CHAPTER X
THE FALL OF MANCHESTER HOUSE
Alvina rose chastened and wistful. As she was doing her hair, sheheard the plaintive nasal sound of Ciccio's mandoline. She lookeddown the mixed vista of back-yards and little gardens, and was ableto catch sight of a portion of Ciccio, who was sitting on a box inthe blue-brick yard of his house, bare-headed and in hisshirt-sleeves, twitching away at the wailing mandoline. It was not awarm morning, but there was a streak of sunshine. Alvina had noticedthat Ciccio did not seem to feel the cold, unless it were a wind ora driving rain. He was playing the wildly-yearning Neapolitan songs,of which Alvina knew nothing. But, although she only saw a sectionof him, the glimpse of his head was enough to rouse in her thatoverwhelming fascination, which came and went in spells. Hisremoteness, his southernness, something velvety and dark. So easilyshe might miss him altogether! Within a hair's-breadth she had lethim disappear.
She hurried down. Geoffrey opened the door to her. She smiled at himin a quick, luminous smile, a magic change in her.
"I could hear Ciccio playing," she said.
Geoffrey spread his rather thick lips in a smile, and jerked hishead in the direction of the back door, with a deep, intimate lookinto Alvina's eyes, as if to say his friend was lovesick.
"Shall I go through?" said Alvina.
Geoffrey laid his large hand on her shoulder for a moment, lookedinto her eyes, and nodded. He was a broad-shouldered fellow, with arather flat, handsome face, well-coloured, and with the look of theAlpine ox about him, slow, eternal, even a little mysterious. Alvinawas startled by the deep, mysterious look in his dark-fringedox-eyes. The odd arch of his eyebrows made him suddenly seem notquite human to her. She smiled to him again, startled. But he onlyinclined his head, and with his heavy hand on her shoulder gentlyimpelled her towards Ciccio.
When she came out at the back she smiled straight into Ciccio'sface, with her sudden, luminous smile. His hand on the mandolinetrembled into silence. He sat looking at her with an instantre-establishment of knowledge. And yet she shrank from the long,inscrutable gaze of his black-set, tawny eyes. She resented him alittle. And yet she went forward to him and stood so that her dresstouched him. And still he gazed up at her, with the heavy,unspeaking look, that seemed to bear her down: he seemed like somecreature that was watching her for his purposes. She looked aside atthe black garden, which had a wiry goose-berry bush.
"You will come with me to Woodhouse?" she said.
He did not answer till she turned to him again. Then, as she met hiseyes,
"To Woodhouse?" he said, watching her, to fix her.
"Yes," she said, a little pale at the lips.
And she saw his eternal smile of triumph slowly growing round hismouth. She wanted to cover his mouth with her hand. She preferredhis tawny eyes with their black brows and lashes. His eyes watchedher as a cat watches a bird, but without the white gleam offerocity. In his eyes was a deep, deep sun-warmth, somethingfathomless, deepening black and abysmal, but somehow sweet to her.
"Will you?" she repeated.
But his eyes had already begun to glimmer their consent. He turnedaside his face, as if unwilling to give a straight answer.
"Yes," he said.
"Play something to me," she cried.
He lifted his face to her, and shook his head slightly.
"Yes do," she said, looking down on him.
And he bent his head to the mandoline, and suddenly began to sing aNeapolitan song, in a faint, compressed head-voice, looking up ather again as his lips moved, looking straight into her face with acurious mocking caress as the muted _voix blanche_ came through hislips at her, amid the louder quavering of the mandoline. The soundpenetrated her like a thread of fire, hurting, but delicious, thehigh thread of his voice. She could see the Adam's apple move in histhroat, his brows tilted as he looked along his lashes at her all thetime. Here was the strange sphinx singing again, and herself betweenits paws! She seemed almost to melt into his power.
Madame intervened to save her.
"What, serenade before breakfast! You have strong stomachs, I say.Eggs and ham are more the question, hein? Come, you smell them,don't you?"
A flicker of contempt and derision went over Ciccio's face as hebroke off and looked aside.
"I prefer the serenade," said Alvina. "I've had ham and eggsbefore."
"You do, hein? Well--always, you won't. And now you must eat the hamand eggs, however. Yes? Isn't it so?"
Ciccio rose to his feet, and looked at Alvina: as he would havelooked at Gigi, had Gigi been there. His eyes said unspeakablethings about Madame. Alvina flashed a laugh, suddenly. And agood-humoured, half-mocking smile came over his face too.
They turned to follow Madame into the house. And as Alvina wentbefore him, she felt his fingers stroke the nape of her neck, andpass in a soft touch right down her back. She started as if someunseen creature had stroked her with its paw, and she glancedswiftly round, to see the face of Ciccio mischievous behind hershoulder.
"Now I think," said Madame, "that today we all take the same train.We go by the Great Central as far as the junction, together. Thenyou, Allaye, go on to Knarborough, and we leave you until tomorrow.And now there is not much time."
"I am going to Woodhouse," said Ciccio in French.
"You also! By the train, or the bicycle?"
"Train," said Ciccio.
"Waste so much money?"
Ciccio raised his shoulders slightly.
When breakfast was over, and Alvina had gone to her room, Geoffreywent out into the back yard, where the bicycles stood.
"Cic'," he said. "I should like to go with thee to Woodhouse. Comeon bicycle with me."
Ciccio shook his head.
"I'm going in train with _her_," he said.
Geoffrey darkened with his heavy anger.
"I would like to see how it is, there, _chez elle_," he said.
"Ask _her_," said Ciccio.
Geoffrey watched him suddenly.
"Thou forsakest me," he said. "I would like to see it, there."
"Ask _her_," repeated Ciccio. "Then come on bicycle."
"You're content to leave me," muttered Geoffrey.
Ciccio touched his friend on his broad cheek, and smiled at him withaffection.
"I don't leave thee, Gigi. I asked thy advice. You said, Go. Butcome. Go and ask her, and then come. Come on bicycle, eh? Ask her!Go on! Go and ask her."
Alvina was surprised to hear a tap at her door, and Gigi's voice, inhis strong foreign accent:
"Mees Houghton, I carry your bag."
She opened her door in surprise. She was all ready.
"There it is," she said, smiling at him.
But he confronted her like a powerful ox, full of dangerous force.Her smile had reassured him.
"Na, Allaye," he said, "tell me something."
"What?" laughed Alvina.
"Can I come to Woodhouse?"
"When?"
"Today. Can I come on bicycle, to tea, eh? At your house with youand Ciccio? Eh?"
