Madame was left alone in her comfortable chair, studying details ofthe room and making accounts in her own mind, until the actualfuneral guests began to arrive. And then she had the satisfaction ofsizing them up. Several arrived with wreaths. The coffin had beencarried down and laid in the small sitting-room--Mrs. Houghton'ssitting-room. It was covered with white wreaths and streamers ofpurple ribbon. There was a crush and a confusion.
And then at last the hearse and the cabs had arrived--the coffin wascarried out--Alvina followed, on the arm of her father's cousin,whom she disliked. Miss Pinnegar marshalled the other mourners. Itwas a wretched business.
But it was a great funeral. There were nine cabs, besides thehearse--Woodhouse had revived its ancient respect for the house ofHoughton. A posse of minor tradesmen followed the cabs--all in blackand with black gloves. The richer tradesmen sat in the cabs.
Poor Alvina, this was the only day in all her life when she was thecentre of public attention. For once, every eye was upon her, everymind was thinking about her. Poor Alvina! said every member of theWoodhouse "middle class": Poor Alvina Houghton, said every collier'swife. Poor thing, left alone--and hardly a penny to bless herselfwith. Lucky if she's not left with a pile of debts. James Houghtonran through some money in his day. Ay, if she had her rights she'dbe a rich woman. Why, her mother brought three or four thousandswith her. Ay, but James sank it all in Throttle-Ha'penny andKlondyke and the Endeavour. Well, he was his own worst enemy. Hepaid his way. I'm not so sure about that. Look how he served hiswife, and now Alvina. I'm not so sure he was his own worst enemy. Hewas bad enough enemy to his own flesh and blood. Ah well, he'llspend no more money, anyhow. No, he went sudden, didn't he? But hewas getting very frail, if you noticed. Oh yes, why he fair seemedto totter down to Lumley. Do you reckon as that place pays its way?What, the Endeavour?--they say it does. They say it makes a nicebit. Well, it's mostly pretty full. Ay, it is. Perhaps it won't benow Mr. Houghton's gone. Perhaps not. I wonder if he _will_ leavemuch. I'm sure he won't. Everything he's got's mortgaged up to thehilt. He'll leave debts, you see if he doesn't. What is she going todo then? She'll have to go out of Manchester House--her and MissPinnegar. Wonder what she'll do. Perhaps she'll take up thatnursing. She never made much of that, did she--and spent a sight ofmoney on her training, they say. She's a bit like her father in thebusiness line--all flukes. Pity some nice young man doesn't turn upand marry her. I don't know, she doesn't seem to hook on, does she?Why she's never had a proper boy. They make out she was engagedonce. Ay, but nobody ever saw him, and it was off as soon as it wason. Can you remember she went with Albert Witham for a bit. Did she?No, I never knew. When was that? Why, when he was at Oxford, youknow, learning for his head master's place. Why didn't she marry himthen? Perhaps he never asked her. Ay, there's that to it. She'd havelooked down her nose at him, times gone by. Ay, but that's all over,my boy. She'd snap at anybody now. Look how she carries on with thatmanager. Why, _that's_ something awful. Haven't you ever watched herin the Cinema? She never lets him alone. And it's anybody alike. Oh,she doesn't respect herself. I don't consider. No girl who respectedherself would go on as she does, throwing herself at every feller'shead. Does she, though? Ay, any performer or anybody. She's a tidyage, though. She's not much chance of getting off. How old do youreckon she is? Must be well over thirty. You never say. Well, she_looks_ it. She does beguy--a dragged old maid. Oh but shesprightles up a bit sometimes. Ay, when she thinks she's hooked onto somebody. I wonder why she never did take? It's funny. Oh, shewas too high and mighty before, and now it's too late. Nobody wantsher. And she's got no relations to go to either, has she? No, that'sher father's cousin who she's walking with. Look, they're coming.He's a fine-looking man, isn't he? You'd have thought they'd haveburied Miss Frost beside Mrs. Houghton. You would, wouldn't you? Ishould think Alvina will lie by Miss Frost. They say the grave wasmade for both of them. Ay, she was a lot more of a mother to herthan her own mother. She _was_ good to them, Miss Frost was. Alvinathought the world of her. That's her stone--look, down there. Not avery grand one, considering. No, it isn't. Look, there's room forAlvina's name underneath. Sh!--
Alvina had sat back in the cab and watched from her obscurity themany faces on the street: so familiar, so familiar, familiar as herown face. And now she seemed to see them from a great distance, outof her darkness. Her big cousin sat opposite her--how she dislikedhis presence.
In chapel she cried, thinking of her mother, and Miss Frost, and herfather. She felt so desolate--it all seemed so empty. Bitterly shecried, when she bent down during the prayer. And her crying startedMiss Pinnegar, who cried almost as bitterly. It was all ratherhorrible. The afterwards--the horrible afterwards.
There was the slow progress to the cemetery. It was a dull, coldday. Alvina shivered as she stood on the bleak hillside, by the opengrave. Her coat did not seem warm enough, her old black seal-skinfurs were not much protection. The minister stood on the plank bythe grave, and she stood near, watching the white flowers blowing inthe cold wind. She had watched them for her mother--and for MissFrost. She felt a sudden clinging to Miss Pinnegar. Yet they wouldhave to part. Miss Pinnegar had been so fond of her father, in aquaint, reserved way. Poor Miss Pinnegar, that was all life hadoffered her. Well, after all, it had been a home and a home life. Towhich home and home life Alvina now clung with a desperate yearning,knowing inevitably she was going to lose it, now her father wasgone. Strange, that he was gone. But he was weary, worn very thinand weary. He had lived his day. How different it all was, now, athis death, from the time when Alvina knew him as a little child andthought him such a fine gentleman. You live and learn and lose.
For one moment she looked at Madame, who was shuddering with cold,her face hidden behind her black spotted veil. But Madame seemedimmensely remote: so unreal. And Ciccio--what was his name? Shecould not think of it. What was it? She tried to think of Madame'sslow enunciation. Marasca--maraschino. Marasca! Maraschino! What wasmaraschino? Where had she heard it. Cudgelling her brains, sheremembered the doctors, and the suppers after the theatre. Andmaraschino--why, that was the favourite white liqueur of theinnocent Dr. Young. She could remember even now the way he seemed tosmack his lips, saying the word _maraschino_. Yet she didn't thinkmuch of it. Hot, bitterish stuff--nothing: not like greenChartreuse, which Dr. James gave her. Maraschino! Yes, that was it.Made from cherries. Well, Ciccio's name was nearly the same.Ridiculous! But she supposed Italian words were a good deal alike.
