THE LOST GIRL

by

D. H. LAWRENCE

New YorkThomas Seltzer1921

Copyright, 1921, by Thomas Seltzer, Inc. All rights reserved

First Printing, February, 1921Second Printing, February, 1921Third Printing, September, 1921

Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

 I THE DECLINE OF MANCHESTER HOUSE 7

 II THE RISE OF ALVINA HOUGHTON 27

 III THE MATERNITY NURSE 36

 IV TWO WOMEN DIE 49

 V THE BEAU 64

 VI HOUGHTON'S LAST ENDEAVOUR 95

 VII NATCHA-KEE-TAWARA 130

VIII CICCIO 164

 IX ALVINA BECOMES ALLAYE 191

 X THE FALL OF MANCHESTER HOUSE 235

 XI HONOURABLE ENGAGEMENT 273

 XII ALLAYE ALSO IS ENGAGED 304

XIII THE WEDDED WIFE 317

 XIV THE JOURNEY ACROSS 327

 XV THE PLACE CALLED CALIFANO 350

 XVI SUSPENSE 359

CHAPTER I

THE DECLINE OF MANCHESTER HOUSE

Take a mining townlet like Woodhouse, with a population of tenthousand people, and three generations behind it. This space ofthree generations argues a certain well-established society. The old"County" has fled from the sight of so much disembowelled coal, toflourish on mineral rights in regions still idyllic. Remains onegreat and inaccessible magnate, the local coal owner: threegenerations old, and clambering on the bottom step of the "County, "kicking off the mass below. Rule him out. 

A well established society in Woodhouse, full of fine shades, ranging from the dark of coal-dust to grit of stone-mason andsawdust of timber-merchant, through the lustre of lard and butterand meat, to the perfume of the chemist and the disinfectant of thedoctor, on to the serene gold-tarnish of bank-managers, cashiers forthe firm, clergymen and such-like, as far as the automobilerefulgence of the general-manager of all the collieries. Here the_ne plus ultra_. The general manager lives in the shrubberiedseclusion of the so-called Manor. The genuine Hall, abandoned by the"County, " has been taken over as offices by the firm. 

Here we are then: a vast substratum of colliers; a thick sprinklingof tradespeople intermingled with small employers of labour anddiversified by elementary schoolmasters and nonconformist clergy; ahigher layer of bank-managers, rich millers and well-to-doironmasters, episcopal clergy and the managers of collieries, thenthe rich and sticky cherry of the local coal-owner glistening overall. 

Such the complicated social system of a small industrial town in theMidlands of England, in this year of grace 1920. But let us go backa little. Such it was in the last calm year of plenty, 1913. 

A calm year of plenty. But one chronic and dreary malady: that ofthe odd women. Why, in the name of all prosperity, should everyclass but the lowest in such a society hang overburdened with DeadSea fruit of odd women, unmarried, unmarriageable women, called oldmaids? Why is it that every tradesman, every school-master, everybank-manager, and every clergyman produces one, two, three or moreold maids? Do the middle-classes, particularly the lowermiddle-classes, give birth to more girls than boys? Or do the lowermiddle-class men assiduously climb up or down, in marriage, thusleaving their true partners stranded? Or are middle-class women verysqueamish in their choice of husbands?

However it be, it is a tragedy. Or perhaps it is not. 

Perhaps these unmarried women of the middle-classes are the famoussexless-workers of our ant-industrial society, of which we hear somuch. Perhaps all they lack is an occupation: in short, a job. Butperhaps we might hear their own opinion, before we lay the law down. 

In Woodhouse, there was a terrible crop of old maids among the"nobs, " the tradespeople and the clergy. The whole town of women, colliers' wives and all, held its breath as it saw a chance of oneof these daughters of comfort and woe getting off. They flocked tothe well-to-do weddings with an intoxication of relief. For letclass-jealousy be what it may, a woman hates to see another womanleft stalely on the shelf, without a chance. They all _wanted_ themiddle-class girls to find husbands. Every one wanted it, includingthe girls themselves. Hence the dismalness. 

Now James Houghton had only one child: his daughter Alvina. SurelyAlvina Houghton--

But let us retreat to the early eighties, when Alvina was a baby: oreven further back, to the palmy days of James Houghton. In his palmydays, James Houghton was _crême de la crême_ of Woodhouse society. The house of Houghton had always been well-to-do: tradespeople, wemust admit; but after a few generations of affluence, tradespeopleacquire a distinct _cachet_. Now James Houghton, at the age oftwenty-eight, inherited a splendid business in Manchester goods, inWoodhouse. He was a tall, thin, elegant young man with side-whiskers, genuinely refined, somewhat in the Bulwer style. He had a taste forelegant conversation and elegant literature and elegant Christianity:a tall, thin, brittle young man, rather fluttering in his manner, fullof facile ideas, and with a beautiful speaking voice: most beautiful. Withal, of course, a tradesman. He courted a small, dark woman, olderthan himself, daughter of a Derbyshire squire. He expected to get atleast ten thousand pounds with her. In which he was disappointed, forhe got only eight hundred. Being of a romantic-commercial nature, henever forgave her, but always treated her with the most elegantcourtesy. To seehim peel and prepare an apple for her was an exquisitesight. But that peeled and quartered apple was her portion. Thiselegant Adam of commerce gave Eve her own back, nicely cored, and hadno more to do with her. Meanwhile Alvina was born. 

Before all this, however, before his marriage, James Houghton hadbuilt Manchester House. It was a vast square building--vast, thatis, for Woodhouse--standing on the main street and high-road of thesmall but growing town. The lower front consisted of two fine shops, one for Manchester goods, one for silk and woollens. This was JamesHoughton's commercial poem. 

For James Houghton was a dreamer, and something of a poet: commercial, be it understood. He liked the novels of George Macdonald, and thefantasies of that author, extremely. He wove one continual fantasy forhimself, a fantasy of commerce. He dreamed of silks and poplins, luscious in texture and of unforeseen exquisiteness: he dreamed ofcarriages of the "County" arrested before his windows, of exquisitewomen ruffling charmed, entranced to his counter. And charming, entrancing, he served them his lovely fabrics, which only he and theycould sufficiently appreciate. His fame spread, until Alexandra, Princess of Wales, and Elizabeth, Empress of Austria, the twobest-dressed women in Europe, floated down from heaven to the shop inWoodhouse, and sallied forth to show what could be done by purchasingfrom James Houghton. 

We cannot say why James Houghton failed to become the Liberty or theSnelgrove of his day. Perhaps he had too much imagination. Be that asit may, in those early days when he brought his wife to her new home, his window on the Manchester side was a foam and a may-blossom ofmuslins and prints, his window on the London side was an autumn eveningof silks and rich fabrics. What wife could fail to be dazzled! But she, poor darling, from her stone hall in stony Derbyshire, was a little bitrepulsed by the man's dancing in front of his stock, like David beforethe ark. 

The home to which he brought her was a monument. In the great bedroomover the shop he had his furniture _built_: built of solid mahogany: ohtoo, too solid. No doubt he hopped or skipped himself with satisfactioninto the monstrous matrimonial bed: it could only be mounted by meansof a stool and chair. But the poor, secluded little woman, older thanhe, must have climbed up with a heavy heart, to lie and face the gloomyBastille of mahogany, the great cupboard opposite, or to turn wearilysideways to the great cheval mirror, which performed a perpetual andhideous bow before her grace. Such furniture! It could never be removedfrom the room. 

The little child was born in the second year. And then James Houghtondecamped to a small, half-furnished bedroom at the other end of thehouse, where he slept on a rough board and played the anchorite for therest of his days. His wife was left alone with her baby and thebuilt-in furniture. She developed heart disease, as a result of nervousrepressions. 

But like a butterfly James fluttered over his fabrics. He was a tyrantto his shop-girls. No French marquis in a Dickens' novel could havebeen more elegant and _raffiné_ and heartless. The girls detested him. And yet, his curious refinement and enthusiasm bore them away. Theysubmitted to him. The shop attracted much curiosity. But thepoor-spirited Woodhouse people were weak buyers. They wearied JamesHoughton with their demand for common zephyrs, for red flannel whichthey would scallop with black worsted, for black alpacas and bombazinesand merinos. He fluffed out his silk-striped muslins, his Indiacotton-prints. But the natives shied off as if he had offered them thepoisoned robes of Herakles. 

There was a sale. These sales contributed a good deal to Mrs. Houghton's nervous heart-disease. They brought the first signs of wearand tear into the face of James Houghton. At first, of course, hemerely marked down, with discretion, his less-expensive stock of printsand muslins, nuns-veilings and muslin delaines, with a few fancybraidings and trimmings in guimp or bronze to enliven the affair. AndWoodhouse bought cautiously. 

After the sale, however, James Houghton felt himself at liberty toplunge into an orgy of new stock. He flitted, with a tense look on hisface, to Manchester. After which huge bundles, bales and boxes arrivedin Woodhouse, and were dumped on the pavement of the shop. Fridayevening came, and with it a revelation in Houghton's window: the firstpiqués, the first strangely-woven and honey-combed toilet covers andbed quilts, the first frill-caps and aprons for maid-servants: a wonderin white. That was how James advertised it. "A Wonder in White. " Whoknows but that he had been reading Wilkie Collins' famous novel!

As the nine days of the wonder-in-white passed and receded, Jamesdisappeared in the direction of London. A few Fridays later he came outwith his Winter Touch. Weird and wonderful winter coats, forladies--everything James handled was for ladies, he scorned the coarsersex--: weird and wonderful winter coats for ladies, of thick, black, pockmarked cloth, stood and flourished their bear-fur cuffs in thebackground, while tippets, boas, muffs and winter-fancies coquetted infront of the window-space. Friday-night crowds gathered outside: thegas-lamps shone their brightest: James Houghton hovered in thebackground like an author on his first night in the theatre. Theresult was a sensation. Ten villages stared and crushed round the plateglass. It was a sensation: but what sensation! In the breasts of thecrowd, wonder, admiration, _fear_, and ridicule. Let us stress the wordfear. The inhabitants of Woodhouse were afraid lest James Houghtonshould impose his standards upon them. His goods were in excellenttaste: but his customers were in as bad taste as possible. They stoodoutside and pointed, giggled, and jeered. Poor James, like an author onhis first night, saw his work fall more than flat. 

But still he believed in his own excellence: and quite justly. Whathe failed to perceive was that the crowd hated excellence. Woodhousewanted a gently graduated progress in mediocrity, a mediocrity sostale and flat that it fell outside the imagination of any sensitivemortal. Woodhouse wanted a series of vulgar little thrills, as onetawdry mediocrity was imported from Nottingham or Birmingham to takethe place of some tawdry mediocrity which Nottingham and Birminghamhad already discarded. That Woodhouse, as a very condition of itsown being, hated any approach to originality or real taste, thisJames Houghton could never learn. He thought he had not been cleverenough, when he had been far, far too clever already. He alwaysthought that Dame Fortune was a capricious and fastidious dame, asort of Elizabeth of Austria or Alexandra, Princess of Wales, elegant beyond his grasp. Whereas Dame Fortune, even in London orVienna, let alone in Woodhouse, was a vulgar woman of the middle andlower middle-class, ready to put her heavy foot on anything that wasnot vulgar, machine-made, and appropriate to the herd. When he sawhis delicate originalities, as well as his faint flourishes ofdraper's fantasy, squashed flat under the calm and solid foot ofvulgar Dame Fortune, he fell into fits of depression bordering onmysticism, and talked to his wife in a vague way of higherinfluences and the angel Israfel. She, poor lady, was thoroughlyscared by Israfel, and completely unhooked by the vagaries of James. 

At last--we hurry down the slope of James' misfortunes--the realdays of Houghton's Great Sales began. Houghton's Great BargainEvents were really events. After some years of hanging on, he let gosplendidly. He marked down his prints, his chintzes, his dimitiesand his veilings with a grand and lavish hand. Bang went his bluepencil through 3/11, and nobly he subscribed 1/0-3/4. Prices felllike nuts. A lofty one-and-eleven rolled down to six-three, 1/6magically shrank into 4-3/4d, whilst good solid prints exposedthemselves at 3-3/4d per yard. 

Now this was really an opportunity. Moreover the goods, havingbecome a little stale during their years of ineffectuality, werebeginning to approximate to the public taste. And besides, goodsound stuff it was, no matter what the pattern. And so the littleWoodhouse girls went to school in petties and drawers made ofmaterial which James had destined for fair summer dresses: pettiesand drawers of which the little Woodhouse girls were ashamed, forall that. For if they should chance to turn up their little skirts, be sure they would raise a chorus among their companions: "Yah-h-h, yer've got Houghton's threp'ny draws on!"

All this time James Houghton walked on air. He still saw the FataMorgana snatching his fabrics round her lovely form, and pointinghim to wealth untold. True, he became also Superintendent of theSunday School. But whether this was an act of vanity, or whether itwas an attempt to establish an Entente Cordiale with higher powers, who shall judge. 

Meanwhile his wife became more and more an invalid; the littleAlvina was a pretty, growing child. Woodhouse was really impressedby the sight of Mrs. Houghton, small, pale and withheld, taking awalk with her dainty little girl, so fresh in an ermine tippet and amuff. Mrs. Houghton in shiny black bear's-fur, the child in thewhite and spotted ermine, passing silent and shadowy down thestreet, made an impression which the people did not forget. 

But Mrs. Houghton had pains at her heart. If, during her walk, shesaw two little boys having a scrimmage, she had to run to them withpence and entreaty, leaving them dumfounded, whilst she leaned blueat the lips against a wall. If she saw a carter crack his whip overthe ears of the horse, as the horse laboured uphill, she had tocover her eyes and avert her face, and all her strength left her. 

So she stayed more and more in her room, and the child was given tothe charge of a governess. Miss Frost was a handsome, vigorous youngwoman of about thirty years of age, with grey-white hair andgold-rimmed spectacles. The white hair was not at all tragical: itwas a family _trait_. 

Miss Frost mattered more than any one else to Alvina Houghton, during the first long twenty-five years of the girl's life. Thegoverness was a strong, generous woman, a musician by nature. Shehad a sweet voice, and sang in the choir of the chapel, and took thefirst class of girls in the Sunday-School of which James Houghtonwas Superintendent. She disliked and rather despised James Houghton, saw in him elements of a hypocrite, detested his airy and graciousselfishness, his lack of human feeling, and most of all, his fairyfantasy. As James went further into life, he became a dreamer. Sadindeed that he died before the days of Freud. He enjoyed the mostwonderful and fairy-like dreams, which he could describe perfectly, in charming, delicate language. At such times his beautifullymodulated voice all but sang, his grey eyes gleamed fiercely underhis bushy, hairy eyebrows, his pale face with its side-whiskers hada strange _lueur_, his long thin hands fluttered occasionally. Hehad become meagre in figure, his skimpy but genteel coat would bebuttoned over his breast, as he recounted his dream-adventures, adventures that were half Edgar Allan Poe, half Andersen, withtouches of Vathek and Lord Byron and George Macdonald: perhaps morethan a touch of the last. Ladies were always struck by theseaccounts. But Miss Frost never felt so strongly moved to impatienceas when she was within hearing. 

For twenty years, she and James Houghton treated each other with acourteous distance. Sometimes she broke into open impatience withhim, sometimes he answered her tartly: "Indeed, indeed! Oh, indeed!Well, well, I'm sorry you find it so--" as if the injury consistedin her finding it so. Then he would flit away to the ConservativeClub, with a fleet, light, hurried step, as if pressed by fate. Atthe club he played chess--at which he was excellent--and conversed. Then he flitted back at half-past twelve, to dinner. 

The whole morale of the house rested immediately on Miss Frost. Shesaw her line in the first year. She must defend the little Alvina, whom she loved as her own, and the nervous, petulant, heart-strickenwoman, the mother, from the vagaries of James. Not that James hadany vices. He did not drink or smoke, was abstemious and clean as ananchorite, and never lowered his fine tone. But still, the twounprotected ones must be sheltered from him. Miss Frostimperceptibly took into her hands the reins of the domesticgovernment. Her rule was quiet, strong, and generous. She was notseeking her own way. She was steering the poor domestic ship ofManchester House, illuminating its dark rooms with her own sure, radiant presence: her silver-white hair, and her pale, heavy, reposeful face seemed to give off a certain radiance. She seemed togive weight, ballast, and repose to the staggering and bewilderedhome. She controlled the maid, and suggested the meals--meals whichJames ate without knowing what he ate. She brought in flowers andbooks, and, very rarely, a visitor. Visitors were out of place inthe dark sombreness of Manchester House. Her flowers charmed thepetulant invalid, her books she sometimes discussed with the airyJames: after which discussions she was invariably filled withexasperation and impatience, whilst James invariably retired to theshop, and was heard raising his musical voice, which the work-girlshated, to one or other of the work-girls. 

James certainly had an irritating way of speaking of a book. Hetalked of incidents, and effects, and suggestions, as if the wholething had just been a sensational-æsthetic attribute to himself. Nota grain of human feeling in the man, said Miss Frost, flushing pinkwith exasperation. She herself invariably took the human line. 

Meanwhile the shops began to take on a hopeless and frowsy look. After ten years' sales, spring sales, summer sales, autumn sales, winter sales, James began to give up the drapery dream. He himselfcould not bear any more to put the heavy, pock-holed black clothcoat, with wild bear cuffs and collar, on to the stand. He hadmarked it down from five guineas to one guinea, and then, oh ignobleday, to ten-and-six. He nearly kissed the gipsy woman with a basketof tin saucepan-lids, when at last she bought it for five shillings, at the end of one of his winter sales. But even she, in spite of thebitter sleety day, would not put the coat on in the shop. Shecarried it over her arm down to the Miners' Arms. And later, with ashock that really hurt him, James, peeping bird-like out of his shopdoor, saw her sitting driving a dirty rag-and-bone cart with agreen-white, mouldy pony, and flourishing her arms like some wildand hairy-decorated squaw. For the long bear-fur, wet with sleet, seemed like a _chevaux de frise_ of long porcupine quills round herfore-arms and her neck. Yet such good, such wonderful material! Jameseyed it for one moment, and then fled like a rabbit to the stove inhis back regions. 

The higher powers did not seem to fulfil the terms of treaty whichJames hoped for. He began to back out from the Entente. The SundaySchool was a great trial to him. Instead of being carried away byhis grace and eloquence, the nasty louts of colliery boys and girlsopenly banged their feet and made deafening noises when he tried tospeak. He said many acid and withering things, as he stood there onthe rostrum. But what is the good of saying acid things to thoselittle fiends and gall-bladders, the colliery children. Thesituation was saved by Miss Frost's sweeping together all the biggirls, under her surveillance, and by her organizing that the talland handsome blacksmith who taught the lower boys should extend hisinfluence over the upper boys. His influence was more thaneffectual. It consisted in gripping any recalcitrant boy just abovethe knee, and jesting with him in a jocular manner, in the dialect. The blacksmith's hand was all a blacksmith's hand need be, and hisdialect was as broad as could be wished. Between the grip and thehomely idiom no boy could endure without squealing. So the SundaySchool paid more attention to James, whose prayers were beautiful. But then one of the boys, a protegé of Miss Frost, having been leftfor half an hour in the obscure room with Mrs. Houghton, gave awaythe secret of the blacksmith's grip, which secret so haunted thepoor lady that it marked a stage in the increase of her malady, andmade Sunday afternoon a nightmare to her. And then James Houghtonresented something in the coarse Scotch manner of the minister ofthat day. So that the superintendency of the Sunday School came toan end. 

At the same time, Solomon had to divide his baby. That is, he letthe London side of his shop to W. H. Johnson, the tailor andhaberdasher, a parvenu little fellow whose English would not bearanalysis. Bitter as it was, it had to be. Carpenters and joinersappeared, and the premises were completely severed. From her room inthe shadows at the back the invalid heard the hammering and sawing, and suffered. W. H. Johnson came out with a spick-and-span window, and had his wife, a shrewd, quiet woman, and his daughter, ahandsome, loud girl, to help him on Friday evenings. Men flockedin--even women, buying their husbands a sixpence-halfpenny tie. Theycould have bought a tie for four-three from James Houghton. But no, they would rather give sixpence-halfpenny for W. H. Johnson's freshbut rubbishy stuff. And James, who had tried to rise to anothersuccessful sale, saw the streams pass into the other doorway, andheard the heavy feet on the hollow boards of the other shop: hisshop no more. 

After this cut at his pride and integrity he lay in retirement for awhile, mystically inclined. Probably he would have come toSwedenborg, had not his clipt wings spread for a new flight. He hitupon the brilliant idea of working up his derelict fabrics intoready-mades: not men's clothes, oh no: women's, or rather, ladies'. Ladies' Tailoring, said the new announcement. 

James Houghton was happy once more. A zig-zag wooden stair-way wasrigged up the high back of Manchester House. In the great loftssewing-machines of various patterns and movements were installed. Amanageress was advertised for, and work-girls were hired. So a newphase of life started. At half-past six in the morning there was aclatter of feet and of girls' excited tongues along the back-yardand up the wooden stair-way outside the back wall. The poor invalidheard every clack and every vibration. She could never get over hernervous apprehension of an invasion. Every morning alike, she feltan invasion of some enemy was breaking in on her. And all day longthe low, steady rumble of sewing-machines overhead seemed like thelow drumming of a bombardment upon her weak heart. To make mattersworse, James Houghton decided that he must have his sewing-machinesdriven by some extra-human force. He installed another plant ofmachinery--acetylene or some such contrivance--which was intended todrive all the little machines from one big belt. Hence a furtherthrobbing and shaking in the upper regions, truly terrible toendure. But, fortunately or unfortunately, the acetylene plant wasnot a success. Girls got their thumbs pierced, and sewing machinesabsolutely refused to stop sewing, once they had started, andabsolutely refused to start, once they had stopped. So that after awhile, one loft was reserved for disused and rusty, but expensiveengines. 

Dame Fortune, who had refused to be taken by fine fabrics and fancytrimmings, was just as reluctant to be captured by ready-mades. Again the good dame was thoroughly lower middle-class. JamesHoughton designed "robes. " Now Robes were the mode. Perhaps it wasAlexandra, Princess of Wales, who gave glory to the slim, glove-fitting Princess Robe. Be that as it may, James Houghtondesigned robes. His work-girls, a race even more callous thanshop-girls, proclaimed the fact that James tried on his owninventions upon his own elegant thin person, before the privacy ofhis own cheval mirror. And even if he did, why not? Miss Frost, hearing this legend, looked sideways at the enthusiast. 

Let us remark in time that Miss Frost had already ceased to draw anymaintenance from James Houghton. Far from it, she herselfcontributed to the upkeep of the domestic hearth and board. She hadfully decided never to leave her two charges. She knew that agoverness was an impossible item in Manchester House, as thingswent. And so she trudged the country, giving music lessons to thedaughters of tradesmen and of colliers who boasted pianofortes. Sheeven taught heavy-handed but dauntless colliers, who were seizedwith a passion to "play. " Miles she trudged, on her round fromvillage to village: a white-haired woman with a long, quick stride, a strong figure, and a quick, handsome smile when once her faceawoke behind her gold-rimmed glasses. Like many short-sightedpeople, she had a certain intent look of one who goes her own way. 

The miners knew her, and entertained the highest respect andadmiration for her. As they streamed in a grimy stream home frompit, they diverged like some magic dark river from off the pavementinto the horse-way, to give her room as she approached. And the menwho knew her well enough to salute her, by calling her name "MissFrost!" giving it the proper intonation of salute, were fussy menindeed. "She's a lady if ever there was one, " they said. And theymeant it. Hearing her name, poor Miss Frost would flash a smile anda nod from behind her spectacles, but whose black face she smiled toshe never, or rarely knew. If she did chance to get an inkling, thengladly she called in reply "Mr. Lamb, " or "Mr. Calladine. " In herway she was a proud woman, for she was regarded with cordialrespect, touched with veneration, by at least a thousand colliers, and by perhaps as many colliers' wives. That is something, for anywoman. 

Miss Frost charged fifteen shillings for thirteen weeks' lessons, two lessons a week. And at that she was considered rather dear. Shewas supposed to be making money. What money she made went chiefly tosupport the Houghton household. In the meanwhile she drilled Alvinathoroughly in theory and pianoforte practice, for Alvina wasnaturally musical, and besides this she imparted to the girl theelements of a young lady's education, including the drawing offlowers in water-colour, and the translation of a Lamartine poem. 

Now incredible as it may seem, fate threw another prop to thefalling house of Houghton, in the person of the manageress of thework-girls, Miss Pinnegar. James Houghton complained of Fortune, yetto what other man would Fortune have sent two such women as MissFrost and Miss Pinnegar, _gratis_? Yet there they were. And doubtfulif James was ever grateful for their presence. 

If Miss Frost saved him from heaven knows what domestic débâcle andhorror, Miss Pinnegar saved him from the workhouse. Let us not mincematters. For a dozen years Miss Frost supported the heart-stricken, nervous invalid, Clariss Houghton: for more than twenty years shecherished, tended and protected the young Alvina, shielding thechild alike from a neurotic mother and a father such as James. Fornearly twenty years she saw that food was set on the table, andclean sheets were spread on the beds: and all the time remainedvirtually in the position of an outsider, without one grain ofestablished authority. 

And then to find Miss Pinnegar! In her way, Miss Pinnegar was verydifferent from Miss Frost. She was a rather short, stout, mouse-coloured, creepy kind of woman with a high colour in hercheeks, and dun, close hair like a cap. It was evident she was not alady: her grammar was not without reproach. She had pale grey eyes, and a padding step, and a soft voice, and almost purplish cheeks. Mrs. Houghton, Miss Frost, and Alvina did not like her. Theysuffered her unwillingly. 

But from the first she had a curious ascendancy over James Houghton. One would have expected his æsthetic eye to be offended. But nodoubt it was her voice: her soft, near, sure voice, which seemedalmost like a secret touch upon her hearer. Now many of her hearersdisliked being secretly touched, as it were beneath their clothing. Miss Frost abhorred it: so did Mrs. Houghton. Miss Frost's voice wasclear and straight as a bell-note, open as the day. Yet Alvina, though in loyalty she adhered to her beloved Miss Frost, did notreally mind the quiet suggestive power of Miss Pinnegar. For MissPinnegar was not vulgarly insinuating. On the contrary, the thingsshe said were rather clumsy and downright. It was only that sheseemed to weigh what she said, secretly, before she said it, andthen she approached as if she would slip it into her hearer'sconsciousness without his being aware of it. She seemed to slide herspeeches unnoticed into one's ears, so that one accepted themwithout the slightest challenge. That was just her manner ofapproach. In her own way, she was as loyal and unselfish as MissFrost. There are such poles of opposition between honesties andloyalties. 

Miss Pinnegar had the _second_ class of girls in the Sunday School, and she took second, subservient place in Manchester House. By forceof nature, Miss Frost took first place. Only when Miss Pinnegarspoke to Mr. Houghton--nay, the very way she addressed herself tohim--"What do _you_ think, Mr. Houghton?"--then there seemed to beassumed an immediacy of correspondence between the two, and anunquestioned priority in their unison, his and hers, which was acruel thorn in Miss Frost's outspoken breast. This sort of secretintimacy and secret exulting in having, _really_, the chief power, was most repugnant to the white-haired woman. Not that there was, infact, any secrecy, or any form of unwarranted correspondence betweenJames Houghton and Miss Pinnegar. Far from it. Each of them wouldhave found any suggestion of such a possibility repulsive in theextreme. It was simply an implicit correspondence between their twopsyches, an immediacy of understanding which preceded allexpression, tacit, wireless. 

Miss Pinnegar lived in: so that the household consisted of theinvalid, who mostly sat, in her black dress with a white lace collarfastened by a twisted gold brooch, in her own dim room, doingnothing, nervous and heart-suffering; then James, and the thin youngAlvina, who adhered to her beloved Miss Frost, and then these twostrange women. Miss Pinnegar never lifted up her voice in householdaffairs: she seemed, by her silence, to admit her own inadequacy inculture and intellect, when topics of interest were being discussed, only coming out now and then with defiant platitudes andtruisms--for almost defiantly she took the commonplace, vulgarianpoint of view; yet after everything she would turn with her quiet, triumphant assurance to James Houghton, and start on some point ofbusiness, soft, assured, ascendant. The others shut their ears. 

