hard says, ''Maud, look at me. Don''t think, now, of your uncle and your uncle''s house. Don''t think of that woman, Marianne.''
''I shall think of her,'' I answer, ''I shall think of her as I always have: as a fool! But, my father— You said, a gentleman? They have made me out an orphan, all these years. Does my father still live? Did he never—?''
''Maud, Maud,'' he says, sighing, moving back to his place at the door. ''Look about you. Think how you came here. Do you suppose I snatched you from Briar, did the deed I did this morning—ran the risks I have run—so that you might learn family secrets, no more than that?''
''I don''t know!'' I say. ''What do I know, now? If you will only give me a little time, to think in. If you will only tell me—''
But Mrs Sucksby has come to me, and lightly touches my arm.
''Wait up, dear girl,'' she says, very gently. She puts a finger to her lip, half closes one eye. ''Wait up, and listen. You ain''t heard all my story. The better part''s to come. For there''s the lady, you remember, that''s been made rags of. There''s the father and the brother and the bully, due in one hour''s time. There''s the baby, and me saying, "What''ll we name her? What about your own name, Marianne?", and the lady saying as how she''d sooner curse her, than call her that. You remember, my dear? "As for being the daughter of a lady," says the poor girl next, "you tell me this: what does being a lady do for you, except let you be ruined? I want her named plain," she says, "like a girl of the people. I want her named plain." "You name her plain, then," I say—still meaning, as it were, to humour her. "I will," she says. "I will. There was a servant that was kind to me once—kinder than ever my father or my brother was. I want her named for her. I shall call her for her. I shall call her—''"