Ciccio, the marasca, the bitter cherry, was standing on the edge ofthe crowd, looking on. He had no connection whatever with theproceedings--stood outside, self-conscious, uncomfortable, bitten bythe wind, and hating the people who stared at him. He saw the trim,plump figure of Madame, like some trim plump partridge among a flockof barn-yard fowls. And he depended on her presence. Without her, hewould have felt too horribly uncomfortable on that raw hillside. Sheand he were in some way allied. But these others, how alien anduncouth he felt them. Impressed by their fine clothes, the Englishworking-classes were none the less barbarians to him, uncivilized:just as he was to them an uncivilized animal. Uncouth, they seemedto him, all raw angles and harshness, like their own weather. Notthat he thought about them. But he felt it in his flesh, theharshness and discomfort of them. And Alvina was one of them. As shestood there by the grave, pale and pinched and reserved looking, shewas of a piece with the hideous cold grey discomfort of the wholescene. Never had anything been more uncongenial to him. He was dyingto get away--to clear out. That was all he wanted. Only somesouthern obstinacy made him watch, from the duskiness of his face,the pale, reserved girl at the grave. Perhaps he even disliked her,at that time. But he watched in his dislike.
When the ceremony was over, and the mourners turned away to go backto the cabs, Madame pressed forward to Alvina.
"I shall say good-bye now, Miss Houghton. We must go to the stationfor the train. And thank you, thank you. Good-bye."
"But--" Alvina looked round.
"Ciccio is there. I see
him. We must catch the train."
"Oh but--won't you drive? Won't you ask Ciccio to drive with you inthe cab? Where is he?"
Madame pointed him out as he hung back among the graves, his blackhat cocked a little on one side. He was watching. Alvina broke awayfrom her cousin, and went to him.
"Madame is going to drive to the station," she said. "She wants youto get in with her."
He looked round at the cabs.
"All right," he said, and he picked his way across the graves toMadame, following Alvina.
"So, we go together in the cab," said Madame to him. Then:"Good-bye, my dear Miss Houghton. Perhaps we shall meet once more.Who knows? My heart is with you, my dear." She put her arms roundAlvina and kissed her, a little theatrically. The cousin looked on,very much aloof. Ciccio stood by.
"Come then, Ciccio," said Madame.
"Good-bye," said Alvina to him. "You'll come again, won't you?" Shelooked at him from her strained, pale face.
"All right," he said, shaking her hand loosely. It soundedhopelessly indefinite.
"You will come, won't you?" she repeated, staring at him withstrained, unseeing blue eyes.
"All right," he said, ducking and turning away.
She stood quite still for a moment, quite lost. Then she went onwith her cousin to her cab, home to the funeral tea.
"Good-bye!" Madame fluttered a black-edged handkerchief. But Ciccio,most uncomfortable in his four-wheeler, kept hidden.
The funeral tea, with its baked meats and sweets, was a terribleaffair. But it came to an end, as everything comes to an end, andMiss Pinnegar and Alvina were left alone in the emptiness ofManchester House.
"If you weren't here, Miss Pinnegar, I should be quite by myself,"said Alvina, blanched and strained.
"Yes. And so should I without you," said Miss Pinnegar doggedly.They looked at each other. And that night both slept in MissPinnegar's bed, out of sheer terror of the empty house.
During the days following the funeral, no one could have been moretiresome than Alvina. James had left everything to his daughter,excepting some rights in the work-shop, which were Miss Pinnegar's.But the question was, how much did "everything" amount to? Therewas something less than a hundred pounds in the bank. There was amortgage on Manchester House. There were substantial bills owing onaccount of the Endeavour. Alvina had about a hundred pounds leftfrom the insurance money, when all funeral expenses were paid. Ofthat she was sure, and of nothing else.
For the rest, she was almost driven mad by people coming to talk toher. The lawyer came, the clergyman came, her cousin came, the old,stout, prosperous tradesmen of Woodhouse came, Mr. May came, MissPinnegar came. And they all had schemes, and they all had advice.The chief plan was that the theatre should be sold up: and thatManchester House should be sold, reserving a lease on the top floor,where Miss Pinnegar's work-rooms were: that Miss Pinnegar and Alvinashould move into a small house, Miss Pinnegar keeping the work-room,Alvina giving music-lessons: that the two women should be partnersin the work-shop.
There were other plans, of course. There was a faction against thechapel faction, which favoured the plan sketched out above. Thetheatre faction, including Mr. May and some of the more floridtradesmen, favoured the risking of everything in the Endeavour.Alvina was to be the proprietress of the Endeavour, she was to runit on some sort of successful lines, and abandon all otherenterprise. Minor plans included the election of Alvina to the postof parish nurse, at six pounds a month: a small private school; asmall haberdashery shop; and a position in the office of hercousin's Knarborough business. To one and all Alvina answered with atantalizing: "I don't know what I'm going to do. I don't know. Ican't say yet. I shall see. I shall see." Till one and all becameangry with her. They were all so benevolent, and all so sure thatthey were proposing the very best thing she could do. And they wereall nettled, even indignant that she did not jump at theirproposals. She listened to them all. She even invited their advice.Continually she said: "Well, what do _you_ think of it?" And sherepeated the chapel plan to the theatre group, the theatre plan tothe chapel party, the nursing to the pianoforte proposers, thehaberdashery shop to the private school advocates. "Tell me what_you_ think," she said repeatedly. And they all told her theythought _their_ plan was best. And bit by bit she told everyadvocate the proposal of every other advocate "Well, Lawyer Beebythinks--" and "Well now, Mr. Clay, the minister, advises--" and soon and so on, till it was all buzzing through thirty benevolent andofficious heads. And thirty benevolently-officious wills werestriving to plant each one its own particular scheme of benevolence.And Alvina, naive and pathetic, egged them all on in their strife,without even knowing what she was doing. One thing only was certain.Some obstinate will in her own self absolutely refused to have hermind made up. She would _not_ have her mind made up for her, and shewould not make it up for herself. And so everybody began to say "I'mgetting tired of her. You talk to her, and you get no forrarder. Sheslips off to something else. I'm not going to bother with her anymore." In truth, Woodhouse was in a fever, for three weeks or more,arranging Alvina's unarrangeable future for her. Offers of charitywere innumerable--for three weeks.