Now Miss Pinnegar had to get her footing slowly. She had to letJames run the gamut of his creations. Each Friday night new wonders, robes and ladies' "suits"--the phrase was very new--garnished thewindow of Houghton's shop. It was one of the sights of the place, Houghton's window on Friday night. Young or old, no individual, certainly no female left Woodhouse without spending an excited andusually hilarious ten minutes on the pavement under the window. Muffled shrieks of young damsels who had just got their first view, guffaws of sympathetic youths, continued giggling and expostulationand "Eh, but what price the umbrella skirt, my girl!" and "You'dlike to marry me in _that_, my boy--what? not half!"--or else "Eh, now, if you'd seen me in _that_ you'd have fallen in love with me atfirst sight, shouldn't you?"--with a probable answer "I should havefallen over myself making haste to get away"--loud guffaws:--allthis was the regular Friday night's entertainment in Woodhouse. James Houghton's shop was regarded as a weekly comic issue. Hispiqué costumes with glass buttons and sort of steel-trimming collarsand cuffs were immortal. 

But why, once more, drag it out. Miss Pinnegar served in the shop onFriday nights. She stood by her man. Sometimes when the shrieks grewloudest she came to the shop door and looked with her pale grey eyesat the ridiculous mob of lasses in tam-o-shanters and youths halfburied in caps. And she imposed a silence. They edged away. 

Meanwhile Miss Pinnegar pursued the sober and even tenor of her ownway. Whilst James lashed out, to use the local phrase, in robes and"suits, " Miss Pinnegar steadily ground away, producing strong, indestructible shirts and singlets for the colliers, sound, serviceable aprons for the colliers' wives, good print dresses forservants, and so on. She executed no flights of fancy. She had hergoods made to suit her people. And so, underneath the foam and frothof James' creative adventure flowed a slow but steady stream ofoutput and income. The women of Woodhouse came at last to _depend_on Miss Pinnegar. Growing lads in the pit reduce their garments toshreds with amazing expedition. "I'll go to Miss Pinnegar for thyshirts this time, my lad, " said the harassed mothers, "and see if_they'll_ stand thee. " It was almost like a threat. But it servedManchester House. 

James bought very little stock in these days: just remnants andpieces for his immortal robes. It was Miss Pinnegar who saw thetravellers and ordered the unions and calicoes and grey flannel. James hovered round and said the last word, of course. But what washis last word but an echo of Miss Pinnegar's penultimate! He was notinterested in unions and twills. 

His own stock remained on hand. Time, like a slow whirlpoolchurned it over into sight and out of sight, like a mass of deadsea-weed in a backwash. There was a regular series of salesfortnightly. The display of "creations" fell off. The newentertainment was the Friday-night's sale. James would attack someportion of his stock, make a wild jumble of it, spend a deliriousWednesday and Thursday marking down, and then open on Fridayafternoon. In the evening there was a crush. A good moiré underskirtfor one-and-eleven-three was not to be neglected, and a handsomestring-lace collarette for six-three would iron out and be worth atleast three-and-six. That was how it went: it would nearly all ofit iron out into something really nice, poor James' crumpled stock. His fine, semi-transparent face flushed pink, his eyes flashed as hetook in the sixpences and handed back knots of tape or packets ofpins for the notorious farthings. What matter if the farthing changehad originally cost him a halfpenny! His shop was crowded with womenpeeping and pawing and turning things over and commenting in loud, unfeeling tones. For there were still many comic items. Once, forexample, he suddenly heaped up piles of hats, trimmed and untrimmed, the weirdest, sauciest, most screaming shapes. Woodhouse enjoyeditself that night. 

And all the time, in her quiet, polite, think-the-more fashion MissPinnegar waited on the people, showing them considerable forbearanceand just a tinge of contempt. She became very tired thoseevenings--her hair under its invisible hairnet became flatter, hercheeks hung down purplish and mottled. But while James stood shestood. The people did not like her, yet she influenced them. And thestock slowly wilted, withered. Some was scrapped. The shop seemed tohave digested some of its indigestible contents. 

James accumulated sixpences in a miserly fashion. Luckily for herwork-girls, Miss Pinnegar took her own orders, and received paymentsfor her own productions. Some of her regular customers paid her ashilling a week--or less. But it made a small, steady income. Shereserved her own modest share, paid the expenses of her department, and left the residue to James. 

James had accumulated sixpences, and made a little space in hisshop. He had desisted from "creations. " Time now for a new flight. He decided it was better to be a manufacturer than a tradesman. Hisshop, already only half its original size, was again too big. Itmight be split once more. Rents had risen in Woodhouse. Why not cutoff another shop from his premises?

No sooner said than done. In came the architect, with whom he hadplayed many a game of chess. Best, said the architect, take off onegood-sized shop, rather than halve the premises. James would be lefta little cramped, a little tight, with only one-third of his presentspace. But as we age we dwindle. 

More hammering and alterations, and James found himself cooped in along, long narrow shop, very dark at the back, with a high oblongwindow and a door that came in at a pinched corner. Next door to himwas a cheerful new grocer of the cheap and florid type. The newgrocer whistled "Just Like the Ivy, " and shouted boisterously to hisshop-boy. In his doorway, protruding on James' sensitive vision, wasa pyramid of sixpence-halfpenny tins of salmon, red, shiny tins withpink halved salmons depicted, and another yellow pyramid offour-pence-halfpenny tins of pineapple. Bacon dangled in pale rolls_almost_ over James' doorway, whilst straw and paper, redolent ofcheese, lard, and stale eggs filtered through the threshold. 

This was coming down in the world, with a vengeance. But what Jameslost downstairs he tried to recover upstairs. Heaven knows what hewould have done, but for Miss Pinnegar. She kept her own work-roomsagainst him, with a soft, heavy, silent tenacity that would havebeaten stronger men than James. But his strength lay in hispliability. He rummaged in the empty lofts, and among the discardedmachinery. He rigged up the engines afresh, bought two new machines, and started an elastic department, making elastic for garters andfor hat-chins. 

He was immensely proud of his first cards of elastic, and saw DameFortune this time fast in his yielding hands. But, becoming used todisillusionment, he almost welcomed it. Within six months herealized that every inch of elastic cost him exactly sixty per cent. More than he could sell it for, and so he scrapped his newdepartment. Luckily, he sold one machine and even gained two poundson it. 

After this, he made one last effort. This was hosiery webbing, whichcould be cut up and made into as-yet-unheard-of garments. MissPinnegar kept her thumb on this enterprise, so that it was not muchmore than abortive. And then James left her alone. 

Meanwhile the shop slowly churned its oddments. Every Thursdayafternoon James sorted out tangles of bits and bobs, antiquegarments and occasional finds. With these he trimmed his window, sothat it looked like a historical museum, rather soiled and scrappy. Indoors he made baskets of assortments: threepenny, sixpenny, ninepenny and shilling baskets, rather like a bran pie in whicheverything was a plum. And then, on Friday evening, thin and alerthe hovered behind the counter, his coat shabbily buttoned over hisnarrow chest, his face agitated. He had shaved his side-whiskers, so that they only grew becomingly as low as his ears. His ratherlarge, grey moustache was brushed off his mouth. His hair, gone verythin, was brushed frail and floating over his baldness. But still agentleman, still courteous, with a charming voice he suggested thepossibilities of a pad of green parrots' tail-feathers, or of a fewyards of pink-pearl trimming or of old chenille fringe. The womenwould pinch the thick, exquisite old chenille fringe, delicate andfaded, curious to feel its softness. But they wouldn't givethreepence for it. Tapes, ribbons, braids, buttons, feathers, jabots, bussels, appliqués, fringes, jet-trimmings, bugle-trimmings, bundles of old coloured machine-lace, many bundles of strange cord, in all colours, for old-fashioned braid-patterning, ribbons withH. M. S. Birkenhead, for boys' sailor caps--everything that nobodywanted, did the women turn over and over, till they chanced on afind. And James' quick eyes watched the slow surge of his flotsam, as the pot boiled but did not boil away. Wonderful that he did notthink of the days when these bits and bobs were new treasures. Buthe did not. 

And at his side Miss Pinnegar quietly took orders for shirts, discussed and agreed, made measurements and received instalments. 

The shop was now only opened on Friday afternoons and evenings, soevery day, twice a day, James was seen dithering bare-headed andhastily down the street, as if pressed by fate, to the ConservativeClub, and twice a day he was seen as hastily returning, to hismeals. He was becoming an old man: his daughter was a young woman:but in his own mind he was just the same, and his daughter was alittle child, his wife a young invalid whom he must charm by somefew delicate attentions--such as the peeled apple. 

At the club he got into more mischief. He met men who wanted toextend a brickfield down by the railway. The brickfield was calledKlondyke. James had now a new direction to run in: down hill towardsBagthorpe, to Klondyke. Big penny-daisies grew in tufts on the brinkof the yellow clay at Klondyke, yellow eggs-and-bacon spread theirmidsummer mats of flower. James came home with clay smeared all overhim, discoursing brilliantly on grit and paste and presses and kilnsand stamps. He carried home a rough and pinkish brick, and gloatedover it. It was a _hard_ brick, it was a non-porous brick. It was anugly brick, painfully heavy and parched-looking. 

This time he was sure: Dame Fortune would rise like Persephone outof the earth. He was all the more sure, because other men of thetown were in with him at this venture: sound, moneyed grocers andplumbers. They were all going to become rich. 

Klondyke lasted a year and a half, and was not so bad, for in theend, all things considered, James had lost not more than five percent. Of his money. In fact, all things considered, he was aboutsquare. And yet he felt Klondyke as the greatest blow of all. MissPinnegar would have aided and abetted him in another scheme, if itwould but have cheered him. Even Miss Frost was nice with him. Butto no purpose. In the year after Klondyke he became an old man, heseemed to have lost all his feathers, he acquired a plucked, tottering look. 

Yet he roused up, after a coal-strike. Throttle-Ha'penny put newlife into him. During a coal-strike the miners themselves begandigging in the fields, just near the houses, for the surface coal. They found a plentiful seam of drossy, yellowish coal behind theMethodist New Connection Chapel. The seam was opened in the side ofa bank, and approached by a footrill, a sloping shaft down which themen walked. When the strike was over, two or three miners stillremained working the soft, drossy coal, which they sold foreight-and-sixpence a ton--or sixpence a hundredweight. But a miningpopulation scorned such dirt, as they called it. 

James Houghton, however, was seized with a desire to work theConnection Meadow seam, as he called it. He gathered two minerpartners--he trotted endlessly up to the field, he talked, as he hadnever talked before, with inumerable colliers. Everybody he met hestopped, to talk Connection Meadow. 

And so at last he sank a shaft, sixty feet deep, rigged up acorrugated-iron engine-house with a winding-engine, and lowered hismen one at a time down the shaft, in a big bucket. The whole affairwas ricketty, amateurish, and twopenny. The name Connection Meadowwas forgotten within three months. Everybody knew the place asThrottle-Ha'penny. "What!" said a collier to his wife: "have we gotno coal? You'd better get a bit from Throttle-Ha'penny. " "Nay, "replied the wife, "I'm sure I shan't. I'm sure I shan't burn thatmuck, and smother myself with white ash. "

It was in the early Throttle-Ha'penny days that Mrs. Houghton died. James Houghton cried, and put a black band on his Sunday silk hat. But he was too feverishly busy at Throttle-Ha'penny, selling hishundredweights of ash-pit fodder, as the natives called it, torealize anything else. 

He had three men and two boys working his pit, besides asuperannuated old man driving the winding engine. And in spite ofall jeering, he flourished. Shabby old coal-carts rambled up behindthe New Connection, and filled from the pit-bank. The coal improveda little in quality: it was cheap and it was handy. James could sellat last fifty or sixty tons a week: for the stuff was easy getting. And now at last he was actually handling money. He saw millionsahead. 

This went on for more than a year. A year after the death of Mrs. Houghton, Miss Frost became ill and suddenly died. Again JamesHoughton cried and trembled. But it was Throttle-Ha'penny that madehim tremble. He trembled in all his limbs, at the touch of success. He saw himself making noble provision for his only daughter. 

But alas--it is wearying to repeat the same thing over and over. First the Board of Trade began to make difficulties. Then there wasa fault in the seam. Then the roof of Throttle-Ha'penny was so looseand soft, James could not afford timber to hold it up. In short, when his daughter Alvina was about twenty-seven years old, Throttle-Ha'penny closed down. There was a sale of poor machinery, and James Houghton came home to the dark, gloomy house--to MissPinnegar and Alvina. 

It was a pinched, dreary house. James seemed down for the last time. But Miss Pinnegar persuaded him to take the shop again on Fridayevening. For the rest, faded and peaked, he hurried shadowily downto the club. 

CHAPTER II

THE RISE OF ALVINA HOUGHTON

The heroine of this story is Alvina Houghton. If we leave her out ofthe first chapter of her own story it is because, during the firsttwenty-five years of her life, she really was left out of count, orso overshadowed as to be negligible. She and her mother were thephantom passengers in the ship of James Houghton's fortunes. 

In Manchester House, every voice lowered its tone. And so from thefirst Alvina spoke with a quiet, refined, almost convent voice. Shewas a thin child with delicate limbs and face, and wide, grey-blue, ironic eyes. Even as a small girl she had that odd ironic tilt ofthe eyelids which gave her a look as if she were hanging back inmockery. If she were, she was quite unaware of it, for under MissFrost's care she received no education in irony or mockery. MissFrost was straightforward, good-humoured, and a little earnest. Consequently Alvina, or Vina as she was called, understood only theexplicit mode of good-humoured straightforwardness. 

It was doubtful which shadow was greater over the child: that ofManchester House, gloomy and a little sinister, or that of MissFrost, benevolent and protective. Sufficient that the girl herselfworshipped Miss Frost: or believed she did. 

Alvina never went to school. She had her lessons from her belovedgoverness, she worked at the piano, she took her walks, and forsocial life she went to the Congregational Chapel, and to thefunctions connected with the chapel. While she was little, she wentto Sunday School twice and to Chapel once on Sundays. Thenoccasionally there was a magic lantern or a penny reading, to whichMiss Frost accompanied her. As she grew older she entered the choirat chapel, she attended Christian Endeavour and P. S. A. , and theLiterary Society on Monday evenings. Chapel provided her with awhole social activity, in the course of which she met certain groupsof people, made certain friends, found opportunity for strolls intothe country and jaunts to the local entertainments. Over and abovethis, every Thursday evening she went to the subscription library tochange the week's supply of books, and there again she met friendsand acquaintances. It is hard to overestimate the value of church orchapel--but particularly chapel--as a social institution, in placeslike Woodhouse. The Congregational Chapel provided Alvina with awhole outer life, lacking which she would have been poor indeed. Shewas not particularly religious by inclination. Perhaps her father'sbeautiful prayers put her off. So she neither questioned noraccepted, but just let be. 

She grew up a slim girl, rather distinguished in appearance, with aslender face, a fine, slightly arched nose, and beautiful grey-blueeyes over which the lids tilted with a very odd, sardonic tilt. Thesardonic quality was, however, quite in abeyance. She was ladylike, not vehement at all. In the street her walk had a delicate, lingering motion, her face looked still. In conversation she hadrather a quick, hurried manner, with intervals of well-bred reposeand attention. Her voice was like her father's, flexible andcuriously attractive. 

Sometimes, however, she would have fits of boisterous hilarity, notquite natural, with a strange note half pathetic, half jeering. Herfather tended to a supercilious, sneering tone. In Vina it came outin mad bursts of hilarious jeering. This made Miss Frost uneasy. Shewould watch the girl's strange face, that could take on a gargoylelook. She would see the eyes rolling strangely under sardoniceyelids, and then Miss Frost would feel that never, never had sheknown anything so utterly alien and incomprehensible andunsympathetic as her own beloved Vina. For twenty years the strong, protective governess reared and tended her lamb, her dove, only tosee the lamb open a wolf's mouth, to hear the dove utter the wildcackle of a daw or a magpie, a strange sound of derision. At suchtimes Miss Frost's heart went cold within her. She dared notrealize. And she chid and checked her ward, restored her to theusual impulsive, affectionate demureness. Then she dismissed thewhole matter. It was just an accidental aberration on the girl'spart from her own true nature. Miss Frost taught Alvina thoroughlythe qualities of her own true nature, and Alvina believed what shewas taught. She remained for twenty years the demure, refinedcreature of her governess' desire. But there was an odd, derisivelook at the back of her eyes, a look of old knowledge anddeliberate derision. She herself was unconscious of it. But it wasthere. And this it was, perhaps, that scared away the young men. 

Alvina reached the age of twenty-three, and it looked as if she weredestined to join the ranks of the old maids, so many of whom foundcold comfort in the Chapel. For she had no suitors. True there wereextraordinarily few young men of her class--for whatever hercondition, she had certain breeding and inherent culture--inWoodhouse. The young men of the same social standing as herself werein some curious way outsiders to her. Knowing nothing, yet herancient sapience went deep, deeper than Woodhouse could fathom. Theyoung men did not like her for it. They did not like the tilt of hereyelids. 

Miss Frost, with anxious foreseeing, persuaded the girl to take oversome pupils, to teach them the piano. The work was distasteful toAlvina. She was not a good teacher. She persevered in an off-handway, somewhat indifferent, albeit dutiful. 

When she was twenty-three years old, Alvina met a man called Graham. He was an Australian, who had been in Edinburgh taking his medicaldegree. Before going back to Australia, he came to spend some monthspractising with old Dr. Fordham in Woodhouse--Dr. Fordham being insome way connected with his mother. 

Alexander Graham called to see Mrs. Houghton. Mrs. Houghton did notlike him. She said he was creepy. He was a man of medium height, dark in colouring, with very dark eyes, and a body which seemed tomove inside his clothing. He was amiable and polite, laughed often, showing his teeth. It was his teeth which Miss Frost could notstand. She seemed to see a strong mouthful of cruel, compact teeth. She declared he had dark blood in his veins, that he was not a manto be trusted, and that never, never would he make any woman's lifehappy. 

Yet in spite of all, Alvina was attracted by him. The two would staytogether in the parlour, laughing and talking by the hour. What theycould find to talk about was a mystery. Yet there they were, laughing and chatting, with a running insinuating sound through itall which made Miss Frost pace up and down unable to bear herself. 

The man was always running in when Miss Frost was out. He contrivedto meet Alvina in the evening, to take a walk with her. He went along walk with her one night, and wanted to make love to her. Buther upbringing was too strong for her. 

"Oh no, " she said. "We are only friends. "

He knew her upbringing was too strong for him also. 

"We're more than friends, " he said. "We're more than friends. "

"I don't think so, " she said. 

"Yes we are, " he insisted, trying to put his arm round her waist. 

"Oh, don't!" she cried. "Let us go home. "

And then he burst out with wild and thick protestations of love, which thrilled her and repelled her slightly. 

"Anyhow I must tell Miss Frost, " she said. 

"Yes, yes, " he answered. "Yes, yes. Let us be engaged at once. "

As they passed under the lamps he saw her face lifted, the eyesshining, the delicate nostrils dilated, as of one who scents battleand laughs to herself. She seemed to laugh with a certain proud, sinister recklessness. His hands trembled with desire. 

So they were engaged. He bought her a ring, an emerald set in tinydiamonds. Miss Frost looked grave and silent, but would not openlydeny her approval. 

"You like him, don't you? You don't dislike him?" Alvina insisted. 

"I don't dislike him, " replied Miss Frost. "How can I? He is aperfect stranger to me. "

And with this Alvina subtly contented herself. Her father treatedthe young man with suave attention, punctuated by fits of jerkyhostility and jealousy. Her mother merely sighed, and took salvolatile. 

To tell the truth, Alvina herself was a little repelled by the man'slove-making. She found him fascinating, but a trifle repulsive. Andshe was not sure whether she hated the repulsive element, or whethershe rather gloried in it. She kept her look of arch, half-derisiverecklessness, which was so unbearably painful to Miss Frost, and soexciting to the dark little man. It was a strange look in a refined, really virgin girl--oddly sinister. And her voice had a curiousbronze-like resonance that acted straight on the nerves of herhearers: unpleasantly on most English nerves, but like fire on thedifferent susceptibilities of the young man--the darkie, as peoplecalled him. 

But after all, he had only six weeks in England, before sailing toSydney. He suggested that he and Alvina should marry before hesailed. Miss Frost would not hear of it. He must see his peoplefirst, she said. 

So the time passed, and he sailed. Alvina missed him, missed theextreme excitement of him rather than the human being he was. MissFrost set to work to regain her influence over her ward, to removethat arch, reckless, almost lewd look from the girl's face. It was aquestion of heart against sensuality. Miss Frost tried and tried towake again the girl's loving heart--which loving heart was certainlynot occupied by _that man_. It was a hard task, an anxious, bittertask Miss Frost had set herself. 

But at last she succeeded. Alvina seemed to thaw. The hard shiningof her eyes softened again to a sort of demureness and tenderness. The influence of the man was revoked, the girl was left uninhabited, empty and uneasy. 

She was due to follow her Alexander in three months' time, toSydney. Came letters from him, en route--and then a cablegram fromAustralia. He had arrived. Alvina should have been preparing hertrousseau, to follow. But owing to her change of heart, she lingeredindecisive. 

"_Do_ you love him, dear?" said Miss Frost with emphasis, knittingher thick, passionate, earnest eyebrows. "Do you love himsufficiently? _That's_ the point. "

The way Miss Frost put the question implied that Alvina did not andcould not love him--because Miss Frost could not. Alvina lifted herlarge, blue eyes, confused, half-tender towards her governess, halfshining with unconscious derision. 

"I don't really know, " she said, laughing hurriedly. "I don'treally. "

Miss Frost scrutinized her, and replied with a meaningful:

"Well--!"

To Miss Frost it was clear as daylight. To Alvina not so. In herperiods of lucidity, when she saw as clear as daylight also, shecertainly did not love the little man. She felt him a terribleoutsider, an inferior, to tell the truth. She wondered how he couldhave the slightest attraction for her. In fact she could notunderstand it at all. She was as free of him as if he had neverexisted. The square green emerald on her finger was almostnon-sensical. She was quite, quite sure of herself. 

And then, most irritating, a complete _volte face_ in her feelings. The clear-as-daylight mood disappeared as daylight is bound todisappear. She found herself in a night where the little man loomedlarge, terribly large, potent and magical, while Miss Frost haddwindled to nothingness. At such times she wished with all her forcethat she could travel like a cablegram to Australia. She felt it wasthe only way. She felt the dark, passionate receptivity of Alexanderoverwhelmed her, enveloped her even from the Antipodes. She feltherself going distracted--she felt she was going out of her mind. For she could not act. 

Her mother and Miss Frost were fixed in one line. Her father said:

"Well, of course, you'll do as you think best. There's a great riskin going so far--a great risk. You would be entirely unprotected. "

"I don't mind being unprotected, " said Alvina perversely. 

"Because you don't understand what it means, " said her father. 

He looked at her quickly. Perhaps he understood her better than theothers. 

"Personally, " said Miss Pinnegar, speaking of Alexander, "I don'tcare for him. But every one has their own taste. "

Alvina felt she was being overborne, and that she was lettingherself be overborne. She was half relieved. She seemed to nestleinto the well-known surety of Woodhouse. The other unknown hadfrightened her. 

Miss Frost now took a definite line. 

"I feel you don't love him, dear. I'm almost sure you don't. So nowyou have to choose. Your mother dreads your going--she dreads it. Iam certain you would never see her again. She says she can't bearit--she can't bear the thought of you out there with Alexander. Itmakes her shudder. She suffers dreadfully, you know. So you willhave to choose, dear. You will have to choose for the best. "

Alvina was made stubborn by pressure. She herself had come fully tobelieve that she did not love him. She was quite sure she did notlove him. But out of a certain perversity, she wanted to go. 

Came his letter from Sydney, and one from his parents to her and oneto her parents. All seemed straightforward--not _very_ cordial, butsufficiently. Over Alexander's letter Miss Frost shed bitter tears. To her it seemed so shallow and heartless, with terms of endearmentstuck in like exclamation marks. He semed to have no thought, nofeeling for the girl herself. All he wanted was to hurry her outthere. He did not even mention the grief of her parting from herEnglish parents and friends: not a word. Just a rush to get her outthere, winding up with "And now, dear, I shall not be myself till Isee you here in Sydney--Your ever-loving Alexander. " A selfish, sensual creature, who would forget the dear little Vina in threemonths, if she did not turn up, and who would neglect her in sixmonths, if she did. Probably Miss Frost was right. 

Alvina knew the tears she was costing all round. She went upstairsand looked at his photograph--his dark and impertinent muzzle. Whowas _he_, after all? She did not know him. With cold eyes she lookedat him, and found him repugnant. 

She went across to her governess's room, and found Miss Frost in astrange mood of trepidation. 

"Don't trust me, dear, don't trust what I say, " poor Miss Frostejaculated hurriedly, even wildly. "Don't notice what I have said. Act for yourself, dear. Act for yourself entirely. I am sure I amwrong in trying to influence you. I know I am wrong. It is wrong andfoolish of me. Act just for yourself, dear--the rest doesn't matter. The rest doesn't matter. Don't take _any_ notice of what I havesaid. I know I am wrong. "

For the first time in her life Alvina saw her beloved governessflustered, the beautiful white hair looking a little draggled, thegrey, near-sighted eyes, so deep and kind behind the gold-rimmedglasses, now distracted and scared. Alvina immediately burst intotears and flung herself into the arms of Miss Frost. Miss Frost alsocried as if her heart would break, catching her indrawn breath witha strange sound of anguish, forlornness, the terrible crying of awoman with a loving heart, whose heart has never been able to relax. Alvina was hushed. In a second, she became the elder of the two. Theterrible poignancy of the woman of fifty-two, who now at last hadbroken down, silenced the girl of twenty-three, and roused all herpassionate tenderness. The terrible sound of "Never now, nevernow--it is too late, " which seemed to ring in the curious, indrawncries of the elder woman, filled the girl with a deep wisdom. Sheknew the same would ring in her mother's dying cry. Married orunmarried, it was the same--the same anguish, realized in all itspain after the age of fifty--the loss in never having been able torelax, to submit. 

Alvina felt very strong and rich in the fact of her youth. For herit was not too late. For Miss Frost it was for ever too late. 

"I don't want to go, dear, " said Alvina to the elder woman. "I knowI don't care for him. He is nothing to me. "

Miss Frost became gradually silent, and turned aside her face. Afterthis there was a hush in the house. Alvina announced her intentionof breaking off her engagement. Her mother kissed her, and cried, and said, with the selfishness of an invalid:

"I couldn't have parted with you, I couldn't. " Whilst the fathersaid:

"I think you are wise, Vina. I have thought a lot about it. "

So Alvina packed up his ring and his letters and little presents, and posted them over the seas. She was relieved, really: as if shehad escaped some very trying ordeal. For some days she went abouthappily, in pure relief. She loved everybody. She was charming andsunny and gentle with everybody, particularly with Miss Frost, whomshe loved with a deep, tender, rather sore love. Poor Miss Frostseemed to have lost a part of her confidence, to have taken on a newwistfulness, a new silence and remoteness. It was as if she foundher busy contact with life a strain now. Perhaps she was gettingold. Perhaps her proud heart had given way. 

Alvina had kept a little photograph of the man. She would often goand look at it. Love?--no, it was not love! It was something moreprimitive still. It was curiosity, deep, radical, burning curiosity. How she looked and looked at his dark, impertinent-seeming face. Aflicker of derision came into her eyes. Yet still she looked. 

In the same manner she would look into the faces of the young men ofWoodhouse. But she never found there what she found in herphotograph. They all seemed like blank sheets of paper incomparison. There was a curious pale surface-look in the faces ofthe young men of Woodhouse: or, if there was some underneathsuggestive power, it was a little abject or humiliating, inferior, common. They were all either blank or common. 

CHAPTER III

THE MATERNITY NURSE

Of course Alvina made everybody pay for her mood of submission andsweetness. In a month's time she was quite intolerable. 

"I can't stay here all my life, " she declared, stretching her eyesin a way that irritated the other inmates of Manchester Houseextremely. "I know I can't. I can't bear it. I simply can't bear it, and there's an end of it. I can't, I tell you. I can't bear it. I'mburied alive--simply buried alive. And it's more than I can stand. It is, really. "

There was an odd clang, like a taunt, in her voice. She was tryingthem all. 

"But what do you want, dear?" asked Miss Frost, knitting her darkbrows in agitation. 

"I want to go away, " said Alvina bluntly. 

Miss Frost gave a slight gesture with her right hand, of helplessimpatience. It was so characteristic, that Alvina almost laughed. 

