'God damn it,' he says again. He smooths his whiskers, his hair. He catches my eye.
'Don't look, so uselessly. Have you no blood about you, to save me the pain? None of those— courses, that women suffer?' I say nothing. His mouth twists again. 'Well, that is like you. I should have thought that, being obliged to bleed, you might as well bleed 187
to some advantage; but, no . . .'
'Do you mean,' I say, 'to insult me, in every possible way?'
'Be quiet,' he answers. We are still speaking in whispers. 'This is for both our good. I don't see you offering up your arm to the knife.' At once, I offer it. He waves it away.
'No, no,' he says. 'I shall do it,
in a moment.' He draws in his breath, moves the blade further down his arm, rests it in one of the creases at the base of his palm, where the flesh is hairless. He pauses again, takes another breath; slices, quickly. 'Good Christ!' he says, wincing. A little blood springs to the cut— it seems dark, in the candle- light, upon the white heel of his hand.
He lets it fall to the bed. There is not much of it. He presses with his thumb at the skin of his wrist and palm, and then it falls faster. He does not catch my eye.
After a moment, however, he says quietly: 'Do you suppose that enough?'
I study his face. 'Don't you know?' 'No, I do not know.' 'But— '
'But what?' He blinks. 'You mean Agnes, I suppose. Don't flatter her. There are more ways of shaming a virtuous girl, than that one. You ought to know.'
The blood still feebly runs. He curses. I think of Agnes, showing me her red and swollen mouth. I turn away from him, in a sort of sickness. 'Come, Maud,' he says then, 'tell me before I fall in a swoon. You must have read of such things. I am sure your uncle must have some entry on it in his damn Index— doesn't he? Maud?' I look again, reluctantly, at the spreading drops of blood; and I nod. As a final gesture he puts his wrist to them, and smears them. Then he frowns at his cut. His cheek is quite white. He makes a face. 'How ill a man may grow,' he says, 'from the sight of the spilling of a little of his own blood. What monsters you females must be, to endure this, month upon month. No wonder you are prone to madness. See how the flesh parts?' He shows me his hand. 'I think after all I cut too deep. That was your fault, provoking me. Have you brandy? I think a little brandy would restore me.'
He has drawn out his handkerchief, and now presses it to his arm. I say, 'I have no brandy.'
'No brandy. What have you, then? Some draught or other? Come, I see by your face that you do.' He looks about him. 'Where is it kept?'
I hesitate; but now he has named it, the desire for drops begins to rnake its creeping way about my heart and limbs. 'In my leather bag,' I say. He brings the bottle to me, draws out its stopper, puts his nose to it, grimaces. 'Bring me a glass, also,' I say. He finds a cup, adds a little dusty water.
'Not like that, for me,' he says, as I let the medicine slip. 'That will serve for you. I want it quicker.' He takes the bottle from me, uncovers his cut, lets a single drop fall into the parted flesh. It stings. He winces. Where it runs, he licks it. Then he sighs, half closing his eyes, watching me as I drink then shiver then lean back upon my pillow, the cup at my breast.
At length, he smiles. He laughs. '"The Fashionable Couple on their Wedding-Night,'"
he says. 'They would write a column on us, in the London papers.'
I shiver again, draw the blankets higher; the sheet falls, covering the smears of blood.
I reach for the bottle. He reaches it first, however, and puts it out of my grasp.
'No, no,' he says. 'Not while you keep so contrary. I shall have it, tonight.' He puts it in 188
his pocket, and I am too weary to try to take it from him. He stands and yawns, wipes his face, rubs hard at his eyes. 'How tired I am!' he says. 'It is past three o'clock, do you know?' I say nothing, and he shrugs. But he lingers at the foot of the bed, looking down, in a hesitating manner, at the place at my side; then he sees my face, and pretends to shudder.
'I should not be astonished, after all,' he says, 'to wake to the grip of your fingers at my throat. No, I shall not risk it.'
He steps to the fire, wets his thumb and finger upon his tongue, puts out the candle; then he sits in a huddle in the arm-chair and makes a blanket of his coat. He swears against the cold, the pose, the angles of the chair, for perhaps a minute. But he sleeps, sooner than I do.
And when he does, I rise, go quickly to the window, put the curtain back. The moon is still bright, and I don't want to lie in darkness. But after all, every surface that takes up the silver light is strange to me; and when once I reach, to put my fingers to some mark upon the wall, the mark and the wall in taking my touch seem only to grow stranger. My cloak and gown and linen are closed in
the press. My bags are shut. I look, and look, for something of mine; and see only at last, in the shadow of the wash- hand stand, my shoes. I go to them, and stoop, and place my hands upon them. Then I draw back and almost straighten; then touch them again.
Then I lie in the bed, and listen hard for the sounds I am used to— for bells and growling levers. There are only those meaningless noises— the yawning boards, the creeping bird or mouse. I put back my head and gaze at the wall behind me. Beyond it lies Sue. If she turned in her bed, if she said my name, I think I would hear it. She might make any sound, any at all— I would catch it, I am certain I would.
She makes no sound. Richard shifts in his chair. The moonlight creeps across the floor.
In time, I sleep. I sleep and dream of Briar. But the passages of the house are not as I recall them. I am late for my uncle, and lost.
She comes each morning, after that, to wash me, to dress me, to set food before me, to take away my untouched plate; but, as in the last of our days at Briar, she never meets my gaze. The room is small. She sits near me, but rarely do we speak. She sews. I play at cards— the two of hearts with the crease of my heel upon it, rough beneath my naked finger. Richard keeps all day from the room. At night, he curses. He curses the f i l t h y l a n e s o f t h e c o u n t r y , t h a t m u d d y h i s b o o t s . H e c u r s e s m y s i l e n c e , m y strangeness. He curses the wait. Above all, he curses the angular arm-chair.
'See here,' he says, 'my shoulder. You see it? It is rising from its socket— it is quite thrown out. I shall be deformed, in a week. As for these creases— ' He angrily smooths his trousers. 'I should have brought Charles, after all. At this rate I shall arrive at London only to be laughed off its streets.'
London, I think. The word means nothing to me now.
He rides out, every other day, for news of my uncle. He smokes so many cigarettes the stain on his scorched forefinger spreads to the finger beside it. Now and then he lets me take a dose of my draught; but he always keeps hold of the bottle.
'Very good,' he says, watching me drink. 'Not much longer, now.
189
Why, how thin and pale you've grown!— and Sue grows sleeker by the hour, like one of Mother Cream's black-faced sows. Get her into your best gown tomorrow, will you?'
I do. I will do anything, now, to bring an end to our long wait. I will pretend fear, and nervousness, and weeping, while he leans to caress or chide me. I will do it, not looking at Sue— or else, looking at her slyly, desperately, to see if she colours or seems ashamed. She never does. Her hands, that I remember sliding upon me, pressing, turning, opening me up— her hands, when they touch me now, are perfectly lifeless and white. Her face is closed. She only waits, as we do, for the coming of the doctors.
We wait— I cannot say how long. Two weeks, or three. At last: 'They come tomorrow,'
R i c h a r d t e l l s m e o n e n i g h t ; a n d t h e n , n e x t m o r n i n g : ' T h e y c o m e t o d a y . Y o u remember?'