found myself flinching.
I said next, ‘You have been here a year, I think?—You may stop your knitting while you talk to me, you know: Miss Haxby has allowed it.’ She let the wool fall, but still gently teased it. ‘You have been here a year. What do you make of it?’
‘What do I make of it?’ The tilt to her lips grew steeper. She gazed about her for a second, and then she said: ‘What would you make of it, do you think?’
The question took me by surprise—it surprises me again, when I think of it now!—and made me hesitate. I remembered my interview with Miss Haxby. I said that I should find Millbank a very hard place, but I should also know I had done wrong. I might be glad to be so much alone, to think on how sorry I was. I might make plans.
Plans?
‘To be better.’
She looked away, and made no answer; and I found that I was rather glad of it, for my words had sounded hollow, even to my own ears. A few dull gold curls showed at the nape of her neck—her hair, I think, must be paler even than Helen’s, and would be very handsome if properly washed and dressed. The patch of sun grew bright again, yet still inched on its remorseless way, like a counterpane sliding from a chill and troubled sleeper. I saw her feel its warmth upon her face and raise her head to it. I said, ‘Won’t you talk a little to me? You might find it a comfort.’
She did not answer until the square of sun had faded. Then she turned, and studied me a moment in silence, then said, that she didn’t need me to comfort her. She said she had ‘her own comforts’ there. Besides, why should she tell me anything? What would I ever tell her, about my life?
She had tried to make her voice hard, but had not managed it, it had begun to tremble; and the effect was not of insolence but of bravado and, behind it, plain despair. I thought, If I were to be gentle with you now, you would weep—I did not want to have her weep before me. I made my own voice very brisk. I said, Well, there was a variety of things I was forbidden, by Miss Haxby, to discuss with her; but so far as I knew, myself was not one of them. I would tell her any little detail she cared to hear . . .
I told her my name; and that I lived at Chelsea, at Cheyne Walk. I said, I had a brother that was married, and a sister who would be married very soon; that I was not married. I told her I sleep badly, and spend many hours reading, or writing, or standing at my window looking out upon the river. Then I pretended to consider. What else was there?—‘I think you have it all. There is not much . . .’
She had been blinking at me. Now, at last, she turned her face away and smiled. Her teeth are even, and very white—‘parsnip white’, as Michelangelo has it; but her lips are rough and bitten. She began to talk with me, then, more naturally. She asked me, how long had I been a Lady Visitor? And, why did I want to do it? Why did I want to come to Millbank, when I might stay idle in my house at Chelsea . . .?
I said, ‘You think ladies should stay idle, then?’
She would stay idle, she said, if she was like me.
‘Oh,’ I said then, ‘you would not, not if you were really like me!’
My words made her blink: they had sounded louder than I meant them. She had let her knitting fall at last, and sat carefully watching me; and I wished, then, that she would turn her head, for her gaze was very still and somehow unsettling. I said, the truth of it was, idleness did not suit me. I had been idle for two years—so idle, indeed, that I had grown ‘quite ill’ with it. ‘It was Mr Shillitoe suggested I come here,’ I said. ‘He is an old friend of my father’s. He came to visit at my house, and spoke of Millbank. He spoke of the system here, of Lady Visitors. I thought—’
What had I thought? With her eyes upon me I did not know. I looked away from her, but still felt her watching. And then she said, quite evenly, ‘You have come to Millbank, to look on women more
I said next, ‘You have been here a year, I think?—You may stop your knitting while you talk to me, you know: Miss Haxby has allowed it.’ She let the wool fall, but still gently teased it. ‘You have been here a year. What do you make of it?’
‘What do I make of it?’ The tilt to her lips grew steeper. She gazed about her for a second, and then she said: ‘What would you make of it, do you think?’
The question took me by surprise—it surprises me again, when I think of it now!—and made me hesitate. I remembered my interview with Miss Haxby. I said that I should find Millbank a very hard place, but I should also know I had done wrong. I might be glad to be so much alone, to think on how sorry I was. I might make plans.
Plans?
‘To be better.’
She looked away, and made no answer; and I found that I was rather glad of it, for my words had sounded hollow, even to my own ears. A few dull gold curls showed at the nape of her neck—her hair, I think, must be paler even than Helen’s, and would be very handsome if properly washed and dressed. The patch of sun grew bright again, yet still inched on its remorseless way, like a counterpane sliding from a chill and troubled sleeper. I saw her feel its warmth upon her face and raise her head to it. I said, ‘Won’t you talk a little to me? You might find it a comfort.’
She did not answer until the square of sun had faded. Then she turned, and studied me a moment in silence, then said, that she didn’t need me to comfort her. She said she had ‘her own comforts’ there. Besides, why should she tell me anything? What would I ever tell her, about my life?
She had tried to make her voice hard, but had not managed it, it had begun to tremble; and the effect was not of insolence but of bravado and, behind it, plain despair. I thought, If I were to be gentle with you now, you would weep—I did not want to have her weep before me. I made my own voice very brisk. I said, Well, there was a variety of things I was forbidden, by Miss Haxby, to discuss with her; but so far as I knew, myself was not one of them. I would tell her any little detail she cared to hear . . .
I told her my name; and that I lived at Chelsea, at Cheyne Walk. I said, I had a brother that was married, and a sister who would be married very soon; that I was not married. I told her I sleep badly, and spend many hours reading, or writing, or standing at my window looking out upon the river. Then I pretended to consider. What else was there?—‘I think you have it all. There is not much . . .’
She had been blinking at me. Now, at last, she turned her face away and smiled. Her teeth are even, and very white—‘parsnip white’, as Michelangelo has it; but her lips are rough and bitten. She began to talk with me, then, more naturally. She asked me, how long had I been a Lady Visitor? And, why did I want to do it? Why did I want to come to Millbank, when I might stay idle in my house at Chelsea . . .?
I said, ‘You think ladies should stay idle, then?’
She would stay idle, she said, if she was like me.
‘Oh,’ I said then, ‘you would not, not if you were really like me!’
My words made her blink: they had sounded louder than I meant them. She had let her knitting fall at last, and sat carefully watching me; and I wished, then, that she would turn her head, for her gaze was very still and somehow unsettling. I said, the truth of it was, idleness did not suit me. I had been idle for two years—so idle, indeed, that I had grown ‘quite ill’ with it. ‘It was Mr Shillitoe suggested I come here,’ I said. ‘He is an old friend of my father’s. He came to visit at my house, and spoke of Millbank. He spoke of the system here, of Lady Visitors. I thought—’
What had I thought? With her eyes upon me I did not know. I looked away from her, but still felt her watching. And then she said, quite evenly, ‘You have come to Millbank, to look on women more
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