"But where do you want to go?" asked Miss Frost. 

"I don't know. I don't care, " said Alvina. "Anywhere, if I can getout of Woodhouse. "

"Do you wish you had gone to Australia?" put in Miss Pinnegar. 

"No, I don't wish I had gone to Australia, " retorted Alvina with arude laugh. "Australia isn't the only other place besidesWoodhouse. "

Miss Pinnegar was naturally offended. But the curious insolencewhich sometimes came out in the girl was inherited direct from herfather. 

"You see, dear, " said Miss Frost, agitated: "if you knew what youwanted, it would be easier to see the way. "

"I want to be a nurse, " rapped out Alvina. 

Miss Frost stood still, with the stillness of a middle-ageddisapproving woman, and looked at her charge. She believed thatAlvina was just speaking at random. Yet she dared not check her, inher present mood. 

Alvina was indeed speaking at random. She had never thought of beinga nurse--the idea had never entered her head. If it had she wouldcertainly never have entertained it. But she had heard Alexanderspeak of Nurse This and Sister That. And so she had rapped out herdeclaration. And having rapped it out, she prepared herself to stickto it. Nothing like leaping before you look. 

"A nurse!" repeated Miss Frost. "But do you feel yourself fitted tobe a nurse? Do you think you could bear it?"

"Yes, I'm sure I could, " retorted Alvina. "I want to be a maternitynurse--" She looked strangely, even outrageously, at her governess. "I want to be a maternity nurse. Then I shouldn't have to attendoperations. " And she laughed quickly. 

Miss Frost's right hand beat like a wounded bird. It was reminiscentof the way she beat time, insistently, when she was giving musiclessons, sitting close beside her pupils at the piano. Now it beatwithout time or reason. Alvina smiled brightly and cruelly. 

"Whatever put such an idea into your head, Vina?" asked poor MissFrost. 

"I don't know, " said Alvina, still more archly and brightly. 

"Of course you don't mean it, dear, " said Miss Frost, quailing. 

"Yes, I do. Why should I say it if I don't. "

Miss Frost would have done anything to escape the arch, bright, cruel eyes of her charge. 

"Then we must think about it, " she said, numbly. And she went away. 

Alvina floated off to her room, and sat by the window looking downon the street. The bright, arch look was still on her face. But herheart was sore. She wanted to cry, and fling herself on the breastof her darling. But she couldn't. No, for her life she couldn't. Some little devil sat in her breast and kept her smiling archly. 

Somewhat to her amazement, he sat steadily on for days and days. Every minute she expected him to go. Every minute she expected tobreak down, to burst into tears and tenderness and reconciliation. But no--she did not break down. She persisted. They all waited forthe old loving Vina to be herself again. But the new andrecalcitrant Vina still shone hard. She found a copy of _TheLancet_, and saw an advertisement of a home in Islington wherematernity nurses would be fully trained and equipped in six months'time. The fee was sixty guineas. Alvina declared her intention ofdeparting to this training home. She had two hundred pounds of herown, bequeathed by her grandfather. 

In Manchester House they were all horrified--not moved with grief, this time, but shocked. It seemed such a repulsive and indelicatestep to take. Which it was. And which, in her curious perverseness, Alvina must have intended it to be. Mrs. Houghton assumed a remoteair of silence, as if she did not hear any more, did not belong. Shelapsed far away. She was really very weak. Miss Pinnegar said: "Wellreally, if she wants to do it, why, she might as well try. " And, asoften with Miss Pinnegar, this speech seemed to contain a veiledthreat. 

"A maternity nurse!" said James Houghton. "A maternity nurse! Whatexactly do you mean by a maternity nurse?"

"A trained mid-wife, " said Miss Pinnegar curtly. "That's it, isn'tit? It is as far as I can see. A trained mid-wife. "

"Yes, of course, " said Alvina brightly. 

"But--!" stammered James Houghton, pushing his spectacles up on tohis forehead, and making his long fleece of painfully thin hairuncover his baldness. "I can't understand that any young girl ofany--any upbringing, any upbringing whatever, should want to choosesuch a--such an--occupation. I can't understand it. "

"Can't you?" said Alvina brightly. 

"Oh well, if she _does_--" said Miss Pinnegar cryptically. 

Miss Frost said very little. But she had serious confidential talkswith Dr. Fordham. Dr. Fordham didn't approve, certainly hedidn't--but neither did he see any great harm in it. At that time itwas rather the thing for young ladies to enter the nursingprofession, if their hopes had been blighted or checked in anotherdirection! And so, enquiries were made. Enquiries were made. 

The upshot was, that Alvina was to go to Islington for her sixmonths' training. There was a great bustle, preparing her nursingoutfit. Instead of a trousseau, nurse's uniforms in fineblue-and-white stripe, with great white aprons. Instead of a wreathof orange blossom, a rather chic nurse's bonnet of blue silk, andfor a trailing veil, a blue silk fall. 

Well and good! Alvina expected to become frightened, as the timedrew near. But no, she wasn't a bit frightened. Miss Frost watchedher narrowly. Would there not be a return of the old, tender, sensitive, shrinking Vina--the exquisitely sensitive and nervous, loving girl? No, astounding as it may seem, there was no return ofsuch a creature. Alvina remained bright and ready, the half-hilariousclang remained in her voice, taunting. She kissed them all good-bye, brightly and sprightlily, and off she set. She wasn't nervous. 

She came to St. Pancras, she got her cab, she drove off to herdestination--and as she drove, she looked out of the window. Horrid, vast, stony, dilapidated, crumbly-stuccoed streets and squares ofIslington, grey, grey, greyer by far than Woodhouse, andinterminable. How exceedingly sordid and disgusting! But instead ofbeing repelled and heartbroken, Alvina enjoyed it. She felt hertrunk rumble on the top of the cab, and still she looked out on theghastly dilapidated flat facades of Islington, and still she smiledbrightly, as if there were some charm in it all. Perhaps for herthere was a charm in it all. Perhaps it acted like a tonic on thelittle devil in her breast. Perhaps if she had seen tufts ofsnowdrops--it was February--and yew-hedges and cottage windows, shewould have broken down. As it was, she just enjoyed it. She enjoyedglimpsing in through uncurtained windows, into sordid rooms wherehuman beings moved as if sordidly unaware. She enjoyed the smell ofa toasted bloater, rather burnt. So common! so indescribably common!And she detested bloaters, because of the hairy feel of the spinesin her mouth. But to smell them like this, to know that she was inthe region of "penny beef-steaks, " gave her a perverse pleasure. 

The cab stopped at a yellow house at the corner of a square wheresome shabby bare trees were flecked with bits of blown paper, bitsof paper and refuse cluttered inside the round railings of eachtree. She went up some dirty-yellowish steps, and rang the"Patients'" bell, because she knew she ought not to ring the"Tradesmen's. " A servant, not exactly dirty, but unattractive, lether into a hall painted a dull drab, and floored with cocoa-matting, otherwise bare. Then up bare stairs to a room where a stout, pale, common woman with two warts on her face, was drinking tea. It wasthree o'clock. This was the matron. The matron soon deposited her ina bedroom, not very small, but bare and hard and dusty-seeming, andthere left her. Alvina sat down on her chair, looked at her boxopposite her, looked round the uninviting room, and smiled toherself. Then she rose and went to the window: a very dirty window, looking down into a sort of well of an area, with other wellsranging along, and straight opposite like a reflection another solidrange of back-premises, with iron stair-ways and horrid little doorsand washing and little W. C. 's and people creeping up and down likevermin. Alvina shivered a little, but still smiled. Then slowly shebegan to take off her hat. She put it down on the drab-painted chestof drawers. 

Presently the servant came in with a tray, set it down, lit a nakedgas-jet, which roared faintly, and drew down a crackly dark-greenblind, which showed a tendency to fly back again alertly to theceiling. 

"Thank you, " said Alvina, and the girl departed. 

Then Miss Houghton drank her black tea and ate her bread andmargarine. 

Surely enough books have been written about heroines in similarcircumstances. There is no need to go into the details of Alvina'ssix months in Islington. 

The food was objectionable--yet Alvina got fat on it. The air wasfilthy--and yet never had her colour been so warm and fresh, herskin so soft. Her companions were almost without exception vulgarand coarse--yet never had she got on so well with women of her ownage--or older than herself. She was ready with a laugh and a word, and though she was unable to venture on indecencies herself, yet shehad an amazing faculty for _looking_ knowing and indecent beyondwords, rolling her eyes and pitching her eyebrows in a certainway--oh, it was quite sufficient for her companions! And yet, ifthey had ever actually demanded a dirty story or a really openindecency from her, she would have been floored. 

But she enjoyed it. Amazing how she enjoyed it. She did not care_how_ revolting and indecent these nurses were--she put on a look asif she were in with it all, and it all passed off as easy aswinking. She swung her haunches and arched her eyes with the bestof them. And they behaved as if she were exactly one of themselves. And yet, with the curious cold tact of women, they left her alone, one and all, in private: just ignored her. 

It is truly incredible how Alvina became blooming and bouncing atthis time. Nothing shocked her, nothing upset her. She was alwaysready with her hard, nurse's laugh and her nurse's quips. No one wasbetter than she at _double-entendres. _ No one could better give thenurse's leer. She had it all in a fortnight. And never once did shefeel anything but exhilarated and in full swing. It seemed to hershe had not a moment's time to brood or reflect about things--shewas too much in the swing. Every moment, in the swing, living, oractive in full swing. When she got into bed she went to sleep. Whenshe awoke, it was morning, and she got up. As soon as she was up anddressed she had somebody to answer, something to say, something todo. Time passed like an express train--and she seemed to have knownno other life than this. 

Not far away was a lying-in hospital. A dreadful place it was. Thereshe had to go, right off, and help with cases. There she had toattend lectures and demonstrations. There she met the doctors andstudents. Well, a pretty lot they were, one way and another. Whenshe had put on flesh and become pink and bouncing she was just theirsort: just their very ticket. Her voice had the right twang, hereyes the right roll, her haunches the right swing. She seemedaltogether just the ticket. And yet she wasn't. 

It would be useless to say she was not shocked. She was profoundlyand awfully shocked. Her whole state was perhaps largely the resultof shock: a sort of play-acting based on hysteria. But the dreadfulthings she saw in the lying-in hospital, and afterwards, went deep, and finished her youth and her tutelage for ever. How many infernosdeeper than Miss Frost could ever know, did she not travel? theinferno of the human animal, the human organism in its convulsions, the human social beast in its abjection and its degradation. 

For in her latter half she had to visit the slum cases. And suchcases! A woman lying on a bare, filthy floor, a few old coats thrownover her, and vermin crawling everywhere, in spite of sanitaryinspectors. But what did the woman, the sufferer, herself care! Sheground her teeth and screamed and yelled with pains. In her calmperiods she lay stupid and indifferent--or she cursed a little. Butabject, stupid indifference was the bottom of it all: abject, brutalindifference to everything--yes, everything. Just a piece of femalefunctioning, no more. 

Alvina was supposed to receive a certain fee for these cases sheattended in their homes. A small proportion of her fee she kept forherself, the rest she handed over to the Home. That was theagreement. She received her grudged fee callously, threatened andexacted it when it was not forthcoming. Ha!--if they didn't have topay you at all, these slum-people, they would treat you with morecontempt than if you were one of themselves. It was one of thehardest lessons Alvina had to learn--to bully these people, in theirown hovels, into some sort of obedience to her commands, and somesort of respect for her presence. She had to fight tooth and nailfor this end. And in a week she was as hard and callous to them asthey to her. And so her work was well done. She did not hate them. There they were. They had a certain life, and you had to take themat their own worth in their own way. What else! If one should begentle, one was gentle. The difficulty did not lie there. Thedifficulty lay in being sufficiently rough and hard: that was thetrouble. It cost a great struggle to be hard and callous enough. Glad she would have been to be allowed to treat them quietly andgently, with consideration. But pah--it was not their line. Theywanted to be callous, and if you were not callous to match, theymade a fool of you and prevented your doing your work. 

Was Alvina her own real self all this time? The mighty questionarises upon us, what is one's own real self? It certainly is notwhat we think we are and ought to be. Alvina had been bred to thinkof herself as a delicate, tender, chaste creature with unselfishinclinations and a pure, "high" mind. Well, so she was, in themore-or-less exhausted part of herself. But high-mindedness hadreally come to an end with James Houghton, had really reached thepoint, not only of pathetic, but of dry and anti-human, repulsivequixotry. In Alvina high-mindedness was already stretched beyond thebreaking point. Being a woman of some flexibility of temper, wrought through generations to a fine, pliant hardness, she flewback. She went right back on high-mindedness. Did she thereby betrayit?

We think not. If we turn over the head of the penny and look at thetail, we don't thereby deny or betray the head. We do but adjust itto its own complement. And so with high-mindedness. It is but oneside of the medal--the crowned reverse. On the obverse the threelegs still go kicking the soft-footed spin of the universe, thedolphin flirts and the crab leers. 

So Alvina spun her medal, and her medal came down tails. Heads ortails? Heads for generations. Then tails. See the poetic justice. 

Now Alvina decided to accept the decision of her fate. Or rather, being sufficiently a woman, she didn't decide anything. She _was_her own fate. She went through her training experiences like anotherbeing. She was not herself, said Everybody. When she came home toWoodhouse at Easter, in her bonnet and cloak, everybody was simplyknocked out. Imagine that this frail, pallid, diffident girl, soladylike, was now a rather fat, warm-coloured young woman, strappingand strong-looking, and with a certain bounce. Imagine her mother'sstartled, almost expiring:

"Why, Vina dear!"

Vina laughed. She knew how they were all feeling. 

"At least it agrees with your _health_, " said her father, sarcastically, to which Miss Pinnegar answered:

"Well, that's a good deal. "

But Miss Frost said nothing the first day. Only the second day, atbreakfast, as Alvina ate rather rapidly and rather well, thewhite-haired woman said quietly, with a tinge of cold contempt:

"How changed you are, dear!"

"Am I?" laughed Alvina. "Oh, not really. " And she gave the arch lookwith her eyes, which made Miss Frost shudder. 

Inwardly, Miss Frost shuddered, and abstained from questioning. Alvina was always speaking of the doctors: Doctor Young and DoctorHeadley and Doctor James. She spoke of theatres and music-halls withthese young men, and the jolly good time she had with them. And herblue-grey eyes seemed to have become harder and greyer, lightersomehow. In her wistfulness and her tender pathos, Alvina's eyeswould deepen their blue, so beautiful. And now, in her floridity, they were bright and arch and light-grey. The deep, tender, floweryblue was gone for ever. They were luminous and crystalline, like theeyes of a changeling. 

Miss Frost shuddered, and abstained from question. She wanted, she_needed_ to ask of her charge: "Alvina, have you betrayed yourselfwith any of these young men?" But coldly her heart abstained fromasking--or even from seriously thinking. She left the matteruntouched for the moment. She was already too much shocked. 

Certainly Alvina represented the young doctors as very nice, butrather fast young fellows. "My word, you have to have your witsabout you with them!" Imagine such a speech from a girl tenderlynurtured: a speech uttered in her own home, and accompanied by aflorid laugh, which would lead a chaste, generous woman like MissFrost to imagine--well, she merely abstained from imagininganything. She had that strength of mind. She never for one momentattempted to answer the question to herself, as to whether Alvinahad betrayed herself with any of these young doctors, or not. Thequestion remained stated, but completely unanswered--coldly awaitingits answer. Only when Miss Frost kissed Alvina good-bye at thestation, tears came to her eyes, and she said hurriedly, in a lowvoice:

"Remember we are all praying for you, dear!"

"No, don't do that!" cried Alvina involuntarily, without knowingwhat she said. 

And then the train moved out, and she saw her darling standing thereon the station, the pale, well-modelled face looking out from behindthe gold-rimmed spectacles, wistfully, the strong, rather stoutfigure standing very still and unchangeable, under its coat andskirt of dark purple, the white hair glistening under the foldeddark hat. Alvina threw herself down on the seat of her carriage. Sheloved her darling. She would love her through eternity. She knew shewas right--amply and beautifully right, her darling, her belovedMiss Frost. Eternally and gloriously right. 

And yet--and yet--it was a right which was fulfilled. There wereother rights. There was another side to the medal. Purity andhigh-mindedness--the beautiful, but unbearable tyranny. Thebeautiful, unbearable tyranny of Miss Frost! It was time now forMiss Frost to die. It was time for that perfected flower to begathered to immortality. A lovely _immortel_. But an obstruction toother, purple and carmine blossoms which were in bud on the stem. Alovely edelweiss--but time it was gathered into eternity. Black-purple and red anemones were due, real Adonis blood, andstrange individual orchids, spotted and fantastic. Time for MissFrost to die. She, Alvina, who loved her as no one else would everlove her, with that love which goes to the core of the universe, knew that it was time for her darling to be folded, oh, so gentlyand softly, into immortality. Mortality was busy with the day afterher day. It was time for Miss Frost to die. As Alvina sat motionlessin the train, running from Woodhouse to Tibshelf, it decided itselfin her. 

She was glad to be back in Islington, among all the horrors of herconfinement cases. The doctors she knew hailed her. On the whole, these young men had not any too deep respect for the nurses as awhole. Why drag in respect? Human functions were too obviouslyestablished to make any great fuss about. And so the doctors puttheir arms round Alvina's waist, because she was plump, and theykissed her face, because the skin was soft. And she laughed andsquirmed a little, so that they felt all the more her warmth andsoftness under their arm's pressure. 

"It's no use, you know, " she said, laughing rather breathless, butlooking into their eyes with a curious definite look of unchangeableresistance. This only piqued them. 

"What's no use?" they asked. 

She shook her head slightly. 

"It isn't any use your behaving like that with me, " she said, withthe same challenging definiteness, finality: a flat negative. 

"Who're you telling?" they said. 

For she did not at all forbid them to "behave like that. " Not in theleast. She almost encouraged them. She laughed and arched her eyesand flirted. But her backbone became only the stronger and firmer. Soft and supple as she was, her backbone never yielded for aninstant. It could not. She had to confess that she liked the youngdoctors. They were alert, their faces were clean and bright-looking. She liked the sort of intimacy with them, when they kissed her andwrestled with her in the empty laboratories or corridors--often inthe intervals of most critical and appalling cases. She liked theirarm round her waist, the kisses as she reached back her face, straining away, the sometimes desperate struggles. They tookunpardonable liberties. They pinched her haunches and attacked herin unheard-of ways. Sometimes her blood really came up in the fight, and she felt as if, with her hands, she could tear any man, any malecreature, limb from limb. A super-human, voltaic force filled her. For a moment she surged in massive, inhuman, female strength. Themen always wilted. And invariably, when they wilted, she touchedthem with a sudden gentle touch, pitying. So that she alwaysremained friends with them. When her curious Amazonic power left heragain, and she was just a mere woman, she made shy eyes at them oncemore, and treated them with the inevitable female-to-male homage. 

The men liked her. They cocked their eyes at her, when she was notlooking, and wondered at her. They wondered over her. They had beenbeaten by her, every one of them. But they did not openly know it. They looked at her, as if she were Woman itself, some creature notquite personal. What they noticed, all of them, was the way herbrown hair looped over her ears. There was something chaste, andnoble, and war-like about it. The remote quality which hung abouther in the midst of her intimacies and her frequencies, nothing highor lofty, but something given to the struggle and as yet invinciblein the struggle, made them seek her out. 

They felt safe with her. They knew she would not let them down. Shewould not intrigue into marriage, or try and make use of them in anyway. She didn't care about them. And so, because of her isolateself-sufficiency in the fray, her wild, overweening backbone, theywere ready to attend on her and serve her. Headley in particularhoped he might overcome her. He was a well-built fellow with sandyhair and a pugnacious face. The battle-spirit was really roused inhim, and he heartily liked the woman. If he could have overcome herhe would have been mad to marry her. 

With him, she summoned up all her mettle. She had never to be offher guard for a single minute. The treacherous suddenness of hisattack--for he was treachery itself--had to be met by the voltaicsuddenness of her resistance and counter-attack. It was nothing lessthan magical the way the soft, slumbering body of the woman couldleap in one jet into terrible, overwhelming voltaic force, somethingstrange and massive, at the first treacherous touch of the man'sdetermined hand. His strength was so different from hers--quick, muscular, lambent. But hers was deep and heaving, like the strangeheaving of an earthquake, or the heave of a bull as it rises fromearth. And by sheer non-human power, electric and paralysing, shecould overcome the brawny red-headed fellow. 

He was nearly a match for her. But she did not like him. The twowere enemies--and good acquaintances. They were more or lessmatched. But as he found himself continually foiled, he becamesulky, like a bear with a sore head. And then she avoided him. 

She really liked Young and James much better. James was a quick, slender, dark-haired fellow, a gentleman, who was always trying tocatch her out with his quickness. She liked his fine, slim limbs, and his exaggerated generosity. He would ask her out to ridiculouslyexpensive suppers, and send her sweets and flowers, fabulouslyrecherché. He was always immaculately well-dressed. 

"Of course, as a lady _and_ a nurse, " he said to her, "you are twosorts of women in one. "

But she was not impressed by his wisdom. 

She was most strongly inclined to Young. He was a plump young man ofmiddle height, with those blue eyes of a little boy which are soknowing: particularly of a woman's secrets. It is a strange thingthat these childish men have such a deep, half-perverse knowledge ofthe other sex. Young was certainly innocent as far as acts went. Yethis hair was going thin at the crown already. 

He also played with her--being a doctor, and she a nurse whoencouraged it. He too touched her and kissed her: and did _not_rouse her to contest. For his touch and his kiss had that nearnessof a little boy's, which nearly melted her. She could almost havesuccumbed to him. If it had not been that with him there was noquestion of succumbing. She would have had to take him between herhands and caress and cajole him like a cherub, into a fall. Andthough she would have like to do so, yet that inflexible stiffnessof her backbone prevented her. She could not do as she liked. Therewas an inflexible fate within her, which shaped her ends. 

Sometimes she wondered to herself, over her own virginity. Was itworth much, after all, behaving as she did? Did she care about it, anyhow? Didn't she rather despise it? To sin in thought was as badas to sin in act. If the thought was the same as the act, how muchmore was her behaviour equivalent to a whole committal? She wishedshe were wholly committed. She wished she had gone the whole length. 

But sophistry and wishing did her no good. There she was, stillisolate. And still there was that in her which would preserve herintact, sophistry and deliberate intention notwithstanding. Her timewas up. She was returning to Woodhouse virgin as she had left it. Ina measure she felt herself beaten. Why? Who knows. But so it was, she felt herself beaten, condemned to go back to what she wasbefore. Fate had been too strong for her and her desires: fate whichwas not an external association of forces, but which was integral inher own nature. Her own inscrutable nature was her fate: soreagainst her will. 

It was August when she came home, in her nurse's uniform. She wasbeaten by fate, as far as chastity and virginity went. But she camehome with high material hopes. Here was James Houghton's owndaughter. She had an affluent future ahead of her. A fully-qualifiedmaternity nurse, she was going to bring all the babies of thedistrict easily and triumphantly into the world. She was going tocharge the regulation fee of two guineas a case: and even on amodest estimate of ten babies a month, she would have twentyguineas. For well-to-do mothers she would charge from three to fiveguineas. At this calculation she would make an easy three hundred ayear, without slaving either. She would be independent, she couldlaugh every one in the face. 

She bounced back into Woodhouse to make her fortune. 

CHAPTER IV

TWO WOMEN DIE

It goes without saying that Alvina Houghton did not make her fortuneas a maternity nurse. Being her father's daughter, we might almostexpect that she did not make a penny. But she did--just a few pence. She had exactly four cases--and then no more. 

The reason is obvious. Who in Woodhouse was going to afford atwo-guinea nurse, for a confinement? And who who was going to engageAlvina Houghton, even if they were ready to stretch theirpurse-strings? After all, they all knew her as _Miss_ Houghton, witha stress on the _Miss_, and they could not conceive of her as NurseHoughton. Besides, there seemed something positively indecent intechnically engaging one who was so much part of themselves. Theyall preferred either a simple mid-wife, or a nurse procured out ofthe unknown by the doctor. 

If Alvina wanted to make her fortune--or even her living--she shouldhave gone to a strange town. She was so advised by every one sheknew. But she never for one moment reflected on the advice. She hadbecome a maternity nurse in order to practise in Woodhouse, just asJames Houghton had purchased his elegancies to sell in Woodhouse. And father and daughter alike calmly expected Woodhouse demand torise to their supply. So both alike were defeated in theirexpectations. 

For a little while Alvina flaunted about in her nurse's uniform. Then she left it off. And as she left it off she lost her bounce, her colour, and her flesh. Gradually she shrank back to the old, slim, reticent pallor, with eyes a little too large for her face. And now it seemed her face was a little too long, a little gaunt. And in her civilian clothes she seemed a little dowdy, shabby. Andaltogether, she looked older: she looked more than her age, whichwas only twenty-four years. Here was the old Alvina come back, ratherbattered and deteriorated, apparently. There was even a tiny touch ofthe trollops in her dowdiness--so the shrewd-eyed collier-wivesdecided. But she was a lady still, and unbeaten. Undeniably she was alady. And that was rather irritating to the well-to-do and floriddaughter of W. H. Johnson, next door but one. Undeniably a lady, andundeniably unmastered. This last was irritating to the good-naturedbut easy-coming young men in the Chapel Choir, where she resumed herseat. These young men had the good nature of dogs that wag their tailsand expect to be patted. And Alvina did not pat them. To be sure, apat from such a shabbily-black-kid-gloved hand would not have been soflattering--she need not imagine it! The way she hung back and lookedat them, the young men, as knowing as if she were a prostitute, andyet with the well-bred indifference of a lady--well, it was almostoffensive. 

As a matter of fact, Alvina was detached for the time being from herinterest in young men. Manchester House had settled down on her likea doom. There was the quartered shop, through which one had to wormone's encumbered way in the gloom--unless one liked to go milesround a back street, to the yard entry. There was James Houghton, faintly powdered with coal-dust, flitting back and forth in a feverof nervous frenzy, to Throttle-Ha'penny--so carried away that henever saw his daughter at all the first time he came in, after herreturn. And when she reminded him of her presence, with her--"Hello, father!"--he merely glancied hurriedly at her, as if vexed with herinterruption, and said:

"Well, Alvina, you're back. You're back to find us busy. " And hewent off into his ecstasy again. 

Mrs. Houghton was now very weak, and so nervous in her weakness thatshe could not bear the slightest sound. Her greatest horror was lesther husband should come into the room. On his entry she became blueat the lips immediately, so he had to hurry out again. At last hestayed away, only hurriedly asking, each time he came into thehouse, "How is Mrs. Houghton? Ha!" Then off into uninterruptedThrottle-Ha'penny ecstasy once more. 

When Alvina went up to her mother's room, on her return, all thepoor invalid could do was to tremble into tears, and cry faintly:

"Child, you look dreadful. It isn't you. "

This from the pathetic little figure in the bed had struck Alvinalike a blow. 

"Why not, mother?" she asked. 

But for her mother she had to remove her nurse's uniform. And at thesame time, she had to constitute herself nurse. Miss Frost, and awoman who came in, and the servant had been nursing the invalidbetween them. Miss Frost was worn and rather heavy: her old buoyancyand brightness was gone. She had become irritable also. She was veryglad that Alvina had returned to take this responsibility of nursingoff her shoulders. For her wonderful energy had ebbed and oozedaway. 

Alvina said nothing, but settled down to her task. She was quiet andtechnical with her mother. The two loved one another, with a curiousimpersonal love which had not a single word to exchange: an almostafter-death love. In these days Mrs. Houghton never talked--unlessto fret a little. So Alvina sat for many hours in the lofty, sombrebedroom, looking out silently on the street, or hurriedly rising toattend the sick woman. For continually came the fretful murmur:

"Vina!"

To sit still--who knows the long discipline of it, nowadays, as ourmothers and grandmothers knew. To sit still, for days, months, andyears--perforce to sit still, with some dignity of tranquil bearing. Alvina was old-fashioned. She had the old, womanly faculty forsitting quiet and collected--not indeed for a life-time, but forlong spells together. And so it was during these months nursing hermother. She attended constantly on the invalid: she did a good dealof work about the house: she took her walks and occupied her placein the choir on Sunday mornings. And yet, from August to January, she seemed to be seated in her chair in the bedroom, sometimesreading, but mostly quite still, her hands quietly in her lap, hermind subdued by musing. She did not even think, not even remember. Even such activity would have made her presence too disturbing inthe room. She sat quite still, with all her activities inabeyance--except that strange will-to-passivity which was by nomeans a relaxation, but a severe, deep, soul-discipline. 