He was smiling with a thick, doubtful, half sullen smile.
"Do!" said Alvina.
He looked at her with his large, dark-blue eyes.
"Really, eh?" he said, holding out his large hand.
She shook hands with him warmly.
"Yes, really!" she said. "I wish you would."
"Good," he said, a broad smile on his thick mouth. And all the timehe watched her curiously, from his large eyes.
"Ciccio--a good chap, eh?" he said.
"Is he?" laughed Alvina.
"Ha-a--!" Gigi shook his head solemnly. "The best!" He made suchsolemn eyes, Alvina laughed. He laughed too, and picked up her bagas if it were a bubble.
"Na Cic'--" he said, as he saw Ciccio in the street. "Sommesd'accord."
"Ben!" said Ciccio, holding out his hand for the bag. "Donne."
"Ne-ne," said Gigi, shrugging.
Alvina found herself on the new and busy station that Sunday morning,one
of the little theatrical company. It was an odd experience. Theywere so obviously a theatrical company--people apart from the world.Madame was darting her black eyes here and there, behind her spottedveil, and standing with the ostensible self-possession of herprofession. Max was circling round with large strides, round a bigblack box on which the red words Natcha-Kee-Tawara showed mystic, andround the small bunch of stage fittings at the end of the platform.Louis was waiting to get the tickets, Gigi and Ciccio were bringing upthe bicycles. They were a whole train of departure in themselves, busy,bustling, cheerful--and curiously apart, vagrants.
Alvina strolled away towards the half-open bookstall. Geoffrey wasstanding monumental between her and the company. She returned tohim.
"What time shall we expect you?" she said.
He smiled at her in his broad, friendly fashion.
"Expect me to be there? Why--" he rolled his eyes and proceeded tocalculate. "At four o'clock."
"Just about the time when we get there," she said.
He looked at her sagely, and nodded.
They were a good-humoured company in the railway carriage. The mensmoked cigarettes and tapped off the ash on the heels of theirboots, Madame watched every traveller with professional curiosity.Max scrutinized the newspaper, Lloyds, and pointed out items toLouis, who read them over Max's shoulder, Ciccio suddenly smackedGeoffrey on the thigh, and looked laughing into his face. So tillthey arrived at the junction. And then there was a kissing and ataking of farewells, as if the company were separating for ever.Louis darted into the refreshment bar and returned with little piesand oranges, which he deposited in the carriage, Madame presentedAlvina with a packet of chocolate. And it was "Good-bye, good-bye,Allaye! Good-bye, Ciccio! Bon voyage. Have a good time, both."
So Alvina sped on in the fast train to Knarborough with Ciccio.
"I _do_ like them all," she said.
He opened his mouth slightly and lifted his head up and down. Shesaw in the movement how affectionate he was, and in his own way, howemotional. He loved them all. She put her hand to his. He gave herhand one sudden squeeze, of physical understanding, then left it asif nothing had happened. There were other people in the carriagewith them. She could not help feeling how sudden and lovely thatmoment's grasp of his hand was: so warm, so whole.
And thus they watched the Sunday morning landscape slip by, as theyran into Knarborough. They went out to a little restaurant to eat.It was one o'clock.
"Isn't it strange, that we are travelling together like this?" shesaid, as she sat opposite him.
He smiled, looking into her eyes.
"You think it's strange?" he said, showing his teeth slightly.
"Don't you?" she cried.
He gave a slight, laconic laugh.
"And I can hardly bear it that I love you so much," she said,quavering, across the potatoes.
He glanced furtively round, to see if any one was listening, if anyone might hear. He would have hated it. But no one was near. Beneaththe tiny table, he took her two knees between his knees, and pressedthem with a slow, immensely powerful pressure. Helplessly she puther hand across the table to him. He covered it for one moment withhis hand, then ignored it. But her knees were still between thepowerful, living vice of his knees.
"Eat!" he said to her, smiling, motioning to her plate. And herelaxed her.
They decided to go out to Woodhouse on the tram-car, a long hour'sride. Sitting on the top of the covered car, in the atmosphere ofstrong tobacco smoke, he seemed self-conscious, withdrawn into hisown cover, so obviously a dark-skinned foreigner. And Alvina, as shesat beside him, was reminded of the woman with the negro husband,down in Lumley. She understood the woman's reserve. She herselffelt, in the same way, something of an outcast, because of the manat her side. An outcast! And glad to be an outcast. She clung toCiccio's dark, despised foreign nature. She loved it, sheworshipped it, she defied all the other world. Dark, he sat besideher, drawn in to himself, overcast by his presumed inferiority amongthese northern industrial people. And she was with him, on his side,outside the pale of her own people.
There were already acquaintances on the tram. She nodded in answerto their salutation, but so obviously from a distance, that theykept turning round to eye her and Ciccio. But they left her alone.The breach between her and them was established for ever--and it washer will which established it.
So up and down the weary hills of the hilly, industrial countryside,till at last they drew near to Woodhouse. They passed the ruins ofThrottle-Ha'penny, and Alvina glanced at it indifferent. They ranalong the Knarborough Road. A fair number of Woodhouse young peoplewere strolling along the pavements in their Sunday clothes. She knewthem all. She knew Lizzie Bates's fox furs, and Fanny Clough's lilaccostume, and Mrs. Smitham's winged hat. She knew them all. Andalmost inevitably the old Woodhouse feeling began to steal over her,she was glad they could not see her, she was a little ashamed ofCiccio. She wished, for the moment, Ciccio were not there. And asthe time came to get down, she looked anxiously back and forth tosee at which halt she had better descend--where fewer people wouldnotice her. But then she threw her scruples to the wind, anddescended into the staring, Sunday afternoon street, attended byCiccio, who carried her bag. She knew she was a marked figure.
They slipped round to Manchester House. Miss Pinnegar expectedAlvina, but by the train, which came later. So she had to be knockedup, for she was lying down. She opened the door looking a littlepatched in her cheeks, because of her curious colouring, and alittle forlorn, and a little dumpy, and a little irritable.
"I didn't know there'd be two of you," was her greeting.
"Didn't you," said Alvina, kissing her. "Ciccio came to carry mybag."
"Oh," said Miss Pinnegar. "How do you do?" and she thrust out herhand to him. He shook it loosely.
"I had your wire," said Miss Pinnegar. "You said the train. Mrs.Rollings is coming in at four again--"
"Oh all right--" said Alvina.
The house was silent and afternoon-like. Ciccio took off his coatand sat down in Mr. Houghton's chair. Alvina told him to smoke. Hekept silent and reserved. Miss Pinnegar, a poor, patch-cheeked,rather round-backed figure with grey-brown fringe, stood as if shedid not quite know what to say or do.