Meanwhile, the lawyer went on with the proving of the will and thedrawing up of a final account of James's property; Mr. May went onwith the Endeavour, though Alvina did not go down to play; MissPinnegar went on with the work-girls: and Alvina went on unmakingher mind.
Ciccio did not come during the first week. Alvina had a post-cardfrom Madame, from Cheshire: rather far off. But such was the buzzand excitement over her material future, such a fever was worked upround about her that Alvina, the petty-propertied heroine of themoment, was quite carried away in a storm of schemes and benevolentsuggestions. She answered Madame's post-card, but did not give muchthought to the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras. As a matter of fact, she wasenjoying a real moment of importance, there at the centre ofWoodhouse's rather domineering benevolence: a benevolence which sheunconsciously, but systematically frustrated. All this scheming forselling out and making reservations and hanging on and fixing pricesand getting private bids for Manchester House and for the Endeavour,the excitement of forming a Limited Company to run the Endeavour, ofseeing a lawyer about the sale of Manchester House and theauctioneer about the sale of the furniture, of receiving men whowanted to pick up the machines upstairs cheap, and of keepingeverything dangling, deciding nothing, putting everything off tillshe had seen somebody else, this for the moment fascinated her, wentto her head. It was not until the second week had passed that herexcitement began to merge into irritation, and not until the thirdweek had gone by that she began to feel herself entangled in anasphyxiating web of indecision, and her heart began to sing becauseCiccio had never turned up. Now she would have given anything to seethe Natcha-Kee-Tawaras again. But she did not know where they were.Now she began to loathe the excitement of her property: doubtfullyhers, every stick of it. Now she would give anything to get awayfrom Woodhouse, from the horrible buzz and entanglement of hersordid affairs. Now again her wild recklessness came over her.
She suddenly said she was going away somewhere: she would not saywhere. She cashed all the money she could: a hundred-and-twenty-fivepounds. She took the train to Cheshire, to the last address of theNatcha-Kee-Tawaras: she followed them to Stockport: and back toChinley: and there she was stuck for the night. Next day she dashedback almost to Woodhouse, and swerved round to Sheffield. There, inthat black town, thank heaven, she saw their announcement on thewall. She took a taxi to their theatre, and then on to theirlodgings. The first thing she saw was Louis, in his shirt sleeves,on the landing above.
She laughed with excitement and pleasure. She seemed another woman.Madame looked up, almost annoyed, when she entered.
"I couldn't keep away from you, Madame," she cried.
"Evidently," said Madame.
Madame was darning socks for the young men. She was a wonderfulmother for them, sewed for them, cooked for them, looked after themmost carefully. Not many minutes was Madame idle.
/> "Do you mind?" said Alvina.
Madame darned for some moments without answering.
"And how is everything at Woodhouse?" she asked.
"I couldn't bear it any longer. I couldn't bear it. So I collectedall the money I could, and ran away. Nobody knows where I am."
Madame looked up with bright, black, censorious eyes, at the flushedgirl opposite. Alvina had a certain strangeness and brightness,which Madame did not know, and a frankness which the Frenchwomanmistrusted, but found disarming.
"And all the business, the will and all?" said Madame.
"They're still fussing about it."
"And there is some money?"
"I have got a hundred pounds here," laughed Alvina. "What there willbe when everything is settled, I don't know. But not very much, I'msure of that."
"How much do you think? A thousand pounds?"
"Oh, it's just possible, you know. But it's just as likely therewon't be another penny--"
Madame nodded slowly, as always when she did her calculations.
"And if there is nothing, what do you intend?" said Madame.
"I don't know," said Alvina brightly.
"And if there is something?"
"I don't know either. But I thought, if you would let me play foryou, I could keep myself for some time with my own money. You saidperhaps I might be with the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras. I wish you would letme."
Madame bent her head so that nothing showed but the bright blackfolds of her hair. Then she looked up, with a slow, subtle, ratherjeering smile.
"Ciccio didn't come to see you, hein?"
"No," said Alvina. "Yet he promised."
Again Madame smiled sardonically.
"Do you call it a promise?" she said. "You are easy to be satisfiedwith a word. A hundred pounds? No more?"
"A hundred and twenty--"
"Where is it?"
"In my bag at the station--in notes. And I've got a little here--"Alvina opened her purse, and took out some little gold and silver.
"At the station!" exclaimed Madame, smiling grimly. "Then perhapsyou have nothing."
"Oh, I think it's quite safe, don't you--?"
"Yes--maybe--since it is England. And you think a hundred and twentypounds is enough?"
"What for?"
"To satisfy Ciccio."
"I wasn't thinking of him," cried Alvina.
"No?" said Madame ironically. "I can propose it to him. Wait onemoment." She went to the door and called Ciccio.
He entered, looking not very good-tempered.
"Be so good, my dear," said Madame to him, "to go to the station andfetch Miss Houghton's little bag. You have got the ticket, haveyou?" Alvina handed the luggage ticket to Madame. "Midland Railway,"said Madame. "And, Ciccio, you are listening--? Mind! There is ahundred and twenty pounds of Miss Houghton's money in the bag. Youhear? Mind it is not lost."
"It's all I have," said Alvina.
"For the time, for the time--till the will is proved, it is all thecash she has. So mind doubly. You hear?"
"All right," said Ciccio.
"Tell him what sort of a bag, Miss Houghton," said Madame.
Alvina told him. He ducked and went. Madame listened for his finaldeparture. Then she nodded sagely at Alvina.
"Take off your hat and coat, my dear. Soon we will have tea--whenCic' returns. Let him think, let him think what he likes. So muchmoney is certain, perhaps there will be more. Let him think. It willmake all the difference that there is so much cash--yes, so much--"
"But would it _really_ make a difference to him?" cried Alvina.
"Oh my dear!" exclaimed Madame. "Why should it not? We are on earth,where we must eat. We are not in Paradise. If it were a thousandpounds, then he would want very badly to marry you. But a hundredand twenty is better than a blow to the eye, eh? Why sure!"
"It's dreadful, though--!" said Alvina.