For the moment there was a sense of prosperity--or probableprosperity, in the house. And there was an abundance ofThrottle-Ha'penny coal. It was dirty ashy stuff. The lower bars ofthe grate were constantly blanked in with white powdery ash, whichit was fatal to try to poke away. For if you poked and poked, youraised white cumulus clouds of ash, and you were left at last with afew darkening and sulphurous embers. But even so, by continuousapplication, you could keep the room moderately warm, withoutfeeling you were consuming the house's meat and drink in the grate. Which was one blessing. 

The days, the months darkened past, and Alvina returned to her oldthinness and pallor. Her fore-arms were thin, they rested very stillin her lap, there was a ladylike stillness about them as she tookher walk, in her lingering, yet watchful fashion. She saweverything. Yet she passed without attracting any attention. 

Early in the year her mother died. Her father came and weptself-conscious tears, Miss Frost cried a little, painfully. AndAlvina cried also: she did not quite know why or wherefore. Her poormother! Alvina had the old-fashioned wisdom to let be, and not tothink. After all, it was not for her to reconstruct her parents'lives. She came after them. Her day was not their day, their lifewas not hers. Returning up-channel to re-discover their course wasquite another matter from flowing down-stream into the unknown, asthey had done thirty years before. This supercilious and impertinentexploration of the generation gone by, by the present generation, isnothing to our credit. As a matter of fact, no generation repeatsthe mistakes of the generation ahead, any more than any riverrepeats its course. So the young need not be so proud of theirsuperiority over the old. The young generation glibly makes its ownmistakes: and _how_ detestable these new mistakes are, why, only thefuture will be able to tell us. But be sure they are quite asdetestable, quite as full of lies and hypocrisy, as any of themistakes of our parents. There is no such thing as _absolute_wisdom. 

Wisdom has reference only to the past. The future remains for everan infinite field for mistakes. You can't know beforehand. 

So Alvina refrained from pondering on her mother's life and fate. Whatever the fate of the mother, the fate of the daughter will beotherwise. That is organically inevitable. The business of thedaughter is with her own fate, not with her mother's. 

Miss Frost however meditated bitterly on the fate of the poor deadwoman. Bitterly she brooded on the lot of woman. Here was ClarissHoughton, married, and a mother--and dead. What a life! Who wasresponsible? James Houghton. What ought James Houghton to have donedifferently? Everything. In short, he should have been somebodyelse, and not himself. Which is the _reductio ad absurdum_ ofidealism. The universe should be something else, and not what it is:so the nonsense of idealistic conclusion. The cat should not catchthe mouse, the mouse should not nibble holes in the table-cloth, andso on and so on, in the House that Jack Built. 

But Miss Frost sat by the dead in grief and despair. This was theend of another woman's life: such an end! Poor Clariss: guiltyJames. 

Yet why? Why was James more guilty than Clariss? Is the only aim andend of a man's life, to make some woman, or parcel of women, happy?Why? Why should anybody expect to be _made happy_, and developheart-disease if she isn't? Surely Clariss' heart-disease was a moreemphatic sign of obstinate self-importance than ever James'shop-windows were. She expected to be _made happy_. Every woman inEurope and America expects it. On her own head then if she is madeunhappy: for her expectation is arrogant and impertinent. The be-alland end-all of life doesn't lie in feminine happiness--or in anyhappiness. Happiness is a sort of soap-tablet--he won't be happytill he gets it, and when he's got it, the precious baby, it'll costhim his eyes and his stomach. Could anything be more puerile than amankind howling because it isn't happy: like a baby in the bath!

Poor Clariss, however, was dead--and if she had developedheart-disease because she wasn't happy, well, she had died of herown heart-disease, poor thing. Wherein lies every moral that mankindcan wish to draw. 

Miss Frost wept in anguish, and saw nothing but another womanbetrayed to sorrow and a slow death. Sorrow and a slow death, because a man had married her. Miss Frost wept also for herself, forher own sorrow and slow death. Sorrow and slow death, because a manhad _not_ married her. Wretched man, what is he to do with theseexigeant and never-to-be-satisfied women? Our mothers pined becauseour fathers drank and were rakes. Our wives pine because we arevirtuous but inadequate. Who is this sphinx, this woman? Where isthe Oedipus that will solve her riddle of happiness, and thenstrangle her?--only to marry his own mother!

In the months that followed her mother's death, Alvina went on thesame, in abeyance. She took over the housekeeping, and received oneor two overflow pupils from Miss Frost, young girls to whom she gavelessons in the dark drawing-room of Manchester House. She wasbusy--chiefly with housekeeping. There seemed a great deal to put inorder after her mother's death. 

She sorted all her mother's clothes--expensive, old-fashionedclothes, hardly worn. What was to be done with them? She gave themaway, without consulting anybody. She kept a few private things, sheinherited a few pieces of jewellery. Remarkable how little trace hermother left--hardly a trace. 

She decided to move into the big, monumental bedroom in front of thehouse. She liked space, she liked the windows. She was strictlymistress, too. So she took her place. Her mother's littlesitting-room was cold and disused. 

Then Alvina went through all the linen. There was still abundance, and it was all sound. James had had such large ideas of setting uphouse, in the beginning. And now he begrudged the householdexpenses, begrudged the very soap and candles, and even would haveliked to introduce margarine instead of butter. This lastdegradation the women refused. But James was above food. 

The old Alvina seemed completely herself again. She was quiet, dutiful, affectionate. She appealed in her old, childish way to MissFrost, and Miss Frost called her "Dear!" with all the old protectivegentleness. But there was a difference. Underneath her appearance ofappeal, Alvina was almost coldly independent. She did what shethought she would. The old manner of intimacy persisted between herand her darling. And perhaps neither of them knew that the intimacyitself had gone. But it had. There was no spontaneous interchangebetween them. It was a kind of deadlock. Each knew the great loveshe felt for the other. But now it was a love static, inoperative. The warm flow did not run any more. Yet each would have died for theother, would have done anything to spare the other hurt. 

Miss Frost was becoming tired, dragged looking. She would sink intoa chair as if she wished never to rise again--never to make theeffort. And Alvina quickly would attend on her, bring her tea andtake away her music, try to make everything smooth. And continuallythe young woman exhorted the elder to work less, to give up herpupils. But Miss Frost answered quickly, nervously:

"When I don't work I shan't live. "

"But why--?" came the long query from Alvina. And in herexpostulation there was a touch of mockery for such a creed. 

Miss Frost did not answer. Her face took on a greyish tinge. 

In these days Alvina struck up an odd friendship with Miss Pinnegar, after so many years of opposition. She felt herself more in sympathywith Miss Pinnegar--it was so easy to get on with her, she left somuch unsaid. What was left unsaid mattered more to Alvina now thananything that was expressed. She began to hate outspokenness anddirect speaking-forth of the whole mind. It nauseated her. Shewanted tacit admission of difference, not open, wholeheartedcommunication. And Miss Pinnegar made this admission all along. Shenever made you feel for an instant that she was one with you. Shewas never even near. She kept quietly on her own ground, and leftyou on yours. And across the space came her quiet commonplaces--butfraught with space. 

With Miss Frost all was openness, explicit and downright. Not thatMiss Frost trespassed. She was far more well-bred than MissPinnegar. But her very breeding had that Protestant, northernquality which assumes that we have all the same high standards, really, and all the same divine nature, intrinsically. It is a fineassumption. But willy-nilly, it sickened Alvina at this time. 

She preferred Miss Pinnegar, and admired Miss Pinnegar's humblewisdom with a new admiration. The two were talking of Dr. Headley, who, they read in the newspaper, had disgraced himself finally. 

"I suppose, " said Miss Pinnegar, "it takes his sort to make allsorts. "

Such bits of homely wisdom were like relief from cramp and pain, toAlvina. "It takes his sort to make all sorts. " It took her sort too. And it took her father's sort--as well as her mother's and MissFrost's. It took every sort to make all sorts. Why have standardsand a regulation pattern? Why have a human criterion? There's thepoint! Why, in the name of all the free heavens, have humancriteria? Why? Simply for bullying and narrowness. 

Alvina felt at her ease with Miss Pinnegar. The two women talkedaway to one another, in their quiet moments: and slipped apart likeconspirators when Miss Frost came in: as if there was something tobe ashamed of. If there was, heaven knows what it might have been, for their talk was ordinary enough. But Alvina liked to be with MissPinnegar in the kitchen. Miss Pinnegar wasn't competent andmasterful like Miss Frost: she was ordinary and uninspired, withquiet, unobserved movements. But she was deep, and there was somesecret satisfaction in her very quality of secrecy. 

So the days and weeks and months slipped by, and Alvina was hiddenlike a mole in the dark chambers of Manchester House, busy withcooking and cleaning and arranging, getting the house in her ownorder, and attending to her pupils. She took her walk in theafternoon. Once and only once she went to Throttle-Ha'penny, and, seized with sudden curiosity, insisted on being wound down in theiron bucket to the little workings underneath. Everything was quitetidy in the short gang-ways down below, timbered and in sound order. The miners were competent enough. But water dripped dismally inplaces, and there was a stale feeling in the air. 

Her father accompanied her, pointed her to the seam ofyellow-flecked coal, the shale and the bind, the direction of thetrend. He had already an airy-fairy kind of knowledge of the wholeaffair, and seemed like some not quite trustworthy conjuror who hadconjured it all up by sleight of hand. In the background the minersstood grey and ghostly, in the candle-light, and seemed to listensardonically. One of them, facile in his subordinate way as James inhis authoritative, kept chiming in:

"Ay, that's the road it goes, Miss Huffen--yis, yo'll see th' rooftheer bellies down a bit--s' loose. No, you dunna get th' puddin'stones i' this pit--s' not deep enough. Eh, they come down on youplumb, as if th' roof had laid its egg on you. Ay, it runs a bitthin down here--six inches. You see th' bed's soft, it's a sort o'clay-bind, it's not clunch such as you get deeper. Oh, it's easyworkin'--you don't have to knock your guts out. There's no need forshots, Miss Huffen--we bring it down--you see here--" And hestooped, pointing to a shallow, shelving excavation which he wasmaking under the coal. The working was low, you must stoop all thetime. The roof and the timbered sides of the way seemed to press onyou. It was as if she were in her tomb for ever, like the dead andeverlasting Egyptians. She was frightened, but fascinated. Thecollier kept on talking to her, stretching his bare, grey-blackhairy arm across her vision, and pointing with his knotted hand. Thethick-wicked tallow candles guttered and smelled. There was athickness in the air, a sense of dark, fluid presence in the thickatmosphere, the dark, fluid, viscous voice of the collier making abroad-vowelled, clapping sound in her ear. He seemed to linger nearher as if he knew--as if he knew--what? Something for everunknowable and inadmissible, something that belonged purely to theunderground: to the slaves who work underground: knowledgehumiliated, subjected, but ponderous and inevitable. And still hisvoice went on clapping in her ear, and still his presence edged nearher, and seemed to impinge on her--a smallish, semi-grotesque, grey-obscure figure with a naked brandished forearm: not human: acreature of the subterranean world, melted out like a bat, fluid. She felt herself melting out also, to become a mere vocal ghost, apresence in the thick atmosphere. Her lungs felt thick and slow, hermind dissolved, she felt she could cling like a bat in the longswoon of the crannied, underworld darkness. Cling like a bat andsway for ever swooning in the draughts of the darkness--

When she was up on the earth again she blinked and peered at theworld in amazement. What a pretty, luminous place it was, carved insubstantial luminosity. What a strange and lovely place, bubblingiridescent-golden on the surface of the underworld. Iridescentgolden--could anything be more fascinating! Like lovely glancingsurface on fluid pitch. But a velvet surface. A velvet surface ofgolden light, velvet-pile of gold and pale luminosity, and strangebeautiful elevations of houses and trees, and depressions of fieldsand roads, all golden and floating like atmospheric majolica. Neverhad the common ugliness of Woodhouse seemed so entrancing. Shethought she had never seen such beauty--a lovely luminous majolica, living and palpitating, the glossy, svelte world-surface, theexquisite face of all the darkness. It was like a vision. Perhapsgnomes and subterranean workers, enslaved in the era of light, seewith such eyes. Perhaps that is why they are absolutely blind toconventional ugliness. For truly nothing could be more hideous thanWoodhouse, as the miners had built it and disposed it. And yet, thevery cabbage-stumps and rotten fences of the gardens, the veryback-yards were instinct with magic, molten as they seemed with thebubbling-up of the under-darkness, bubbling up of majolica weightand luminosity, quite ignorant of the sky, heavy and satisfying. 

Slaves of the underworld! She watched the swing of the grey colliersalong the pavement with a new fascination, hypnotized by a newvision. Slaves--the underground trolls and iron-workers, magic, mischievous, and enslaved, of the ancient stories. But tall--theminers seemed to her to loom tall and grey, in their enslaved magic. Slaves who would cause the superimposed day-order to fall. Notbecause, individually, they wanted to. But because, collectively, something bubbled up in them, the force of darkness which had nomaster and no control. It would bubble and stir in them asearthquakes stir the earth. It would be simply disastrous, becauseit had no master. There was no dark master in the world. The puerileworld went on crying out for a new Jesus, another Saviour from thesky, another heavenly superman. When what was wanted was a DarkMaster from the underworld. 

So they streamed past her, home from work--grey from head to foot, distorted in shape, cramped, with curious faces that came out pallidfrom under their dirt. Their walk was heavy-footed and slurring, their bearing stiff and grotesque. A stream they were--yet theyseemed to her to loom like strange, valid figures of fairy-lore, unrealized and as yet unexperienced. The miners, the iron-workers, those who fashion the stuff of the underworld. 

As it always comes to its children, the nostalgia of the repulsive, heavy-footed Midlands came over her again, even whilst she wasthere in the midst. The curious, dark, inexplicable and yetinsatiable craving--as if for an earthquake. To feel the earth heaveand shudder and shatter the world from beneath. To go down in thedébâcle. 

And so, in spite of everything, poverty, dowdiness, obscurity, andnothingness, she was content to stay in abeyance at home for thetime. True, she was filled with the same old, slow, dreadful cravingof the Midlands: a craving insatiable and inexplicable. But the verycraving kept her still. For at this time she did not translate itinto a desire, or need, for love. At the back of her mind somewherewas the fixed idea, the fixed intention of finding love, a man. Butas yet, at this period, the idea was in abeyance, it did not act. The craving that possessed her as it possesses everybody, in agreater or less degree, in those parts, sustained her darkly andunconsciously. 

A hot summer waned into autumn, the long, bewildering days drew in, the transient nights, only a few breaths of shadow between noon andnoon, deepened and strengthened. A restlessness came over everybody. There was another short strike among the miners. James Houghton, like an excited beetle, scurried to and fro, feeling he was makinghis fortune. Never had Woodhouse been so thronged on Fridays withpurchasers and money-spenders. The place seemed surcharged withlife. 

Autumn lasted beautiful till end of October. And then suddenly, coldrain, endless cold rain, and darkness heavy, wet, ponderous. Throughthe wind and rain it was a toil to move. Poor Miss Frost, who hadseemed almost to blossom again in the long hot days, regaining afree cheerfulness that amounted almost to liveliness, and who evencaused a sort of scandal by her intimacy with a rather handsome butcommon stranger, an insurance agent who had come into the place witha good, unused tenor voice--now she wilted again. She had given therather florid young man tea in her room, and had laboured away athis fine, metallic voice, correcting him and teaching him andlaughing with him and spending really a remarkable number of hoursalone with him in her room in Woodhouse--for she had given uptramping the country, and had hired a music-room in a quiet street, where she gave her lessons. And the young man had hung round, andhad never wanted to go away. They would prolong their tête-à-têteand their singing on till ten o'clock at night, and Miss Frost wouldreturn to Manchester House flushed and handsome and a little shy, while the young man, who was common, took on a new boldness in thestreets. He had auburn hair, high colouring, and a ratherchallenging bearing. He took on a new boldness, his own estimate ofhimself rose considerably, with Miss Frost and his trained voice tojustify him. He was a little insolent and condescending to thenatives, who disliked him. For their lives they could not imaginewhat Miss Frost could find in him. They began even to dislike her, and a pretty scandal was started about the pair, in the pleasantroom where Miss Frost had her piano, her books, and her flowers. Thescandal was as unjust as most scandals are. Yet truly, all thatsummer and autumn Miss Frost had a new and slightly aggressivecheerfulness and humour. And Manchester House saw little of her, comparatively. 

And then, at the end of September, the young man was removed by hisInsurance Company to another district. And at the end of October setin the most abominable and unbearable weather, deluges of rain andnorth winds, cutting the tender, summer-unfolded people to pieces. Miss Frost wilted at once. A silence came over her. She shudderedwhen she had to leave the fire. She went in the morning to her room, and stayed there all the day, in a hot, close atmosphere, shudderingwhen her pupils brought the outside weather with them to her. 

She was always subject to bronchitis. In November she had a badbronchitis cold. Then suddenly one morning she could not get up. Alvina went in and found her semi-conscious. 

The girl was almost mad. She flew to the rescue. She despatched herfather instantly for the doctor, she heaped the sticks in thebedroom grate and made a bright fire, she brough hot milk andbrandy. 

"Thank you, dear, thank you. It's a bronchial cold, " whispered MissFrost hurriedly, trying to sip the milk. She could not. She didn'twant it. 

"I've sent for the doctor, " said Alvina, in her cool voice, whereinnone the less there rang the old hesitancy of sheer love. 

Miss Frost lifted her eyes:

"There's no need, " she said, and she smiled winsomely at Alvina. 

It was pneumonia. Useless to talk of the distracted anguish ofAlvina during the next two days. She was so swift and sensitive inher nursing, she seemed to have second sight. She talked to nobody. In her silence her soul was alone with the soul of her darling. Thelong semi-consciousness and the tearing pain of pneumonia, theanguished sickness. 

But sometimes the grey eyes would open and smile with delicatewinsomeness at Alvina, and Alvina smiled back, with a cheery, answering winsomeness. But that costs something. 

On the evening of the second day, Miss Frost got her hand from underthe bedclothes, and laid it on Alvina's hand. Alvina leaned down toher. 

"Everything is for you, my love, " whispered Miss Frost, looking withstrange eyes on Alvina's face. 

"Don't talk, Miss Frost, " moaned Alvina. 

"Everything is for you, " murmured the sick woman--"except--" and sheenumerated some tiny legacies which showed her generous, thoughtfulnature. 

"Yes, I shall remember, " said Alvina, beyond tears now. 

Miss Frost smiled with her old bright, wonderful look, that had atouch of queenliness in it. 

"Kiss me, dear, " she whispered. 

Alvina kissed her, and could not suppress the whimpering of hertoo-much grief. 

The night passed slowly. Sometimes the grey eyes of the sick womanrested dark, dilated, haggard on Alvina's face, with a heavy, almostaccusing look, sinister. Then they closed again. And sometimes theylooked pathetic, with a mute, stricken appeal. Then again theyclosed--only to open again tense with pain. Alvina wiped herblood-phlegmed lips. 

In the morning she died--lay there haggard, death-smeared, with herlovely white hair smeared also, and disorderly: she who had been sobeautiful and clean always. 

Alvina knew death--which is untellable. She knew that her darlingcarried away a portion of her own soul into death. 

But she was alone. And the agony of being alone, the agony of grief, passionate, passionate grief for her darling who was torn intodeath--the agony of self-reproach, regret; the agony of remembrance;the agony of the looks of the dying woman, winsome, and sinisterlyaccusing, and pathetically, despairingly appealing--probe afterprobe of mortal agony, which throughout eternity would never loseits power to pierce to the quick!

Alvina seemed to keep strangely calm and aloof all the days afterthe death. Only when she was alone she suffered till she felt herheart really broke. 

"I shall never feel anything any more, " she said in her abrupt wayto Miss Frost's friend, another woman of over fifty. 

"Nonsense, child!" expostulated Mrs. Lawson gently. 

"I shan't! I shall never have a heart to feel anything any more, "said Alvina, with a strange, distraught roll of the eyes. 

"Not like this, child. But you'll feel other things--"

"I haven't the heart, " persisted Alvina. 

"Not yet, " said Mrs. Lawson gently. "You can't expect--Buttime--time brings back--"

"Oh well--but I don't believe it, " said Alvina. 

People thought her rather hard. To one of her gossips Miss Pinnegarconfessed:

"I thought she'd have felt it more. She cared more for her than shedid for her own mother--and her mother knew it. Mrs. Houghtoncomplained bitterly, sometimes, that _she_ had _no_ love. They wereeverything to one another, Miss Frost and Alvina. I should havethought she'd have felt it more. But you never know. A good thing ifshe doesn't, really. "

Miss Pinnegar herself did not care one little bit that Miss Frostwas dead. She did not feel herself implicated. 

The nearest relatives came down, and everything was settled. Thewill was found, just a brief line on a piece of notepaper expressinga wish that Alvina should have everything. Alvina herself told theverbal requests. All was quietly fulfilled. 

As it might well be. For there was nothing to leave. Justsixty-three pounds in the bank--no more: then the clothes, piano, books and music. Miss Frost's brother had these latter, at his ownrequest: the books and music, and the piano. Alvina inherited thefew simple trinkets, and about forty-five pounds in money. 

"Poor Miss Frost, " cried Mrs. Lawson, weeping rather bitterly--"shesaved nothing for herself. You can see why she never wanted to growold, so that she couldn't work. You can see. It's a shame, it's ashame, one of the best women that ever trod earth. "

Manchester House settled down to its deeper silence, its darkergloom. Miss Frost was irreparably gone. With her, the reality wentout of the house. It seemed to be silently waiting to disappear. AndAlvina and Miss Pinnegar might move about and talk in vain. Theycould never remove the sense of waiting to finish: it was all justwaiting to finish. And the three, James and Alvina and MissPinnegar, waited lingering through the months, for the house to cometo an end. With Miss Frost its spirit passed away: it was no more. Dark, empty-feeling, it seemed all the time like a house just beforea sale. 

CHAPTER V

THE BEAU

Throttle-Ha'penny worked fitfully through the winter, and in thespring broke down. By this time James Houghton had a pathetic, childish look which touched the hearts of Alvina and Miss Pinnegar. They began to treat him with a certain feminine indulgence, as hefluttered round, agitated and bewildered. He was like a bird thathas flown into a room and is exhausted, enfeebled by its attempts tofly through the false freedom of the window-glass. Sometimes hewould sit moping in a corner, with his head under his wing. But MissPinnegar chased him forth, like the stealthy cat she was, chased himup to the work-room to consider some detail of work, chased him intothe shop to turn over the old débris of the stock. At one time heshowed the alarming symptom of brooding over his wife's death. MissPinnegar was thoroughly scared. But she was not inventive. It wasleft to Alvina to suggest: "Why doesn't father let the shop, andsome of the house?"

Let the shop! Let the last inch of frontage on the street! Jamesthought of it. Let the shop! Permit the name of Houghton todisappear from the list of tradesmen? Withdraw? Disappear? Become anameless nobody, occupying obscure premises?

He thought about it. And thinking about it, became so indignant at thethought that he pulled his scattered energies together within his frailframe. And then he came out with the most original of all his schemes. Manchester House was to be fitted up as a boarding-house for the betterclasses, and was to make a fortune catering for the needs of thesegentry, who had now nowhere to go. Yes, Manchester House should befitted up as a sort of quiet family hotel for the better classes. Theshop should be turned into an elegant hall-entrance, carpeted, with ahall-porter and a wide plate-glass door, round-arched, in the roundarch of which the words: "Manchester House" should appear large anddistinguished, making an arch also, whilst underneath, more refined andsmaller, should show the words: "Private Hotel. " James was to beproprietor and secretary, keeping the books and attending tocorrespondence: Miss Pinnegar was to be manageress, superintending theservants and directing the house, whilst Alvina was to occupy theequivocal position of "hostess. " She was to shake hands with theguests: she was to play the piano, and she was to nurse the sick. Forin the prospectus James would include: "Trained nurse always on thepremises. "

"Why!" cried Miss Pinnegar, for once brutally and angrily hostile tohim: "You'll make it sound like a private lunatic asylum. "

"Will you explain why?" answered James tartly. 

For himself, he was enraptured with the scheme. He began to tot upideas and expenses. There would be the handsome entrance and hall:there would be an extension of the kitchen and scullery: there wouldbe an installing of new hot-water and sanitary arrangements: therewould be a light lift-arrangment from the kitchen: there would be ahandsome glazed balcony or loggia or terrace on the first floor atthe back, over the whole length of the back-yard. This loggia wouldgive a wonderful outlook to the south-west and the west. In theimmediate foreground, to be sure, would be the yard of thelivery-stables and the rather slummy dwellings of the colliers, sloping downhill. But these could be easily overlooked, for the eyewould instinctively wander across the green and shallow valley, tothe long upslope opposite, showing the Manor set in its clump oftrees, and farms and haystacks pleasantly dotted, and moderately faroff coal-mines with twinkling headstocks and narrow railwaylinescrossing the arable fields, and heaps of burning slag. The balconyor covered terrace--James settled down at last to the word_terrace_--was to be one of the features of the house: _the_feature. It was to be fitted up as a sort of elegant loungingrestaurant. Elegant teas, at two-and-six per head, and elegantsuppers, at five shillings without wine, were to be served here. 

As a teetotaller and a man of ascetic views, James, in his firstshallow moments, before he thought about it, assumed that his houseshould be entirely non-alcoholic. A temperance house! Already hewinced. We all know what a provincial Temperance Hotel is. Besides, there is magic in the sound of wine. _Wines Served_. The legendattracted him immensely--as a teetotaller, it had a mysterious, hypnotic influence. He must have wines. He knew nothing about them. But Alfred Swayn, from the Liquor Vaults, would put him in therunning in five minutes. 

It was most curious to see Miss Pinnegar turtle up at the mention ofthis scheme. When first it was disclosed to her, her colour came uplike a turkey's in a flush of indignant anger. 

"It's ridiculous. It's just ridiculous!" she blurted, bridling andducking her head and turning aside, like an indignant turkey. 

"Ridiculous! Why? Will you explain why!" retorted James, turtlingalso. 

"It's absolutely ridiculous!" she repeated, unable to do more thansplutter. 

"Well, we'll see, " said James, rising to superiority. 

And again he began to dart absorbedly about, like a bird building anest. Miss Pinnegar watched him with a sort of sullen fury. She wentto the shop door to peep out after him. She saw him slip into theLiquor Vaults, and she came back to announce to Alvina:

"He's taken to drink!"

"Drink?" said Alvina. 

"That's what it is, " said Miss Pinnegar vindictively. "Drink!"

Alvina sank down and laughed till she was weak. It all seemed reallytoo funny to her--too funny. 

"I can't see what it is to laugh at, " said Miss Pinnegar. "Disgraceful--it's disgraceful! But I'm not going to stop to be madea fool of. I shall be no manageress, I tell you. It's absolutelyridiculous. Who does he think will come to the place? He's out ofhis mind--and it's drink; that's what it is! Going into the LiquorVaults at ten o'clock in the morning! That's where he gets hisideas--out of whiskey--or brandy! But he's not going to make a foolof me--"

"Oh dear!" sighed Alvina, laughing herself into composure and alittle weariness. "I know it's _perfectly_ ridiculous. We shall haveto stop him. "

"I've said all I can say, " blurted Miss Pinnegar. 

As soon as James came in to a meal, the two women attacked him. 

"But father, " said Alvina, "there'll be nobody to come. "

"Plenty of people--plenty of people, " said her father. "Look at TheShakespeare's Head, in Knarborough. "

"Knarborough! Is this Knarborough!" blurted Miss Pinnegar. "Whereare the business men here? Where are the foreigners coming here forbusiness, where's our lace-trade and our stocking-trade?"

"There _are_ business men, " said James. "And there are ladies. "

"Who, " retorted Miss Pinnegar, "is going to give half-a-crown for atea? They expect tea and bread-and-butter for fourpence, and cakefor sixpence, and apricots or pineapple for ninepence, andham-and-tongue for a shilling, and fried ham and eggs and jam andcake as much as they can eat for one-and-two. If they expect aknife-and-fork tea for a shilling, what are you going to give themfor half-a-crown?"

