The Lost Girl

  CHAPTER XIII

  THE WEDDED WIFE

  The upshot of it all was that Alvina ran away to Scarborough withouttelling anybody. It was in the first week in October. She asked fora week-end, to make some arrangements for her marriage. The marriagewas presumably with Dr. Mitchell--though she had given him nodefinite word. However, her month's notice was up, so she waslegally free. And therefore she packed a rather large bag with allher ordinary things, and set off in her everyday dress, leaving thenursing paraphernalia behind.

  She knew Scarborough quite well: and quite quickly found rooms whichshe had occupied before, in a boarding-house where she had stayedwith Miss Frost long ago. Having recovered from her journey, shewent out on to the cliffs on the north side. It was evening, and thesea was before her. What was she to do?

  She had run away from both men--from Ciccio as well as fromMitchell. She had spent the last fortnight more or less avoiding thepair of them. Now she had a moment to herself. She was even freefrom Mrs. Tuke, who in her own way was more exacting than the men.Mrs. Tuke had a baby daughter, and was getting well. Ciccio wasliving with the Tukes. Tommy had taken a fancy to him, and had halfengaged him as a sort of personal attendant: the sort of thing Tommywould do, not having paid his butcher's bills.

  So Alvina sat on the cliffs in a mood of exasperation. She was sickof being badgered about. She didn't really want to marry anybody.Why should she? She was thankful beyond measure to be by herself.How sick she was of other people and their importunities! What wasshe to do? She decided to offer herself again, in a little while,for war service--in a new town this time. Meanwhile she wanted to beby herself.

  She made excursions, she walked on the moors, in the brief butlovely days of early October. For three days it was all so sweet andlovely--perfect liberty, pure, almost paradisal.

  The fourth day it rained: simply rained all day long, and was cold,dismal, disheartening beyond words. There she sat, stranded in thedismalness, and knew no way out. She went to bed at nine o'clock,having decided in a jerk to go to London and find work in thewar-hospitals at once: not to leave off until she had found it.

  But in the night she dreamed that Alexander, her first fiance, waswith her on the quay of some harbour, and was reproaching herbitterly, even reviling her, for having come too late, so that theyhad missed their ship. They were there to catch the boat--and she,for dilatoriness, was an hour late, and she could see the broadstern of the steamer not far off. Just an hour late. She showedAlexander her watch--exactly ten o'clock, instead of nine. And hewas more angry than ever, because her watch was slow. He pointed tothe harbour clock--it was ten minutes past ten.

  When she woke up she was thinking of Alexander. It was such a longtime since she had thought of him. She wondered if he had a right tobe angry with her.

  The day was still grey, with sweepy rain-clouds on thesea--gruesome, objectionable. It was a prolongation of yesterday.Well, despair was no good, and being miserable was no good either.She got no satisfaction out of either mood. The only thing to do wasto act: seize hold of life and wring its neck.

  She took the time-table that hung in the hall: the time-table, thatmagic carpet of today. When in doubt, _move_. This was the maxim.Move. Where to?

  Another click of a resolution. She would wire to Ciccio and meethim--where? York--Leeds--Halifax--? She looked up the places in thetime-table, and decided on Leeds. She wrote out a telegram, that shewould be at Leeds that evening. Would he get it in time? Chance it.

  She hurried off and sent the telegram. Then she took a littleluggage, told the people of her house she would be back next day,and set off. She did not like whirling in the direction ofLancaster. But no matter.

  She waited a long time for the train from the north to come in. Thefirst person she saw was Tommy. He waved to her and jumped from themoving train.

  "I say!" he said. "So glad to see you! Ciccio is with me. Effieinsisted on my coming to see you."

  There was Ciccio climbing down with the bag. A sort of servant! Thiswas too much for her.

  "So you came with your valet?" she said, as Ciccio stood with thebag.

  "Not a bit," said Tommy, laying his hand on the other man'sshoulder. "We're the best of friends. I don't carry bags because myheart is rather groggy. I say, nurse, excuse me, but I like youbetter in uniform. Black doesn't suit you. You don't _mind_--"

  "Yes, I do. But I've only got black clothes, except uniforms."

  "Well look here now--! You're not going on anywhere tonight, areyou?"

  "It is too late."

  "Well now, let's turn into the hotel and have a talk. I'm actingunder Effie's orders, as you may gather--"

  At the hotel Tommy gave her a letter from his wife: to the tuneof--don't marry this Italian, you'll put yourself in a wretchedhole, and one wants to avoid getting into holes. _I know_--concludedEffie, on a sinister note.