She followed Alvina upstairs to her room.
"I can't think why you bring _him_ here," snapped Miss Pinnegar. "Idon't know what you're thinking about. The whole place is talkingalready."
"I don't care," said Alvina. "I like him."
"Oh--for shame!" cried Miss Pinnegar, lifting her hand with MissFrost's helpless, involuntary movement. "What do you think ofyourself? And your father a month dead."
"It doesn't matter. Father _is_ dead. And I'm sure the dead don'tmind."
"I never _knew_ such things as you say."
"Why? I mean them."
Miss Pinnegar stood blank and helpless.
"You're not asking him to stay the night," she blurted.
"Yes. And I'm going back with him to Madame tomorrow. You know I'mpart of the company now, as pianist."
"And are you going to marry him?"
"I don't know."
"How _can_ you say you don't know! Why, it's awful. You make me feelI shall go out of my mind."
"But I _don't_ know," said Alvina.
"It's incredible! Simply incredible! I believe you're out of yoursenses. I used to think sometimes there was something wrong withyour mother. And that's what it is with you. You're not quite rightin your mind. You need to be looked after."
"Do I, Miss Pinnegar! Ah, well, don't you trouble to look after me,will you?"
"No one will if I don't."
"I hope no one will."
There was a pause.
"I'm ashamed to live another day in Woodhouse," said Miss Pinnegar.
"_I'm_ leaving it for ever," said Alvina.
"I should think so," said Miss Pinnegar.
Suddenly she sank into a chair, and burst into tears, wailing:
"Your poor father! Your poor f
ather!"
"I'm sure the dead are all right. Why must you pity him?"
"You're a lost girl!" cried Miss Pinnegar.
"Am I really?" laughed Alvina. It sounded funny.
"Yes, you're a lost girl," sobbed Miss Pinnegar, on a final note ofdespair.
"I like being lost," said Alvina.
Miss Pinnegar wept herself into silence. She looked huddled andforlorn. Alvina went to her and laid her hand on her shoulder.
"Don't fret, Miss Pinnegar," she said. "Don't be silly. I love to bewith Ciccio and Madame. Perhaps in the end I shall marry him. But ifI don't--" her hand suddenly gripped Miss Pinnegar's heavy arm tillit hurt--"I wouldn't lose a minute of him, no, not for anythingwould I."
Poor Miss Pinnegar dwindled, convinced.
"You make it hard for _me_, in Woodhouse," she said, hopeless.
"Never mind," said Alvina, kissing her. "Woodhouse isn't heaven andearth."
"It's been my home for forty years."
"It's been mine for thirty. That's why I'm glad to leave it." Therewas a pause.
"I've been thinking," said Miss Pinnegar, "about opening a littlebusiness in Tamworth. You know the Watsons are there."
"I believe you'd be happy," said Alvina.
Miss Pinnegar pulled herself together. She had energy and couragestill.
"I don't want to stay here, anyhow," she said. "Woodhouse hasnothing for me any more."
"Of course it hasn't," said Alvina. "I think you'd be happier awayfrom it."
"Yes--probably I should--now!"
None the less, poor Miss Pinnegar was grey-haired, she was almost adumpy, odd old woman.
They went downstairs. Miss Pinnegar put on the kettle.
"Would you like to see the house?" said Alvina to Ciccio.
He nodded. And she took him from room to room. His eyes lookedquickly and curiously over everything, noticing things, but withoutcriticism.
"This was my mother's little sitting-room," she said. "She sat herefor years, in this chair."
"Always here?" he said, looking into Alvina's face.
"Yes. She was ill with her heart. This is another photograph of her.I'm not like her."
"Who is _that_?" he asked, pointing to a photograph of the handsome,white-haired Miss Frost.
"That was Miss Frost, my governess. She lived here till she died. Iloved her--she meant everything to me."
"She also dead--?"
"Yes, five years ago."
They went to the drawing-room. He laid his hand on the keys of thepiano, sounding a chord.
"Play," she said.
He shook his head, smiling slightly. But he wished her to play. Shesat and played one of Kishwegin's pieces. He listened, faintlysmiling.
"Fine piano--eh?" he said, looking into her face.
"I like the tone," she said.
"Is it yours?"
"The piano? Yes. I suppose everything is mine--in name at least. Idon't know how father's affairs are really."
He looked at her, and again his eye wandered over the room. He saw alittle coloured portrait of a child with a fleece of brownish-goldhair and surprised eyes, in a pale-blue stiff frock with a broaddark-blue sash.
"You?" he said.
"Do you recognize me?" she said. "Aren't I comical?"
She took him upstairs--first to the monumental bedroom.
"This was mother's room," she said. "Now it is mine."
He looked at her, then at the things in the room, then out of thewindow, then at her again. She flushed, and hurried to show him hisroom, and the bath-room. Then she went downstairs.
He kept glancing up at the height of the ceilings, the size of therooms, taking in the size and proportion of the house, and thequality of the fittings.
"It is a big house," he said. "Yours?"
"Mine in name," said Alvina. "Father left all to me--and his debtsas well, you see."
"Much debts?"
"Oh yes! I don't quite know how much. But perhaps more debts thanthere is property. I shall go and see the lawyer in the morning.Perhaps there will be nothing at all left for me, when everything ispaid."
She had stopped on the stairs, telling him this, turning round tohim, who was on the steps above. He looked down on her, calculating.Then he smiled sourly.
"Bad job, eh, if it is all gone--!" he said.
"I don't mind, really, if I can live," she said.
He spread his hands, deprecating, not understanding. Then he glancedup the stairs and along the corridor again, and downstairs into thehall.
"A fine big house. Grand if it was yours," he said.
"I wish it were," she said rather pathetically, "if you like it somuch."
He shrugged his shoulders.
"He!" he said. "How not like it!"
"I don't like it," she said. "I think it's a gloomy miserable hole.I hate it. I've lived here all my life and seen everything badhappen here. I hate it."
"Why?" he said, with a curious, sarcastic intonation.
"It's a bad job it isn't yours, for certain," he said, as theyentered the living-room, where Miss Pinnegar sat cutting bread andbutter.
"What?" said Miss Pinnegar sharply.
"The house," said Alvina.
"Oh well, we don't know. We'll hope for the best," replied MissPinnegar, arranging the bread and butter on the plate. Then, rathertart, she added: "It is a bad job. And a good many things are a badjob, besides that. If Miss Houghton had what she _ought_ to have,things would be very different, I assure you."
