'I am not sure,' I say. 'If I might only be sure!'
'But to love,' she says, 'and then to lose him!'
177
I grow too conscious of the closeness of her gaze, and look away. She talks to me of beating blood, of thrilling voices, of dreams. I feel his kiss, like a burn upon my palm; and all at once she sees, not that I love him, but how much I have come to fear and hate him.
She grows white. 'What will you do?' she says, in a whisper.
'What can I do?' I say. 'What choice have I?'
She does not answer. She only turns from me, to gaze for a moment at the barred chapel door. I look at the pale of her cheek, at her jaw, at the mark of the needle in the lobe of her ear. When she turns back, her face has changed.
'Marry him,' she tells me. 'He loves you. Marry him, and do everything he says.'
She has come to Briar to ruin me, to cheat me and do me harm. Look at her, I tell myself. See how slight she is, how brown and trifling! A thief, a little fingersmith— /1
think I will swallow down my desire, as I have swallowed down grief, and rage. Shall I be thwarted, shall I be checked— held to my past, kept from my future— by her? I think, / shan't. The day of our flight draws near. / shan't. The month grows warmer, the nights grow close. / shan't, I shan't—
'You are cruel,' Richard says. 'I don't think you love me as you ought. I think— ' and he glances, slyly, at Sue— 'I think there must be someone else you care for . . .'
Sometimes I see him look at her, and think he has told her. Sometimes she looks at me, so strangely— or else her hands, in touching me, seem so stiff, so nervous and unpractised— I think she knows. Now and then I am obliged to leave them alone together, in my own room; he might tell her, then.
What do you say, Suky, to this? She loves you!
Loves me? Like a lady loves her maid?
Like certain ladies love their maids, perhaps. Hasn't she found little ways to keep you close about her?— Have I done that? Hasn't she feigned troublesome dreams?— Is that what I have done? Has she had you kiss her? Careful, Suky, she doesn't try to kiss you back . . .
Would she laugh, as he said she would? Would she shiver? It seems to me she lies more cautiously beside me now, her legs and arms tucked close. It seems to me she is often wary, watchful. But the more I think it, the more I want her, the more my desire rises and swells. I have come to terrible life— or else, the things about me have come to life, their colours grown too vivid, their surfaces too harsh. I flinch, from falling shadows. I seem to see figures start out from the fading patterns in the dusty carpets and drapes, or creep, with the milky blooms of damp, across the ceilings and walls.
Even my uncle's books are changed to me; and this is worse, this is worst of all. I have supposed them dead. Now the words— like the figures in the walls— start up, are filled with meaning. I grow muddled, stammer. I lose my place. My uncle shrieks— seizes, from his desk, a paperweight of brass, and throws it at me. That steadies me, for a time. But then he has me read, one night, from a certain work . . .
Richard watches, his hand across his mouth, a look of amusement dawning on his face.
For the work tells of all the means a woman may employ to pleasure another, when in want of a man.
'And she pressed her lips and tongue to it, and into it— '
178
'You like this, Rivers?' asks my uncle.
'I confess, sir, I do.'
'Well, so do many men; though I fear it is hardly to my taste. Still, I am glad to note your interest. I address the subject fully, of course, in my Index. Read on, Maud. Read on.'
I do. And despite myself— and in spite of Richard's dark, tormenting gaze— I feel the stale words rouse me. I colour, and am ashamed. I am ashamed to think that what I have supposed the secret book of my heart may be stamped, after all, with no more miserable matter than this— have its place in my uncle's collection. I leave the drawing- room each night and go upstairs— g o s l o w l y , t a p p i n g t h e t o e s o f m y slippered feet against each step. If I strike them equally, I shall be safe. Then I stand in darkness. When Sue comes to undress me I will myself to suffer her touch, coolly, as I think a mannequin of wax might suffer the quick, indifferent touches of a tailor.
And yet, even wax limbs must yield at last, to the heat of the hands that lift and place them. There comes a night when, finally, I yield to hers.
I have begun, in sleeping, to dream unspeakable dreams; and to wake, each time, in a confusion of longing and fear. Sometimes she stirs. Sometimes she does not. 'Go back to sleep,' she will say, if she does. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don't. Sometimes I rise and go about the room; sometimes, take drops. I take drops, this night; then return to her side; but sink, not into lethargy, but only into more confusion. I think of the books I have lately read, to Richard and to my uncle: they come back to me, now, in phrases, fragments— pressed her lips and tongue— takes hold of my hand— hip, lip and tongue— forced it half-strivingly— took hold of my breasts— opened wide the lips of my little— the lips of her little cunt—
I cannot silence them. I can almost see them, rising darkly from their own pale pages, to gather, to swarm and combine. I put my hands before my face. I do not know how long I lie for, then. But I must make some sound, or movement; for when I draw my hands away, she is awake, and watching. I know that she is watching, though the bed is so dark.
'Go to sleep,' she says. Her voice is thick.
I feel my legs, very bare inside my gown. I feel the point at which they join. I feel the words, still swarming. The warmth of her limbs comes inching, inching through the fibres of the bed.
I say, 'I'm afraid . . .'
Then her breathing changes. Her voice grows clearer, kinder. She yawns. 'What is it?'
she says. She rubs her eye. She pushes the hair back from her brow. If she were any girl but Sue! If she were Agnes! If she were a girl in a book— !
Girls love easily, there. That is their point.
Hip, lip and tongue—
'Do you think me good?' I say.
'Good, miss?'
She does. It felt like safety, once. Now it feeis like a trap. 1 say, 'I wish— I wish you would tell me— '
'Tell you what, miss?'
179
Tell me. Tell me a way to save you. A way to save myself. The room is perfectly black.
Hip, lip—
Girls love easily, there.
' I w i s h , ' I s a y , ' I w i s h y o u w o u l d t e l l m e w h a t i t i s a w i f e m u s t d o , o n h e r wedding- night
And at first, it is easy. After all, this is how it is done, in my uncle's books: two girls, one wise and one unknowing . .. 'He will want,' she says, 'to kiss you. He will want to embrace you.' It is easy. I say my part, and she— with a little prompting— says hers.
The words sink back upon their pages. It is easy, it is easy .. .
Then she rises above me and puts her mouth to mine.
I have felt, before, the pressure of a gentleman's still, dry lips against my gloved hand, my cheek. I have suffered Richard's wet, insinuating kisses upon my palm. Her lips are cool, smooth, damp: they fit themselves imperfectly to mine, but then grow warmer, damper. Her hair falls against my face. I cannot see her, I can only feel her, and taste her. She tastes of sleep, slightly sour. Too sour. I part my lips— to breathe, or to swallow, or perhaps to move away; but in breathing or swallowing or moving I only seem to draw her into my mouth. Her lips part, also. Her tongue comes between them and touches mine.
And at that, I shudder, or quiver. For it is like the finding out of something raw, the troubling of a wound, a nerve. She feels me jolt, and draws away— but slowly, slowly and unwillingly, so that
our damp mouths seem to cling together and, as they part, to tear. She holds herself above me. I feel the rapid beating of a heart, and suppose it my own. But it is hers.