The water is cold. When I have wiped my feet I wet the cloth again and, for a second, sit and hold it to my face. Mr Hawtrey looks round and sees me do it. 'You're not feverish?' he says. 'You're not ill?'— 'I am only warm,' I say. He nods, and comes and takes the bowl. Then he gives me the glass, and I drink a little of it. 'Very good,' he says.
I look again at the leaves of print upon the table; but the name of the fount escapes me, still. Mr Hawtrey checks his watch. Then he puts his hand to his mouth and bites at the skin of his thumb, and frowns.
I say, 'You are good, to help me. I think other men would blame me.'
'No, no. Haven't I said? It is Rivers I blame. Never mind. Tell me, now. Be honest with me. What money have you, upon you now?'
'I have none.'
'No money at all?'
'I have only this gown. But we might sell it, I think? I should sooner take a plainer one, anyway.'
'Sell your gown?' His frown grows deeper. 'Don't speak so oddly, will you? When you go back— '
'Go back? To Briar?'
'To Briar? I mean, to your husband.'
'To him?' I look at him in amazement. 'I cannot go back to him! It has taken me two months to escape him!'
He shakes his head. 'Mrs Rivers— ' he says. I shudder.
'Don't call me that,' I say, 'I beg you.'
245
'Again, so odd! What ought I to call you, if not that?'
'Call me Maud. You asked me, just now, what I have that is mine. I have that name; that, and nothing else.'
He makes some movement with his hand. 'Don't be foolish,' he says. 'Listen to me, now. I am sorry for you. You have had some quarrel, haven't you— ?'
I laugh— so sharply, he starts; and the two typesetters look up. He sees them do it, then turns back to me.
'Will you be reasonable?' he says quietly, warningly.
But how can I be that?
'A quarrel,' I say. 'You think it a quarrel. You think I have run on bleeding feet, half-way across London, for that? You know nothing. You cannot guess what danger I am in, what coils— ! But, I can't tell you. It's too great a thing.'
'What is?'
'A secret thing. A scheme. I cannot say. I cannot— Oh!' I have lowered my gaze, and it has fallen again upon the pages of print. 'you like the birch, do you?' 'What is this type?' I say. 'Will you tell me?'
He swallows. 'This type?' he says, his voice quite changed.
'This fount.'
For a second he does not answer. Then: 'Clarendon,' he says, quietly.
Clarendon. Clarendon. I knew it, after all. I continue to gaze at the paper— I think I put my fingers to the print— until Mr Hawtrey comes and places a blank sheet upon it, as he did with the others.
'Don't look there,' he says. 'Don't stare so! What is the matter with you? I think you must be ill.'
'I am not ill,' I answer. 'I am only tired.' I close my eyes. 'I wish I might stay here, and sleep.'
'Stay here?' he says. 'Stay here, in my shop? Are you mad?' At sound of that word I open my eyes, and meet his gaze; he colours, looks quickly away. I say again, more steadily, 'I am only tired.' But he does not answer. He puts his hand to his mouth and begins to bite, again, at the skin of his thumb; and he watches me, carefully, cautiously, from the side of his eye. 'Mr Hawtrey— ' I
say.
'I wish,' he says suddenly then, 'I just wish you would tell me what it is you mean to do. How am I even to get you from the shop? I must bring a cab, I suppose, to the back of the building.'
'Will you do that?'
'You have somewhere to go, to sleep? To eat?'
'I have nowhere!'
'You must go home, then.'
'I cannot do that. I have no home! I need only a little money, a little time. There is a person I mean to find, to save— '
'To save?'
'To find. To find. And, having found her, then I may need help again. Only a little help.
I have been cheated, Mr Hawtrey. I have been wronged. I think, with a lawyer— if we 246
might find an honest man— You know I am rich?— or, ought to be.' Again, he watches but does not speak. I say, 'You know I am rich. If you'll only help me, now. If you'll only keep me— '
'Keep you! Do you know what you are saying? Keep you, where?'
'Not in your own house?'
'My house?'
'I thought— '
'My house? With my wife and daughters? No, no.' He has begun to pace.
'But at Briar you said, many times— '
'Haven't I told you? This is not Briar. The world is not like Briar. You must find that out. How old are you? You are a child. You cannot leave a husband, as you may leave an uncle. You cannot live, in London, on nothing. How do you think you will live?'
I do not know. I supposed— ' I supposed you would give me money, I want to say. I look about me. Then I am struck with an idea. 'Might I not,' I say,
'work for you?'
He stands still. 'For me?'
'Might I not work here? In the putting together of books?— the writing, even? I know that work. You know how well I know it! You may pay me a wage. I shall take a room— I need only one room, one quiet room!— I shall take it secretly, Richard shall never know, you shall keep my secret for me. I shall work, and earn a little money—
enough to find out my friend, to find out an honest lawyer; and then— What is it?'
He has kept still, all this time; but his look has changed, is odd.
'Nothing,' he says, moving. 'I— Nothing. Drink your water.'
I suppose I am flushed. I have spoken rapidly, and grown warm: I swallow, and feel the chill descent of the water inside my breast, like a sword. He moves to the table and leans upon it, not looking at me, but thinking, thinking. When I set down the glass he turns back. He does not catch my eye.
'Listen to me,' he says. He speaks quietly. 'You cannot stay here, you know that. I must send for a cab, to take you. I— I must send for some woman, also. I will pay for a woman to go with you.'
'Go with me, where?'
'To some— hotel.' Now he has turned again, has taken up a pen— looks in a book, begins to set down a direction upon a slip of paper. 'Some house,' he says, as he does it, 'where you may rest and take a supper.'
'Where I may rest?' I say. 'I don't think I shall rest, ever again! But a room! A room!— And will you come to me there? Tonight?' He does not answer. 'Mr Hawtrey?'
'Not tonight,' he says, still writing. 'Tonight I cannot.'
'Tomorrow, then.'
He waves the paper, to dry it; then folds it. 'Tomorrow,' he says. 'If I can.'
'You must!'
'Yes, yes.'
'And the work— my working for you. You'll consider that? Say you will!'
'Hush. Yes, I'll consider it. Yes.'
'Thank God!'
247
I put my hand before my eyes. 'Stay here,' he says. 'Will you? Don't go from here.'
I hear him step, then, to the room next door; and when I look, I see him speaking quietly to one of the typesetters— see the man draw on his jacket, then go. Mr Hawtrey comes back. He nods to my feet.
'Put your shoes on, now,' he says, turning away. 'We must be
ready'
'You are kind, Mr Hawtrey,' I say, as I lean to tug on my broken slippers. 'God knows, no-one has been so kind to me, since— ' My voice is lost.
'There, there,' he says, distractedly. 'Don't think of it, now . . .'
Then I sit in silence. He waits, takes out his watch, goes now and then to the top of the stairs, to stand and listen. At last he goes and comes quickly back.
'They are here,' he says. 'Now, have you everything? Come this way, carefully.'
He takes me down. He takes me through a set of rooms, piled high with crates and boxes, and then through a sort of scullery, to a door. The door leads to a little grey area: there are steps from this, to an alley. A cab waits there with, beside it, a woman.