"Oh la-la! Dreadful! If it was Max, who is sentimental, then no, themoney is nothing. But all the others--why, you see, they are men,and they know which side to butter their bread. Men are like cats,my dear, they don't like their bread without butter. Why shouldthey? Nor do I, nor do I."
"Can I help with the darning?" said Alvina.
"Hein? I shall give you Ciccio's socks, yes? He pushes holes in thetoes--you see?" Madame poked two fingers through the hole in thetoe of a red-and-black sock, and smiled a little maliciously atAlvina.
"I don't mind which sock I darn," she said.
"No? You don't? Well then, I give you another. But if you like Iwill speak to him--"
"What to say?" asked Alvina.
"To say that you have so much money, and hope to have more. And thatyou like him--Yes? Am I right? You like him very much?--hein? Is itso?"
"And then what?" said Alvina.
"That he should tell me if he should like to marry you also--quitesimply. What? Yes?"
"No," said Alvina. "Don't say anything--not yet."
"He? Not yet? Not yet. All right, not yet then. You will see--"
Alvina sat darning the sock and smiling at her own shamelessness.The point that amused her most of all was the fact that she was notby any means sure she wanted to marry him. There was Madame spinningher web like a plump prolific black spider. There was Ciccio, theunrestful fly. And there was herself, who didn't know in the leastwhat she was doing. There sat two of them, Madame and herself,darning socks in a stuffy little bedroom with a gas fire, as if theyhad been born to it. And after all, Woodhouse wasn't fifty milesaway.
Madame went downstairs to get tea ready. Wherever she was, shesuperintended the cooking and the preparation of meals for her youngmen, scrupulous and quick. She called Alvina downstairs. Ciccio camein with the bag.
"See, my dear, that your money is safe," said Madame.
Alvina unfastened her bag and counted the crisp white notes.
"And now," said Madame, "I shall lock it in my little bank, yes,where it will be safe. And I shall give you a receipt, which theyoung men will witness."
The party sat down to tea, in the stuffy sitting-room.
"Now, boys," said Madame, "what do you say? Shall Miss Houghton jointhe Natcha-Kee-Tawaras? Shall she be our pianist?"
The eyes of the four young men rested on Alvina. Max, as being theresponsible party, looked business-like. Louis was tender, Geoffreyround-eyed and inquisitive, Ciccio furtive.
"With great pleasure," said Max. "But can the Natcha-Kee-Tawarasafford to pay a pianist for themselves?"
"No," said Madame. "No. I think not. Miss Houghton will come for onemonth, to prove, and in that time she shall pay for herself. Yes? Soshe fancies it."
"Can we pay her expenses?" said Max.
"No," said Alvina. "Let me pay everything for myself, for a month. Ishould like to be with you, awfully--"
She looked across with a look half mischievous, half beseeching atthe erect Max. He bowed as he sat at table.
"I think we shall all be honoured," he said.
"Certainly," said Louis, bowing also over his tea-cup.
Geoffrey inclined his head, and Ciccio lowered his eyelashes inindication of agreement.
"Now then," said Madame briskly, "we are all agreed. Tonight we willhave a bottle of wine on it. Yes, gentlemen? What d'you say?Chianti--hein?"
They all bowed above the table.
"And Miss Houghton shall have her professional name, eh? Because wecannot say Miss Houghton--what?"
"Do call me Alvina," said Alvina.
"Alvina--Al-vy-na! No, excuse me, my dear, I don't like it. I don'tlike this 'vy' sound. Tonight we shall find a name."
After tea they inquired for a room for Alvina. There was none in thehouse. But two doors away was another decent lodging-house, where abedroom on the top floor was found for her.
"I think you are very well here," said Madame.
"Quite nice," said Alvina, looking round the hideous little room,and remembering her other term of probation, as a maternity nurse.
She dressed as attractively
as possible, in her new dress of blackvoile, and imitating Madame, she put four jewelled rings on herfingers. As a rule she only wore the mourning-ring of black enameland diamond, which had been always on Miss Frost's finger. Now sheleft off this, and took four diamond rings, and one good sapphire.She looked at herself in her mirror as she had never done before,really interested in the effect she made. And in her dress shepinned a valuable old ruby brooch.
Then she went down to Madame's house. Madame eyed her shrewdly, withjust a touch of jealousy: the eternal jealousy that must existbetween the plump, pale partridge of a Frenchwoman, whose black hairis so glossy and tidy, whose black eyes are so acute, whose blackdress is so neat and _chic_, and the rather thin Englishwoman insoft voile, with soft, rather loose brown hair and demure, blue-greyeyes.
"Oh--a difference--what a difference! When you have a little moreflesh--then--" Madame made a slight click with her tongue. "What agood brooch, eh?" Madame fingered the brooch. "Old paste--oldpaste--antique--"
"No," said Alvina. "They are real rubies. It was mygreat-grandmother's."
"Do you mean it? Real? Are you sure--"
"I think I'm quite sure."
Madame scrutinized the jewels with a fine eye.
"Hm!" she said. And Alvina did not know whether she was sceptical,or jealous, or admiring, or really impressed.
"And the diamonds are real?" said Madame, making Alvina hold up herhands.
"I've always understood so," said Alvina.
Madame scrutinized, and slowly nodded her head. Then she looked intoAlvina's eyes, really a little jealous.
"Another four thousand francs there," she said, nodding sagely.
"Really!" said Alvina.
"For sure. It's enough--it's enough--"
And there was a silence between the two women.
The young men had been out shopping for the supper. Louis, who knewwhere to find French and German stuff, came in with bundles, Ciccioreturned with a couple of flasks, Geoffrey with sundry moist papersof edibles. Alvina helped Madame to put the anchovies and sardinesand tunny and ham and salami on various plates, she broke off a bitof fern from one of the flower-pots, to stick in the pork-pie, sheset the table with its ugly knives and forks and glasses. All thetime her rings sparkled, her red brooch sent out beams, she laughedand was gay, she was quick, and she flattered Madame by being verydeferential to her. Whether she was herself or not, in the hideous,common, stuffy sitting-room of the lodging-house she did not know orcare. But she felt excited and gay. She knew the young men werewatching her. Max gave his assistance wherever possible. Geoffreywatched her rings, half spell-bound. But Alvina was concerned onlyto flatter the plump, white, soft vanity of Madame. She carefullychose for Madame the finest plate, the clearest glass, thewhitest-hafted knife, the most delicate fork. All of which Madamesaw, with acute eyes.
