D a i n t y ' s m o u t h f a l l s o p e n . ' N o ! S u e T r i n d e r ? W h a t w a s l i k e y o u r o w n daughter?— Johnny!' John chooses that moment to come down, for his supper. 'Johnny, you ain't going to guess what! Sue's took all of Mrs Sucksby's money, and that's why she ain't come back. Done a flit. Just about broke Mrs Sucksby's heart. If we see her, we got to kill her.'
'Done a flit? Sue Trinder?' He snorts. 'She ain't got the nerve.'
'Well, she done it.'
'She done it,' says Mrs Sucksby, with another glance at me, 'and I don't want to hear her name said in this house. That's all.'
'Sue Trinder, turned out a sharper!' says John.
'That's bad blood for you,' says Richard. He also looks at me. 'Shows up in queer ways.'
'What did I just say?' says Mrs Sucksby hoarsely. 'I won't have her name said.' She lifts her arm, and John falls silent. But he shakes his head and gives a whistle. Then after a moment, he laughs.
'More meat for us, though, ain't it?' he says, as he fills his plate. '— Or would be, if it wasn't for the lady there.'
Mrs Sucksby sees him scowling at me; and leans and hits him.
After that, if the men and women who come to the house ask after Sue, they are taken aside and told, like John and Dainty, that she has turned out wicked, double-crossed 232
Mrs Sucksby and broken her heart. They all say the same: 'Sue Trinder? Who'd have thought her so fly? That's the mother, that is, coming out in the child . . .' They shake their heads, look sorry. But it seems to me, too, that they forget her quickly enough. It seems to me that even John and Dainty forget her. It is a short- memoried house, after all. It is a
short- memoried district. Many times I wake in the night to the sound of footsteps, the creak of wheels— a man is running, a family taking flight, quietly, in darkness. The woman with the bandaged face, who nurses her baby on the step of the house with the shutters with the heart-shaped holes, disappears; her place is taken by another— who, in her turn, moves on, to be replaced by another, who drinks. What's Sue, to them?
What's Sue, to me? I'm afraid, here, to remember the pressing of her mouth, the sliding of her hand. But I'm afraid, too, of forgetting. I wish I could dream of her. I never do. Sometimes I take out the picture of the woman I supposed my mother, and look for her features there— her eyes, her pointed chin. Mrs Sucksby sees me do it.
She watches, fretfully. Finally she takes the picture away.
'Don't you be thinking,' she says, 'on things that are done and can't be changed. All right, dear girl? You think of the time to come.'
She imagines I brood upon my past. But I am still brooding on my future. I am still watching keys as they are turned— soon one will be left in a lock, I know it. I am watching Dainty and John, Mr Ibbs— they are growing too used to me. They'll turn careless, they'll forget. Soon, I think. Soon, Maud.
So I think; until this happens.
Richard takes to leaving the house each day, not saying where he is going. He has no money, and will have none until the bringing of the lawyer: I think he goes only to walk the dusty streets, or to sit in the parks; I think the heat and the closeness of the Borough kitchen stifles him as much as it stifles me. One day, however, he goes, but returns in an hour. The house is quiet, for once: Mr Ibbs and John are out, and Dainty is sleeping in a chair. Mrs Sucksby lets him into the kitchen, and he throws off his hat and kisses her cheek. His face is flushed and his eyes are gleaming.
'Well, what do you think?' he says.
'Dear boy, I can't imagine! Have all your horses come up at once?'
'Better than that,' he says. He reaches for me. 'Maud? What do you think? Come, out of the shadows. Don't look so fierce! Save that, till you've heard my news. It concerns you, rather.'
He has seized my chair and begun to haul me closer to the table. I shake him off.
'Concerns me, how?' I say, moodily. I have been sitting, thinking over the shape of my life.
'You'll see. Look here.' He puts his hand to his waistcoat pocket and draws something out. A paper. He waves it.
'A bond, dear boy?' says Mrs Sucksby, stepping to his side.
'A letter,' he says, 'from— well, guess who? Will you guess, Maud?' I say nothing. He pulls a face. 'Won't you play? Shall I give you a clue? It is someone you know. A friend, very dear.'
My heart gives a lurch. 'Sue!' I say at once. But he jerks his head, and snorts.
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'Not her. You think they give them paper, where she is?' He glances at Dainty; who opens and closes her eyes, and then sleeps on. 'Not her,' he says again, more quietly. 'I mean, another friend of yours. You won't guess?'
I turn my face. 'Why should I? You mean to tell me, don't you?'
He waits another moment; then: 'Mr Lilly,' he says. 'Your uncle, that was.— Aha!' I have started. 'You are interested!'
'Let me see,' I say. Perhaps my uncle is searching for me, after all.
'Now, now.' He holds the letter high. 'It has my name upon it, not yours.'
'Let me see!'
I rise, pull down his arm, see a line of ink; then push him away.
'That's not my uncle's hand,' I say— so disappointed, I could strike him.
'I never said it was,' says Richard. 'The letter's from him, but sent by another: his steward, Mr Way.'
'Mr Way?'
'More curious still, hmm? Well, you shall understand that, when you read it. Here.' He unfolds the paper and hands it to me. 'Read this side, first. It's a postscript; and explains, at least— what I've always thought so queer— why we've heard nothing from Briar, till now . . .'
The hand is cramped. The ink is smeared. I tilt the paper to catch what light I can; then read.
Dear Sir.— I found today among my master's private papers, this letter, & do suppose he meant it to be sent; only, he fell into a grave indisposition shortly after having wrote it, sir, which indisposition he continues in to this day.— Mrs Stiles & me did think at first, that this was through his niece having run off in such a scandalous manner; though we beg leave to notice, sir, that his words herein suggest him not to have been overly astonished by that deed; as, begging leave again sir, no more were we.— We send this respectfully, sir, and presume to hope it finds you cheerful.— Mr Martin Way, Steward of Briar.
I look up, but say nothing. Richard sees my expression and smiles. 'Read the rest,' he says. I turn the paper over. The letter is short, and dated 3rd of May— seven weeks ago, now. It says this.
To Mr Richard Rivers, from Christopher Lilly, Esq.— Sir. I suppose you have taken my niece, Maud Lilly. I wish you joy of her! Her mother was a strumpet, and she has all her mother's instincts, if not her face. The check to the progress of my work will be severe; but I take comfort in my loss, from this: that I fancy you, sir, a man who knows the proper treating of a whore.— C.L.
I read it, two or three times; then read it again; then let it fall. Mrs Sucksby instantly takes it up, to read herself. As she labours over the words, she grows flushed. When she has finished, she gives a cry:
'That blackguard! Oh!'
Her cry wakes Dainty. 'Who, Mrs Sucksby? Who?' she says.
'A wicked man, that's all. A wicked man, who is ill, as he ought to be. No-one you know. Go back to sleep.' She reaches for me. 'Oh, my dear— '
'Leave me alone,' I say.
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The letter has upset me, more than I should have believed. I
don't know if it is the words that have wounded me most; or the final proof they seem to give, to Mrs Sucksby's story. But I cannot bear to be watched by her, and by Richard, with my feelings in such a stir. I walk as far from them as I may— some two or three steps-— to the brown kitchen wall; then I walk from there to another wall and from there to a door; and I seize and vainly turn the handle.