"Oh yes," said Ciccio, to whom this address was directed.
"Very different indeed. If all the money hadn't been--lost--in theway it has, Miss Houghton wouldn't be playing the piano, for onething, in a cinematograph show."
"No, perhaps not," said Ciccio.
"Certainly not. It's not the right thing for her to be doing, _atall_!"
"You think not?" said Ciccio.
"Do you imagine it is?" said Miss Pinnegar, turning point blank onhim as he sat by the fire.
He looked curiously at Miss Pinnegar, grinning slightly.
"He!" he said. "How do I know!"
"I should have thought it was obvious," said Miss Pinnegar.
"He!" he ejaculated, not fully understanding.
"But of course those that are used to nothing better can't seeanything but what they're used to," she said, rising and shaking thecrumbs from her black silk apron, into the fire. He watched her.
Miss Pinnegar went away into the scullery. Alvina was laying a firein the drawing-room. She came with a dustpan to take some coal fromthe fire of the living-room.
"What do you want?" said Ciccio, rising. And he took the shovel fromher hand.
"Big, hot fires, aren't they?" he said, as he lifted the burningcoals from the glowing mass of the grate.
"Enough," said Alvina. "Enough! We'll put it in the drawing-room."He carried the shovel of flaming, smoking coals to the other room,and threw them in the grate on the sticks, watching Alvina put onmore pieces of coal.
"Fine, a fire! Quick work, eh? A beautiful thing, a fire! You knowwhat they say in my place: You can live without food, but you can'tlive without fire."
"But I thought it was always hot in Naples," said Alvina.
"No, it isn't. And my village, you know, when I was small boy, thatwas in the mountains, an hour quick train from Naples. Cold in thewinter, hot in the summer--"
"As cold as England?" said Alvina.
"He--and colder. The wolves come down. You could hear them crying inthe night, in the frost--"
"How terrifying--!" said Alvina.
"And they will kill the dogs! Always they kill the dogs. You know,they hate dogs, wolves do." He made a queer noise, to show howwolves hate dogs. Alvina understood, and laughed.
"So should I, if I was a wolf," she said.
"Yes--eh?" His eyes gleamed on her for a moment.
"Ah but, the poor dogs! You find them bitten--carried away among thetrees or the stones, hard to find them, poor things, the next day.
"
"How frightened they must be--!" said Alvina.
"Frightened--hu!" he made sudden gesticulations and ejaculations,which added volumes to his few words.
"And did you like it, your village?" she said.
He put his head on one side in deprecation.
"No," he said, "because, you see--he, there is nothing to do--nomoney--work--work--work--no life--you see nothing. When I was asmall boy my father, he died, and my mother comes with me to Naples.Then I go with the little boats on the sea--fishing, carryingpeople--" He flourished his hand as if to make her understand allthe things that must be wordless. He smiled at her--but there was afaint, poignant sadness and remoteness in him, a beauty of oldfatality, and ultimate indifference to fate.
"And were you very poor?"
"Poor?--why yes! Nothing. Rags--no shoes--bread, little fish fromthe sea--shell-fish--"
His hands flickered, his eyes rested on her with a profound look ofknowledge. And it seemed, in spite of all, one state was very muchthe same to him as another, poverty was as much life as affluence.Only he had a sort of jealous idea that it was humiliating to bepoor, and so, for vanity's sake, he would have possessions. Thecountless generations of civilization behind him had left him aninstinct of the world's meaninglessness. Only his little moderneducation made money and independence an _idee fixe_. Old instincttold him the world was nothing. But modern education, so shallow,was much more efficacious than instinct. It drove him to make a showof himself to the world. Alvina watching him, as if hypnotized, sawhis old beauty, formed through civilization after civilization andat the same time she saw his modern vulgarianism, and decadence.
"And when you go back, you will go back to your old village?" shesaid.
He made a gesture with his head and shoulders, evasive,non-committal.
"I don't know, you see," he said.
"What is the name of it?"
"Pescocalascio." He said the word subduedly, unwillingly.
"Tell me again," said Alvina.
"Pescocalascio."
She repeated it.
"And tell me how you spell it," she said.
He fumbled in his pocket for a pencil and a piece of paper. She roseand brought him an old sketch-book. He wrote, slowly, but with thebeautiful Italian hand, the name of his village.
"And write your name," she said.
"Marasca Francesco," he wrote.
"And write the name of your father and mother," she said. He lookedat her enquiringly.
"I want to see them," she said.
"Marasca Giovanni," he wrote, and under that "Califano Maria."
She looked at the four names, in the graceful Italian script. Andone after the other she read them out. He corrected her, smilinggravely. When she said them properly, he nodded.
"Yes," he said. "That's it. You say it well."
At that moment Miss Pinnegar came in to say Mrs. Rollings had seenanother of the young men riding down the street.
"That's Gigi! He doesn't know how to come here," said Ciccio,quickly taking his hat and going out to find his friend.
Geoffrey arrived, his broad face hot and perspiring.
"Couldn't you find it?" said Alvina.
"I find the house, but I couldn't find no door," said Geoffrey.
They all laughed, and sat down to tea. Geoffrey and Ciccio talked toeach other in French, and kept each other in countenance.Fortunately for them, Madame had seen to their table-manners. Butstill they were far too free and easy to suit Miss Pinnegar.
"Do you know," said Ciccio in French to Geoffrey, "what a fine housethis is?"
"No," said Geoffrey, rolling his large eyes round the room, andspeaking with his cheek stuffed out with food. "Is it?"
"Ah--if it was _hers_, you know--"
And so, after tea, Ciccio said to Alvina:
"Shall you let Geoffrey see the house?"
The tour commenced again. Geoffrey, with his thick legs plantedapart, gazed round the rooms, and made his comments in French toCiccio. When they climbed the stairs, he fingered the big, smoothmahogany bannister-rail. In the bedroom he stared almost dismayedat the colossal bed and cupboard. In the bath-room he turned on theold-fashioned, silver taps.
"Here is my room--" said Ciccio in French.
"Assez eloigne!" replied Gigi. Ciccio also glanced along thecorridor.
"Yes," he said. "But an open course--"
"Look, my boy--if you could marry _this_--" meaning the house.
"Ha, she doesn't know if it hers any more! Perhaps the debts coverevery bit of it."
"Don't say so! Na, that's a pity, that's a pity! La pauvrefille--pauvre demoiselle!" lamented Geoffrey.
"Isn't it a pity! What dost say?"