At the theatre the same: Alvina played for Kishwegin, only forKishwegin. And Madame had the time of her life.
"You know, my dear," she said afterward to Alvina, "I understandsympathy in music. Music goes straight to the heart." And she kissedAlvina on both cheeks, throwing her arms round her neckdramatically.
"I'm _so_ glad," said the wily Alvina.
And the young men stirred uneasily, and smiled furtively.
They hurried home to the famous supper. Madame sat at one end of thetable, Alvina at the other. Madame had Max and Louis by her side,Alvina had Ciccio and Geoffrey. Ciccio was on Alvina's right hand: adelicate hint.
They began with hors d'oeuvres and tumblers three parts full ofChianti. Alvina wanted to water her wine, but was not allowed toinsult the sacred liquid. There was a spirit of great liveliness andconviviality. Madame became paler, her eyes blacker, with the wineshe drank, her voice became a little raucous.
"Tonight," she said, "the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras make their feast ofaffiliation. The white daughter has entered the tribe of theHirondelles, swallows that pass from land to land, and build theirnests between roof and wall. A new swallow, a new Huron from thetents of the pale-face, from the lodges of the north, from the tribeof the Yenghees." Madame's black eyes glared with a kind of wildtriumph down the table at Alvina. "Nameless, without having a name,comes the maiden with the red jewels, dark-hearted, with the redbeams. Wine from the pale-face shadows, drunken wine for Kishwegin,strange wine for the _braves_ in their nostrils, Vaali, _a vous_."
Madame lifted her glass.
"Vaali, drink to her--Boire a elle--" She thrust her glass forwardsin the air. The young men thrust their glasses up towards Alvina, ina cluster. She could see their mouths all smiling, their teeth whiteas they cried in their throats: "Vaali! Vaali! Boire a vous."
Ciccio was near to her. Under the table he laid his hand on herknee. Quickly she put forward her hand to protect herself. He tookher hand, and looked at her along the glass as he drank. She saw histhroat move as the wine went down it. He put down his glass, stillwatching her.
"Vaali!" he said, in his throat. Then across the table "He,Gigi--Viale! Le Petit Chemin! Comment? Me prends-tu? L'allee--"
There came a great burst of laughter from Louis.
"It is good, it is good!" he cried. "Oh Madame! Viale, it is Italianfor the little way, the alley. That is too rich."
Max went off into a high and ribald laugh.
"L'allee italienne!" he said, and shouted with laughter.
"Alley or avenue, what does it matter," cried Madame in French, "solong as it is a good journey."
Here Geoffrey at last saw the joke. With a strange determinedflourish he filled his glass, cocking up his elbow.
"A toi, Cic'--et bon voyage!" he said, and then he tilted up hischin and swallowed in great throatfuls.
"Certainly! Certainly!" cried Madame. "To thy good journey, myCiccio, for thou art not a great traveller--"
"Na, pour _ca_, y'a plus d'une voie," said Geoffrey.
During this passage in French Alvina sat with very bright eyeslooking from one to another, and not understanding. But she knew itwas something improper, on her account. Her eyes had a bright,slightly-bewildered look as she turned from one face to another.Ciccio had let go her hand, and was wiping his lips with hisfingers. He too was a little self-conscious.
"Assez de cette eternelle voix italienne," said Madame. "Courage,courage au chemin d'Angleterre."
"Assez de cette eternelle voix rauque," said Ciccio, looking round.Madame suddenly pulled herself together.
"They will not have my name. They will call you Allay!" she said toAlvina. "Is it good? Will it do?"
"Quite," said Alvina.
And she could not understand why Gigi, and then the others afterhim, went off into a shout of laughter. She kept looking round withbright, puzzled eyes. Her face was slightly flushed and tenderlooking, she looked naive, young.
"Then you will become one of the tribe of Natcha-Kee-Tawara, of thename Allaye? Yes?"
"Yes," said Alvina.
"And obey the strict rules of the tribe. Do you agree?"
"Yes."
"Then listen." Madame primmed and preened herself like a blackpigeon, and darted glances out of her black eyes.
"We are one tribe, one nation--say it."
"We are one tribe, one nation," repeated Alvina.
"Say all," cried Madame.
"We are one tribe, one nation--" they shouted, with varying accent.
"Good!" said Madame. "And no nation do we know but the nation of theHirondelles--"
"No nation do we know but the nation of the Hirondelles," came theragged chant of strong male voices, resonant and gay with mockery.
"Hurons--Hirondelles, means _swallows_," said Madame.
"Yes, I know," said Alvina.
"So! you know! Well, then! We know no nation but the Hirondelles. WEHAVE NO LAW BUT HURON LAW!"
"We have no law but Huron law!" sang the response, in a deep,sardonic chant.
"WE HAVE NO LAWGIVER EXCEPT KISHWEGIN."
"We have no lawgiver except Kishwegin," they sang sonorous.
"WE HAVE NO
HOME BUT THE TENT OF KISHWEGIN."
"We have no home but the tent of Kishwegin."
"THERE IS NO GOOD BUT THE GOOD OF NATCHA-KEE-TAWARA."
"There is no good but the good of Natcha-Kee-Tawara."
"WE ARE THE HIRONDELLES."
"We are the Hirondelles."
"WE ARE KISHWEGIN."
"We are Kishwegin."
"WE ARE MONDAGUA."
"We are Mondagua--"
"WE ARE ATONQUOIS--"
"We are Atonquois--"
"WE ARE PACOHUILA--"
"We are Pacohuila--"
"WE ARE WALGATCHKA--"
"We are Walgatchka--"
"WE ARE ALLAYE--"
"We are Allaye--"
"La musica! Pacohuila, la musica!" cried Madame, starting to herfeet and sounding frenzied.
Ciccio got up quickly and took his mandoline from its case.
"A--A--Ai--Aii--eee--ya--" began Madame, with a long, faint wail.And on the wailing mandoline the music started. She began to dance aslight but intense dance. Then she waved for a partner, and set up atarantella wail. Louis threw off his coat and sprang to tarantellaattention, Ciccio rang out the peculiar tarantella, and Madame andLouis danced in the tight space.
