that their heads are covered, yours bare. No matter that your slippers are silk, that your feet are cut by every stone and cinder—
So I whip myself along. Only the traffic checks me, the rushing horses and wheels: at every crossing I pause, then cast myself into the mass of cabs and waggons; and I think it is only my haste, my distraction— that, and perhaps the vividness of my dress— that makes the drivers pull at their reins and keep from running me down. On, on, I go. I think once a dog barks at me, and snaps at my skirt. I think boys run beside me, for a time— two boys, or three— shrieking to see me stagger. 'You,' I say, holding my hand against my side, 'will you tell me, where is Holywell Street? Which way, to 237
Holywell Street?'— but at the sound of my voice, they fall back.
I go more slowly then. I cross a busier road. The buildings are grander here— and yet, two streets beyond them the houses are shabby. Which way must I go? I will ask again, I will ask in a moment; for now, I will only walk, put streets and streets between myself and Mrs Sucksby, Richard, Mr Ibbs. What matter if I grow lost? I am lost already . . .
Then I cross the mouth of a rising passage of yellow brick and see at the end of it, dark and humped above the tips of broken roofs, its gold cross gleaming, the church of St Paul's. I know it, from illustrations; and I think Holywell Street is near it. I turn, pick up my skirts, make for it. The passage smells badly; but the church seems close.
So close, it seems! The brick turns green, the smell grows worse. I climb, then suddenly sink, emerge in open air and almost stumble. I have expected a street, a square. Instead, I am at the top of a set of crooked stairs, leading down to filthy water.
I have reached the shore of the river. St Paul's is close, after all; but the whole of the width of the Thames is flowing between us.
I stand and gaze at it, in a sort of horror, a sort of awe. I remember walking beside the Thames, at Briar. I remember seeing it seem to fret and worry at its banks: I thought it longed— as I did— to quicken, to spread. I did not know it would spread to this. It flows, like poison. Its surface is littered with broken matter— with hay, with wood, with weed, with paper, with tearings of cloth, with cork
and tilting bottles. It moves, not as a river moves, but as a sea: it heaves. And where it breaks, against the hulls of boats, and where it is thrown, upon the shore, and about the stairs and the walls and wooden piers that rise from it, it froths like sour milk.
It is an agony of water and of waste; but there are men upon it, confident as rats— pulling the oars of rowing-boats, tugging at sails. And here and there, at the river's edge— bare- legged, bent-backed— are women, girls and boys, picking their way through the churning litter like gleaners in a field.
They don't look up, and do not see me, though I stand for a minute and watch them wade. All along the shore I have come to, however, are warehouses, with working men about them; and presently, as I become aware of them, they also spot me— spot my gown, I suppose— first stare, then signal and call. That jerks me out of my daze. I turn— go back along the yellow passage, take up the road again. I have seen the bridge that I must cross to reach St Paul's, but it seems to me that I am lower than I ought to be, and I cannot find the road that will lead me up: the streets I am walking now are narrow, unpaved, still reeking of dirty water. There are men upon them, too— men of the boats and warehouses, who, like the others, try to catch my eye, whistle and sometimes call; though they do not touch me. I put my hand before my face, and go on faster. At last I find a boy, dressed like a servant. 'Which way is the bridge,' I say, 'to the other shore?' He points me out a flight of steps, and stares as I climb them.
Everybody stares— men, women, children— even here, where the road is busy again, they stare. I think of tearing off a fold of skirt to cover my naked head. I think of begging a coin. If I knew what coin to beg for, how much a hat would cost me, where it might be bought, I would do it. But I know nothing, nothing; and so simply walk on.
238
The soles of my slippers I think are beginning to tear. Don't mind it, Maud. If you start to mind it, you will weep. Then the road ahead of me begins to rise, and I see again the gleam of water. The bridge, at last!— that makes me walk quicker. But walking quicker makes the slippers tear more; and after a moment, I am obliged to stop. There is a break in the wall at the start of the bridge
with, set into it, a shallow stone bench. Hung up beside it is a belt of cork— meant for throwing, it says upon a sign, to those in difficulties upon the river.
I sit. The bridge is higher than I imagined it. I have never been so high! The thought makes me dizzy. I touch my broken shoe. May a woman nurse her foot on a public bridge? I do not know. The traffic passes, swift and unbroken, like roaring water.
Suppose Richard should come? Again, I cover my face. A moment, and I'll go on. The sun is hot. A moment, to find my breath. I close my eyes. Now, when people stare, I cannot see them.
Then someone comes and stands before me, and speaks. 'I'm afraid you're unwell.'
I open my eyes. A man, rather aged. A stranger to me. I let my hand fall.
'Don't be afraid,' he says. Perhaps I look bewildered. 'I didn't mean to surprise you.'
He touches his hat, makes a sort of bow. He might be a friend of my uncle's. His voice is a gentleman's voice, and his collar is white.
He smiles, then studies me closer. His face is kind. 'Are you unwell?'
'Will you help me?' I say. He hears my voice and his look
changes.
'Of course,' he says. 'What is it? Are you hurt?' 'Not hurt,' I say. 'But I have been made to suffer dreadfully. I— ' I cast a look at the coaches and waggons upon the bridge.
'I'm afraid,' I say, 'of certain people. Will you help me? Oh, I wish you would say you will!'
'I have said it, already. But, this is extraordinary! And you, a lady— Will you come with me? You must tell me all your story; I shall hear it all. Don't try to speak, just yet.
Can you rise? I'm afraid you're injured about the feet. Dear, dear! Let me look for a cab. That's right.'
He gives me his arm, and I take it and stand. Relief has made me weak. 'Thank God!' I say. 'Oh, thank God! But, listen to me.' I grip him harder. 'I have nothing— no money to pay you with— '
'Money?' He puts his hand over mine. 'I should not take it. Don't think of it!'
'— But I have a friend, who I think will help me. If you'll take me to him?'
'Of course, of course. What else? Come, look, here's what we need.' He leans into the road, raises his arm: a cab pulls out of the stream of traffic and halts before us. The gentleman seizes the door and draws it back. The cab is covered, and dark. 'Take care,'
he says. 'Can you manage? Take care. The step is rather high.'
'Thank God!' I say again, lifting my foot. He comes behind me
as I do it.
'That's right,' he says. And then: 'Why look, how prettily you climb!'
I stop, with my foot upon the step. He puts his hand upon my waist. 'Go on,' he says, 239
urging me into the coach.
I step back.
'After all,' I say quickly, 'I think I should walk. Will you tell me the way?'
'The day is too hot to walk. You are too weary. Go on.'
His hand is upon me still. He presses harder. I twist away and we almost struggle.
'Now, then!' he says, smiling.
'I have changed my mind.'
'Come, now.'
'
L
e
t
g
o
o
f
m
e
.
'
i
'Do you wish to cause a fuss? Come, now. I know a house— '
'A house? Haven't I told you that I want only to see my friend?'