  Tommy sang another tune. Ciccio was a lovely chap, a rare chap, atreat. He, Tommy, could quite understand any woman's wanting tomarry him--didn't agree a bit with Effie. But marriage, you know,was so final. And then with this war on: you never knew how thingsmight turn out: a foreigner and all that. And then--you won't mindwhat I say--? We won't talk about class and that rot. If the man'sgood enough, he's good enough by himself. But is he yourintellectual equal, nurse? After all, it's a big point. You don'twant to marry a man you can't talk to. Ciccio's a treat to be with,because he's so natural. But it isn't a _mental_ treat--

  Alvina thought of Mrs. Tuke, who complained that Tommy talked musicand pseudo-philosophy _by the hour_ when he was wound up. She sawEffie's long, outstretched arm of repudiation and weariness.

  "Of course!"--another of Mrs. Tuke's exclamations. "Why not _be_atavistic if you _can_ be, and follow at a man's heel just becausehe's a man. Be like barbarous women, a slave."

  During all this, Ciccio stayed out of the room, as bidden. It wasnot till Alvina sat before her mirror that he opened her doorsoftly, and entered.

  "I come in," he said, and he closed the door.

  Alvina remained with her hair-brush suspended, watching him. He cameto her, smiling softly, to take her in his arms. But she put thechair between them.

  "Why did you bring Mr. Tuke?" she said.

  He lifted his shoulders.

  "I haven't brought him," he said, watching her.

  "Why did you show him the telegram?"

  "It was Mrs. Tuke took it."

  "Why did you give it her?"

  "It was she who gave it me, in her room. She kept it in her roomtill I came and took it."

  "All right," said Alvina. "Go back to the Tukes." And she beganagain to brush her hair.

  Ciccio watched her with narrowing eyes.

  "What you mean?" he said. "I shan't go, Allaye. You come with me."

  "Ha!" she sniffed scornfully. "I shall go where I like."

  But slowly he shook his head.

  "You'll come, Allaye," he said. "You come with me, with Ciccio."

  She shuddered at the soft, plaintive entreaty.

  "How can I go with you? How can I depend on you at all?"

  Again he shook his head. His eyes had a curious yellow fire,beseeching, plaintive, with a demon quality of yearning compulsion.

  "Yes, you come with me, Allaye. You come with me, to Italy. Youdon't go to that other man. He is too old, not healthy. You comewith me to Italy. Why do you send a telegram?"

  Alvina sat down and covered her face, trembling.

  "I can't! I can't! I can't!" she moaned. "I can't do it."

  "Yes, you come with me. I have money. You come with me, to my placein the mountains, to my uncle's house. Fine house, you like it. Comewith me, Allaye."

  She could not look at him.

  "Why do you want me?" she said.

  "Why I want you?" He gave a curious laugh, almost of ridicule. "Idon't know that. You ask me another, eh?"

  She was silent, sitting looking downwards.

  "I can't, I think," she said abstractedly, looking up at him.

/>   He smiled, a fine, subtle smile, like a demon's, but inexpressiblygentle. He made her shiver as if she was mesmerized. And he wasreaching forward to her as a snake reaches, nor could she recoil.

  "You come, Allaye," he said softly, with his foreign intonation."You come. You come to Italy with me. Yes?" He put his hand on her,and she started as if she had been struck. But his hands, with thesoft, powerful clasp, only closed her faster.

  "Yes?" he said. "Yes? All right, eh? All right!"--he had a strangemesmeric power over her, as if he possessed the sensual secrets, andshe was to be subjected.

  "I can't," she moaned, trying to struggle. But she was powerless.

  Dark and insidious he was: he had no regard for her. How could aman's movements be so soft and gentle, and yet so inhumanlyregardless! He had no regard for her. Why didn't she revolt? Whycouldn't she? She was as if bewitched. She couldn't fight againsther bewitchment. Why? Because he seemed to her beautiful, sobeautiful. And this left her numb, submissive. Why must she see himbeautiful? Why was she will-less? She felt herself like one of theold sacred prostitutes: a sacred prostitute.