"Brava--Brava!" cried the others, when Madame sank into her place.And they crowded forward to kiss her hand. One after the other, theykissed her fingers, whilst she laid her left hand languidly on thehead of one man after another, as she sat slightly panting. Cicciohowever did not come up, but sat faintly twanging the mandoline. Nordid Alvina leave her place.
"Pacohuila!" cried Madame, with an imperious gesture. "Allaye!Come--"
Ciccio laid down his mandoline and went to kiss the fingers ofKishwegin. Alvina also went forward. Madame held out her hand.Alvina kissed it. Madame laid her hand on the head of Alvina.
"This is the squaw Allaye, this is the daughter of Kishwegin," shesaid, in her Tawara manner.
"And where is the _brave_ of Allaye, where is the arm that upholdsthe daughter of Kishwegin, which of the Swallows spreads his wingsover the gentle head of the new one!"
"Pacohuila!" said Louis.
"Pacohuila! Pacohuila! Pacohuila!" said the others.
"Spread soft wings, spread dark-roofed wings, Pacohuila," saidKishwegin, and Ciccio, in his shirt-sleeves solemnly spread hisarms.
"Stoop, stoop, Allaye, beneath the wings of Pacohuila," saidKishwegin, faintly pressing Alvina on the shoulder.
Alvina stooped and crouched under the right arm of Pacohuila.
"Has the bird flown home?" chanted Kishwegin, to one of the strainsof their music.
"The bird is home--" chanted the men.
"Is the nest warm?" chanted Kishwegin.
"The nest is warm."
"Does the he-bird stoop--?"
"He stoops."
"Who takes Allaye?"
"Pacohuila."
Ciccio gently stooped and raised Alvina to her feet.
"C'est ca!" said Madame, kissing her. "And now, children, unless theSheffield policeman will knock at our door, we must retire to ourwigwams all--"
Ciccio was watching Alvina. Madame made him a secret, imperativegesture that he should accompany the young woman.
"You have your key, Allaye?" she said.
"Did I have a key?" said Alvina.
Madame smiled subtly as she produced a latch-key.
"Kishwegin must open your doors for you all," she said. Then, with aslight flourish, she presented the key to Ciccio. "I give it to him?Yes?" she added, with her subtle, malicious smile.
Ciccio, smiling slightly, and keeping his head ducked, took the key.Alvina looked brightly, as if bewildered, from one to another.
"Also the light!" said Madame, producing a pocket flash-light, whichshe triumphantly handed to Ciccio. Alvina watched him. She noticedhow he dropped his head forward from his straight, strong shoulders,how beautiful that was, the strong, forward-inclining nape and backof the head. It produced a kind of dazed submission in her, thedrugged sense of unknown beauty.
"And so good-night, Allaye--bonne nuit, fille des Tawara." Madamekissed her, and darted black, unaccountable looks at her.
Each _brave_ also kissed her hand, with a profound salute. Then themen shook hands warmly with Ciccio, murmuring to him.
He did not put on his hat nor his coat, but ran round as he was tothe neighbouring house with her, and opened the door. She entered,and he followed, flashing on the light. So she climbed weakly up thedusty, drab stairs, he following. When she came to her door, sheturned and looked at him. His face was scarcely visible, it seemed,and yet so strange and beautiful. It was the unknown beauty whichalmost killed her.
"You aren't coming?" she quavered.
He gave an odd, half-gay, half-mocking twitch of his thick darkbrows, and began to laugh silently. Then he nodded again, laughingat her boldly, carelessly, triumphantly, like the dark Southerner hewas. Her instinct was to defend herself. When suddenly she foundherself in the dark.
She gasped. And as she gasped, he quite gently put her inside herroom, and closed the door, keeping one arm round her all the time.She felt his heavy muscular predominance. So he took her in botharms, powerful, mysterious, horrible in the pitch dark. Yet thesense of the unknown beauty of him weighed her down like some force.If for one moment she could have escaped from that black spell ofhis beauty, she would have been free. But she could not. He wasawful to her, shameless so that she died under his shamelessness,his smiling, progressive shamelessness. Yet she could not see himugly. If only she could, for one second, have seen him ugly, hewould not have killed her and made her his slave as he did. But thespell was on her, of his darkness and unfathomed handsomeness. Andhe killed her. He simply took her and assassinated her. How shesuffered no one can tell. Yet all the time, his lustrous darkbeauty, unbearable.
When later she pressed her face on his chest and cried, he held hergently as if she was a child, but took no notice, and she felt inthe darkness that he smiled. It was utterly dark, and she knew hesmiled, and she began to get hysterical. But he only kissed her, hissmiling deepening to a heavy laughter, silent and invisible, butsensible, as he carried her away once more. He intended her to behis slave, she knew. And he seemed to throw her down and suffocateher like a wave. And she could have fought, if only the sense of hisdark, rich handsomeness had not numbed her like a venom. So she wassuffocated in his passion.
In the morning when it was light he turned and looked at her fromunder his long black lashes, a long, steady, cruel, faintly-smilinglook from his tawny eyes, searching her as if to see whether shewere still alive. And she looked back at him, heavy-eyed and halfsubjected. He smiled slightly at her, rose, and left her. And sheturned her face to the wall, feeling beaten. Yet not quite beatento death. Save for the fatal numbness of her love for him, she couldstill have escaped him. But she lay inert, as if envenomed. Hewanted to make her his slave.
When she went down to the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras for breakfast she foundthem waiting for her. She was rather frail and tender-looking, withwondering eyes that showed she had been crying.
"Come, daughter of the Tawaras," said Madame brightly to her. "Wehave been waiting for you. Good-morning, and all happiness, eh?Look, it is a gift-day for you--"
Madame smilingly led Alvina to her place. Beside her plate was abunch of violets, a bunch of carnations, a pair of exquisite beadmoccasins, and a pair of fine doeskin gloves delicately decoratedwith feather-work on the cuffs. The slippers were from Kishwegin,the gloves from Mondagua, the carnations from Atonquois, the violetsfrom Walgatchka--all _To the Daughter of the Tawaras, Allaye_, as itsaid on the little cards.
"The gift of Pacohuila you know," said Madame, smiling. "Thebrothers of Pacohuila are your brothers."
One by one they went to her and each one laid the back of herfingers against his forehead, saying in turn:
"I am your brother Mondagua, Allaye!"
"I am your brother Atonquois, Allaye!"