"I know what I shall offer, " said James. "And we may make it twoshillings. " Through his mind flitted the idea of 1/11-1/2--but herejected it. "You don't realize that I'm catering for a higher classof custom--"

"But there _isn't_ any higher class in Woodhouse, father, " saidAlvina, unable to restrain a laugh. 

"If you create a supply you create a demand, " he retorted. 

"But how can you create a supply of better class people?" askedAlvina mockingly. 

James took on his refined, abstracted look, as if he werepreoccupied on higher planes. It was the look of an obstinate littleboy who poses on the side of the angels--or so the women saw it. 

Miss Pinnegar was prepared to combat him now by sheer weight ofopposition. She would pitch her dead negative will obstinatelyagainst him. She would not speak to him, she would not observe hispresence, she was stone deaf and stone blind: there _was_ no James. This nettled him. And she miscalculated him. He merely took anothercircuit, and rose another flight higher on the spiral of hisspiritual egotism. He believed himself finely and sacredly in theright, that he was frustrated by lower beings, above whom it was hisduty to rise, to soar. So he soared to serene heights, and hisPrivate Hotel seemed a celestial injunction, an erection on a higherplane. 

He saw the architect: and then, with his plans and schemes, he sawthe builder and contractor. The builder gave an estimate of six orseven hundred--but James had better see the plumber and fitter whowas going to instal the new hot water and sanitary system. James wasa little dashed. He had calculated much less. Having only a fewhundred pounds in possession after Throttle-Ha'penny, he wasprepared to mortgage Manchester House if he could keep in hand asufficent sum of money for the running of his establishment for ayear. He knew he would have to sacrifice Miss Pinnegar's work-room. He knew, and he feared Miss Pinnegar's violent and unmitigatedhostility. Still--his obstinate spirit rose--he was quite preparedto risk everything on this last throw. 

Miss Allsop, daughter of the builder, called to see Alvina. TheAllsops were great Chapel people, and Cassie Allsop was one of theold maids. She was thin and nipped and wistful looking, aboutforty-two years old. In private, she was tyrannously exacting withthe servants, and spiteful, rather mean with her motherless nieces. But in public she had this nipped, wistful look. 

Alvina was surprised by this visit. When she found Miss Allsop atthe back door, all her inherent hostility awoke. 

"Oh, is it you, Miss Allsop! Will you come in. "

They sat in the middle room, the common living room of the house. 

"I called, " said Miss Allsop, coming to the point at once, andspeaking in her Sunday-school-teacher voice, "to ask you if you knowabout this Private Hotel scheme of your father's?"

"Yes, " said Alvina. 

"Oh, you do! Well, we wondered. Mr. Houghton came to father aboutthe building alterations yesterday. They'll be awfully expensive. "

"Will they?" said Alvina, making big, mocking eyes. 

"Yes, very. What do _you_ think of the scheme?"

"I?--well--!" Alvina hesitated, then broke into a laugh. "To tellthe truth I haven't thought much about it at all. "

"Well I think you should, " said Miss Allsop severely. "Father's sureit won't pay--and it will cost I don't know how much. It is boundto be a dead loss. And your father's getting on. You'll be leftstranded in the world without a penny to bless yourself with. Ithink it's an awful outlook for you. "

"Do you?" said Alvina. 

Here she was, with a bang, planked upon the shelf among the oldmaids. 

"Oh, I do. Sincerely! I should do all I could to prevent him, if Iwere you. "

Miss Allsop took her departure. Alvina felt herself jolted in hermood. An old maid along with Cassie Allsop!--and James Houghtonfooling about with the last bit of money, mortgaging ManchesterHouse up to the hilt. Alvina sank in a kind of weary mortification, in which _her_ peculiar obstinacy persisted devilishly andspitefully. "Oh well, so be it, " said her spirit vindictively. "Letthe meagre, mean, despicable fate fulfil itself. " Her old angeragainst her father arose again. 

Arthur Witham, the plumber, came in with James Houghton to examinethe house. Arthur Witham was also one of the Chapel men--as had beenhis common, interfering, uneducated father before him. The fatherhad left each of his sons a fair little sum of money, which Arthur, the eldest, had already increased ten-fold. He was sly and slow anduneducated also, and spoke with a broad accent. But he was notbad-looking, a tight fellow with big blue eyes, who aspired to keephis "h's" in the right place, and would have been a gentleman if hecould. 

Against her usual habit, Alvina joined the plumber and her father inthe scullery. Arthur Witham saluted her with some respect. She likedhis blue eyes and tight figure. He was keen and sly in business, very watchful, and slow to commit himself. Now he poked and peeredand crept under the sink. Alvina watched him half disappear--shehanded him a candle--and she laughed to herself seeing his tight, well-shaped hind-quarters protruding from under the sink like thewrong end of a dog from a kennel. He was keen after money, wasArthur--and bossy, creeping slyly after his own self-importance andpower. He wanted power--and he would creep quietly after it till hegot it: as much as he was capable of. His "h's" were a barbed-wirefence and entanglement, preventing his unlimited progress. 

He emerged from under the sink, and they went to the kitchen andafterwards upstairs. Alvina followed them persistently, but a littlealoof, and silent. When the tour of inspection was almost over, shesaid innocently:

"Won't it cost a great deal?"

Arthur Witham slowly shook his head. Then he looked at her. Shesmiled rather archly into his eyes. 

"It won't be done for nothing, " he said, looking at her again. 

"We can go into that later, " said James, leading off the plumber. 

"Good morning, Miss Houghton, " said Arthur Witham. 

"Good morning, Mr. Witham, " replied Alvina brightly. 

But she lingered in the background, and as Arthur Witham was goingshe heard him say: "Well, I'll work it out, Mr. Houghton. I'll workit out, and let you know tonight. I'll get the figures by tonight. "

The younger man's tone was a little off-hand, just a littlesupercilious with her father, she thought. James's star was setting. 

In the afternoon, directly after dinner, Alvina went out. Sheentered the shop, where sheets of lead and tins of paint and puttystood about, varied by sheets of glass and fancy paper. LottieWitham, Arthur's wife, appeared. She was a woman of thirty-five, abit of a shrew, with social ambitions and no children. 

"Is Mr. Witham in?" said Alvina. 

Mrs. Witham eyed her. 

"I'll see, " she answered, and she left the shop. 

Presently Arthur entered, in his shirt-sleeves: ratherattractive-looking. 

"I don't know what you'll think of me, and what I've come for, " saidAlvina, with hurried amiability. Arthur lifted his blue eyes to her, and Mrs. Witham appeared in the background, in the inner doorway. 

"Why, what is it?" said Arthur stolidly. 

"Make it as dear as you can, for father, " said Alvina, laughingnervously. 

Arthur's blue eyes rested on her face. Mrs. Witham advanced into theshop. 

"Why? What's that for?" asked Lottie Witham shrewdly. 

Alvina turned to the woman. 

"Don't say anything, " she said. "But we don't want father to go onwith this scheme. It's bound to fail. And Miss Pinnegar and I can'thave anything to do with it anyway. I shall go away. "

"It's bound to fail, " said Arthur Witham stolidly. 

"And father has no money, I'm sure, " said Alvina. 

Lottie Witham eyed the thin, nervous face of Alvina. For somereason, she liked her. And of course, Alvina was considered a ladyin Woodhouse. That was what it had come to, with James's decliningfortunes: she was merely _considered_ a lady. The consideration wasno longer indisputable. 

"Shall you come in a minute?" said Lottie Witham, lifting the flapof the counter. It was a rare and bold stroke on Mrs. Witham's part. Alvina's immediate instinct was to refuse. But she liked ArthurWitham, in his shirt sleeves. 

"Well--I must be back in a minute, " she said, as she entered theembrasure of the counter. She felt as if she were really venturingon new ground. She was led into the new drawing-room, done in newpeacock-and-bronze brocade furniture, with gilt and brass and whitewalls. This was the Withams' new house, and Lottie was proud of it. The two women had a short confidential chat. Arthur lingered in thedoorway a while, then went away. 

Alvina did not really like Lottie Witham. Yet the other woman wassharp and shrewd in the uptake, and for some reason she fanciedAlvina. So she was invited to tea at Manchester House. 

After this, so many difficulties rose up in James Houghton's waythat he was worried almost out of his life. His two women left himalone. Outside difficulties multiplied on him till he abandoned hisscheme--he was simply driven out of it by untoward circumstances. 

Lottie Witham came to tea, and was shown over Manchester House. Shehad no opinion at all of Manchester House--wouldn't hang a cat insuch a gloomy hole. _Still_, she was rather impressed by the senseof superiority. 

"Oh my goodness!" she exclaimed as she stood in Alvina's bedroom, and looked at the enormous furniture, the lofty tableland of thebed. 

"Oh my goodness! I wouldn't sleep in _that_ for a trifle, by myself!Aren't you frightened out of your life? Even if I had Arthur at oneside of me, I should be that frightened on the other side Ishouldn't know what to do. Do you sleep here by yourself?"

"Yes, " said Alvina laughing. "I haven't got an Arthur, even for oneside. "

"Oh, my word, you'd want a husband on both sides, in that bed, " saidLottie Witham. 

Alvina was asked back to tea--on Wednesday afternoon, closing day. Arthur was there to tea--very ill at ease and feeling as if hishands were swollen. Alvina got on better with his wife, who watchedclosely to learn from her guest the secret of repose. Theindefinable repose and inevitability of a lady--even of a lady whois nervous and agitated--this was the problem which occupiedLottie's shrewd and active, but lower-class mind. She even did notresent Alvina's laughing attempts to draw out the clumsy Arthur:because Alvina was a lady, and her tactics must be studied. 

Alvina really liked Arthur, and thought a good deal abouthim--heaven knows why. He and Lottie were quite happy together, andhe was absorbed in his petty ambitions. In his limited way, he wasinvincibly ambitious. He would end by making a sufficient fortune, and by being a town councillor and a J. P. But beyond Woodhouse hedid not exist. Why then should Alvina be attracted by him? Perhapsbecause of his "closeness, " and his secret determinedness. 

When she met him in the street she would stop him--though he wasalways busy--and make him exchange a few words with her. And whenshe had tea at his house, she would try to rouse his attention. Butthough he looked at her, steadily, with his blue eyes, from underhis long lashes, still, she knew, he looked at her objectively. Henever conceived any connection with her whatsoever. 

It was Lottie who had a scheming mind. In the family of threebrothers there was one--not black sheep, but white. There was onewho was climbing out, to be a gentleman. This was Albert, the secondbrother. He had been a school-teacher in Woodhouse: had gone out toSouth Africa and occupied a post in a sort of Grammar School in oneof the cities of Cape Colony. He had accumulated some money, to addto his patrimony. Now he was in England, at Oxford, where he wouldtake his belated degree. When he had got his degree, he would returnto South Africa to become head of his school, at seven hundred ayear. 

Albert was thirty-two years old, and unmarried. Lottie wasdetermined he should take back to the Cape a suitable wife:presumably Alvina. He spent his vacations in Woodhouse--and he wasonly in his first year at Oxford. Well now, what could be moresuitable--a young man at Oxford, a young lady in Woodhouse. Lottietold Alvina all about him, and Alvina was quite excited to meet him. She imagined him a taller, more fascinating, educated Arthur. 

For the fear of being an old maid, the fear of her own virginity wasreally gaining on Alvina. There was a terrible sombre futility, nothingness, in Manchester House. She was twenty-six years old. Herlife was utterly barren now Miss Frost had gone. She was shabby andpenniless, a mere household drudge: for James begrudged even a girlto help in the kitchen. She was looking faded and worn. Panic, theterrible and deadly panic which overcomes so many unmarried women atabout the age of thirty, was beginning to overcome her. She wouldnot care about marriage, if even she had a lover. But some sort of_terror_ hunted her to the search of a lover. She would becomeloose, she would become a prostitute, she said to herself, ratherthan die off like Cassie Allsop and the rest, wither slowly andignominiously and hideously on the tree. She would rather killherself. 

But it needs a certain natural gift to become a loose woman or aprostitute. If you haven't got the qualities which attract loosemen, what are you to do? Supposing it isn't in your nature toattract loose and promiscuous men! Why, then you can't be aprostitute, if you try your head off: nor even a loose woman. Since_willing_ won't do it. It requires a second party to come to anagreement. 

Therefore all Alvina's desperate and profligate schemes and ideasfell to nought before the inexorable in her nature. And theinexorable in her nature was highly exclusive and selective, aninevitable negation of looseness or prostitution. Hence men wereafraid of her--of her power, once they had committed themselves. Shewould involve and lead a man on, she would destroy him rather thannot get of him what she wanted. And what she wanted was somethingserious and risky. Not mere marriage--oh dear no! But a profound anddangerous inter-relationship. As well ask the paddlers in the smallsurf of passion to plunge themselves into the heaving gulf ofmid-ocean. Bah, with their trousers turned up to their knees it wasenough for them to wet their toes in the dangerous sea. They werehaving nothing to do with such desperate nereids as Alvina. 

She had cast her mind on Arthur. Truly ridiculous. But there wassomething compact and energetic and wilful about him that shemagnified ten-fold and so obtained, imaginatively, an attractivelover. She brooded her days shabbily away in Manchester House, busywith housework drudgery. Since the collapse of Throttle-Ha'penny, James Houghton had become so stingy that it was like an inflammationin him. A silver sixpence had a pale and celestial radiance which hecould not forego, a nebulous whiteness which made him feel he hadheaven in his hold. How then could he let it go. Even a brown pennyseemed alive and pulsing with mysterious blood, potent, magical. Heloved the flock of his busy pennies, in the shop, as if they hadbeen divine bees bringing him sustenance from the infinite. But thepennies he saw dribbling away in household expenses troubled himacutely, as if they were live things leaving his fold. It was aconstant struggle to get from him enough money for necessities. 

And so the household diet became meagre in the extreme, the coal waseked out inch by inch, and when Alvina must have her boots mendedshe must draw on her own little stock of money. For James Houghtonhad the impudence to make her an allowance of two shillings a week. She was very angry. Yet her anger was of that dangerous, half-ironical sort which wears away its subject and has no outwardeffect. A feeling of half-bitter mockery kept her going. In theponderous, rather sordid nullity of Manchester House she becameshadowy and absorbed, absorbed in nothing in particular, yetabsorbed. She was always more or less busy: and certainly there wasalways something to be done, whether she did it or not. 

The shop was opened once a week, on Friday evenings. James Houghtonprowled round the warehouses in Knarborough and picked up job lotsof stuff, with which he replenished his shabby window. But his heartwas not in the business. Mere tenacity made him hover on with it. 

In midsummer Albert Witham came to Woodhouse, and Alvina was invitedto tea. She was very much excited. All the time imagining Albert ataller, finer Arthur, she had abstained from actually fixing hermind upon this latter little man. Picture her disappointment whenshe found Albert quite unattractive. He was tall and thin andbrittle, with a pale, rather dry, flattish face, and with curiouspale eyes. His impression was one of uncanny flatness, somethinglike a lemon sole. Curiously flat and fish-like he was, one mighthave imagined his backbone to be spread like the backbone of a soleor a plaice. His teeth were sound, but rather large and yellowishand flat. A most curious person. 

He spoke in a slightly mouthing way, not well bred in spite ofOxford. There was a distinct Woodhouse twang. He would never be agentleman if he lived for ever. Yet he was not ordinary. Really anodd fish: quite interesting, if one could get over the feeling thatone was looking at him through the glass wall of an aquarium: thatmost horrifying of all boundaries between two worlds. In an aquariumfish seem to come smiling broadly to the doorway, and there to standtalking to one, in a mouthing fashion, awful to behold. For onehears no sound from all their mouthing and staring conversation. Nowalthough Albert Witham had a good strong voice, which rang likewater among rocks in her ear, still she seemed never to hear a wordhe was saying. He smiled down at her and fixed her and swayed hishead, and said quite original things, really. For he was a genuineodd fish. And yet she seemed to hear no sound, no word from him:nothing came to her. Perhaps as a matter of fact fish do actuallypronounce streams of watery words, to which we, with ouraerial-resonant ears, are deaf for ever. 

The odd thing was that this odd fish seemed from the very first toimagine she had accepted him as a follower. And he was quiteprepared to follow. Nay, from the very first moment he was smilingon her with a sort of complacent delight--compassionate, one mightalmost say--as if there was a full understanding between them. Ifonly she could have got into the right state of mind, she wouldreally rather have liked him. He smiled at her, and said reallyinteresting things between his big teeth. There was something rathernice about him. But, we must repeat, it was as if the glass wall ofan aquarium divided them. 

Alvina looked at Arthur. Arthur was short and dark-haired and nicelycoloured. But, now his brother was there, he too seemed to have adumb, aqueous silence, fish-like and aloof, about him. He seemed toswim like a fish in his own little element. Strange it all was, like Alice in Wonderland. Alvina understood now Lottie's strainedsort of thinness, a haggard, sinewy, sea-weedy look. The poor thingwas all the time swimming for her life. 

For Alvina it was a most curious tea-party. She listened and smiledand made vague answers to Albert, who leaned his broad, thin, brittle shoulders towards her. Lottie seemed rather shadowily topreside. But it was Arthur who came out into communication. And now, uttering his rather broad-mouthed speeches, she seemed to hear inhim a quieter, subtler edition of his father. His father had been alittle, terrifically loud-voiced, hard-skinned man, amazinglyuneducated and amazingly bullying, who had tyrannized for many yearsover the Sunday School children during morning service. He had beenan odd-looking creature with round grey whiskers: to Alvina, alwaysa creature, never a man: an atrocious leprechaun from under theChapel floor. And how he used to dig the children in the back withhis horrible iron thumb, if the poor things happened to whisper ornod in chapel!

These were his children--most curious chips of the old block. Whoever would have believed she would have been taking tea with them. 

"Why don't you have a bicycle, and go out on it?" Arthur was saying. 

"But I can't ride, " said Alvina. 

"You'd learn in a couple of lessons. There's nothing in riding abicycle. "

"I don't believe I ever should, " laughed Alvina. 

"You don't mean to say you're nervous?" said Arthur rudely andsneeringly. 

"I _am_, " she persisted. 

"You needn't be nervous with me, " smiled Albert broadly, with hisodd, genuine gallantry. "I'll hold you on. "

"But I haven't got a bicycle, " said Alvina, feeling she was slowlycolouring to a deep, uneasy blush. 

"You can have mine to learn on, " said Lottie. "Albert will lookafter it. "

"There's your chance, " said Arthur rudely. "Take it while you've gotit. "

Now Alvina did not want to learn to ride a bicycle. The two MissCarlins, two more old maids, had made themselves ridiculous forever by becoming twin cycle fiends. And the horrible energeticstrain of peddling a bicycle over miles and miles of high-way didnot attract Alvina at all. She was completely indifferent tosight-seeing and scouring about. She liked taking a walk, in herlingering indifferent fashion. But rushing about in any way washateful to her. And then, to be taught to ride a bicycle by AlbertWitham! Her very soul stood still. 

"Yes, " said Albert, beaming down at her from his strange pale eyes. "Come on. When will you have your first lesson?"

"Oh, " cried Alvina in confusion. "I can't promise. I haven't time, really. "

"Time!" exclaimed Arthur rudely. "But what do you do wi' yourselfall day?"

"I have to keep house, " she said, looking at him archly. 

"House! You can put a chain round its neck, and tie it up, " heretorted. 

Albert laughed, showing all his teeth. 

"I'm sure you find plenty to do, with everything on your hands, "said Lottie to Alvina. 

"I do!" said Alvina. "By evening I'm quite tired--though you mayn'tbelieve it, since you say I do nothing, " she added, laughingconfusedly to Arthur. 

But he, hard-headed little fortune-maker, replied:

"You have a girl to help you, don't you!"

Albert, however, was beaming at her sympathetically. 

"You have too much to do indoors, " he said. "It would do you good toget a bit of exercise out of doors. Come down to the Coach Roadtomorrow afternoon, and let me give you a lesson. Go on--"

Now the coach-road was a level drive between beautiful park-likegrass-stretches, down in the valley. It was a delightful place forlearning to ride a bicycle, but open in full view of all the world. Alvina would have died of shame. She began to laugh nervously andhurriedly at the very thought. 

"No, I can't. I really can't. Thanks, awfully, " she said. 

"Can't you really!" said Albert. "Oh well, we'll say another day, shall we?"

"When I feel I can, " she said. 

"Yes, when you feel like it, " replied Albert. 

"That's more it, " said Arthur. "It's not the time. It's thenervousness. " Again Albert beamed at her sympathetically, and said:

"Oh, I'll hold you. You needn't be afraid. "

"But I'm not afraid, " she said. 

"You won't _say_ you are, " interposed Arthur. "Women's faultsmustn't be owned up to. "

Alvina was beginning to feel quite dazed. Their mechanical, overbearing way was something she was unaccustomed to. It was likethe jaws of a pair of insentient iron pincers. She rose, saying shemust go. 

Albert rose also, and reached for his straw hat, with its colouredband. 

"I'll stroll up with you, if you don't mind, " he said. And he tookhis place at her side along the Knarborough Road, where everybodyturned to look. For, of course, he had a sort of fame in Woodhouse. She went with him laughing and chatting. But she did not feel at allcomfortable. He seemed so pleased. Only he was not pleased with_her_. He was pleased with himself on her account: inordinatelypleased with himself. In his world, as in a fish's, there was buthis own swimming self: and if he chanced to have something swimmingalongside and doing him credit, why, so much the more complacentlyhe smiled. 

He walked stiff and erect, with his head pressed rather back, sothat he always seemed to be advancing from the head and shoulders, in a flat kind of advance, horizontal. He did not seem to be walkingwith his whole body. His manner was oddly gallant, with a gallantrythat completely missed the individual in the woman, circled roundher and flew home gratified to his own hive. The way he raised hishat, the way he inclined and smiled flatly, even rather excitedly, as he talked, was all a little discomforting and comical. 

He left her at the shop door, saying:

"I shall see you again, I hope. "

"Oh, yes, " she replied, rattling the door anxiously, for it waslocked. She heard her father's step at last tripping down the shop. 

"Good-evening, Mr. Houghton, " said Albert suavely and with a certainconfidence, as James peered out. 

"Oh, good-evening!" said James, letting Alvina pass, and shuttingthe door in Albert's face. 

"Who was that?" he asked her sharply. 

"Albert Witham, " she replied. 

"What has _he_ got to do with you?" said James shrewishly. 

"Nothing, I hope. "

She fled into the obscurity of Manchester House, out of the greysummer evening. The Withams threw her off her pivot, and made herfeel she was not herself. She felt she didn't know, she couldn'tfeel, she was just scattered and decentralized. And she was ratherafraid of the Witham brothers. She might be their victim. Sheintended to avoid them. 

The following days she saw Albert, in his Norfolk jacket and flanneltrousers and his straw hat, strolling past several times and lookingin through the shop door and up at the upper windows. But she hidherself thoroughly. When she went out, it was by the back way. Soshe avoided him. 

But on Sunday evening, there he sat, rather stiff and brittle in theold Withams' pew, his head pressed a little back, so that his faceand neck seemed slightly flattened. He wore very low, turn-downstarched collars that showed all his neck. And he kept looking up ather during the service--she sat in the choir-loft--gazing up at herwith apparently love-lorn eyes and a faint, intimate smile--the sortof _je-sais-tout_ look of a private swain. Arthur also occasionallycast a judicious eye on her, as if she were a chimney that neededrepairing, and he must estimate the cost, and whether it was worthit. 

Sure enough, as she came out through the narrow choir gate intoKnarborough Road, there was Albert stepping forward like apoliceman, and saluting her and smiling down on her. 

"I don't know if I'm presuming--" he said, in a mock deferentialway that showed he didn't imagine he _could_ presume. 

"Oh, not at all, " said Alvina airily. He smiled with assurance. 

"You haven't got any engagement, then, for this evening?" he said. 

"No, " she replied simply. 

"We might take a walk. What do you think?" he said, glancing downthe road in either direction. 

What, after all, was she to think? All the girls were pairing offwith the boys for the after-chapel stroll and spoon. 

"I don't mind, " she said. "But I can't go far. I've got to be in atnine. "

"Which way shall we go?" he said. 

He steered off, turned downhill through the common gardens, andproposed to take her the not-very-original walk up Flint's Lane, andalong the railway line--the colliery railway, that is--then back upthe Marlpool Road: a sort of circle. She agreed. 

They did not find a great deal to talk about. She questioned himabout his plans, and about the Cape. But save for bare outlines, which he gave readily enough, he was rather close. 

"What do you do on Sunday nights as a rule?" he asked her. 

"Oh, I have a walk with Lucy Grainger--or I go down to Hallam's--orgo home, " she answered. 

"You don't go walks with the fellows, then?"

"Father would never have it, " she replied. 

"What will he say now?" he asked, with self-satisfaction. 

"Goodness knows!" she laughed. 

"Goodness usually does, " he answered archly. 

When they came to the rather stumbly railway, he said:

"Won't you take my arm?"--offering her the said member. 

"Oh, I'm all right, " she said. "Thanks. "

"Go on, " he said, pressing a little nearer to her, and offering hisarm. "There's nothing against it, is there?"

"Oh, it's not that, " she said. 

And feeling in a false position, she took his arm, ratherunwillingly. He drew a little nearer to her, and walked with aslight prance. 

"We get on better, don't we?" he said, giving her hand the tiniestsqueeze with his arm against his side. 

"Much!" she replied, with a laugh. 

Then he lowered his voice oddly. 

"It's many a day since I was on this railroad, " he said. 

"Is this one of your old walks?" she asked, malicious. 

"Yes, I've been it once or twice--with girls that are all marriednow. "

"Didn't you want to marry?" she asked. 

"Oh, I don't know. I may have done. But it never came off, somehow. I've sometimes thought it never would come off. "

"Why?"

"I don't know, exactly. It didn't seem to, you know. Perhaps neitherof us was properly inclined. "

"I should think so, " she said. 

"And yet, " he admitted slyly, "I should _like_ to marry--" To thisshe did not answer. 

"Shouldn't you?" he continued. 

"When I meet the right man, " she laughed. 

"That's it, " he said. "There, that's just it! And you _haven't_ methim?" His voice seemed smiling with a sort of triumph, as if he hadcaught her out. 

"Well--once I thought I had--when I was engaged to Alexander. "

"But you found you were mistaken?" he insisted. 

"No. Mother was so ill at the time--"

"There's always something to consider, " he said. 

She kept on wondering what she should do if he wanted to kiss her. The mere incongruity of such a desire on his part formed a problem. Luckily, for this evening he formulated no desire, but left her inthe shop-door soon after nine, with the request:

"I shall see you in the week, shan't I?"

"I'm not sure. I can't promise now, " she said hurriedly. "Good-night. "

What she felt chiefly about him was a decentralized perplexity, verymuch akin to no feeling at all. 

"Who do you think took me for a walk, Miss Pinnegar?" she said, laughing, to her confidante. 

"I can't imagine, " replied Miss Pinnegar, eyeing her. 

"You never would imagine, " said Alvina. "Albert Witham. "

"Albert Witham!" exclaimed Miss Pinnegar, standing quite motionless. 

"It may well take your breath away, " said Alvina. 

"No, it's not that!" hurriedly expostulated Miss Pinnegar. "Well--!Well, I declare!--" and then, on a new note: "Well, he's veryeligible, I think. "

"Most eligible!" replied Alvina. 

"Yes, he is, " insisted Miss Pinnegar. "I think it's very good. "

"What's very good?" asked Alvina. 

Miss Pinnegar hesitated. She looked at Alvina. She reconsidered. 

"Of course he's not the man I should have imagined for you, but--"

"You think he'll do?" said Alvina. 

"Why not?" said Miss Pinnegar. "Why shouldn't he do--if you likehim. "

"Ah--!" cried Alvina, sinking on the sofa with a laugh. "That's it. "

"Of course you couldn't have anything to do with him if you don'tcare for him, " pronounced Miss Pinnegar. 

Albert continued to hang around. He did not make any direct attackfor a few days. Suddenly one evening he appeared at the back doorwith a bunch of white stocks in his hand. His face lit up with asudden, odd smile when she opened the door--a broad, pale-gleaming, remarkable smile. 

"Lottie wanted to know if you'd come to tea tomorrow, " he saidstraight out, looking at her with the pale light in his eyes, thatsmiled palely right into her eyes, but did not see her at all. Hewas waiting on the doorstep to come in. 

"Will you come in?" said Alvina. "Father is in. "

"Yes, I don't mind, " he said, pleased. He mounted the steps, stillholding his bunch of white stocks. 