"A thousand pities! A thousand pities! Look, my boy, love needs nohavings, but marriage does. Love is for all, even the grasshoppers.But marriage means a kitchen. That's how it is. La pauvredemoiselle; c'est malheur pour elle."
"That's true," said Ciccio. "Et aussi pour moi. For me as well."
"For thee as well, cher! Perhaps--" said Geoffrey, laying his arm onCiccio's shoulder, and giving him a sudden hug. They smiled to eachother.
"Who knows!" said Ciccio.
"Who knows, truly, my Cic'."
As they went downstairs to rejoin Alvina, whom they heard playing onthe piano in the drawing-room, Geoffrey peeped once more into thebig bedroom.
"Tu n'es jamais monte si haut, mon beau. Pour moi, ca seraitdifficile de m'elever. J'aurais bien peur, moi. Tu te trouves aussiun peu ebahi, hein? n'est-ce pas?"
"Y'a place pour trois," said Ciccio.
"Non, je creverais, la haut. Pas pour moi!"
And they went laughing downstairs.
Miss Pinnegar was sitting with Alvina, determined not to go toChapel this evening. She sat, rather hulked, reading a novel. Alvinaflirted with the two men, played the piano to them, and suggested agame of cards.
"Oh, Alvina, you will never bring out the cards tonight!"expostulated poor Miss Pinnegar.
"But, Miss Pinnegar, it can't possibly hurt anybody."
"You know what I think--and what your father thought--and yourmother and Miss Frost--"
"You see I think it's only prejudice," said Alvina.
"Oh very well!" said Miss Pinnegar angrily.
And closing her book, she rose and went to the other room.
Alvina brought out the cards, and a little box of pence whichremained from Endeavour harvests. At that moment there was a knock.It was Mr. May. Miss Pinnegar brought him in, in triumph.
"Oh!" he said. "Company! I heard you'd come, Miss Houghton, so I_hastened_ to pay my compliments. I didn't know you had _company_.How do you do, Francesco! How do you do, Geoffrey. Commentallez-vous, alors?"
"Bien!" said Geoffrey. "You are going to take a hand?"
"Cards on Sunday evening! Dear me, what a revolution! Of course, I'mnot _bigoted_. If Miss Houghton asks me--"
Miss Pinnegar looked solemnly at Alvina.
"Yes, do take a hand, Mr. May," said Alvina.
"Thank you, I will then, if I may. Especially as I see thosetempting piles of pennies and ha'pennies. Who is bank, may I ask? IsMiss Pinnegar going to play too?"
But Miss Pinnegar had turned her poor, bowed back, and departed.
"I'm afraid she's offended," said Alvina.
"But why? We don't put _her_ soul in danger, do we now? I'm a goodCatholic, you know, I _can't_ do with these provincial littlecreeds. Who deals? Do you, Miss Houghton? But I'm afraid we shallhave a rather _dry_ game? What? Isn't that your opinion?"
The other men laughed.
"If Miss Houghton would just _allow_ me to run round and bringsomething in. Yes? May I? That would be _so_ much more cheerful.What is your choice, gentlemen?"
"Beer," said Ciccio, and Geoffrey nodded.
"Beer! Oh really! Extraor'nary! I always take a little whiskeymyself. What kind of beer? Ale?--or bitter? I'm afraid I'd betterbring bottles. Now how can I secrete them? You haven't a smalltravelling case, Miss Hou
ghton? Then I shall look as if I'd justbeen taking a _journey_. Which I have--to the Sun and back: and if_that_ isn't far enough, even for Miss Pinnegar and John Wesley,why, I'm sorry."
Alvina produced the travelling case.
"Excellent!" he said. "Excellent! It will hold half-a-dozenbeautifully. Now--" he fell into a whisper--"hadn't I better sneakout at the front door, and so escape the clutches of the watch-dog?"
Out he went, on tip-toe, the other two men grinning at him.Fortunately there were glasses, the best old glasses, in the sidecupboard in the drawing room. But unfortunately, when Mr. Mayreturned, a corkscrew was in request. So Alvina stole to thekitchen. Miss Pinnegar sat dumped by the fire, with her spectaclesand her book. She watched like a lynx as Alvina returned. And shesaw the tell-tale corkscrew. So she dumped a little deeper in herchair.
"There was a sound of revelry by night!" For Mr. May, after a longdepression, was in high feather. They shouted, positively shoutedover their cards, they roared with excitement, expostulation, andlaughter. Miss Pinnegar sat through it all. But at one point shecould bear it no longer.
The drawing-room door opened, and the dumpy, hulked, faded woman ina black serge dress stood like a rather squat avenging angel in thedoorway.
"What would your _father_ say to this?" she said sternly.
The company suspended their laughter and their cards, and lookedaround. Miss Pinnegar wilted and felt strange under so many eyes.
"Father!" said Alvina. "But why father?"
"You lost girl!" said Miss Pinnegar, backing out and closing thedoor.
Mr. May laughed so much that he knocked his whiskey over.
"There," he cried, helpless, "look what she's cost me!" And he wentoff into another paroxysm, swelling like a turkey.
Ciccio opened his mouth, laughing silently.
"Lost girl! Lost girl! How lost, when you are at home?" saidGeoffrey, making large eyes and looking hither and thither as if_he_ had lost something.
They all went off again in a muffled burst.
"No but, really," said Mr. May, "drinking and card-playing withstrange men in the drawing-room on Sunday evening, of _cauce_ it'sscandalous. It's _terrible_! I don't know how ever you'll be saved,after such a sin. And in Manchester House, too--!" He went off intoanother silent, turkey-scarlet burst of mirth, wriggling in hischair and squealing faintly: "Oh, I love it, I love it! _You lostgirl!_ Why of _cauce_ she's lost! And Miss Pinnegar has only justfound it out. Who _wouldn't_ be lost? Why even Miss Pinnegar wouldbe lost if she could. Of _cauce_ she would! Quite natch'ral!"
Mr. May wiped his eyes, with his handkerchief which hadunfortunately mopped up his whiskey.
So they played on, till Mr. May and Geoffrey had won all thepennies, except twopence of Ciccio's. Alvina was in debt.
"Well I think it's been a most agreeable game," said Mr. May. "Mostagreeable! Don't you all?"
The two other men smiled and nodded.
"I'm only sorry to think Miss Houghton has _lost_ so steadily allevening. Really quite remarkable. But _then_--you see--I comfortmyself with the reflection 'Lucky in cards, unlucky in love.' I'mcertainly _hounded_ with misfortune in love. And I'm _sure_ MissHoughton would rather be unlucky in cards than in love. What, isn'tit so?"
