The air is warm and foul. In the privy it is warmer, and fouler. But I step inside and close the door and bolt it; then look about me. There is a little window, no bigger than my head, its broken pane stopped up with rag. There are spiders, and flies. The privy seat is cracked and smeared. I stand and think, perhaps for a minute. ‘All right?’ calls Dainty. I do not answer. The floor is earth, stamped hard. The walls are powdery white. From a wire hang strips of news-print. LADIES’ AND GENTLEMEN’S CAST-OFF CLOTHING, IN GOOD OR INFERIOR CONDITION, WANTED FOR—WELSH MUTTON & NEW-LAID EGGS—
Think, Maud.
I turn to face the door, put my mouth to a gap in the wood.
‘Dainty,’ I say quietly.
‘What is it?’
‘Dainty, I am not well. You must fetch me something.’
‘What?’ She tries the door. ‘Come out, miss.’
‘I can’t. I daren’t. Dainty, you must go to the drawer, in the chest in my room upstairs. Will you? There is something there. Will you? Oh, I wish you would hurry! Oh, how it rushes! I am afraid of the men coming back—’
‘Oh,’ she says, understanding me at last. She drops her voice. ‘Caught you out, has it?’
‘Will you go for me, Dainty?’
‘But I’m not to leave you, miss!’
‘I must keep here, then, until Mrs Sucksby comes! But say that John, or Mr Ibbs, should come first! Or say I swoon? And the door is bolted! What will Mrs Sucksby think of us, then?’
‘Oh, Lord,’ she mutters. And then: ‘In the chest of drawers, you say?’
‘The top-most drawer, on the right. Will you hurry? If I might just make myself neat, and then lie down. I always take it so badly—’
‘All right.’
‘Be quick!’
‘All right!’
Her voice is fading. I press my ear to the wood, hear her feet, the opening and swinging back of the kitchen door.—I slide the bolt and run. I run out of the passage and into the court—I remember this, I remember the nettles, the bricks. Which way from here? There are high walls all about me. But I run further, and the walls give way. There’s a dusty path—it was slick with mud, when I came down it before; but I see it, and know it—I know it!—it leads to an alley and this, in turn, leads to another path, which crosses a street and leads me—where? To a road I do not recognise, that runs under the arches of a bridge. I recall the bridge, but remember it nearer, lower. I recall a high, dead wall. There is no wall here.
No matter. Keep going. Keep the house at your back, and run. Take wider roads now: the lanes and alleys twist, and are dark, you must not get caught in them. Run, run. No matter that the sky seems vast and awful to you. No matter that London is loud. No matter that there are people here—no matter that they stare—no matter that their clothes are worn and faded, and your gown bright; 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 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. 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, 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.’
‘Let go of me.’
‘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?’
‘Well, he’ll like you better, I think, when you have washed your hands and changed your stockings and taken a tea. Or else—who knows?—when you have done those things you may find you like me better.—Hmm?’
His face is still kind, he still smiles; but he takes my wrist and moves his thumb across it, and tries, again, to hand me into the coach. We struggle properly, now. No-one tries to intervene. From the other vehicles in the road I suppose we are quite hidden. The men and women passing upon the bridge look once, then turn their heads.
There is the driver, however. I call to him. ‘Can’t you see?’ I call. ‘There’s been a mistake here. This man is insulting me.’—The man lets me go, then. I move further about the coach, still calling up. ‘Will you take me? Will you take me, alone? I shall find someone to pay you, I give you my word, when we arrive.’
The driver looks me over blankly as I speak. When he learns I have no money, he turns his head and spits.
‘No fare, no passage,’ he says.
The man has come close again. ‘Come on,’ he says—not smiling, now. ‘There’s no need for this. What are you playing at? It’s clear you’re in some sort of fix. Shouldn’t you like the stockings, the tea?’
But I still call up to the driver. ‘Will you tell me, then,’ I say, ‘which way I must walk? I must reach Holywell Street. Will you tell me, which way I must take, for there?’
He hears the name and snorts—in scorn, or laughter, I cannot tell. But he raises his whip. ‘That way,’ he says, gesturing over the bridge; ‘then westwards, by Fleet Street.’
‘Thank you.’ I begin to walk. The man reaches for me. ‘Let go of me,’ I say.
‘You don’t mean it.’
‘Let go!’
I almost shriek it. He falls back. ‘Go on, then!’ he says. ‘You damn little teaser.’
I walk, as quickly as I can. I almost run. But then, after a moment, the cab comes beside me and slows to match my pace. The gentleman looks out. His face has changed again.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, coaxingly. ‘Come up. I’m sorry. Will you come? I’ll take you to your friend, I swear it. Look here. Look here.’ He shows me a coin. ‘I’ll give you this. Come up. You mustn’t go to Holywell Street, they are bad men there—not at all like me. Come now, I know you’re a lady. Come, I’ll be kind . . .’