  In the morning, very early, they left for Scarborough, leaving aletter for the sleeping Tommy. In Scarborough they went to theregistrar's office: they could be married in a fortnight's time. Andso the fortnight passed, and she was under his spell. Only she knewit. She felt extinguished. Ciccio talked to her: but only ordinarythings. There was no wonderful intimacy of speech, such as she hadalways imagined, and always craved for. No. He loved her--but it wasin a dark, mesmeric way, which did not let her be herself. His lovedid not stimulate her or excite her. It extinguished her. She had tobe the quiescent, obscure woman: she felt as if she were veiled. Herthoughts were dim, in the dim back regions of consciousness--yet,somewhere, she almost exulted. Atavism! Mrs. Tuke's word would playin her mind. Was it atavism, this sinking into extinction under thespell of Ciccio? Was it atavism, this strange, sleep-like submissionto his being? Perhaps it was. Perhaps it was. But it was also heavyand sweet and rich. Somewhere, she was content. Somewhere even shewas vastly proud of the dark veiled eternal loneliness she felt,under his shadow.

  And so it had to be. She shuddered when she touched him, because hewas so beautiful, and she was so submitted. She quivered when hemoved as if she were his shadow. Yet her mind remained distantlyclear. She would criticize him, find fault with him, the things hedid. But _ultimately_ she could find no fault with him. She had lostthe power. She didn't care. She had lost the power to care about hisfaults. Strange, sweet, poisonous indifference! She was drugged. Andshe knew it. Would she ever wake out of her dark, warm coma? Sheshuddered, and hoped not. Mrs. Tuke would say atavism. Atavism! Theword recurred curiously.

  But under all her questionings she felt well; a nonchalance deep assleep, a passivity and indifference so dark and sweet she felt itmust be evil. Evil! She was evil. And yet she had no power to beotherwise. They were legally married. And she was glad. She wasrelieved by knowing she could not escape. She was Mrs. Marasca. Whatwas the good of trying to be Miss Houghton any longer? Marasca, thebitter cherry. Some dark poison fruit she had eaten. How glad shewas she had eaten it! How beautiful he was! And no one saw it butherself. For her it was so potent it made her tremble when shenoticed him. His beauty, his dark shadow. Ciccio really was muchhandsomer since his marriage. He seemed to emerge. Before, he hadseemed to make himself invisible in the streets, in England,altogether. But now something unfolded in him, he was a potent,glamorous presence, people turned to watch him. There was a certaindark, leopard-like pride in the air about him, something that theEnglish people watched.

  He wanted to go to Italy. And now it was _his_ will which counted.Alvina, as his wife, must submit. He took her to London the dayafter the marriage. He wanted to get away to Italy. He did not likebeing in England, a foreigner, amid the beginnings of the spy craze.

  In London they stayed at his cousin's house. His cousin kept arestaurant in Battersea, and was a flourishing London Italian, areal London product with all the good English virtues of cleanlinessand honesty added to an Italian shrewdness. His name was GiuseppeCalifano, and he was pale, and he had four children of whom he wasvery proud. He received Alvina with an affable respect, as if shewere an asset in the family, but as if he were a little uneasy anddisapproving. She had _come down_, in marrying Ciccio. She had lostcaste. He rather seemed to exult over her degradation. For he was anorthernized Italian, he had accepted English standards. Hischildren were English brats. He almost patronized Alvina.

  But then a long, slow look from her remote blue eyes brought him upsharp, and he envied Ciccio suddenly, he was almost in love with herhimself. She disturbed him. She disturbed him in his new Englishaplomb of a London _restaurateur_, and she disturbed in him the oldItalian dark soul, to which he was renegade. He tried treating heras an English lady. But the slow, remote look in her eyes made thisfall flat. He had to be Italian.

  And he was jealous of Ciccio. In Ciccio's face was a lurking smile,and round his fine nose there seemed a subtle, semi-defiant triumph.After all, he had triumphed over his well-to-do, Anglicized cousin.With a stealthy, leopard-like pride Ciccio went through the streetsof London in those wild early days of war. He was the one victor,arching stealthily over the vanquished north.

  Alvina saw nothing of all these complexities. For the time being,she was all dark and potent. Things were curious to her. It wascurious to be in Battersea, in this English-Italian household, wherethe children spoke English more readily than Italian. It was strangeto be high over the restaurant, to see the trees of the park, tohear the clang of trams. It was strange to walk out and come to theriver. It was strange to feel the seethe of war and dread in theair. But she did not question. She seemed steeped in the passionalinfluence of the man, as in some narcotic. She even forgot Mrs.Tuke's atavism. Vague and unquestioning she went through the days,she accompanied Ciccio into town, she went with him to makepurchases, or she sat by his side in the music hall, or she stayedin her room and sewed, or she sat at meals with the Califanos, avague brightness on her face. And Mrs. Califano was very nice toher, very gentle, though with a suspicion of malicious triumph,mockery, beneath her gentleness. Still, she was nice and womanly,hovering as she was between her English emancipation and her Italiansubordination. She half pitied Alvina, and was more than halfjealous of her.