"Of course," said Alvina.
"There, you see, _of cauce_! Well, all we can do after that is towish her success in love. Isn't that so, gentlemen? I'm sure _we_are all quite willing to do our best to contribute to it. Isn't itso, gentlemen? Aren't we all ready to do our best to contribute toMiss Houghton's happiness in love? Well then, let us drink to it."He lifted his glass, and bowed to Alvina. "With _every_ wish foryour success in love, Miss Houghton, and your _devoted_ servant--"He bowed and drank.
Geoffrey made large eyes at her as he held up his glass.
"_I_ know you'll come out all right in love, _I_ know," he saidheavily.
"And you, Ciccio? Aren't you drinking?" said Mr. May.
Ciccio held up his glass, looked at Alvina, made a little mouth ather, comical, and drank his beer.
"Well," said Mr. May, "_beer_ must confirm it, since words won't."
"What time is it?" said Alvina. "We must have supper."
It was past nine o'clock. Alvina rose and went to the kitchen, themen trailing after her. Miss Pinnegar was not there. She was notanywhere.
"Has she gone to bed?" said Mr. May. And he crept stealthilyupstairs on tip-toe, a comical, flush-faced, tubby little man. Hewas familiar with the house. He returned prancing.
"I heard her cough," he said. "There's a light under her door. She'sgone to bed. Now haven't I always said she was a good soul? I shalldrink her health. Miss Pinnegar--" and he bowed stiffly in thedirection of the stairs--"your health, and a _good night's rest_."
After which, giggling gaily, he seated himself at the head of thetable and began to carve the cold mutton.
"And where are the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras this week?" he asked. Theytold him.
"Oh? And you two are cycling back to the camp of Kishwegin tonight?We mustn't prolong our cheerfulness _too_ far."
"Ciccio is staying to help me with my bag tomorrow," said Alvina."You know I've joined the Tawaras permanently--as pianist."
"No, I didn't know that! Oh really! Really! Oh! Well! I see!Permanently! Yes, I am surprised! Yes! As pianist? And if I mightask, what is your share of the tribal income?"
"That isn't settled yet," said Alvina.
"No! Exactly! Exactly! It _wouldn't_ be settled yet. And you say itis a permanent engagement? Of _cauce_, at such a figure."
"Yes, it is a permanent engagement," said Alvina.
"Really! What a blow you give me! You won't come back to theEndeavour? What? Not at all?"
"No," said Alvina. "I shall sell out of the Endeavour."
"Really! You've decided, have you? Oh! This is news to me. And is_this_ quite final, too?"
"Quite," said Alvina.
"I see! Putting two and two together, if I may say so--" and heglanced from her to the young men--"I _see_. Most decidedly, mostone-sidedly, if I may use the vulgarism, I _see--e--e!_ Oh! but whata blow you give me! What a blow you give me!"
"Why?" said Alvina.
"What's to become of the Endeavour? and consequently, of poor me?"
"Can't you keep it going?--form a company?"
"I'm afraid I can't. I've done my best. But I'm afraid, you know,you've landed me."
"I'm so sorry," said Alvina. "I hope not."
"Thank you for the _hope_" said Mr. May sarcastically. "They sayhope is sweet. _I_ begin to find it a little _bitter_!"
Poor man, he had already gone quite yellow in the face. Ciccio andGeoffrey watched him with dark-seeing eyes.
"And when are you going to let this fatal decision take effect?"asked Mr. May.
"I'm going to see the lawyer tomorrow, and I'm going to tell him tosell everything and clear up as soon as possible," said Alvina.
"Sell everything! This house, and all it contains?"
"Yes," said Alvina. "Everything."
"Really!" Mr. May seemed smitten quite dumb. "I feel as if the worldhad suddenly come to an end," he said.
"But hasn't your world often come to an end before?" said Alvina.
"Well--I suppose, once or twice. But _never_ quite on top of me, yousee, before--"
There was a silence.
"And have you told Miss Pinnegar?" said Mr. May.
"Not finally. But she has decided to open a little business inTamworth, where she has relations."
"Has she! And are you _really_ going to _tour_ with these youngpeople--?" he indicated Ciccio and Gigi. "And at _no_ salary!" Hisvoice rose. "Why! It's almost _White Slave Traffic_, on Madame'spart. Upon my word!"
"I don't think so," said Alvina. "Don't you see that's insulting."
"_Insulting!_ Well, I don't know. I think it's the _truth_--"
"Not to be said to me, for all that," said Alvina, quivering withanger.
"Oh!" perked Mr. May, yellow with strange rage. "Oh! I mustn't
saywhat I think! Oh!"
"Not if you think those things--" said Alvina.
"Oh really! The difficulty is, you see, I'm afraid I _do_ thinkthem--" Alvina watched him with big, heavy eyes.
"Go away," she said. "Go away! I won't be insulted by you."
"No _indeed!_" cried Mr. May, starting to his feet, his eyes almostbolting from his head. "No _indeed!_ I wouldn't _think_ of insultingyou in the presence of these _two_ young gentlemen."
Ciccio rose slowly, and with a slow, repeated motion of the head,indicated the door.
"Allez!" he said.
"_Certainement!_" cried Mr. May, flying at Ciccio, verbally, like anenraged hen yellow at the gills. "_Certainement!_ Je m'en vais.Cette compagnie n'est pas de ma choix."
"Allez!" said Ciccio, more loudly.
And Mr. May strutted out of the room like a bird bursting with itsown rage. Ciccio stood with his hands on the table, listening. Theyheard Mr. May slam the front door.
"Gone!" said Geoffrey.
Ciccio smiled sneeringly.
"Voyez, un cochon de lait," said Gigi amply and calmly.
Ciccio sat down in his chair. Geoffrey poured out some beer for him,saying:
"Drink, my Cic', the bubble has burst, prfff!" And Gigi knocked inhis own puffed cheek with his fist. "Allaye, my dear, your health!We are the Tawaras. We are Allaye! We are Pacohuila! We areWalgatchka! Allons! The milk-pig is stewed and eaten. Voila!" Hedrank, smiling broadly.
"One by one," said Geoffrey, who was a little drunk: "One by one weput them out of the field, they are _hors de combat_. Who remains?Pacohuila, Walgatchka, Allaye--"
He smiled very broadly. Alvina was sitting sunk in thought andtorpor after her sudden anger.
"Allaye, what do you think about? You are the bride of Tawara," saidGeoffrey.
Alvina looked at him, smiling rather wanly.
"And who is Tawara?" she asked.