"I am your brother Walgatchka, Allaye, b
est brother, you know--" Sospoke Geoffrey, looking at her with large, almost solemn eyes ofaffection. Alvina smiled a little wanly, wondering where she was. Itwas all so solemn. Was it all mockery, play-acting? She feltbitterly inclined to cry.
Meanwhile Madame came in with the coffee, which she always madeherself, and the party sat down to breakfast. Ciccio sat on Alvina'sright, but he seemed to avoid looking at her or speaking to her. Allthe time he looked across the table, with the half-asserted, knowinglook in his eyes, at Gigi: and all the time he addressed himself toGigi, with the throaty, rich, plangent quality in his voice, thatAlvina could not bear, it seemed terrible to her: and he spoke inFrench: and the two men seemed to be exchanging unspeakablecommunications. So that Alvina, for all her wistfulness andsubjectedness, was at last seriously offended. She rose as soon aspossible from table. In her own heart she wanted attention andpublic recognition from Ciccio--none of which she got. She returnedto her own house, to her own room, anxious to tidy everything, notwishing to have her landlady in the room. And she half expectedCiccio to come to speak to her.
As she was busy washing a garment in the bowl, her landlady knockedand entered. She was a rough and rather beery-looking Yorkshirewoman, not attractive.
"Oh, yo'n made yer bed then, han' yer!"
"Yes," said Alvina. "I've done everything."
"I see yer han. Yo'n bin sharp."
Alvina did not answer.
"Seems yer doin' yersen a bit o' weshin'."
Still Alvina didn't answer.
"Yo' can 'ing it i' th' back yard."
"I think it'll dry here," said Alvina.
"Isna much dryin' up here. Send us howd when 't's ready. Yo'll'appen be wantin' it. I can dry it off for yer i' t' kitchen. Youdon't take a drop o' nothink, do yer?"
"No," said Alvina. "I don't like it."
"Summat a bit stronger 'n 't bottle, my sakes alive! Well, yo munha'e yer fling, like t' rest. But coom na, which on 'em is it? Icatched sight on 'im goin' out, but I didna ma'e out then which on'em it wor. He--eh, it's a pity you don't take a drop of nothink,it's a world's pity. Is it the fairest on 'em, the tallest."
"No," said Alvina. "The darkest one."
"Oh ay! Well, 's a strappin' anuff feller, for them as goes thatroad. I thought Madame was partikler. I s'll charge yer a bit more,yer know. I s'll 'ave to make a bit out of it. _I'm_ partikler as arule. I don't like 'em comin' in an' goin' out, you know. Things getsaid. You look so quiet, you do. Come now, it's worth a hextra quartto me, else I shan't have it, I shan't. You can't make as free asall that with the house, you know, be it what it may--"
She stood red-faced and dour in the doorway. Alvina quietly gave herhalf-a-sovereign.
"Nay, lass," said the woman, "if you share niver a drop o' th'lashins, you mun split it. Five shillin's is oceans, ma wench. I'mnot down on you--not me. On'y we've got to keep up appearances abit, you know. Dash my rags, it's a caution!"
"I haven't got five shillings--" said Alvina.
"Yer've not? All right, gi'e 's ha 'efcrown today, an' t'othertermorrer. It'll keep, it'll keep. God bless you for a good wench.A' open 'eart 's worth all your bum-righteousness. It is for me. An'a sight more. You're all right, ma wench, you're all right--"
And the rather bleary woman went nodding away.
Alvina ought to have minded. But she didn't. She even laughed intoher ricketty mirror. At the back of her thoughts, all she minded wasthat Ciccio did not pay her some attention. She really expected himnow to come to speak to her. If she could have imagined how far hewas from any such intention.
So she loitered unwillingly at her window high over the grey, hard,cobbled street, and saw her landlady hastening along the blackasphalt pavement, her dirty apron thrown discreetly over what wasmost obviously a quart jug. She followed the squat, intent figurewith her eye, to the public-house at the corner. And then she sawCiccio humped over his yellow bicycle, going for a steep andperilous ride with Gigi.
Still she lingered in her sordid room. She could feel Madame wasexpecting her. But she felt inert, weak, incommunicative. Only areal fear of offending Madame drove her down at last.
Max opened the door to let her in.
"Ah!" he said. "You've come. We were wondering about you."
"Thank you," she said, as she passed into the dirty hall where stilltwo bicycles stood.
"Madame is in the kitchen," he said.
Alvina found Madame trussed in a large white apron, busy rubbing ayellow-fleshed hen with lemon, previous to boiling.
"Ah!" said Madame. "So there you are! I have been out and done myshopping, and already begun to prepare the dinner. Yes, you may helpme. Can you wash leeks? Yes? Every grain of sand? Shall I trust youthen--?"
Madame usually had a kitchen to herself, in the morning. She eitherousted her landlady, or used her as second cook. For Madame was agourmet, if not gourmand. If she inclined towards self-indulgence inany direction, it was in the direction of food. She _loved_ a goodtable. And hence the Tawaras saved less money than they might. Shewas an exacting, tormenting, bullying cook. Alvina, who knew wellenough how to prepare a simple dinner, was offended by Madame'sexactions. Madame turning back the green leaves of a leek, andhunting a speck of earth down into the white, like a flea in a bed,was too much for Alvina.
"I'm afraid I shall never be particular enough," she said. "Can't Ido anything else for you?"
"For me? I need nothing to be done for me. But for the youngmen--yes, I will show you in one minute--"
And she took Alvina upstairs to her room, and gave her a pair of thethin leather trousers fringed with hair, belonging to one of the_braves_. A seam had ripped. Madame gave Alvina a fine awl and somewaxed thread.
"The leather is not good in these things of Gigi's," she said. "Itis badly prepared. See, like this." And she showed Alvina anotherplace where the garment was repaired. "Keep on your apron. At theweek-end you must fetch more clothes, not spoil this beautiful gownof voile. Where have you left your diamonds? What? In your room? Arethey locked? Oh my dear--!" Madame turned pale and darted looks offire at Alvina. "If they are stolen--!" she cried. "Oh! I havebecome quite weak, hearing you!" She panted and shook her head. "Ifthey are not stolen, you have the Holy Saints alone to be thankfulfor keeping them. But run, run!"
And Madame really stamped her foot.
