stiff, in my own gown, as I spoke; but she didn't answer, and I guessed from that— and saw, by the look upon her face— that she knew what paper it was I meant, and what it said. Despite myself, I had a moment of hating bier then— just a single moment; and when it passed, it left me weak. I went to the window, so I might sit upon the sill. I said, 'I paid sonoeone to read it to me. And then, I got sick.'
'I am sorry,' she said. 'Sue, I am sorry.'
She still did not come to me, though. I wiped my face again.
I said, 'I got a lift with a man and a girl. They said your uncle died. They said there was nobody here, save Mr Way— '
'Mr Way?' She frowned. 'Mr Way is gone -'
'A servant, they said.'
'William Inker, they must have meant. H e stays with me. And his wife cooks my meals. That's all.'
'Only them, and you? In this great house=-' I looked about me, and shivered. 'Don't you grow frightened?'
She shrugged, gazed down at her hands. Her look grew dark. 'What have I,' she said,
'to be frightened of, rnow?'
There was so much to the words, and to trie way she said them, I did not answer at first. When I spoke again, I spoke more quietly.
'When did you know?' I said. 'Whendid ^ou know everything, about us, about— Did you know, at the start?0'
She shook her head. She spoke quietly, too. 'Not then,' she said 'Not until Richard took me to London. Then she— ' She coloured, but lifted her head. 'Then I was told.'
'Not before?' I said.
'Not before.'
'They tricked you, too, then.'
I should have been glad to think it, once. Now it was all of a piece with every bleak and terrible thing I had suffered and seen and learned, in the past nine months. For a minute, we said nothing. I let myself sink against the window and put my cheek against the glass. The glass was cold. The rain fell hard, still. It struck the gravel before the house and made it churn. The lawn seemed bruised. Through the bare wet branches of the tangled wood I could just make out the shape of yews, and the pointed roof of the little red chapel.
'My mother is buried there,' I said. 'I used to look at her grave, thinking nothing. I thought my mother was a murderess.'
'I thought my mother was mad,' she said. 'Instead— '
She could not say it. Neither could I. Not yet. But I turned to look at her again, and swallowed, and said,
'You went to see her, at the gaol.' I had remembered the matron's words.
She nodded. 'She spoke of you,' she said.
349
'Of me? What did she say?'
'That she hoped you never knew. That she wished they might hang her, ten times over, before you should. That she and your mother had been wrong. That they meant to make you a commonplace girl. That that was like taking a jewel, and hiding it in dust.
That dust falls away
I closed my eyes. When I looked again, she had at last come closer.
'Sue,' she said.. 'This house is yours.'
'I don't want it,' I said.
'The money is yours. Half of your mother's money. All of it, if you wish. I have claimed none of it. You shall be rich.'
'I don't want to be rich. I never wanted to.be rich. I only want—
But I hesitated. My heart was too full. Her gaze was too close, too clear. I thought how I had seen her, last— not at the trial, but on the night that Gentleman died. Her eyes had glittered. They did not glitter now. Her hair had been curled. Now it was smooth, unpinned, she had put it back and tied it with a simple ribbon. Her hands did not tremble. They were bare, and marked, as I have said, with spots and smudges of ink. Her brow had ink upon it, too, from where she had pressed it. Her dress was dark, and long, yet fell not quite to the floor. It was silk, but fastened at the front. The highest hook was left undone. I saw the beating of her throat behind it. I looked away.
Then I looked back, into her eyes.
'I only want you,' I said.