He raised his shoulders and spread his hands and swayed his headfrom side to side, for all the world like a comic mandarin.
"There!" he cried. "The question! Who is Tawara? Who? Tell me!Ciccio is he--and I am he--and Max and Louis--" he spread his handto the distant members of the tribe.
"I can't be the bride of all four of you," said Alvina, laughing.
"No--no! No--no! Such a thing does not come into my mind. But youare the Bride of Tawara. You dwell in the tent of Pacohuila. Andcomes the day, should it ever be so, there is no room for you in thetent of Pacohuila, then the lodge of Walgatchka the bear is open foryou. Open, yes, wide open--" He spread his arms from his amplechest, at the end of the table. "Open, and when Allaye enters, it isthe lodge of Allaye, Walgatchka is the bear that serves Allaye. Bythe law of the Pale Face, by the law of the Yenghees, by the law ofthe Fransayes, Walgatchka shall be husband-bear to Allaye, that dayshe lifts the door-curtain of his tent--"
He rolled his eyes and looked around. Alvina watched him.
"But I might be afraid of a husband-bear," she said.
Geoffrey got on to his feet.
"By the Manitou," he said, "the head of the bear Walgatchka ishumble--" here Geoffrey bowed his head--"his teeth are as soft aslilies--" here he opened his mouth and put his finger on his smallclose teeth--"his hands are as soft as bees that stroke a flower--"here he spread his hands and went and suddenly flopped on his kneesbeside Alvina, showing his hands and his teeth still, and rollinghis eyes. "Allaye can have no fear at all of the bear Walgatchka,"he said, looking up at her comically.
Ciccio, who had been watching and slightly grinning, here rose tohis feet and took Geoffrey by the shoulder, pulling him up.
"Basta!" he said. "Tu es saoul. You are drunk, my Gigi. Get up. Howare you going to ride to Mansfield, hein?--great beast."
"Ciccio," said Geoffrey solemnly. "I love thee, I love thee as abrother, and also more. I love thee as a brother, my Ciccio, as thouknowest. But--" and he puffed fiercely--"I am the slave of Allaye, Iam the tame bear of Allaye."
"Get up," said Ciccio, "get up! Per bacco! She doesn't want a tamebear." He smiled down on his friend.
Geoffrey rose to his feet and flung his arms round Ciccio.
"Cic'," he besought him. "Cic'--I love thee as a brother. But let mebe the tame bear of Allaye, let me be the gentle bear of Allaye."
"All right," said Ciccio. "Thou art the tame bear of Allaye."
Geoffrey strained Ciccio to his breast.
"Thank you! Thank you! Salute me, my own friend."
And Ciccio kissed him on either cheek. Whereupon Geoffreyimmediately flopped on his knees again before Alvina, and presentedher his broad, rich-coloured cheek.
"Salute your bear, Allaye," he cried. "Salute your slave, the tamebear Walgatchka, who is a wild bear for all except Allaye and hisbrother Pacohuila the Puma." Geoffrey growled realistically as awild bear as he kneeled before Alvina, presenting his cheek.
Alvina looked at Ciccio, who stood above, watching. Then she lightlykissed him on the cheek, and said:
"Won't you go to bed and sleep?"
Geoffrey staggered to his feet, shaking his head.
"No--no--" he said. "No--no! Walgatchka must travel to the tent ofKishwegin, to the Camp of the Tawaras."
"Not tonight, _mon brave_," said Ciccio. "Tonight we stay here,hein. Why separate, hein?--frere?"
Geoffrey again clasped Ciccio in his arms.
"Pacohuila and Walgatchka are blood-brothers, two bodies, one blood.One blood, in two bodies; one stream, in two valleys: one lake,between two mountains."
Here Geoffrey gazed with large, heavy eyes on Ciccio. Alvina broughta candle and lighted it.
"You will manage in the one room?" she said. "I will give youanother pillow."
She led the way upstairs. Geoffrey followed, heavily. Then Ciccio.On the landing Alvina gave them the pillow and the candle, smiled,bade them good-night in a whisper, and went downstairs again. Shecleared away the supper and carried away all glasses and bottlesfrom the drawing-room. Then she washed up, removing all traces ofthe feast. The cards she restored to their old mahogany box.Manchester House looked itself again.
She turned off the gas at the meter, and went upstairs to bed. Fromthe far room she could hear the gentle, but profound vibrations ofGeoffrey's snoring. She was tired after her day: too tired totrouble about anything any more.
But in the morning she was first downstairs. She heard MissPinnegar, and hurried. Hastily she opened the windows and doors todrive away the smell of beer and smoke. She heard the men rumblingin the bath-room. And quickly she prepared breakfast and made afire. Mrs. Rollings would not appear till later in the day. At aquarter to seven Miss Pinnegar came down, and went into the sculleryto make her tea.
"Did both the men stay?" she asked.
"Yes, they both slept in the end room," said Alvina.
Miss Pinnegar said no more, but padded with her tea and her boiledegg into the living room. In the morning she was wordless.
Ciccio came down, in his shirt-sleeves as usual, but wearing acollar. He greeted Miss Pinnegar politely.
"Good-morning!" she said, and went on with her tea.
Geoffrey appeared. Miss Pinnegar glanced once at him, sullenly, andbriefly answered his good-morning. Then she went on with her egg,slow and persistent in her movements, mum.
The men went out to attend to Geoffrey's bicycle. The morning wasslow and grey, obscure. As they pumped up the tires, they heard someone padding behind. Miss Pinnegar came and unbolted the yard door,but ignored their presence. Then they saw her return and slowlymount the outer stair-ladder, which went up to the top floor. Twominutes afterwards they were startled by the irruption of thework-girls. As for the work-girls, they gave quite loud, startledsqueals, suddenly seeing the two men on their right hand, in theobscure morning. And they lingered on the stair-way to gaze in raptcuriosity, poking and whispering, until Miss Pinnegar appearedoverhead, and sharply rang a bell which hung beside the entrancedoor of the work-rooms.
After which excitements Geoffrey and Ciccio went in to b
reakfast,which Alvina had prepared.
"You have done it all, eh?" said Ciccio, glancing round.
"Yes. I've made breakfast for years, now," said Alvina.
"Not many more times here, eh?" he said, smiling significantly.
"I hope not," said Alvina.
Ciccio sat down almost like a husband--as if it were his right.
Geoffrey was very quiet this morning. He ate his breakfast, and roseto go.
"I shall see you soon," he said, smiling sheepishly and bowing toAlvina. Ciccio accompanied him to the street.
When Ciccio returned, Alvina was once more washing dishes.