So he calls and murmurs, half the length of the bridge; until finally a line of waggons forms behind the crawling cab, and the driver shouts that he must go on. Then the man draws back, puts up his window with a bang; the cab pulls away. I let out my breath. I have begun to shake. I should like to stop, to rest; I dare not, now. I leave the bridge: here the road meets another, more busy than those on the southern shore; but more anonymous too, I think. I am grateful for that, though the crowds—the crowds are terrible. Never mind, never mind, push through them. Go on. Westwards, as the driver directed.
Now the street changes again. It is lined with houses with bulging windows—shops, I understand them to be, at last: for there are goods on show, marked up with prices on cards. There are breads, there are medicines. There are gloves. There are shoes and hats.—Oh, for a little money! I think of the coin the gentleman offered, from the window of the coach: should I have seized it, and run? Too late to wonder it now. No matter. Go on. Here is a church, parting the road like the column of a bridge parts water. Which side ought I to take? A woman passes, bare-headed like me: I catch her arm, ask her the way. She points it out and then, like everyone else, stands staring as I take it.
But here is Holywell Street at last!—Only, now I hesitate. How have I imagined it? Not like this, perhaps—not so narrow, so crooked, so dark. The London day is still hot, still bright; in turning into Holywell Street, however, I seem to step into twilight. But the twilight is good, after all: it hides my face, and robs my gown of its colours. I walk further. The way grows narrower. The ground is dusty, broken, unpaved. There are shops, lit up, on either side of me: some with lines of tattered clothes hung before them, some with broken chairs and empty picture-frames and coloured glasses spilling from them, in heaps; the most, however, selling books. I hesitate again, when I see that. I have not handled a book since I left Briar; and now, to come so suddenly upon them, in such numbers; to see them laid, face-up, like loaves in trays, or piled, haphazardly, in baskets; to see them torn, and foxed, and bleached—marked up 2d., 3d., THIS BOX 1s.—quite unnerves me. I stop, and watch as a man picks idly through a box of coverless volumes and takes one up. The Mousetrap of Love.—I know it, I have read that title so many times to my uncle I know it almost by heart!
Then the man lifts his head and finds me watching; and I walk on. More shops, more books, more men; and finally a window, a little brighter than the rest. The display is of prints, hung up on strings. The glass has Mr Hawtrey’s name upon it, in letters of flaking gold. I see it, and shake so hard I almost stumble.
Inside, the shop is small and cramped. I have not expected that. The walls are all given over to books and prints, and there are cabinets, besides. Three or four men stand at them, each leafing rapidly and intently through some album or book: they don’t look up when the door is opened; but when I take a step and my skirts give a rustle, they all turn their heads, see me, and openly stare. But I am used to stares, by now. At the rear of the shop is a little writing-table, with a youth sitting at it, dressed in a waistcoat and sleeves. He stares, as they do—then, when he sees me advancing, gets up.
‘What are you looking for?’ he says.
I swallow. My mouth is dry.
I say, quietly, ‘I’m looking for Mr Hawtrey. I wish
to speak with Mr Hawtrey.’
He hears my voice, and blinks; the customers shift a little, and look me over again. ‘Mr Hawtrey,’ he says, his tone a little changed. ‘Mr Hawtrey doesn’t work in the shop. You oughtn’t to have come to the shop. Have you got an appointment?’
‘Mr Hawtrey knows me,’ I say. ‘I don’t need an appointment.’
He glances at the customers. He says, ‘What’s your business with him?’
‘It’s private,’ I say. ‘Will you take me to him? Will you bring him to me?’
There must be something to my look, however, or my voice. He grows more guarded, steps back.
‘I’m not sure, after all, if he’s in,’ he says. ‘Really, you oughtn’t to have come to the shop. The shop is for selling books and prints—do you know what kind? Mr Hawtrey’s rooms are upstairs.’
There’s a door, at his back. ‘Will you let me go to him?’ I say.
He shakes his head. ‘You may send up a card, something like that.’
‘I don’t have a card,’ I say. ‘But give me a paper, and I’ll write him out my name. He’ll come, when he reads it. Will you give me a paper?’
He does not move. He says again, ‘I don’t believe he’s in the house.’
‘Then I’ll wait, if I must,’ I say.
‘You cannot wait here!’
‘Then I think,’ I answer, ‘you must have an office, some room like that; and I will wait there.’
He looks again at the customers; picks up a pencil and puts it down.
‘If you will?’ I say.
He makes a face. Then he finds me a slip of paper and a pen. ‘But you shan’t,’ he says, ‘be able to wait, if it turns out he’s not in.’ I nod. ‘Put your name on there,’ he says, pointing.
I begin to write. Then I remember what Richard told me once—how the booksellers speak of me, in the shops of London. I am afraid to write, Maud Lilly. I am afraid the youth will see. At last—remembering something else—I put this: Galatea.
I fold it, and hand it to him. He opens the door, whistles into the passage beyond. He listens, then whistles again. There come footsteps. He leans and murmurs, gestures to me. I wait.