James Houghton screwed round in his chair and peered over hisspectacles to see who was coming. 

"Father, " said Alvina, "you know Mr. Witham, don't you?"

James Houghton half rose. He still peered over his glasses at theintruder. 

"Well--I do by sight. How do you do?"

He held out his frail hand. 

Albert held back, with the flowers in his own hand, and giving hisbroad, pleased, pale-gleaming smile from father to daughter, hesaid:

"What am I to do with these? Will you accept them, Miss Houghton?"He stared at her with shining, pallid smiling eyes. 

"Are they for me?" she said, with false brightness. "Thank you. "

James Houghton looked over the top of his spectacles, searchingly, at the flowers, as if they had been a bunch of white andsharp-toothed ferrets. Then he looked as suspiciously at the handwhich Albert at last extended to him. He shook it slightly, andsaid:

"Take a seat. "

"I'm afraid I'm disturbing you in your reading, " said Albert, stillhaving the drawn, excited smile on his face. 

"Well--" said James Houghton. "The light is fading. "

Alvina came in with the flowers in a jar. She set them on the table. 

"Haven't they a lovely scent?" she said. 

"Do you think so?" he replied, again with the excited smile. Therewas a pause. Albert, rather embarrassed, reached forward, saying:

"May I see what you're reading!" And he turned over the book. "'Tommy and Grizel!' Oh yes! What do you think of it?"

"Well, " said James, "I am only in the beginning. "

"I think it's interesting, myself, " said Albert, "as a study of aman who can't get away from himself. You meet a lot of people likethat. What I wonder is why they find it such a drawback. "

"Find what a drawback?" asked James. 

"Not being able to get away from themselves. Thatself-consciousness. It hampers them, and interferes with their powerof action. Now I wonder why self-consciousness should hinder a manin his action? Why does it cause misgiving? I think I'mself-conscious, but I don't think I have so many misgivings. I don'tsee that they're necessary. "

"Certainly I think Tommy is a weak character. I believe he's adespicable character, " said James. 

"No, I don't know so much about that, " said Albert. "I shouldn't sayweak, exactly. He's only weak in one direction. No, what I wonder iswhy he feels guilty. If you feel self-conscious, there's no need tofeel guilty about it, is there?"

He stared with his strange, smiling stare at James. 

"I shouldn't say so, " replied James. "But if a man never knows hisown mind, he certainly can't be much of a man. "

"I don't see it, " replied Albert. "What's the matter is that hefeels guilty for not knowing his own mind. That's the unnecessarypart. The guilty feeling--"

Albert seemed insistent on this point, which had no particularinterest for James. 

"Where we've got to make a change, " said Albert, "is in the feelingthat other people have a right to tell us what we ought to feel anddo. Nobody knows what another man ought to feel. Every man has hisown special feelings, and his own right to them. That's where it iswith education. You ought not to want all your children to feelalike. Their natures are all different, and so they should all feeldifferent, about practically everything. "

"There would be no end to the confusion, " said James. 

"There needn't be any confusion to speak of. You agree to a numberof rules and conventions and laws, for social purposes. But inprivate you feel just as you do feel, without occasion for trying tofeel something else. "

"I don't know, " said James. "There are certain feelings common tohumanity, such as love, and honour, and truth. "

"Would you call them feelings?" said Albert. "I should say what iscommon is the idea. The idea is common to humanity, once you've putit into words. But the feeling varies with every man. The same idearepresents a different kind of feeling in every differentindividual. It seems to me that's what we've got to recognize ifwe're going to do anything with education. We don't want to producemass feelings. Don't you agree?"

Poor James was too bewildered to know whether to agree or not toagree. 

"Shall we have a light, Alvina?" he said to his daughter. 

Alvina lit the incandescent gas-jet that hung in the middle of theroom. The hard white light showed her somewhat haggard-looking asshe reached up to it. But Albert watched her, smiling abstractedly. It seemed as if his words came off him without affecting him at all. He did not think about what he was feeling, and he did not feel whathe was thinking about. And therefore she hardly heard what he said. Yet she believed he was clever. 

It was evident Albert was quite blissfully happy, in his own way, sitting there at the end of the sofa not far from the fire, andtalking animatedly. The uncomfortable thing was that though hetalked in the direction of his interlocutor, he did not speak _to_him: merely said his words towards him. James, however, was such anairy feather himself he did not remark this, but only felt a littleself-important at sustaining such a subtle conversation with a manfrom Oxford. Alvina, who never expected to be interested in cleverconversations, after a long experience of her father, found herexpectation justified again. She was not interested. 

The man was quite nicely dressed, in the regulation tweed jacket andflannel trousers and brown shoes. He was even rather smart, judgingfrom his yellow socks and yellow-and-brown tie. Miss Pinnegar eyedhim with approval when she came in. 

"Good-evening!" she said, just a trifle condescendingly, as sheshook hands. "How do you find Woodhouse, after being away so long?"Her way of speaking was so quiet, as if she hardly spoke aloud. 

"Well, " he answered. "I find it the same in many ways. "

"You wouldn't like to settle here again?"

"I don't think I should. It feels a little cramped, you know, aftera new country. But it has its attractions. " Here he smiledmeaningful. 

"Yes, " said Miss Pinnegar. "I suppose the old connections count forsomething. "

"They do. Oh decidedly they do. There's no associations like the oldones. " He smiled flatly as he looked towards Alvina. 

"You find it so, do you!" returned Miss Pinnegar. "You don't findthat the new connections make up for the old?"

"Not altogether, they don't. There's something missing--" Again helooked towards Alvina. But she did not answer his look. 

"Well, " said Miss Pinnegar. "I'm glad we still count for something, in spite of the greater attractions. How long have you in England?"

"Another year. Just a year. This time next year I expect I shall besailing back to the Cape. " He smiled as if in anticipation. Yet itwas hard to believe that it mattered to him--or that anythingmattered. 

"And is Oxford agreeable to you?" she asked. 

"Oh, yes. I keep myself busy. "

"What are your subjects?" asked James. 

"English and History. But I do mental science for my own interest. "

Alvina had taken up a piece of sewing. She sat under the light, brooding a little. What _had_ all this to do with her. The mantalked on, and beamed in her direction. And she felt a littleimportant. But moved or touched?--not the least in the world. 

She wondered if any one would ask him to supper--bread and cheeseand currant-loaf, and water, was all that offered. No one asked him, and at last he rose. 

"Show Mr. Witham out through the shop, Alvina, " said Miss Pinnegar. 

Alvina piloted the man through the long, dark, encumbered way of theshop. At the door he said:

"You've never said whether you're coming to tea on Thursday. "

"I don't think I can, " said Alvina. 

He seemed rather taken aback. 

"Why?" he said. "What stops you?"

"I've so much to do. "

He smiled slowly and satirically. 

"Won't it keep?" he said. 

"No, really. I can't come on Thursday--thank you so much. Good-night!" She gave him her hand and turned quickly into the shop, closing the door. He remained standing in the porch, staring at theclosed door. Then, lifting his lip, he turned away. 

"Well, " said Miss Pinnegar decidedly, as Alvina re-entered. "You cansay what you like--but I think he's _very pleasant_, _very_pleasant. "

"Extremely intelligent, " said James Houghton, shifting in his chair. 

"I was awfully bored, " said Alvina. 

They both looked at her, irritated. 

After this she really did what she could to avoid him. When she sawhim sauntering down the street in all his leisure, a sort of angerpossessed her. On Sunday, she slipped down from the choir into theChapel, and out through the main entrance, whilst he awaited her atthe small exit. And by good luck, when he called one evening in theweek, she was out. She returned down the yard. And there, throughthe uncurtained window, she saw him sitting awaiting her. Without athought, she turned on her heel and fled away. She did not come intill he had gone. 

"How late you are!" said Miss Pinnegar. "Mr. Witham was here tillten minutes ago. "

"Yes, " laughed Alvina. "I came down the yard and saw him. So I wentback till he'd gone. "

Miss Pinnegar looked at her in displeasure:

"I suppose you know your own mind, " she said. 

"How do you explain such behaviour?" said her father pettishly. 

"I didn't want to meet him, " she said. 

The next evening was Saturday. Alvina had inherited Miss Frost'stask of attending to the Chapel flowers once a quarter. She had beenround the gardens of her friends, and gathered the scarlet and hotyellow and purple flowers of August, asters, red stocks, tallJapanese sunflowers, coreopsis, geraniums. With these in her basketshe slipped out towards evening, to the Chapel. She knew Mr. Calladine, the caretaker would not lock up till she had been. 

The moment she got inside the Chapel--it was a big, airy, pleasantbuilding--she heard hammering from the organ-loft, and saw theflicker of a candle. Some workman busy before Sunday. She shut thebaize door behind her, and hurried across to the vestry, for vases, then out to the tap, for water. All was warm and still. 

It was full early evening. The yellow light streamed through theside windows, the big stained-glass window at the end was deep andfull of glowing colour, in which the yellows and reds were richest. Above in the organ-loft the hammering continued. She arranged herflowers in many vases, till the communion table was like the window, a tangle of strong yellow, and crimson, and purple, andbronze-green. She tried to keep the effect light and kaleidoscopic, an interplay of tossed pieces of strong, hot colour, vibrating andlightly intermingled. It was very gorgeous, for a communion table. But the day of white lilies was over. 

Suddenly there was a terrific crash and bang and tumble, up in theorgan-loft, followed by a cursing. 

"Are you hurt?" called Alvina, looking up into space. The candle haddisappeared. 

But there was no reply. Feeling curious, she went out of the Chapelto the stairs in the side porch, and ran up to the organ. She wentround the side--and there she saw a man in his shirt-sleeves sittingcrouched in the obscurity on the floor between the organ and thewall of the back, while a collapsed pair of steps lay between herand him. It was too dark to see who it was. 

"That rotten pair of steps came down with me, " said the infuriatedvoice of Arthur Witham, "and about broke my leg. "

Alvina advanced towards him, picking her way over the steps. He wassitting nursing his leg. 

"Is it bad?" she asked, stooping towards him. 

In the shadow he lifted up his face. It was pale, and his eyes weresavage with anger. Her face was near his. 

"It is bad, " he said furious because of the shock. The shock hadthrown him off his balance. 

"Let me see, " she said. 

He removed his hands from clasping his shin, some distance above theankle. She put her fingers over the bone, over his stocking, to feelif there was any fracture. Immediately her fingers were wet withblood. Then he did a curious thing. With both his hands he pressedher hand down over his wounded leg, pressed it with all his might, as if her hand were a plaster. For some moments he sat pressing herhand over his broken shin, completely oblivious, as some people arewhen they have had a shock and a hurt, intense on one point ofconsciousness only, and for the rest unconscious. 

Then he began to come to himself. The pain modified itself. He couldnot bear the sudden acute hurt to his shin. That was one of hissensitive, unbearable parts. 

"The bone isn't broken, " she said professionally. "But you'd betterget the stocking out of it. "

Without a thought, he pulled his trouser-leg higher and rolled downhis stocking, extremely gingerly, and sick with pain. 

"Can you show a light?" he said. 

She found the candle. And she knew where matches always rested, on alittle ledge of the organ. So she brought him a light, whilst heexamined his broken shin. The blood was flowing, but not so much. Itwas a nasty cut bruise, swelling and looking very painful. He satlooking at it absorbedly, bent over it in the candle-light. 

"It's not so very bad, when the pain goes off, " she said, noticingthe black hairs of his shin. "We'd better tie it up. Have you got ahandkerchief?"

"It's in my jacket, " he said. 

She looked round for his jacket. He annoyed her a little, by beingcompletely oblivious of her. She got his handkerchief and wiped herfingers on it. Then of her own kerchief she made a pad for thewound. 

"Shall I tie it up, then?" she said. 

But he did not answer. He sat still nursing his leg, looking at hishurt, while the blood slowly trickled down the wet hairs towards hisankle. There was nothing to do but wait for him. 

"Shall I tie it up, then?" she repeated at length, a littleimpatient. So he put his leg a little forward. 

She looked at the wound, and wiped it a little. Then she folded thepad of her own handkerchief, and laid it over the hurt. And again hedid the same thing, he took her hand as if it were a plaster, andapplied it to his wound, pressing it cautiously but firmly down. Shewas rather angry. He took no notice of her at all. And she, waiting, seemed to go into a dream, a sleep, her arm trembled a little, stretched out and fixed. She seemed to lose count, under the firmcompression he imposed on her. It was as if the pressure on her handpressed her into oblivion. 

"Tie it up, " he said briskly. 

And she, obedient, began to tie the bandage with numb fingers. Heseemed to have taken the use out of her. 

When she had finished, he scrambled to his feet, looked at the organwhich he was repairing, and looked at the collapsed pair of steps. 

"A rotten pair of things to have, to put a man's life in danger, " hesaid, towards the steps. Then stubbornly, he rigged them up again, and stared again at his interrupted job. 

"You won't go on, will you?" she asked. 

"It's got to be done, Sunday tomorrow, " he said. "If you'd hold themsteps a minute! There isn't more than a minute's fixing to do. It'sall done, but fixing. "

"Hadn't you better leave it, " she said. 

"Would you mind holding the steps, so that they don't let me downagain, " he said. Then he took the candle, and hobbled stubbornly andangrily up again, with spanner and hammer. For some minutes heworked, tapping and readjusting, whilst she held the ricketty stepsand stared at him from below, the shapeless bulk of his trousers. Strange the difference--she could not help thinking it--between thevulnerable hairy, and somehow childish leg of the real man, and theshapeless form of these workmen's trousers. The kernel, the manhimself--seemed so tender--the covering so stiff and insentient. 

And was he not going to speak to her--not one human word ofrecognition? Men are the most curious and unreal creatures. Afterall he had made use of her. Think how he had pressed her hand gentlybut firmly down, down over his bruise, how he had taken the virtueout of her, till she felt all weak and dim. And after that was hegoing to relapse into his tough and ugly workman's hide, and treather as if _she_ were a pair of steps, which might let him down orhold him up, as might be. 

As she stood clinging to the steps she felt weak and a littlehysterical. She wanted to summon her strength, to have her own backfrom him. After all he had taken the virtue from her, he might havethe grace to say thank you, and treat her as if she were a humanbeing. 

At last he left off tinkering, and looked round. 

"Have you finished?" she said. 

"Yes, " he answered crossly. 

And taking the candle he began to clamber down. When he got to thebottom he crouched over his leg and felt the bandage. 

"That gives you what for, " he said, as if it were her fault. 

"Is the bandage holding?" she said. 

"I think so, " he answered churlishly. 

"Aren't you going to make sure?" she said. 

"Oh, it's all right, " he said, turning aside and taking up histools. "I'll make my way home. "

"So will I, " she answered. 

She took the candle and went a little in front. He hurried into hiscoat and gathered his tools, anxious to get away. She faced him, holding the candle. 

"Look at my hand, " she said, holding it out. It was smeared withblood, as was the cuff of her dress--a black-and-white stripedcotton dress. 

"Is it hurt?" he said. 

"No, but look at it. Look here!" She showed the bloodstains on herdress. 

"It'll wash out, " he said, frightened of her. 

"Yes, so it will. But for the present it's there. Don't you thinkyou ought to thank me?"

He recoiled a little. 

"Yes, " he said. "I'm very much obliged. "

"You ought to be more than that, " she said. 

He did not answer, but looked her up and down. 

"We'll be going down, " he said. "We s'll have folks talking. "

Suddenly she began to laugh. It seemed so comical. What a position!The candle shook as she laughed. What a man, answering her like alittle automaton! Seriously, quite seriously he said it to her--"Wes'll have folks talking!" She laughed in a breathless, hurried way, as they tramped downstairs. 

At the bottom of the stairs Calladine, the caretaker, met them. Hewas a tall thin man with a black moustache--about fifty years old. 

"Have you done for tonight, all of you?" he said, grinning in echoto Alvina's still fluttering laughter. 

"That's a nice rotten pair of steps you've got up there for adeath-trap, " said Arthur angrily. "Come down on top of me, and I'mlucky I haven't got my leg broken. It _is_ near enough. "

"Come down with you, did they?" said Calladine good-humouredly. "Inever knowed 'em come down wi' me. "

"You ought to, then. My leg's as near broke as it can be. "

"What, have you hurt yourself?"

"I should think I have. Look here--" And he began to pull up histrouser leg. But Alvina had given the candle to Calladine, and fled. She had a last view of Arthur stooping over his precious leg, whileCalladine stooped his length and held down the candle. 

When she got home she took off her dress and washed herself hard andwashed the stained sleeve, thoroughly, thoroughly, and threw awaythe wash water and rinsed the wash-bowls with fresh water, scrupulously. Then she dressed herself in her black dress oncemore, did her hair, and went downstairs. 

But she could not sew--and she could not settle down. It wasSaturday evening, and her father had opened the shop, Miss Pinnegarhad gone to Knarborough. She would be back at nine o'clock. Alvinaset about to make a mock woodcock, or a mock something or other, with cheese and an egg and bits of toast. Her eyes were dilated andas if amused, mocking, her face quivered a little with irony thatwas not all enjoyable. 

"I'm glad you've come, " said Alvina, as Miss Pinnegar entered. "Thesupper's just done. I'll ask father if he'll close the shop. "

Of course James would not close the shop, though he was merelywasting light. He nipped in to eat his supper, and started out againwith a mouthful the moment he heard the ping of the bell. He kepthis customers chatting as long as he could. His love forconversation had degenerated into a spasmodic passion for chatter. 

Alvina looked across at Miss Pinnegar, as the two sat at the meagresupper-table. Her eyes were dilated and arched with a mocking, almost satanic look. 

"I've made up my mind about Albert Witham, " said Alvina. MissPinnegar looked at her. 

"Which way?" she asked, demurely, but a little sharp. 

"It's all off, " said Alvina, breaking into a nervous laugh. 

"Why? What has happened?"

"Nothing has happened. I can't stand him. "

"Why?--suddenly--" said Miss Pinnegar. 

"It's not sudden, " laughed Alvina. "Not at all. I can't stand him. Inever could. And I won't try. There! Isn't that plain?" And she wentoff into her hurried laugh, partly at herself, partly at Arthur, partly at Albert, partly at Miss Pinnegar. 

"Oh, well, if you're so sure--" said Miss Pinnegar rather bitingly. 

"I _am_ quite sure--" said Alvina. "I'm quite certain. "

"Cock-sure people are often most mistaken, " said Miss Pinnegar. 

"I'd rather have my own mistakes than somebody else's rights, " saidAlvina. 

"Then don't expect anybody to pay for your mistakes, " said MissPinnegar. 

"It would be all the same if I did, " said Alvina. 

When she lay in bed, she stared at the light of the street-lamp onthe wall. She was thinking busily: but heaven knows what she wasthinking. She had sharpened the edge of her temper. She was waitingtill tomorrow. She was waiting till she saw Albert Witham. Shewanted to finish off with him. She was keen to cut clean through anycorrespondence with him. She stared for many hours at the light ofthe street-lamp, and there was a narrowed look in her eyes. 

The next day she did not go to Morning Service, but stayed at hometo cook the dinner. In the evening she sat in her place in thechoir. In the Withams' pew sat Lottie and Albert--no Arthur. Albertkept glancing up. Alvina could not bear the sight of him--she simplycould not bear the sight of him. Yet in her low, sweet voice shesang the alto to the hymns, right to the vesper:

 "Lord keep us safe this night Secure from all our fears, May angels guard us while we sleep Till morning light appears--"

As she sang her alto, and as the soft and emotional harmony of thevesper swelled luxuriously through the chapel, she was peeping overher folded hands at Lottie's hat. She could not bear Lottie's hats. There was something aggressive and vulgar about them. And she simplydetested the look of the back of Albert's head, as he too stooped tothe vesper prayer. It looked mean and rather common. She rememberedArthur had the same look, bending to prayer. There!--why had she notseen it before! That petty, vulgar little look! How could she havethought twice of Arthur. She had made a fool of herself, as usual. Him and his little leg. She grimaced round the chapel, waiting forpeople to bob up their heads and take their departure. 

At the gate Albert was waiting for her. He came forward lifting hishat with a smiling and familiar "Good evening!"

"Good evening, " she murmured. 

"It's ages since I've seen you, " he said. "And I've looked out foryou everywhere. "

It was raining a little. She put up her umbrella. 

"You'll take a little stroll. The rain isn't much, " he said. 

"No, thank you, " she said. "I must go home. "

"Why, what's your hurry! Walk as far as Beeby Bridge. Go on. "

"No, thank you. "

"How's that? What makes you refuse?"

"I don't want to. "

He paused and looked down at her. The cold and supercilious look ofanger, a little spiteful, came into his face. 

"Do you mean because of the rain?" he said. 

"No. I hope you don't mind. But I don't want to take any more walks. I don't mean anything by them. "

"Oh, as for that, " he said, taking the words out of her mouth. "Whyshould you mean anything by them!" He smiled down on her. 

She looked him straight in the face. 

"But I'd rather not take any more walks, thank you--none at all, "she said, looking him full in the eyes. 

"You wouldn't!" he replied, stiffening. 

"Yes. I'm quite sure, " she said. 

"As sure as all that, are you!" he said, with a sneering grimace. Hestood eyeing her insolently up and down. 

"Good-night, " she said. His sneering made her furious. Putting herumbrella between him and her, she walked off. 

"Good-night then, " he replied, unseen by her. But his voice wassneering and impotent. 

She went home quivering. But her soul was burning with satisfaction. She had shaken them off. 

Later she wondered if she had been unkind to him. But it wasdone--and done for ever. _Vogue la galère. _

CHAPTER VI

HOUGHTON'S LAST ENDEAVOUR

The trouble with her ship was that it would _not_ sail. It rodewater-logged in the rotting port of home. All very well to havewild, reckless moods of irony and independence, if you have to payfor them by withering dustily on the shelf. 

Alvina fell again into humility and fear: she began to show symptomsof her mother's heart trouble. For day followed day, month followedmonth, season after season went by, and she grubbed away like ahousemaid in Manchester House, she hurried round doing the shopping, she sang in the choir on Sundays, she attended the various chapelevents, she went out to visit friends, and laughed and talked andplayed games. But all the time, what was there actually in her life?Not much. She was withering towards old-maiddom. Already in hertwenty-eighth year, she spent her days grubbing in the house, whilsther father became an elderly, frail man still too lively in mind andspirit. Miss Pinnegar began to grow grey and elderly too, moneybecame scarcer and scarcer, there was a black day ahead when herfather would die and the home be broken up, and she would have totackle life as a worker. 

There lay the only alternative: in work. She might slave her daysaway teaching the piano, as Miss Frost had done: she might find asubordinate post as nurse: she might sit in the cash-desk of someshop. Some work of some sort would be found for her. And she wouldsink into the routine of her job, as did so many women, and grow oldand die, chattering and fluttering. She would have what is calledher independence. But, seriously faced with that treasure, andwithout the option of refusing it, strange how hideous she found it. 

Work!--a job! More even than she rebelled against the Withams didshe rebel against a job. Albert Witham was distasteful to her--orrather, he was not exactly distasteful, he was chiefly incongruous. She could never get over the feeling that he was mouthing andsmiling at her through the glass wall of an aquarium, he being onthe watery side. Whether she would ever be able to take to hisstrange and dishuman element, who knows? Anyway it would be somesort of an adventure: better than a job. She rebelled with all herbackbone against the word _job_. Even the substitutes, _employment_or _work_, were detestable, unbearable. Emphatically, she did notwant to work for a wage. It was too humiliating. Could anything bemore _infra dig_ than the performing of a set of special actions dayin day out, for a life-time, in order to receive some shillingsevery seventh day. Shameful! A condition of shame. The most vulgar, sordid and humiliating of all forms of slavery: so mechanical. Farbetter be a slave outright, in contact with all the whims andimpulses of a human being, than serve some mechanical routine ofmodern work. 

She trembled with anger, impotence, and fear. For months, thethought of Albert was a torment to her. She might have married him. He would have been strange, a strange fish. But were it not betterto take the strange leap, over into his element, than to condemnoneself to the routine of a job? He would have been curious anddishuman. But after all, it would have been an experience. In a way, she liked him. There was something odd and integral about him, whichshe liked. He was not a liar. In his own line, he was honest anddirect. Then he would take her to South Africa: a whole new_milieu_. And perhaps she would have children. She shivered alittle. No, not his children! He seemed so curiously cold-blooded. And yet, why not? Why not his curious, pale, half cold-bloodedchildren, like little fishes of her own? Why not? Everything waspossible: and even desirable, once one could see the strangeness ofit. Once she could plunge through the wall of the aquarium! Once shecould kiss him!

Therefore Miss Pinnegar's quiet harping on the string wasunbearable. 

"I can't understand that you disliked Mr. Witham so much?" said MissPinnegar. 

"We never can understand those things, " said Alvina. "I can'tunderstand why I dislike tapioca and arrowroot--but I do. "

"That's different, " said Miss Pinnegar shortly. 

"It's no more easy to understand, " said Alvina. 

"Because there's no need to understand it, " said Miss Pinnegar. 

"And is there need to understand the other?"

"Certainly. I can see nothing wrong with him, " said Miss Pinnegar. 

Alvina went away in silence. This was in the first months after shehad given Albert his dismissal. He was at Oxford again--would notreturn to Woodhouse till Christmas. Between her and the WoodhouseWithams there was a decided coldness. They never looked at hernow--nor she at them. 

None the less, as Christmas drew near Alvina worked up her feelings. Perhaps she would be reconciled to him. She would slip across andsmile to him. She would take the plunge, once and for all--and kisshim and marry him and bear the little half-fishes, his children. Sheworked herself into quite a fever of anticipation. 

But when she saw him, the first evening, sitting stiff and staringflatly in front of him in Chapel, staring away from everything inthe world, at heaven knows what--just as fishes stare--then hisdishumanness came over her again like an arrest, and arrested allher flights of fancy. He stared flatly in front of him, and flatlyset a wall of oblivion between him and her. She trembled and let be. 

After Christmas, however, she had nothing at all to think forwardto. And it was then she seemed to shrink: she seemed positively toshrink. 

"You never spoke to Mr. Witham?" Miss Pinnegar asked. 

"He never spoke to me, " replied Alvina. 

"He raised his hat to me. "

"_You_ ought to have married him, Miss Pinnegar, " said Alvina. "Hewould have been right for you. " And she laughed rather mockingly. 

"There is no need to make provision for me, " said Miss Pinnegar. 

And after this, she was a long time before she forgave Alvina, andwas really friendly again. Perhaps she would never have forgiven herif she had not found her weeping rather bitterly in her mother'sabandoned sitting-room. 

Now so far, the story of Alvina is commonplace enough. It is more orless the story of thousands of girls. They all find work. It is theordinary solution of everything. And if we were dealing with anordinary girl we should have to carry on mildly and dully down thelong years of employment; or, at the best, marriage with some dullschool-teacher or office-clerk. 

But we protest that Alvina is not ordinary. Ordinary people, ordinary fates. But extraordinary people, extraordinary fates. Orelse no fate at all. The all-to-one-pattern modern system is toomuch for most extraordinary individuals. It just kills them off orthrows them disused aside. 

There have been enough stories about ordinary people. I should thinkthe Duke of Clarence must even have found malmsey nauseating, whenhe choked and went purple and was really asphyxiated in a butt ofit. And ordinary people are no malmsey. Just ordinary tap-water. Andwe have been drenched and deluged and so nearly drowned in perpetualfloods of ordinariness, that tap-water tends to become a reallyhateful fluid to us. We loathe its out-of-the-tap tastelessness. Wedetest ordinary people. We are in peril of our lives from them: andin peril of our souls too, for they would damn us one and all to theordinary. Every individual should, by nature, have his extraordinarypoints. But nowadays you may look for them with a microscope, theyare so worn-down by the regular machine-friction of our average andmechanical days. 

There was no hope for Alvina in the ordinary. If help came, it wouldhave to come from the extraordinary. Hence the extreme peril of hercase. Hence the bitter fear and humiliation she felt as she drudgedshabbily on in Manchester House, hiding herself as much as possiblefrom public view. Men can suck the heady juice of exaltedself-importance from the bitter weed of failure--failures areusually the most conceited of men: even as was James Houghton. Butto a woman, failure is another matter. For her it means failure tolive, failure to establish her own life on the face of the earth. And this is humiliating, the ultimate humiliation. 

