I say nothing, do nothing. The youth steps back.
'We're seeing,' he says, 'if he's in.'
There are pictures behind his head, pinned to the wall in wax-paper wrappers: a girl on a swing, showing her legs; a girl in a boat, about to slip; a girl falling, falling from the breaking branch of a tree ... I close my eyes. He calls to one of the men: 'Do you wish to buy that book, sir— ?'
Presently, however, there come more footsteps, and the door is opened again.
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It is Mr Hawtrey.
He looks shorter, and slighter, than I remember him. His coat
and trousers are creased. He stands in the passage in some agitation, does not come into the shop— meets my gaze, but does not smile— looks about me, as if to be sure I am alone; then beckons me t o h i m . T h e y o u t h s t e p s b a c k t o l e t m e p a s s . ' M r Hawtrey— ' I say. He shakes his head, however; waits until the door is closed behind me before he will speak. What he says then— in a whisper so fierce it is almost a hiss— is:
'Good God! Is it you? Have you really come here, to me?'
I say nothing, only stand with my eyes on his. He puts his hand, in distraction, to his head. Then he takes my arm. 'This way,' he says, leading me to a set of stairs. The steps have boxes upon them. 'Be careful. Be careful,' he says, as we climb them. And then, at the top: 'In here.'
There are three rooms, set up for the printing and binding of books. In one, two men work, loading type; another, I think, is Mr Hawtrey's own office. The third is small, and smells strongly of glue. It's in there that he shows me. The tables are piled with papers— loose papers, ragged at the edges: the leaves of unfinished books. The floor is bare and dusty. One wall— the wall to the typesetters' room— has frosted glass panels in it. The men are just visible, bending over their work.
There is a single chair, but he does not ask me to sit. He closes the door and stands before it. He takes out a handkerchief and wipes his face. His face is yellowish-white.
'Good God,' he says again. And then: 'Forgive me. Forgive me. It's only the surprise of the thing.'
He says it, more kindly; and I hear him and half turn away.
'I'm sorry,' I say. My voice is not steady. 'I'm afraid I will weep. I have not come to you to weep.'
'You may weep, if you like!' he says, with a glance at the frosted glass.
But I will not weep. He watches me struggling against my tears for a moment, then shakes his head.
'My dear,' he says gently at last. 'What have you done?'
'Don't ask me.'
'You have run away.'
'From my uncle, yes.'
'From your husband, I think.'
'My husband?' I swallow. 'Do you know, then, of that?'
He shrugs, colours, looks away.
I say, 'You think me wrong. You do not know what I have been made to suffer! Don't worry'— for he has lifted his eyes to glance, again, at the panels of glass— 'don't worry, I shan't grow wild. You may think what you like of me, I don't care. But you must help me.
Will you?'
'My dear— '
'You will. You must. I have nothing. I need money, a house to stay in. You used to like to say you would make me welcome— '
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Despite myself, my voice is rising.
'Be calmer,' he says— lifting his hands as if to soothe me; but not moving from his place at the door. 'Be calmer. You know how queer this will look? Do you? What are my staff to think? A girl comes asking for me urgently, sending up a riddling name . . .' He laughs, not happily. 'What would my daughters say, my wife?'
'I am sorry.'
Again he wipes his face. He lets out his breath. 'I wish you would tell me,' he says,
'why you have come, to me. You mustn't think I will take your part against your uncle.
I never liked to see him keep you so meanly, but he mustn't know you've come here.
Nor must you think— is it what you are hoping?— that I'll help you back into his favours. He has quite cast you off, you know. Besides that, he is ill— seriously ill— over this business. Did you know that?'
I shake my head. 'My uncle is nothing to me, now.'
'But he is something to me, you understand. If he should hear of your coming— '
'He will not.'
'Well.' He sighs. Then his face grows troubled again. 'But to come to me! To come here!' And he looks me over, takes in my gaudy dress and gloves— which are filthy; my hair— which I think is tangled; my face— which must be dusty, lustreless, white. 'I should hardly have known you,' he says, still frowning, 'you seem so changed. Where is your coat, and your hat?'
'There was not time— '
He looks appalled. 'Did you come, like this?' He squints at the hem of my skirt; then he sees my feet, and starts. 'Why, look at your slippers! Your feet are bleeding! Did you leave, without shoes?'
'I must. I have nothing!'
'Not shoes?'
'No. Not so much as that.'
'Rivers keeps you without shoes?'
He does not believe it. 'If I might only,' I say, 'make you know— ' But he is not listening. He is looking about him, as if seeing for the first time the tables, the piles of paper. He takes up a few blank sheets, begins hurriedly to cover up the naked print.
'You oughtn't to have come here,' he says, as he does it. 'Look at this! Look at this!'
I catch sight of a line of print. '— you shall have enough, I warrant you, and I shall whip, whip— ' 'Do you try and hide it,' I say, 'from me? I have seen worse at Briar.
Have you forgotten?'
'This is not Briar. You don't understand. How could you? You were among gentlemen, there. It is Rivers I blame for this. He ought— having taken you— at least to have kept you closer. He saw what you were.'
'You don't know,' I say. 'You don't know how he's used me!'
'I don't want to know! It is not my place to know! Don't tell me.— Oh, only look at yourself! Do you know how you will have seemed, upon the streets? You can't have come unnoticed, surely?'
I gaze down at my skirt, my slippers. 'There was a man,' I say, 'upon the bridge. I thought he meant to help me. But he meant only— ' My voice begins to shake.
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'You see?' he says then. 'You see? Suppose a policeman should have seen you, and followed you here? Do you know what would happen to me— to my staff, to my stock— if the police were to come down heavily upon us? They might, for such a matter as this.— Oh, God, only look at your feet! Are they bleeding, truly?'
He helps me into the chair, then gazes about him. 'There's a sink,' he says, 'next door.
Wait here, will you?' He goes off, to the room with the typesetters in it. I see them lift their heads, hear his
nice.— I don't know what he must tell them. I don't care. In sitting, I have grown tired; and the soles of my feet, which until now have been almost numb, have begun to smart. The room has no window of its own, and no chimney, and the smell of glue seems stronger. I have come close to one of the tables: I lean upon it, and gaze across it— at the piles of pages, untrimmed, unsewn, some of them disturbed or concealed by Mr Hawtrey.'— and I shall whip, whip, whip, your backside till the blood runs down your heels
' The print is new, and black; but the paper is poor, the ink has feathered.
What is the fount? I know it, but— it troubles me— I cannot name it.
'— so, so, so, so, so, you like the birch, do you?'
Mr Hawtrey returns. He has a cloth, and a bowl, half- filled with water; also a glass, with water for me to drink.
'Here you are,' he says, putting the bowl before me, wetting the cloth and handing it to me; then glancing nervously away. 'Can you do it? Just enough to take the blood away, for now