  Alvina was aware of nothing--only of the presence of Ciccio. It washis physical presence which cast a spell over her. She lived withinhis aura. And she submitted to him as if he had extended his darknature over her. She knew nothing about him. She lived mindlesslywithin his presence, quivering within his influence, as if his bloodbeat in her. She _knew_ she was subjected. One tiny corner of herknew, and watched.

  He was very happy, and his face had a real beauty. His eyes glowed withlustrous secrecy, like the eyes of some victorious, happy wild creatureseen remote under a bush. And he was very good to her. His tendernessmade her quiver into a swoon of complete self-forgetfulness, as if theflood-gates of her depths opened. The depth of his warm, mindless,enveloping love was immeasurable. She felt she could sink forever intohis warm, pulsating embrace.

  Afterwards, later on, when she was inclined to criticize him, shewould remember the moment when she saw his face at the ItalianConsulate in London. There were many people at the Consulate,clamouring for passports--a wild and ill-regulated crowd. They hadwaited their turn and got inside--Ciccio was not good at pushing hisway. And inside a courteous tall old man with a white beard hadlifted the flap for Alvina to go inside the office and sit down tofill in the form. She thanked the old man, who bowed as if he had areputation to keep up.

  Ciccio followed, and it was he who had to sit down and fill up theform, because she did not understand the Italian questions. Shestood at his side, watching the excited, laughing, noisy, east-endItalians at the desk. The whole place had a certain free-and-easyconfusion, a human, unofficial, muddling liveliness which was notquite like England, even though it was in the middle of London.

&nb
sp; "What was your mother's name?" Ciccio was asking her. She turned tohim. He sat with the pen perched flourishingly at the end of hisfingers, suspended in the serious and artistic business of filling in aform. And his face had a dark luminousness, like a dark transparencewhich was shut and has now expanded. She quivered, as if it was morethan she could bear. For his face was open like a flower right tothe depths of his soul, a dark, lovely translucency, vulnerable tothe deep quick of his soul. The lovely, rich darkness of his southernnature, so different from her own, exposing itself now in its passionalvulnerability, made her go white with a kind of fear. For an instant,her face seemed drawn and old as she looked down at him, answering hisquestions. Then her eyes became sightless with tears, she stooped as ifto look at his writing, and quickly kissed his fingers that held thepen, there in the midst of the crowded, vulgar Consulate.

  He stayed suspended, again looking up at her with the bright,unfolded eyes of a wild creature which plays and is not seen. Afaint smile, very beautiful to her, was on his face. What did he seewhen he looked at her? She did not know, she did not know. And shewould never know. For an instant, she swore inside herself that GodHimself should not take her away from this man. She would commitherself to him through every eternity. And then the vagueness cameover her again, she turned aside, photographically seeing the crowdin the Consulate, but really unconscious. His movement as he roseseemed to move her in her sleep, she turned to him at once.

  It was early in November before they could leave for Italy, and herdim, lustrous state lasted all the time. She found herself atCharing Cross in the early morning, in all the bustle of catchingthe Continental train. Giuseppe was there, and Gemma his wife, andtwo of the children, besides three other Italian friends of Ciccio.They all crowded up the platform. Giuseppe had insisted that Ciccioshould take second-class tickets. They were very early. Alvina andCiccio were installed in a second-class compartment, with all theirpackages, Ciccio was pale, yellowish under his tawny skin, andnervous. He stood excitedly on the platform talking in Italian--orrather, in his own dialect--whilst Alvina sat quite still in hercorner. Sometimes one of the women or one of the children came tosay a few words to her, or Giuseppe hurried to her with illustratedpapers. They treated her as if she were some sort of invalid orangel, now she was leaving. But most of their attention they gave toCiccio, talking at him rapidly all at once, whilst he answered, andglanced in this way and that, under his fine lashes, and smiled hisold, nervous, meaningless smile. He was curiously upset.

  Time came to shut the doors. The women and children kissed Alvina,saying:

  "You'll be all right, eh? Going to Italy--!" And then profound andmeaningful nods, which she could not interpret, but which werefraught surely with good-fellowship.

  Then they all kissed Ciccio. The men took him in their arms andkissed him on either cheek, the children lifted their faces in eageranticipation of the double kiss. Strange, how eager they were forthis embrace--how they all kept taking Ciccio's hand, one after theother, whilst he smiled constrainedly and nervously.