and then I would shudder to think of our plot being so much as a single hour nearer its end, the jaws of our trap that little bit closer and tighter about her and harder to prise apart.
Of course, she felt the passing hours, too. It made her cling to her old habits— made her walk, eat, lie in her bed, do everything, more stiffly, more neatly, more like a little clockwork doll, than ever. I think she did it, for safety's sake; or else, to keep the time from running on too fast. I'd watch her take her tea— pick up her cup, sip from it, put it down, pick it up and sip again, like a machine would; or I'd see her sew, with crooked stitches, nervous and quick; and I'd have to turn my gaze. I'd think of the time I had put back the rug and danced a polka with her. I'd think of the day I had smoothed her pointed tooth. I remembered holding her jaw, and the damp of her tongue. It had seemed ordinary, then; but I could not imagine, now, putting a finger to her mouth and it being ordinary . . .
She began to dream again. She began to wake, bewildered, in the night. Once or twice she rose from her bed: I opened my eyes and found her moving queerly about the room. Are you there?' she said, when she heard me stirring; and she came back to my side and lay and shook. Sometimes she would reach for me. When her hands came against me, though, she'd draw them away. Sometimes she would weep. Or, she would ask queer questions. Am I real? Do you see me? Am I real?'
'Go back to sleep,' I said, one night. It was a night close to the end.
I'm afraid to,' she said. 'Oh, Sue, I'm afraid . . .'
Her voice, this time, was not at all thick, but soft and clear, and so unhappy it woke me properly and I looked for her face. I could not see it. The little rush- light that she always kept lit must have fallen against its shade, or burned itself out. The curtains were down, as they always were. I think it was three or four o'clock. The bed was dark, like a box. Her breath came out of the darkness. It struck my mouth.
"What is it?' I said.
She said, 'I dreamed— I dreamed I was married
I turned my head. Then her breath came against my ear. Too loud, it seemed, in the silence. I moved my head again. I said,
'Well, you shall be married, soon, for real.'
'Shall I?'
'You know you shall. Now, go back to sleep.'
But, she would not. I felt her lying, still but very stiff. I felt the beating of her heart. At last she said again, in a whisper: 'Sue— '
'What is it, miss?'
She wet her mouth. 'Do you think me good?' she said.
She said it, as a child might. The words unnerved me rather. I turned again, and peered into the darkness, to try and make out her face.
'Good, miss?' I said, as I squinted.
'You do,' she said unhappily.
'Of course!'
'I wish you wouldn't. I wish I wasn't. I wish— I wish I was wise.'
'I wish you were sleeping,' I thought. But I did not say it. What I said was, 'Wise?
88
Aren't you wise? A girl like you, that has read all those books of your uncle's?'
She did not answer. She only lay, stiff as before. But her heart beat harder— I felt it lurch. I felt her draw in her breath. She held it. Then she spoke.
'Sue,' she said, 'I wish you would tell me— '
Tell me the truth, I thought she was about to say; and my own heart beat like hers, I began to sweat. I thought, 'She knows. She has guessed!'— I almost thought, Thank God!
But it wasn't that. It wasn't that, at all. She drew in her breath again, and again I felt her, nerving herself to ask some awful thing. I should have known what it was; for she had been nerving herself to ask it, I think, for a month. At last, the words burst from her.
'I wish you would tell me,' she said, 'what it is a wife must do, on her wedding- night!'
I heard her, and blushed. Perhaps she did, too. It was too dark to see.
I said, 'Don't you know?'
'I know there is— something.'
'But you don't know what?'
'How should I?'
'But truly, miss: you mean, you don't know?'
'How should I?' she cried, rising up from her pillow. 'Don't you see, don't you see? I am too ignorant even to know what it is I am ignorant of!' She shook. Then I felt her make herself steady. 'I think,' she said, in a flat, unnatural voice, 'I think he will kiss me. Will he do that?'
Again, I felt her breath on my face. I felt the word, kiss. Again, I blushed.
' W i l l h e ? ' s h e s a i d . '
'Yes, miss.'
I felt her nod. 'On my cheek?' she said. 'My mouth?'
'On your mouth, I should say.'
'On my mouth. Of course . . .' She lifted her hands to her face: I saw at last, through the darkness, the whiteness of her gloves, heard the brushing of her fingers across her lips. The sound seemed greater than it ought to have done. The bed seemed closer and blacker than ever. I wished the rush- light had not burned out. I wished— I think it was the only time I ever did— that the clock would chime. There was only the silence, with her breath in it. Only the darkness, and her pale hands. The world might have shrunk, or fallen away.
'What else,' she asked, 'will he want me to do?'
I thought, 'Say it quick. Quick will be best. Quick and plain.' But it was hard to be plain, with her.
'He will want,' I said, after a moment, 'to embrace you.'
Her hand grew still. I think she blinked. I think I heard it. She said,
'You mean, to stand with me in his arms?'
S h e s a i d i t , a n d I p i c t u r e d h e r , a l l a t o n c e , i n G e n t l e m a n ' s g r i p . I s a w t h e m standing— as you do see men and girls, sometimes, at night, in the Borough, in doorways or up against walls. You turn your eyes. I tried to turn my eyes, now— but, of course, could not, for there was nothing to turn them to, there was only the 89
darkness. My mind flung figures on it, bright as lantern slides.
I grew aware of her, waiting. I said, in a fretful way,
'He won't want to stand. It's rough, when you stand. You only stand when you haven't a place to lie in or must be quick. A gentleman would embrace his wife on a couch, or a bed. A bed would be best.'
A bed,' she said, 'like this?'
'Perhaps like this.— Though the feathers, I think, would be devils to shake back into shape, when you've finished!'
I laughed; but the laugh came out too loud. Maud flinched. Then she seemed to frown.
'Finished . . .' she murmured, as if puzzling over the word. Then, 'Finished what?' she said. 'The embrace?'
'Finished it,' I said.
'But do you mean, the embrace?'
' F i n i s h e d i t . ' I t u r n e d , t h e n t u r n e d a g a i n . ' H o w d a r k i t i s ! W h e r e i s t h e light?— Finished it. Can I be plainer?'
'I think you could be, Sue. You talk instead of beds, of feathers. What are they to me?
You talk of it. What's it?'
'It is what follows,' I said, 'from kissing, from embracing on a bed. It is the actual thing. The kissing only starts you off. Then it comes over you, like— like wanting to dance, to a time, to music. Have you never— ?'
'Never what?'
'Never mind,' I said. I still moved, restlessly. 'You must not mind. It will be easy. Like dancing is.'
'But dancing is not easy,' she said, pressing on. 'One must be taught to dance. You taught me.'
'This is different.'
'Why is it?'
'There are lots of ways to dance. You can only do this, one way. The way will come to you, when once you have begun.'
I felt her shake her head. 'I don't think,' she said miserably, 'it will come to me. I don't think that kisses can start me off. Mr Rivers's kisses never have. Perhaps— perhaps my mouth lacks a certain necessary muscle or nerve— ?'
I said, 'For God's sake, miss. Are you a girl, or a surgeon? Of course your mouth will work. Look here.' She had fired me up. She had wound me tight, like a spring. I rose from my pillow. 'Where are your lips?' I said.