"Bring me everything you've got--every _thing_ that is valuable. Ishall lock it up. How _can_ you--"
Alvina was hustled off to her lodging. Fortunately nothing was gone.She brought all to Madame, and Madame fingered the treasureslovingly.
"Now what you want you must ask me for," she said.
With what close curiosity Madame examined the ruby brooch.
"You can have that if you like, Madame," said Alvina.
"You mean--what?"
"I will give you that brooch if you like to take it--"
"Give me this--!" cried Madame, and a flash went over her face. Thenshe changed into a sort of wheedling. "No--no. I shan't take it! Ishan't take it. You don't want to give away such a thing."
"I don't mind," said Alvina. "Do take it if you like it."
"Oh no! Oh no! I can't take it. A beautiful thing it is, really. Itwould be worth over a thousand francs, because I believe it is quitegenuine."
"I'm sure it's genuine," said Alvina. "Do have it since you likeit."
"Oh, I can't! I can't!--"
"Yes do--"
"The beautiful red stones!--antique gems, antique gems--! And do youreally give it to me?"
"Yes, I should like to."
"You are a girl with a noble heart--" Madame threw her arms roundAlvina's neck, and kissed her. Alvina felt very cool about it.Madame locked up the jewels quickly, after one last look.
"My fowl," she said, "which must not boil too fast."
At length Alvina was called down to dinner. The young men were attable, talking as young men do, not very interestingly. After themeal, Ciccio sat and twanged his mandoline, making its crying noisevibrate through the house.
>
"I shall go and look at the town," said Alvina.
"And who shall go with you?" asked Madame.
"I will go alone," said Alvina, "unless you will come, Madame."
"Alas no, I can't. I can't come. Will you really go alone?"
"Yes, I want to go to the women's shops," said Alvina.
"You want to! All right then! And you will come home at tea-time,yes?"
As soon as Alvina had gone out Ciccio put away his mandoline and lita cigarette. Then after a while he hailed Geoffrey, and the twoyoung men sallied forth. Alvina, emerging from a draper's shop inRotherhampton Broadway, found them loitering on the pavementoutside. And they strolled along with her. So she went into a shopthat sold ladies' underwear, leaving them on the pavement. Shestayed as long as she could. But there they were when she came out.They had endless lounging patience.
"I thought you would be gone on," she said.
"No hurry," said Ciccio, and he took away her parcels from her, asif he had a right. She wished he wouldn't tilt the flap of his blackhat over one eye, and she wished there wasn't quite so muchwaist-line in the cut of his coat, and that he didn't smokecigarettes against the end of his nose in the street. But wishingwouldn't alter him. He strayed alongside as if he half belonged, andhalf didn't--most irritating.
She wasted as much time as possible in the shops, then they took thetram home again. Ciccio paid the three fares, laying his handrestrainingly on Gigi's hand, when Gigi's hand sought pence in histrouser pocket, and throwing his arm over his friend's shoulder, inaffectionate but vulgar triumph, when the fares were paid. Alvinawas on her high horse.
They tried to talk to her, they tried to ingratiate themselves--butshe wasn't having any. She talked with icy pleasantness. And so thetea-time passed, and the time after tea. The performance went rathermechanically, at the theatre, and the supper at home, with bottledbeer and boiled ham, was a conventionally cheerful affair. EvenMadame was a little afraid of Alvina this evening.
"I am tired, I shall go early to my room," said Alvina.
"Yes, I think we are all tired," said Madame.
"Why is it?" said Max metaphysically--"why is it that two merryevenings never follow one behind the other."
"Max, beer makes thee a _farceur_ of a fine quality," said Madame.Alvina rose.
"Please don't get up," she said to the others. "I have my key andcan see quite well," she said. "Good-night all."
They rose and bowed their good-nights. But Ciccio, with an obstinateand ugly little smile on his face, followed her.
"Please don't come," she said, turning at the street door. Butobstinately he lounged into the street with her. He followed her toher door.
"Did you bring the flash-light?" she said. "The stair is so dark."
He looked at her, and turned as if to get the light. Quickly sheopened the house-door and slipped inside, shutting it sharply in hisface. He stood for some moments looking at the door, and an uglylittle look mounted his straight nose. He too turned indoors.
Alvina hurried to bed and slept well. And the next day the same, shewas all icy pleasantness. The Natcha-Kee-Tawaras were a little bitput out by her. She was a spoke in their wheel, a scotch to theirfacility. She made them irritable. And that evening--it wasFriday--Ciccio did not rise to accompany her to her house. And sheknew they were relieved that she had gone.
That did not please her. The next day, which was Saturday, the lastand greatest day of the week, she found herself again somewhat of anoutsider in the troupe. The tribe had assembled in its old unison.She was the intruder, the interloper. And Ciccio never looked ather, only showed her the half-averted side of his cheek, on whichwas a slightly jeering, ugly look.
"Will you go to Woodhouse tomorrow?" Madame asked her, rathercoolly. They none of them called her Allaye any more.
"I'd better fetch some things, hadn't I?" said Alvina.
"Certainly, if you think you will stay with us."
This was a nasty slap in the face for her. But:
"I want to," she said.
"Yes! Then you will go to Woodhouse tomorrow, and come to Mansfieldon Monday morning? Like that shall it be? You will stay one night atWoodhouse?"
Through Alvina's mind flitted the rapid thought--"They want anevening without me." Her pride mounted obstinately. She very nearlysaid--"I may stay in Woodhouse altogether." But she held her tongue.
After all, they were very common people. They ought to be glad tohave her. Look how Madame snapped up that brooch! And look what anuncouth lout Ciccio was! After all, she was demeaning herselfshamefully staying with them in common, sordid lodgings. After all,she had been bred up differently from that. They had horribly lowstandards--such low standards--not only of morality, but of lifealtogether. Really, she had come down in the world, conforming tosuch standards of life. She evoked the images of her mother and MissFrost: ladies, and noble women both. Whatever could she be thinkingof herself!
However, there was time for her to retrace her steps. She had notgiven herself away. Except to Ciccio. And her heart burned when shethought of him, partly with anger and mortification, partly, alas,with undeniable and unsatisfied love. Let her bridle as she might,her heart burned, and she wanted to look at him, she wanted him tonotice her. And instinct told her that he might ignore her for ever.She went to her room an unhappy woman, and wept and fretted tillmorning, chafing between humiliation and yearning.