And so the slow years crept round, and the completed coil of eachone was a further heavy, strangling noose. Alvina had passed hertwenty-sixth, twenty-seventh, twenty-eighth and even hertwenty-ninth year. She was in her thirtieth. It ought to be alaughing matter. But it isn't. 

 Ach, schon zwanzig Ach, schon zwanzig Immer noch durch's Leben tanz' ich

 Jeder, Jeder will mich küssen Mir das Leben zu versüssen. 

 Ach, schon dreissig Ach, schon dreissig Immer Mädchen, Mädchen heiss' ich. In dem Zopf schon graue Härchen Ach, wie schnell vergehn die Jährchen. 

 Ach, schon vierzig Ach, schon vierzig Und noch immer Keiner find 'sich. Im gesicht schon graue Flecken Ach, das muss im Spiegel stecken. 

 Ach, schon fünfzig Ach, schon fünfzig Und noch immer Keiner will 'mich; Soll ich mich mit Bänden zieren Soll ich einen Schleier führen? Dann heisst's, die Alte putzt sich, Sie ist fu'fzig, sie ist fu'fzig. 

True enough, in Alvina's pig-tail of soft brown the grey hairs werealready showing. True enough, she still preferred to be thought ofas a girl. And the slow-footed years, so heavy in passing, were soimperceptibly numerous in their accumulation. 

But we are not going to follow our song to its fatal and drearyconclusion. Presumably, the _ordinary_ old-maid heroine nowadays isdestined to die in her fifties, she is not allowed to be thelong-liver of the by-gone novels. Let the song suffice her. 

James Houghton had still another kick in him. He had one last schemeup his sleeve. Looking out on a changing world, it was the popularnovelties which had the last fascination for him. The Skating Rink, like another Charybdis, had all but entangled him in its swirl as hepushed painfully off from the rocks of Throttle-Ha'penny. But he hadescaped, and for almost three years had lain obscurely in port, likea frail and finished bark, selling the last of his bits and bobs, and making little splashes in warehouse-oddments. Miss Pinnegarthought he had really gone quiet. 

But alas, at that degenerated and shabby, down-at-heel club he metanother tempter: a plump man who had been in the music-hall line asa sort of agent. This man had catered for the little shows oflittle towns. He had been in America, out West, doing shows there. He had trailed his way back to England, where he had left his wifeand daughter. But he did not resume his family life. Wherever hewas, his wife was a hundred miles away. Now he found himself more orless stranded in Woodhouse. He had _nearly_ fixed himself up with amusic-hall in the Potteries--as manager: he had all-but got suchanother place at Ickley, in Derbyshire: he had forced his waythrough the industrial and mining townlets, prospecting for any sortof music-hall or show from which he could get a picking. And now, invery low water, he found himself at Woodhouse. 

Woodhouse had a cinema already: a famous Empire run-up by Jordan, the sly builder and decorator who had got on so surprisingly. InJames's younger days, Jordan was an obscure and illiterate nobody. And now he had a motor car, and looked at the tottering James withsardonic contempt, from under his heavy, heavy-lidded dark eyes. Hewas rather stout, frail in health, but silent and insuperable, wasA. W. Jordan. 

"I missed a chance there, " said James, fluttering. "I missed a rarechance there. I ought to have been first with a cinema. "

He admitted as much to Mr. May, the stranger who was looking forsome sort of "managing" job. Mr. May, who also was plump and whocould hold his tongue, but whose pink, fat face and light-blue eyeshad a loud look, for all that, put the speech in his pipe and smokedit. Not that he smoked a pipe: always cigarettes. But he seized onJames's admission, as something to be made the most of. 

Now Mr. May's mind, though quick, was pedestrian, not winged. He hadcome to Woodhouse not to look at Jordan's "Empire, " but at thetemporary wooden structure that stood in the old CattleMarket--"Wright's Cinematograph and Variety Theatre. " Wright's wasnot a superior show, like the Woodhouse Empire. Yet it was alwayspacked with colliers and work-lasses. But unfortunately there was nochance of Mr. May's getting a finger in the Cattle Market pie. Wright's was a family affair. Mr. And Mrs. Wright and a son and twodaughters with their husbands: a tight old lock-up family concern. Yet it was the kind of show that appealed to Mr. May: picturesbetween the turns. The cinematograph was but an item in the program, amidst the more thrilling incidents--to Mr. May--of conjurors, popular songs, five-minute farces, performing birds, and comics. Mr. May was too human to believe that a show should consist entirely ofthe dithering eye-ache of a film. 

He was becoming really depressed by his failure to find any opening. He had his family to keep--and though his honesty was of the varietysort, he had a heavy conscience in the direction of his wife anddaughter. Having been so long in America, he had acquired Americanqualities, one of which was this heavy sort of private innocence, coupled with complacent and natural unscrupulousness in "matters ofbusiness. " A man of some odd sensitiveness in material things, heliked to have his clothes neat and spick, his linen immaculate, hisface clean-shaved like a cherub. But alas, his clothes were nowold-fashioned, so that their rather expensive smartness wasdetrimental to his chances, in spite of their scrupulous look ofhaving come almost new out of the bandbox that morning. His rathersmall felt hats still curved jauntily over his full pink face. Buthis eyes looked lugubrious, as if he felt he had not deserved somuch bad luck, and there were bilious lines beneath them. 

So Mr. May, in his room in the Moon and Stars, which was the best innin Woodhouse--he must have a good hötel--lugubriously considered hisposition. Woodhouse offered little or nothing. He must go to Alfreton. And would he find anything there? Ah, where, where in this hatefulworld was there refuge for a man saddled with responsibilities, whowanted to do his best and was given no opportunity? Mr. May hadtravelled in his Pullman car and gone straight to the best hotel in thetown, like any other American with money--in America. He had done itsmart, too. And now, in this grubby penny-picking England, he saw hisboots being worn-down at the heel, and was afraid of being strandedwithout cash even for a railway ticket. If he had to clear out withoutpaying his hotel bill--well, that was the world's fault. He had tolive. But he must perforce keep enough in hand for a ticket toBirmingham. He always said his wife was in London. And he always walkeddown to Lumley to post his letters. He was full of evasions. 

So again he walked down to Lumley to post his letters. And he lookedat Lumley. And he found it a damn god-forsaken hell of a hole. Itwas a long straggle of a dusty road down in the valley, with apale-grey dust and spatter from the pottery, and big chimneysbellying forth black smoke right by the road. Then there was a shortcross-way, up which one saw the iron foundry, a black and rustyplace. A little further on was the railway junction, and beyondthat, more houses stretching to Hathersedge, where the stockingfactories were busy. Compared with Lumley, Woodhouse, whose churchcould be seen sticking up proudly and vulgarly on an eminence, abovetrees and meadow-slopes, was an idyllic heaven. 

Mr. May turned in to the Derby Hotel to have a small whiskey. And ofcourse he entered into conversation. 

"You seem somewhat quiet at Lumley, " he said, in his odd, refined-showman's voice. "Have you _nothing at all_ in the way ofamusement?"

"They all go up to Woodhouse, else to Hathersedge. "

"But couldn't you support some place of your own--some _rival_ toWright's Variety?"

"Ay--'appen--if somebody started it. "

And so it was that James was inoculated with the idea of starting acinema on the virgin soil of Lumley. To the women he said not aword. But on the very first morning that Mr. May broached thesubject, he became a new man. He fluttered like a boy, he flutteredas if he had just grown wings. 

"Let us go down, " said Mr. May, "and look at a site. You pledgeyourself to nothing--you don't compromise yourself. You merely havea site in your mind. "

And so it came to pass that, next morning, this oddly assortedcouple went down to Lumley together. James was very shabby, in hisblack coat and dark grey trousers, and his cheap grey cap. He bentforward as he walked, and still nipped along hurriedly, as ifpursued by fate. His face was thin and still handsome. Odd that hischeap cap, by incongruity, made him look more a gentleman. But itdid. As he walked he glanced alertly hither and thither, and salutedeverybody. 

By his side, somewhat tight and tubby, with his chest out and hishead back, went the prim figure of Mr. May, reminding one of aconsequential bird of the smaller species. His plumbago-grey suitfitted exactly--save that it was perhaps a little tight. The jacketand waistcoat were bound with silk braid of exactly the same shadeas the cloth. His soft collar, immaculately fresh, had a dark stripelike his shirt. His boots were black, with grey suède uppers: but a_little_ down at heel. His dark-grey hat was jaunty. Altogether helooked very spruce, though a _little_ behind the fashions: very pinkfaced, though his blue eyes were bilious beneath: very much on thespot, although the spot was the wrong one. 

They discoursed amiably as they went, James bending forward, Mr. Maybending back. Mr. May took the refined man-of-the-world tone. 

"Of course, " he said--he used the two words very often, andpronounced the second, rather mincingly, to rhyme with _sauce_: "Ofcourse, " said Mr. May, "it's a disgusting place--_disgusting_! Inever was in a worse, in all the _cauce_ of my travels. But_then_--that isn't the point--"

He spread his plump hands from his immaculate shirt-cuffs. 

"No, it isn't. Decidedly it isn't. That's beside the pointaltogether. What we want--" began James. 

"Is an audience--of _cauce_--! And we have it--! Virgin soil--!

"Yes, decidedly. Untouched! An unspoiled market. "

"An unspoiled market!" reiterated Mr. May, in full confirmation, though with a faint flicker of a smile. "How very _fortunate_ forus. "

"Properly handled, " said James. "Properly handled. "

"Why yes--of _cauce_! Why _shouldn't_ we handle it properly!"

"Oh, we shall manage that, we shall manage that, " came the quick, slightly husky voice of James. 

"Of _cauce_ we shall! Why bless my life, if we can't manage anaudience in Lumley, what _can_ we do. "

"We have a guide in the matter of their taste, " said James. "We cansee what Wright's are doing--and Jordan's--and we can go toHathersedge and Knarborough and Alfreton--beforehand, that is--"

"Why certainly--if you think it's _necessary_. I'll do all that foryou. _And_ I'll interview the managers and the performersthemselves--as if I were a journalist, don't you see. I've done afair amount of journalism, and nothing easier than to get cards fromvarious newspapers. "

"Yes, that's a good suggestion, " said James. "As if you were goingto write an account in the newspapers--excellent. "

"And so simple! You pick up just _all_ the information you require. "

"Decidedly--decidedly!" said James. 

And so behold our two heroes sniffing round the sordid backs andwasted meadows and marshy places of Lumley. They found one barrenpatch where two caravans were standing. A woman was peelingpotatoes, sitting on the bottom step of her caravan. A half-castegirl came up with a large pale-blue enamelled jug of water. In thebackground were two booths covered up with coloured canvas. Hammering was heard inside. 

"Good-morning!" said Mr. May, stopping before the woman. "'Tisn'tfair time, is it?"

"No, it's no fair, " said the woman. 

"I see. You're just on your own. Getting on all right?"

"Fair, " said the woman. 

"Only fair! Sorry. Good-morning. "

Mr. May's quick eye, roving round, had seen a negro stoop from underthe canvas that covered one booth. The negro was thin, and lookedyoung but rather frail, and limped. His face was very like that ofthe young negro in Watteau's drawing--pathetic, wistful, north-bitten. In an instant Mr. May had taken all in: the man wasthe woman's husband--they were acclimatized in these regions: thebooth where he had been hammering was a Hoop-La. The other would bea cocoanut-shy. Feeling the instant American dislike for thepresence of a negro, Mr. May moved off with James. 

They found out that the woman was a Lumley woman, that she had twochildren, that the negro was a most quiet and respectable chap, butthat the family kept to itself, and didn't mix up with Lumley. 

"I should think so, " said Mr. May, a little disgusted even at thesuggestion. 

Then he proceeded to find out how long they had stood on thisground--three months--how long they would remain--only another week, then they were moving off to Alfreton fair--who was the owner of thepitch--Mr. Bows, the butcher. Ah! And what was the ground used for?Oh, it was building land. But the foundation wasn't very good. 

"The very thing! Aren't we _fortunate_!" cried Mr. May, perking upthe moment they were in the street. But this cheerfulness and briskperkiness was a great strain on him. He missed his eleven o'clockwhiskey terribly--terribly--his pick-me-up! And he daren't confessit to James, who, he knew, was T-T. So he dragged his weary andhollow way up to Woodhouse, and sank with a long "Oh!" of nervousexhaustion in the private bar of the Moon and Stars. He wrinkled hisshort nose. The smell of the place was distasteful to him. The_disgusting_ beer that the colliers drank. Oh!--he _was_ so tired. He sank back with his whiskey and stared blankly, dismally in frontof him. Beneath his eyes he looked more bilious still. He feltthoroughly out of luck, and petulant. 

None the less he sallied out with all his old bright perkiness, thenext time he had to meet James. He hadn't yet broached the questionof costs. When would he be able to get an advance from James? He_must_ hurry the matter forward. He brushed his crisp, curly brownhair carefully before the mirror. How grey he was at the temples! Nowonder, dear me, with such a life! He was in his shirt-sleeves. Hiswaistcoat, with its grey satin back, fitted him tightly. He hadfilled out--but he hadn't developed a corporation. Not at all. Helooked at himself sideways, and feared dismally he was thinner. Hewas one of those men who carry themselves in a birdie fashion, sothat their tail sticks out a little behind, jauntily. Howwonderfully the satin of his waistcoat had worn! He looked at hisshirt-cuffs. They were going. Luckily, when he had had the shirtsmade he had secured enough material for the renewing of cuffs andneckbands. He put on his coat, from which he had flicked thefaintest suspicion of dust, and again settled himself to go out andmeet James on the question of an advance. He simply must have anadvance. 

He didn't get it that day, none the less. The next morning he wasringing for his tea at six o'clock. And before ten he had alreadyflitted to Lumley and back, he had already had a word with Mr. Bows, about that pitch, and, overcoming all his repugnance, a word withthe quiet, frail, sad negro, about Alfreton fair, and the chance ofbuying some sort of collapsible building, for his cinematograph. 

With all this news he met James--not at the shabby club, but in thedeserted reading-room of the so-called Artizans Hall--where never anartizan entered, but only men of James's class. Here they took thechessboard and pretended to start a game. But their conversationwas rapid and secretive. 

Mr. May disclosed all his discoveries. And then he said, tentatively:

"Hadn't we better think about the financial part now? If we're goingto look round for an erection"--curious that he always called it anerection--"we shall have to know what we are going to spend. "

"Yes--yes. Well--" said James vaguely, nervously, giving a glance atMr. May. Whilst Mr. May abstractedly fingered his black knight. 

"You see at the moment, " said Mr. May, "I have no funds that I canrepresent in cash. I have no doubt a little _later_--if we needit--I can find a few hundreds. Many things are _due_--numbers ofthings. But it is so difficult to _collect_ one's dues, particularlyfrom America. " He lifted his blue eyes to James Houghton. "Of coursewe can _delay_ for some time, until I get my supplies. Or I can actjust as your manager--you can _employ_ me--"

He watched James's face. James looked down at the chessboard. He wasfluttering with excitement. He did not want a partner. He wanted tobe in this all by himself. He hated partners. 

"You will agree to be manager, at a fixed salary?" said Jameshurriedly and huskily, his fine fingers slowly rubbing each other, along the sides. 

"Why yes, willingly, if you'll give me the option of becoming yourpartner upon terms of mutual agreement, later on. "

James did not quite like this. 

"What terms are you thinking of?" he asked. 

"Well, it doesn't matter for the moment. Suppose for the moment Ienter an engagement as your manager, at a salary, let us say, of--ofwhat, do you think?"

"So much a week?" said James pointedly. 

"Hadn't we better make it monthly?"

The two men looked at one another. 

"With a month's notice on either hand?" continued Mr. May. 

"How much?" said James, avaricious. 

Mr. May studied his own nicely kept hands. 

"Well, I don't see how I can do it under twenty pounds a month. Ofcourse it's ridiculously low. In America I _never_ accepted lessthan three hundred dollars a month, and that was my poorest andlowest. But of _cauce_, England's not America--more's the pity. "

But James was shaking his head in a vibrating movement. 

"Impossible!" he replied shrewdly. "Impossible! Twenty pounds amonth? Impossible. I couldn't do it. I couldn't think of it. "

"Then name a figure. Say what you _can_ think of, " retorted Mr. May, rather annoyed by this shrewd, shaking head of a dodderingprovincial, and by his own sudden collapse into mean subordination. 

"I can't make it more than ten pounds a month, " said James sharply. 

"What!" screamed Mr. May. "What am I to live on? What is my wife tolive on?"

"I've got to make it pay, " said James. "If I've got to make it pay, I must keep down expenses at the beginning. "

"No, --on the contrary. You must be prepared to spend something atthe beginning. If you go in a pinch-and-scrape fashion in thebeginning, you will get nowhere at all. Ten pounds a month! Why it'simpossible! Ten pounds a month! But how am I to _live_?"

James's head still vibrated in a negative fashion. And the two mencame to no agreement _that_ morning. Mr. May went home more sick andweary than ever, and took his whiskey more biliously. But James waslit with the light of battle. 

Poor Mr. May had to gather together his wits and his sprightlinessfor his next meeting. He had decided he must make a percentage inother ways. He schemed in all known ways. He would accept the tenpounds--but really, did ever you hear of anything so ridiculous inyour life, _ten pounds!_--dirty old screw, dirty, screwing oldwoman! He would accept the ten pounds; but he would get his ownback. 

He flitted down once more to the negro, to ask him of a certainwooden show-house, with section sides and roof, an old travellingtheatre which stood closed on Selverhay Common, and might probablybe sold. He pressed across once more to Mr. Bows. He wrote variousletters and drew up certain notes. And the next morning, by eighto'clock, he was on his way to Selverhay: walking, poor man, the longand uninteresting seven miles on his small and rather tight-shodfeet, through country that had been once beautiful but was nowscrubbled all over with mining villages, on and on up heavy hillsand down others, asking his way from uncouth clowns, till at last hecame to the Common, which wasn't a Common at all, but a sort ofvillage more depressing than usual: naked, high, exposed to heavenand to full barren view. 

There he saw the theatre-booth. It was old and sordid-looking, painteddark-red and dishevelled with narrow, tattered announcements. Thegrass was growing high up the wooden sides. If only it wasn't rotten?He crouched and probed and pierced with his pen-knife, till acountry-policeman in a high helmet like a jug saw him, got off hisbicycle and came stealthily across the grass wheeling the same bicycle, and startled poor Mr. May almost into apoplexy by demanding behind him, in a loud voice:

"What're you after?"

Mr. May rose up with flushed face and swollen neck-veins, holdinghis pen-knife in his hand. 

"Oh, " he said, "good-morning. " He settled his waistcoat and glancedover the tall, lanky constable and the glittering bicycle. "I wastaking a look at this old erection, with a view to buying it. I'mafraid it's going rotten from the bottom. "

"Shouldn't wonder, " said the policeman suspiciously, watching Mr. May shut the pocket knife. 

"I'm afraid that makes it useless for my purpose, " said Mr. May. 

The policeman did not deign to answer. 

"Could you tell me where I can find out about it, anyway?" Mr. Mayused his most affable, man of the world manner. But the policemancontinued to stare him up and down, as if he were some marvellousspecimen unknown on the normal, honest earth. 

"What, find out?" said the constable. 

"About being able to buy it, " said Mr. May, a little testily. It waswith great difficulty he preserved his man-to-man openness andbrightness. 

"They aren't here, " said the constable. 

"Oh indeed! Where _are_ they? And _who_ are they?"

The policeman eyed him more suspiciously than ever. 

"Cowlard's their name. An' they live in Offerton when they aren'ttravelling. "

"Cowlard--thank you. " Mr. May took out his pocket-book. "C-o-w-l-a-r-d--is that right? And the address, please?"

"I dunno th' street. But you can find out from the Three Bells. That's Missis' sister. "

"The Three Bells--thank you. Offerton did you say?"

"Yes. "

"Offerton!--where's that?"

"About eight mile. "

"Really--and how do you get there?"

"You can walk--or go by train. "

"Oh, there is a station?"

"Station!" The policeman looked at him as if he were either acriminal or a fool. 

"Yes. There _is_ a station there?"

"Ay--biggest next to Chesterfield--"

Suddenly it dawned on Mr. May. 

"Oh-h!" he said. "You mean _Alfreton_--"

"Alfreton, yes. " The policeman was now convinced the man was awrong-'un. But fortunately he was not a pushing constable, he didnot want to rise in the police-scale: thought himself safest at thebottom. 

"And which is the way to the station here?" asked Mr. May. 

"Do yer want Pinxon or Bull'ill?"

"Pinxon or Bull'ill?"

"There's two, " said the policeman. 

"For Selverhay?" asked Mr. May. 

"Yes, them's the two. "

"And which is the best?"

"Depends what trains is runnin'. Sometimes yer have to wait an houror two--"

"You don't know the trains, do you--?"

"There's one in th' afternoon--but I don't know if it'd be gone bythe time you get down. "

"To where?"

"Bull'ill. "

"Oh Bull'ill! Well, perhaps I'll try. Could you tell me the way?"

When, after an hour's painful walk, Mr. May came to Bullwell Stationand found there was no train till six in the evening, he felt hewas earning every penny he would ever get from Mr. Houghton. 

The first intelligence which Miss Pinnegar and Alvina gathered ofthe coming adventure was given them when James announced that he hadlet the shop to Marsden, the grocer next door. Marsden had agreed totake over James's premises at the same rent as that of the premiseshe already occupied, and moreover to do all alterations and put inall fixtures himself. This was a grand scoop for James: not a pennywas it going to cost him, and the rent was clear profit. 

"But when?" cried Miss Pinnegar. 

"He takes possession on the first of October. "

"Well--it's a good idea. The shop isn't worth while, " said MissPinnegar. 

"Certainly it isn't, " said James, rubbing his hands: a sign that hewas rarely excited and pleased. 

"And you'll just retire, and live quietly, " said Miss Pinnegar. 

"I shall see, " said James. And with those fatal words he wafted awayto find Mr. May. 

James was now nearly seventy years old. Yet he nipped about like aleaf in the wind. Only, it was a frail leaf. 

"Father's got something going, " said Alvina, in a warning voice. 

"I believe he has, " said Miss Pinnegar pensively. "I wonder what itis, now. "

"I can't imagine, " laughed Alvina. "But I'll bet it's somethingawful--else he'd have told us. "

"Yes, " said Miss Pinnegar slowly. "Most likely he would. I wonderwhat it can be. "

"I haven't an idea, " said Alvina. 

Both women were so retired, they had heard nothing of James's littletrips down to Lumley. So they watched like cats for their man'sreturn, at dinner-time. 

Miss Pinnegar saw him coming along talking excitedly to Mr. May, who, all in grey, with his chest perkily stuck out like a robin, waslooking rather pinker than usual. Having come to an agreement, hehad ventured on whiskey and soda in honour, and James had actuallytaken a glass of port. 

"Alvina!" Miss Pinnegar called discreetly down the shop. "Alvina!Quick!"

Alvina flew down to peep round the corner of the shop window. Therestood the two men, Mr. May like a perky, pink-faced grey birdstanding cocking his head in attention to James Houghton, andoccasionally catching James by the lapel of his coat, in a vaindesire to get a word in, whilst James's head nodded and his facesimply wagged with excited speech, as he skipped from foot to foot, and shifted round his listener. 

"Who _ever_ can that common-looking man be?" said Miss Pinnegar, herheart going down to her boots. 

"I can't imagine, " said Alvina, laughing at the comic sight. 

"Don't you think he's dreadful?" said the poor elderly woman. 

"Perfectly impossible. Did ever you see such a pink face?"

"_And_ the braid binding!" said Miss Pinnegar in indignation. 

"Father might almost have sold him the suit, " said Alvina. 

"Let us hope he hasn't sold your father, that's all, " said MissPinnegar. 

The two men had moved a few steps further towards home, and thewomen prepared to flee indoors. Of course it was frightfully wrongto be standing peeping in the high street at all. But who couldconsider the proprieties now?

"They've stopped again, " said Miss Pinnegar, recalling Alvina. 

The two men were having a few more excited words, their voices justaudible. 

"I do wonder who he can be, " murmured Miss Pinnegar miserably. 

"In the theatrical line, I'm sure, " declared Alvina. 

"Do you think so?" said Miss Pinnegar. "Can't be! Can't be!"

"He couldn't be anything else, don't you think?"

"Oh I _can't_ believe it, I can't. "

But now Mr. May had laid his detaining hand on James's arm. And nowhe was shaking his employer by the hand. And now James, in his cheaplittle cap, was smiling a formal farewell. And Mr. May, with agraceful wave of his grey-suède-gloved hand, was turning back to theMoon and Stars, strutting, whilst James was running home ontip-toe, in his natural hurry. 

Alvina hastily retreated, but Miss Pinnegar stood it out. Jamesstarted as he nipped into the shop entrance, and found herconfronting him. 

"Oh--Miss Pinnegar!" he said, and made to slip by her. 

"Who was that man?" she asked sharply, as if James were a child whomshe could endure no more. 

"Eh? I beg your pardon?" said James, starting back. 

"Who was that man?"

"Eh? Which man?"

James was a little deaf, and a little husky. 

"The man--" Miss Pinnegar turned to the door. "There! That man!"

James also came to the door, and peered out as if he expected to seea sight. The sight of Mr. May's tight and perky back, the jauntylittle hat and the grey suède hands retreating quite surprised him. He was angry at being introduced to the sight. 

"Oh, " he said. "That's my manager. " And he turned hastily down theshop, asking for his dinner. 

Miss Pinnegar stood for some moments in pure oblivion in the shopentrance. Her consciousness left her. When she recovered, she feltshe was on the brink of hysteria and collapse. But she hardenedherself once more, though the effort cost her a year of her life. She had never collapsed, she had never fallen into hysteria. 

She gathered herself together, though bent a little as from a blow, and, closing the shop door, followed James to the living room, likethe inevitable. He was eating his dinner, and seemed oblivious ofher entry. There was a smell of Irish stew. 

"What manager?" said Miss Pinnegar, short, silent, and inevitable inthe doorway. 

But James was in one of his abstractions, his trances. 

"What manager?" persisted Miss Pinnegar. 

But he still bent unknowing over his plate and gobbled his Irishstew. 

"Mr. Houghton!" said Miss Pinnegar, in a sudden changed voice. Shehad gone a livid yellow colour. And she gave a queer, sharp littlerap on the table with her hand. 

James started. He looked up bewildered, as one startled out ofsleep. 

"Eh?" he said, gaping. "Eh?"

"Answer me, " said Miss Pinnegar. "What manager?"

"Manager? Eh? Manager? What manager?"

She advanced a little nearer, menacing in her black dress. Jamesshrank. 

"What manager?" he re-echoed. "My manager. The manager of mycinema. "

Miss Pinnegar looked at him, and looked at him, and did not speak. In that moment all the anger which was due to him from all womanhoodwas silently discharged at him, like a black bolt of silentelectricity. But Miss Pinnegar, the engine of wrath, felt she wouldburst. 

"Cinema! Cinema! Do you mean to tell me--" but she was reallysuffocated, the vessels of her heart and breast were bursting. Shehad to lean her hand on the table. 

It was a terrible moment. She looked ghastly and terrible, with hermask-like face and her stony eyes and her bluish lips. Some fearfulthunderbolt seemed to fall. James withered, and was still. There wassilence for minutes, a suspension. 

And in those minutes, she finished with him. She finished with himfor ever. When she had sufficiently recovered, she went to herchair, and sat down before her plate. And in a while she began toeat, as if she were alone. 

Poor Alvina, for whom this had been a dreadful and uncalled-formoment, had looked from one to another, and had also dropped herhead to her plate. James too, with bent head, had forgotten to eat. Miss Pinnegar ate very slowly, alone. 

"Don't you want your dinner, Alvina?" she said at length. 

"Not as much as I did, " said Alvina. 

"Why not?" said Miss Pinnegar. She sounded short, almost like MissFrost. Oddly like Miss Frost. 

Alvina took up her fork and began to eat automatically. 

"I always think, " said Miss Pinnegar, "Irish stew is more tasty witha bit of Swede in it. "

"So do I, really, " said Alvina. "But Swedes aren't come yet. "

"Oh! Didn't we have some on Tuesday?"

"No, they were yellow turnips--but they weren't Swedes. "

"Well then, yellow turnip. I like a little yellow turnip, " said MissPinnegar. 

"I might have put some in, if I'd known, " said Alvina. 

"Yes. We will another time, " said Miss Pinnegar. 