"What time shall we go?" he said.
"We'll catch the one train. I must see the lawyer this morning."
"And what shall you say to him?"
"I shall tell him to sell everything--"
"And marry me?"
She started, and looked at him.
"You don't want to marry, do you?" she said.
"Yes, I do."
"Wouldn't you rather wait, and see--"
"What?" he said.
"See if there is any money."
He watched her steadily, and his brow darkened.
"Why?" he said.
She began to tremble.
"You'd like it better if there was money."
A slow, sinister smile came on his mouth. His eyes never smiled,except to Geoffrey, when a flood of warm, laughing light sometimessuffused them.
"You think I should!"
"Yes. It's true, isn't it? You would!"
He turned his eyes aside, and looked at her hands as she washed theforks. They trembled slightly. Then he looked back at her eyesagain, that were watching him large and wistful and a littleaccusing.
His impudent laugh came on his face.
"Yes," he said, "it is always better if there is money." He put hishand on her, and she winced. "But I marry you for love, you know.You know what love is--" And he put his arms round her, and laugheddown into her face.
She strained away.
"But you can have love without marriage," she said. "You know that."
"All right! All right! Give me love, eh? I want that."
She struggled against him.
"But not now," she said.
She saw the light in his eyes fix determinedly, and he nodded.
"Now!" he said. "Now!"
His yellow-tawny eyes looked down into hers, alien and overbearing.
"I can't," she struggled. "I can't now."
He laughed in a sinister way: yet with a certain warmheartedness.
"Come to that big room--" he said.
Her face flew fixed into opposition.
"I can't now, really," she said grimly.
His eyes looked down at hers. Her eyes looked back at him, hard andcold and determined. They remained motionless for some seconds.Then, a stray wisp of her hair catching his attention, desire filledhis heart, warm and full, obliterating his anger in the combat. Fora moment he softened. He saw her hardness becoming more assertive,and he wavered in sudden dislike, and almost dropped her. Then againthe desire flushed his heart, his smile became reckless of her, andhe picked her right up.
"Yes," he said. "Now."
For a second, she struggled frenziedly. But almost instantly sherecognized how much stronger he was, and she was still, mute andmotionless with anger. White, and mute, and motionless, she was takento her room. And at the back of her mind all the time she wondered athis deliberate recklessness of her. Recklessly, he had his will ofher--but deliberately, and thoroughly, not rushing to the issue, buttaking everything he wanted of her, progressively, and fully, leavingher stark, with nothing, nothing of herself--nothing.
When she could lie still she turned away from him, still mute. Andhe lay with his arms over her, motionless. Noises went on, in thestreet, overhead in the work-room. But theirs was complete silence.
At last he rose and looked at her.
"Love is a fine thing, Allaye," he said.
She lay mute and unmoving. He approached, laid his hand on herbreast, and kissed her.
"Love," he said, asserting, and laughing.
But still she was completely mute and motionless. He threwbedclothes over her and went downstairs, whistling softly.
She knew she would have to break her own trance of obstinacy. So shesnuggled down into the bedclothes, shivering deliciously, for herskin had become chilled. She didn't care a bit, really, about herown downfall. She snuggled deliciously in the sheets, and admittedto herself that she loved him. In truth, she loved him--and she waslaughing to herself.
Luxuriously, she resented having to get up and tackle her heap ofbroken garments. But she did it. She took other clothes, adjustedher hair, tied on her apron, and went downstairs once more. Shecould not find Ciccio: he had gone out. A stray cat darted from thescullery, and broke a plate in her leap. Alvina found her washing-upwater cold. She put on more, and began to dry her dishes.
Ciccio returned shortly, and stood in the doorway looking at her.She turned to him, unexpectedly laughing.
"What do you think of yourself?" she laughed.
"Well," he said, with a little nod, and a furtive look of triumphabout him, evasive. He went past her and into the room. Her insideburned with love for him: so elusive, so beautiful, in his silentpassing out of her sight. She wiped her dishes happily. Why was sheso absurdly happy, she asked herself? And why did she still fight sohard against the sense of his dark, unseizable beauty? Unseizable,for ever unseizable! That made her almost his slave. She foughtagainst her own desire to fall at his feet. Ridiculous to be sohappy.
She sang to herself as she went about her work downstairs. Then shewent upstairs, to do the bedrooms and pack her bag. At ten o'clockshe was to go to the family lawyer.
She lingered over her possessions: what to take, and what not totake. And so doing she wasted her time. It was already ten o'clockwhen she hurried downstairs. He was sitting quite still, waiting. Helooked up at her.
"Now I must hurry," she said. "I don't think I shall be more than anhour."
He put on his hat and went out with her.
"I shall tell the lawyer I am engaged to you. Shall I?" she asked.
"Yes," he said. "Tell him what you like." He was indifferent.
"Because," said Alvina gaily, "we can please ourselves what we do,whatever we say. I shall say we think of getting married in thesummer, when we know each other better, and going to Italy."
"Why shall you say all that?" said Ciccio.
"Because I shall _have_ to give some account of myself, or they'llmake me do something I don't want to do. You might come to thelawyer's with me, will you? He's an awfully nice old man. Then he'dbelieve in you."
But Ciccio shook his head.
"No," he said. "I shan't go. He doesn't want to see _me_."
"Well, if you don't want to. But I remember your name, FrancescoMarasca, and I remember Pescocalascio."
Ciccio heard in silence, as they walked the half-empty,Monday-morning street of Woodhouse. People kept nodding to Alvina.Some hurried inquisitively across to speak to her and look atCiccio. Ciccio however stood aside and turned his back.
"Oh yes," Alvina said. "I am staying with friends, here and there,for a few weeks. No, I don't know when I shall be back. Good-bye!"
"You're looking well, Alvina," people said to her. "I think you'relooking wonderful. A change does you good."
"It does, doesn't it," said Alvina brightly. And she was pleased shewas looking well.
"Well, good-bye for a minute," she said, glancing smiling into hiseyes and nodding to him, as she left him at the gate of the lawyer'shouse, by the ivy-covered wall.
The lawyer was a little man, all grey. Alvina had known him sinceshe was a child: but rather as an official than an individual. Shearrived all smiling in his room. He sat down and scrutinized hersharply, officially, before beginning.
"Well, Miss Houghton, and what news have you?"
"I don't think I've any, Mr. Be
eby. I came to you for news."
"Ah!" said the lawyer, and he fingered a paper-weight that covered apile of papers. "I'm afraid there is nothing very pleasant,unfortunately. And nothing very unpleasant either, for that matter."