Not another word about the cinema: not another breath. As soon asJames had eaten his plum tart, he ran away. 

"What can he have been doing?" said Alvina when he had gone. 

"Buying a cinema show--and that man we saw is his manager. It'squite simple. "

"But what are we going to do with a cinema show?" said Alvina. 

"It's what is _he_ going to do. It doesn't concern me. It's noconcern of mine. I shall not lend him anything, I shall not thinkabout it, it will be the same to me as if there _were_ no cinema. Which is all I have to say, " announced Miss Pinnegar. 

"But he's gone and done it, " said Alvina. 

"Then let him go through with it. It's no affair of mine. After all, your father's affairs don't concern me. It would be impertinent ofme to introduce myself into them. "

"They don't concern _me_ very much, " said Alvina. 

"You're different. You're his daughter. He's no connection of mine, I'm glad to say. I pity your mother. "

"Oh, but he was always alike, " said Alvina. 

"That's where it is, " said Miss Pinnegar. 

There was something fatal about her feelings. Once they had gonecold, they would never warm up again. As well try to warm up afrozen mouse. It only putrifies. 

But poor Miss Pinnegar after this looked older, and seemed to get alittle round-backed. And the things she said reminded Alvina sooften of Miss Frost. 

James fluttered into conversation with his daughter the nextevening, after Miss Pinnegar had retired. 

"I told you I had bought a cinematograph building, " said James. "Weare negotiating for the machinery now: the dynamo and so on. "

"But where is it to be?" asked Alvina. 

"Down at Lumley. I'll take you and show you the site tomorrow. Thebuilding--it is a frame-section travelling theatre--will arrive onThursday--next Thursday. "

"But who is in with you, father?"

"I am quite alone--quite alone, " said James Houghton. "I have foundan excellent manager, who knows the whole business thoroughly--a Mr. May. Very nice man. Very nice man. "

"Rather short and dressed in grey?"

"Yes. And I have been thinking--if Miss Pinnegar will take the cashand issue tickets: if she will take over the ticket-office: and youwill play the piano: and if Mr. May learns the control of themachine--he is having lessons now--: and if I am the indoorsattendant, we shan't need any more staff. "

"Miss Pinnegar won't take the cash, father. "

"Why not? Why not?"

"I can't say why not. But she won't do anything--and if I were you Iwouldn't ask her. "

There was a pause. 

"Oh, well, " said James, huffy. "She isn't indispensable. "

And Alvina was to play the piano! Here was a blow for her! Shehurried off to her bedroom to laugh and cry at once. She just sawherself at that piano, banging off the _Merry Widow Waltz_, and, intender moments, _The Rosary_. Time after time, _The Rosary_. Whilethe pictures flickered and the audience gave shouts and some grubbyboy called "Chot-let, penny a bar! Chot-let, penny a bar! Chot-let, penny a bar!" away she banged at another tune. 

What a sight for the gods! She burst out laughing. And at the sametime, she thought of her mother and Miss Frost, and she cried as ifher heart would break. And then all kinds of comic and incongruoustunes came into her head. She imagined herself dressing up with mostpriceless variations. _Linger Longer Lucy_, for example. She beganto spin imaginary harmonies and variations in her head, upon thetheme of _Linger Longer Lucy_. 

 "Linger longer Lucy, linger longer Loo. How I love to linger longer linger long o' you. Listen while I sing, love, promise you'll be true, And linger longer longer linger linger longer Loo. "

All the tunes that used to make Miss Frost so angry. All the DreamWaltzes and Maiden's Prayers, and the awful songs. 

 "For in Spooney-ooney Island Is there any one cares for me? In Spooney-ooney Island Why surely there ought to be--"

Poor Miss Frost! Alvina imagined herself leading a chorus ofcollier louts, in a bad atmosphere of "Woodbines" and oranges, during the intervals when the pictures had collapsed. 

 "How'd you like to spoon with me? How'd you like to spoon with me? (_Why ra-ther!_)

 Underneath the oak-tree nice and shady Calling me your tootsey-wootsey lady? How'd you like to hug and squeeze, (_Just try me!_)

 Dandle me upon your knee, Calling me your little lovey-dovey-- How'd you like to spoon with me? (_Oh-h--Go on!_)"

Alvina worked herself into quite a fever, with her imaginings. 

In the morning she told Miss Pinnegar. 

"Yes, " said Miss Pinnegar, "you see me issuing tickets, don't you?Yes--well. I'm afraid he will have to do that part himself. Andyou're going to play the piano. It's a disgrace! It's a disgrace!It's a disgrace! It's a mercy Miss Frost and your mother are dead. He's lost every bit of shame--every bit--if he ever had any--which Idoubt very much. Well, all I can say, I'm glad I am not concerned. And I'm sorry for you, for being his daughter. I'm heart sorry foryou, I am. Well, well--no sense of shame--no sense of shame--"

And Miss Pinnegar padded out of the room. 

Alvina walked down to Lumley and was shown the site and wasintroduced to Mr. May. He bowed to her in his best American fashion, and treated her with admirable American deference. 

"Don't you think, " he said to her, "it's an admirable scheme?"

"Wonderful, " she replied. 

"Of cauce, " he said, "the erection will be a merely temporary one. Of cauce it won't be anything to _look_ at: just an old woodentravelling theatre. But _then_--all we need is to make a start. "

"And you are going to work the film?" she asked. 

"Yes, " he said with pride, "I spend every evening with the operatorat Marsh's in Knarborough. Very interesting I find it--veryinteresting indeed. And _you_ are going to play the piano?" he said, perking his head on one side and looking at her archly. 

"So father says, " she answered. 

"But what do _you_ say?" queried Mr. May. 

"I suppose I don't have any say. "

"Oh but _surely_. Surely you won't do it if you don't wish to. Thatwould never do. Can't we hire some young fellow--?" And he turned toMr. Houghton with a note of query. 

"Alvina can play as well as anybody in Woodhouse, " said James. "Wemustn't add to our expenses. And wages in particular--"

"But surely Miss Houghton will have her wage. The labourer is worthyof his hire. Surely! Even of _her_ hire, to put it in the feminine. And for the same wage you could get some unimportant fellow withstrong wrists. I'm afraid it will tire Miss Houghton to death--"

"I don't think so, " said James. "I don't think so. Many of the turnsshe will not need to accompany--"

"Well, if it comes to that, " said Mr. May, "I can accompany some ofthem myself, when I'm not operating the film. I'm not an expertpianist--but I can play a little, you know--" And he trilled hisfingers up and down an imaginary keyboard in front of Alvina, cocking his eye at her smiling a little archly. 

"I'm sure, " he continued, "I can accompany anything except a manjuggling dinner-plates--and then I'd be afraid of making him dropthe plates. But songs--oh, songs! _Con molto espressione!_"

And again he trilled the imaginary keyboard, and smiled his ratherfat cheeks at Alvina. 

She began to like him. There was something a little dainty abouthim, when you knew him better--really rather fastidious. A showman, true enough! Blatant too. But fastidiously so. 

He came fairly frequently to Manchester House after this. MissPinnegar was rather stiff with him and he did not like her. But hewas very happy sitting chatting tête-à-tête with Alvina. 

"Where is your wife?" said Alvina to him. 

"My wife! Oh, don't speak of _her_, " he said comically. "She's inLondon. "

"Why not speak of her?" asked Alvina. 

"Oh, every reason for not speaking of her. We don't get on at _all_well, she and I. "

"What a pity, " said Alvina. 

"Dreadful pity! But what are you to do?" He laughed comically. Thenhe became grave. "No, " he said. "She's an impossible person. "

"I see, " said Alvina. 

"I'm sure you _don't_ see, " said Mr. May. "Don't--" and here he laidhis hand on Alvina's arm--"don't run away with the idea that she's_immoral_! You'd never make a greater mistake. Oh dear me, no. Morality's her strongest point. Live on three lettuce leaves, andgive the rest to the char. That's her. Oh, dreadful times we had inthose first years. We only lived together for three years. But dear_me_! how awful it was!"

"Why?"

"There was no pleasing the woman. She wouldn't eat. If I said to her'What shall we have for supper, Grace?' as sure as anything she'danswer 'Oh, I shall take a bath when I go to bed--that will be mysupper. ' She was one of these advanced vegetarian women, don't youknow. "

"How extraordinary!" said Alvina. 

"Extraordinary! I should think so. Extraordinary hard lines on _me_. And she wouldn't let _me_ eat either. She followed me to the kitchen ina _fury_ while I cooked for myself. Why imagine! I prepared a dish ofchampignons: oh, most _beautiful_ champignons, beautiful--and I putthem on the stove to fry in butter: beautiful young champignons. I'mhanged if she didn't go into the kitchen while my back was turned, andpour a pint of old carrot-water into the pan. I was _furious_. Imagine!--beautiful fresh young champignons--"

"Fresh mushrooms, " said Alvina. 

"Mushrooms--most beautiful things in the world. Oh! don't you thinkso?" And he rolled his eyes oddly to heaven. 

"They _are_ good, " said Alvina. 

"I should say so. And swamped--_swamped_ with her dirty old carrotwater. Oh I was so angry. And all she could say was, 'Well, Ididn't want to waste it!' Didn't want to waste her old carrot water, and so _ruined_ my champignons. _Can_ you imagine such a person?"

"It must have been trying. "

"I should think it was. I lost weight. I lost I don't know how manypounds, the first year I was married to that woman. She hated me toeat. Why, one of her great accusations against me, at the last, waswhen she said: 'I've looked round the larder, ' she said to me, 'andseen it was quite empty, and I thought to myself: _Now_ he _can't_cook a supper! And _then_ you did!' There! What do you think ofthat? The spite of it! 'And _then_ you did!'"

"What did she expect you to live on?" asked Alvina. 

"Nibble a lettuce leaf with her, and drink water from the tap--andthen elevate myself with a Bernard Shaw pamphlet. That was the sortof woman she was. All it gave _me_ was gas in the stomach. "

"So overbearing!" said Alvina. 

"Oh!" he turned his eyes to heaven, and spread his hands. "I didn'tbelieve my senses. I didn't know such people existed. And herfriends! Oh the dreadful friends she had--these Fabians! Oh, theireugenics. They wanted to examine my private morals, for eugenicreasons. Oh, you can't imagine such a state. Worse than the SpanishInquisition. And I stood it for three years. _How_ I stood it, Idon't know--"

"Now don't you see her?"

"Never! I never let her know where I am! But I _support_ her, ofcauce. "

"And your daughter?"

"Oh, she's the dearest child in the world. I saw her at a friend'swhen I came back from America. Dearest little thing in the world. But of _cauce_ suspicious of me. Treats me as if she didn't _know_me--"

"What a pity!"

"Oh--unbearable!" He spread his plump, manicured hands, on onefinger of which was a green intaglio ring. 

"How old is your daughter?"

"Fourteen. "

"What is her name?"

"Gemma. She was born in Rome, where I was managing for Miss MaudCallum, the _danseuse_. "

Curious the intimacy Mr. May established with Alvina at once. Butit was all purely verbal, descriptive. He made no physical advances. On the contrary, he was like a dove-grey, disconsolate bird peckingthe crumbs of Alvina's sympathy, and cocking his eye all the time towatch that she did not advance one step towards him. If he had seenthe least sign of coming-on-ness in her, he would have fluttered offin a great dither. Nothing _horrified_ him more than a woman who wascoming-on towards him. It horrified him, it exasperated him, it madehim hate the whole tribe of women: horrific two-legged cats withoutwhiskers. If he had been a bird, his innate horror of a cat wouldhave been such. He liked the _angel_, and particularly theangel-mother in woman. Oh!--that he worshipped. But coming-on-ness!

So he never wanted to be seen out-of-doors with Alvina; if he mether in the street he bowed and passed on: bowed very deep andreverential, indeed, but passed on, with his little back a littlemore strutty and assertive than ever. Decidedly he turned his backon her in public. 

But Miss Pinnegar, a regular old, grey, dangerous she-puss, eyed himfrom the corner of her pale eye, as he turned tail. 

"So unmanly!" she murmured. "In his dress, in his way, ineverything--so unmanly. "

"If I was you, Alvina, " she said, "I shouldn't see so much of Mr. May, in the drawing-room. People will talk. "

"I should almost feel flattered, " laughed Alvina. 

"What do you mean?" snapped Miss Pinnegar. 

None the less, Mr. May was dependable in matters of business. He wasup at half-past five in the morning, and by seven was well on hisway. He sailed like a stiff little ship before a steady breeze, hither and thither, out of Woodhouse and back again, and across fromside to side. Sharp and snappy, he was, on the spot. He trussedhimself up, when he was angry or displeased, and sharp, snip-snapcame his words, rather like scissors. 

"But how is it--" he attacked Arthur Witham--"that the gas isn'tconnected with the main yet? It was to be ready yesterday. "

"We've had to wait for the fixings for them brackets, " said Arthur. 

"_Had_ to _wait_ for _fixings_! But didn't you know a fortnight agothat you'd want the fixings?"

"I thought we should have some as would do. "

"Oh! you thought so! Really! Kind of you to think so. And have youjust thought about those that are coming, or have you made sure?"

Arthur looked at him sullenly. He hated him. But Mr. May's sharptouch was not to be foiled. 

"I hope you'll go further than _thinking_, " said Mr. May. "Thinkingseems such a slow process. And when do you expect the fittings--?"

"Tomorrow. "

"What! Another day! Another day _still!_ But you're strangelyindifferent to time, in your line of business. Oh! _Tomorrow!_Imagine it! Two days late already, and then _tomorrow!_ Well I hopeby tomorrow you mean _Wednesday_, and not tomorrow's tomorrow, orsome other absurd and fanciful date that you've just _thoughtabout_. But now, _do_ have the thing finished by tomorrow--" here helaid his hand cajoling on Arthur's arm. "You promise me it will allbe ready by tomorrow, don't you?"

"Yes, I'll do it if anybody could do it. "

"Don't say 'if anybody could do it. ' Say it shall be done. "

"It shall if I can possibly manage it--"

"Oh--very well then. Mind you manage it--and thank you _very_ much. I shall be _most_ obliged, if it _is_ done. "

Arthur was annoyed, but he was kept to the scratch. And so, early inOctober the place was ready, and Woodhouse was plastered withplacards announcing "Houghton's Pleasure Palace. " Poor Mr. May couldnot but see an irony in the Palace part of the phrase. "We canguarantee the _pleasure_, " he said. "But personally, I feel I can'ttake the responsibility for the palace. "

But James, to use the vulgar expression, was in his eye-holes. 

"Oh, father's in his eye-holes, " said Alvina to Mr. May. 

"Oh!" said Mr. May, puzzled and concerned. 

But it merely meant that James was having the time of his life. Hewas drawing out announcements. First was a batch of vermilionstrips, with the mystic script, in big black letters: Houghton'sPicture Palace, underneath which, quite small: Opens at Lumley onOctober 7th, at 6:30 P. M. Everywhere you went, these vermilion andblack bars sprang from the wall at you. Then there were othernotices, in delicate pale-blue and pale red, like a genuine theatrenotice, giving full programs. And beneath these a broad-letternotice announced, in green letters on a yellow ground: "Final andUltimate Clearance Sale at Houghton's, Knarborough Road, on Friday, September 30th. Come and Buy Without Price. "

James was in his eye-holes. He collected all his odds and ends fromevery corner of Manchester House. He sorted them in heaps, andmarked the heaps in his own mind. And then he let go. He pasted upnotices all over the window and all over the shop: "Take what youwant and Pay what you Like. "

He and Miss Pinnegar kept shop. The women flocked in. They turnedthings over. It nearly killed James to take the prices they offered. But take them he did. But he exacted that they should buy onearticle at a time. "One piece at a time, if you don't mind, " hesaid, when they came up with their three-a-penny handfuls. It wasnot till later in the evening that he relaxed this rule. 

Well, by eleven o'clock he had cleared out a good deal--really, avery great deal--and many women had bought what they didn't want, attheir own figure. Feverish but content, James shut the shop for thelast time. Next day, by eleven, he had removed all his belongings, the door that connected the house with the shop was screwed up fast, the grocer strolled in and looked round his bare extension, took thekey from James, and immediately set his boy to paste a new notice inthe window, tearing down all James's announcements. Poor James hadto run round, down Knarborough Road, and down Wellington Street asfar as the Livery Stable, then down long narrow passages, before hecould get into his own house, from his own shop. 

But he did not mind. Every hour brought the first performance of hisPleasure Palace nearer. He was satisfied with Mr. May: he had toadmit that he was satisfied with Mr. May. The Palace stood firm atlast--oh, it was so ricketty when it arrived!--and it glowed with anew coat, all over, of dark-red paint, like ox-blood. It wastittivated up with a touch of lavender and yellow round the door andround the decorated wooden eaving. It had a new wooden slope up tothe doors--and inside, a new wooden floor, with red-velvet seats infront, before the curtain, and old chapel-pews behind. The collieryouths recognized the pews. 

"Hey! These 'ere's the pews out of the old Primitive Chapel. "

"Sorry ah! We'n come ter hear t' parson. "

Theme for endless jokes. And the Pleasure Palace was christened, insome lucky stroke, Houghton's Endeavour, a reference to thatparticular Chapel effort called the Christian Endeavour, whereAlvina and Miss Pinnegar both figured. 

"Wheer art off, Sorry?"

"Lumley. "

"Houghton's Endeavour?"

"Ah. "

"Rotten. "

So, when one laconic young collier accosted another. But weanticipate. 

Mr. May had worked hard to get a program for the first week. Hispictures were: "The Human Bird, " which turned out to be a ski-ingfilm from Norway, purely descriptive; "The Pancake, " a humorousfilm: and then his grand serial: "The Silent Grip. " And then, forTurns, his first item was Miss Poppy Traherne, a lady in innumerablepetticoats, who could whirl herself into anything you like, from anarum lily in green stockings to a rainbow and a Catherine wheel anda cup-and-saucer: marvellous, was Miss Poppy Traherne. The next turnwas The Baxter Brothers, who ran up and down each other's backs andup and down each other's front, and stood on each other's heads andon their own heads, and perched for a moment on each other'sshoulders, as if each of them was a flight of stairs with a landing, and the three of them were three flights, three storeys up, the topflight continually running down and becoming the bottom flight, while the middle flight collapsed and became a horizontal corridor. 

Alvina had to open the performance by playing an overture called"Welcome All": a ridiculous piece. She was excited and unhappy. Onthe Monday morning there was a rehearsal, Mr. May conducting. Sheplayed "Welcome All, " and then took the thumbed sheets which MissPoppy Traherne carried with her. Miss Poppy was rather exacting. Asshe whirled her skirts she kept saying: "A little faster, please"--"A little slower"--in a rather haughty, official voice thatwas somewhat muffled by the swim of her drapery. "Can you give it_expression_?" she cried, as she got the arum lily in full blow, andthere was a sound of real ecstasy in her tones. But why she shouldhave called "Stronger! Stronger!" as she came into being as a cupand saucer, Alvina could not imagine: unless Miss Poppy was fancyingherself a strong cup of tea. 

However, she subsided into her mere self, panted frantically, andthen, in a hoarse voice, demanded if she was in the bare front ofthe show. She scorned to count "Welcome All. " Mr. May said Yes. Shewas the first item. Whereupon she began to raise a dust. Mr. Houghton said, hurriedly interposing, that he meant to make a littleopening speech. Miss Poppy eyed him as if he were a cuckoo-clock, and she had to wait till he'd finished cuckooing. Then she said:

"That's not every night. There's six nights to a week. " James wasproperly snubbed. It ended by Mr. May metamorphizing himself into apug dog: he said he had got the "costoom" in his bag: and doing alump-of-sugar scene with one of the Baxter Brothers, as a brieffirst item. Miss Poppy's professional virginity was thus saved fromoutrage. 

At the back of the stage there was half-a-yard of curtain screeningthe two dressing-rooms, ladies and gents. In her spare time Alvinasat in the ladies' dressing room, or in its lower doorway, for therewas not room right inside. She watched the ladies making up--shegave some slight assistance. She saw the men's feet, in their shabbypumps, on the other side of the curtain, and she heard the men'sgruff voices. Often a slangy conversation was carried on through thecurtain--for most of the turns were acquainted with each other: veryaffable before each other's faces, very sniffy behind each other'sbacks. 

Poor Alvina was in a state of bewilderment. She was extremelynice--oh, much too nice with the female turns. They treated her witha sort of off-hand friendliness, and they snubbed and patronized herand were a little spiteful with her because Mr. May treated her withattention and deference. She felt bewildered, a little excited, andas if she was not herself. 

The first evening actually came. Her father had produced a pinkcrêpe de Chine blouse and a back-comb massed with brilliants--bothof which she refused to wear. She stuck to her black blouse andblack shirt, and her simple hair-dressing. Mr. May said "Of cauce!She wasn't intended to attract attention to herself. " Miss Pinnegaractually walked down the hill with her, and began to cry when shesaw the ox-blood red erection, with its gas-flares in front. It wasthe first time she had seen it. She went on with Alvina to thelittle stage door at the back, and up the steps into the scrap ofdressing-room. But she fled out again from the sight of Miss Poppyin her yellow hair and green knickers with green-lace frills. PoorMiss Pinnegar! She stood outside on the trodden grass behind theBand of Hope, and really cried. Luckily she had put a veil on. 

She went valiantly round to the front entrance, and climbed thesteps. The crowd was just coming. There was James's face peepinginside the little ticket-window. 

"One!" he said officially, pushing out the ticket. And then herecognized her. "Oh, " he said, "_You're_ not going to pay. "

"Yes I am, " she said, and she left her fourpence, and James'scoppery, grimy fingers scooped it in, as the youth behind MissPinnegar shoved her forward. 

"Arf way down, fourpenny, " said the man at the door, poking her inthe direction of Mr. May, who wanted to put her in the red velvet. But she marched down one of the pews, and took her seat. 

The place was crowded with a whooping, whistling, excited audience. The curtain was down. James had let it out to his fellow tradesmen, and it represented a patchwork of local adverts. There was a fatporker and a fat pork-pie, and the pig was saying: "You all knowwhere to find me. Inside the crust at Frank Churchill's, KnarboroughRoad, Woodhouse. " Round about the name of W. H. Johnson floated abowler hat, a collar-and-necktie, a pair of braces and an umbrella. And so on and so on. It all made you feel very homely. But MissPinnegar was sadly hot and squeezed in her pew. 

Time came, and the colliers began to drum their feet. It was exactlythe excited, crowded audience Mr. May wanted. He darted out to driveJames round in front of the curtain. But James, fascinated by rakingin the money so fast, could not be shifted from the pay-box, and thetwo men nearly had a fight. At last Mr. May was seen shooing James, like a scuffled chicken, down the side gangway and on to the stage. 

James before the illuminated curtain of local adverts, bowing andbeginning and not making a single word audible! The crowd quieteditself, the eloquence flowed on. The crowd was sick of James, andbegan to shuffle. "Come down, come down!" hissed Mr. May franticallyfrom in front. But James did not move. He would flow on all night. Mr. May waved excitedly at Alvina, who sat obscurely at the piano, and darted on to the stage. He raised his voice and drowned James. James ceased to wave his penny-blackened hands, Alvina struck up"Welcome All" as loudly and emphatically as she could. 

And all the time Miss Pinnegar sat like a sphinx--like a sphinx. What she thought she did not know herself. But stolidly she staredat James, and anxiously she glanced sideways at the pounding Alvina. She knew Alvina had to pound until she received the cue that Mr. Maywas fitted in his pug-dog "Costoom. "

A twitch of the curtain. Alvina wound up her final flourish, thecurtain rose, and:

"Well really!" said Miss Pinnegar, out loud. 

There was Mr. May as a pug dog begging, too lifelike and tooimpossible. The audience shouted. Alvina sat with her hands in herlap. The Pug was a great success. 

Curtain! A few bars of Toreador--and then Miss Poppy's sheets ofmusic. Soft music. Miss Poppy was on the ground under a green scarf. And so the accumulating dilation, on to the whirling climax of theperfect arum lily. Sudden curtain, and a yell of ecstasy from thecolliers. Of all blossoms, the arum, the arum lily is most mysticaland portentous. 

Now a crash and rumble from Alvina's piano. This is the storm fromwhence the rainbow emerges. Up goes the curtain--Miss Poppy twirlingtill her skirts lift as in a breeze, rise up and become a rainbowabove her now darkened legs. The footlights are all butextinguished. Miss Poppy is all but extinguished also. 

The rainbow is not so moving as the arum lily. But the Catherinewheel, done at the last moment on one leg and then an amazing leapinto the air backwards, again brings down the house. 

Miss Poppy herself sets all store on her cup and saucer. But theaudience, vulgar as ever, cannot quite see it. 

And so, Alvina slips away with Miss Poppy's music-sheets, while Mr. May sits down like a professional at the piano and makes things flyfor the up-and-down-stairs Baxter Bros. Meanwhile, Alvina's paleface hovering like a ghost in the side darkness, as it were underthe stage. 

The lamps go out: gurglings and kissings--and then the dither on thescreen: "The Human Bird, " in awful shivery letters. It's not a verygood machine, and Mr. May is not a very good operator. Audiencedistinctly critical. Lights up--an "Chot-let, penny a bar! Chot-let, penny a bar!" even as in Alvina's dream--and then "The Pancake"--sothe first half over. Lights up for the interval. 

Miss Pinnegar sighed and folded her hands. She looked neither toright nor to left. In spite of herself, in spite of outraged shameand decency, she was excited. But she felt such excitement was notwholesome. In vain the boy most pertinently yelled "Chot-let" ather. She looked neither to right nor left. But when she saw Alvinanodding to her with a quick smile from the side gangway under thestage, she almost burst into tears. It was too much for her, all atonce. And Alvina looked almost indecently excited. As she slippedacross in front of the audience, to the piano, to play the seductive"Dream Waltz!" she looked almost fussy, like her father. James, needless to say, flittered and hurried hither and thither around theaudience and the stage, like a wagtail on the brink of a pool. 

The second half consisted of a comic drama acted by two BaxterBros. , disguised as women, and Miss Poppy disguised as a man--with acouple of locals thrown in to do the guardsman and the Count. Thiswent very well. The winding up was the first instalment of "TheSilent Grip. "

When lights went up and Alvina solemnly struck "God Save OurGracious King, " the audience was on its feet and not very quiet, evidently hissing with excitement like doughnuts in the pan evenwhen the pan is taken off the fire. Mr. Houghton thanked them fortheir courtesy and attention, and hoped--And nobody took theslightest notice. 

Miss Pinnegar stayed last, waiting for Alvina. And Alvina, in herexcitement, waited for Mr. May and her father. 

Mr. May fairly pranced into the empty hall. 

"Well!" he said, shutting both his fists and flourishing them inMiss Pinnegar's face. "How did it go?"

"I think it went very well, " she said. 

"Very well! I should think so, indeed. It went like a house on fire. What? Didn't it?" And he laughed a high, excited little laugh. 

James was counting pennies for his life, in the cash-place, anddropping them into a Gladstone bag. The others had to wait for him. At last he locked his bag. 

"Well, " said Mr. May, "done well?"

"Fairly well, " said James, huskily excited. "Fairly well. "

"Only fairly? Oh-h!" And Mr. May suddenly picked up the bag. Jamesturned as if he would snatch it from him. "Well! Feel that, forfairly well!" said Mr. May, handing the bag to Alvina. 

"Goodness!" she cried, handing it to Miss Pinnegar. 

"Would you believe it?" said Miss Pinnegar, relinquishing it toJames. But she spoke coldly, aloof. 

Mr. May turned off the gas at the meter, came talking through thedarkness of the empty theatre, picking his way with a flash-light. 

"C'est le premier pas qui coute, " he said, in a sort of AmericanFrench, as he locked the doors and put the key in his pocket. Jamestripped silently alongside, bowed under the weight of his Gladstonebag of pennies. 

"How much have we taken, father?" asked Alvina gaily. 

"I haven't counted, " he snapped. 

When he got home he hurried upstairs to his bare chamber. He swepthis table clear, and then, in an expert fashion, he seized handfulsof coin and piled them in little columns on his board. There was anarmy of fat pennies, a dozen to a column, along the back, rows androws of fat brown rank-and-file. In front of these, rows of slimhalfpence, like an advance-guard. And commanding all, a stout columnof half-crowns, a few stoutish and important florin-figures, likegeneral and colonels, then quite a file of shillings, like so manycaptains, and a little cloud of silvery lieutenant sixpences. Rightat the end, like a frail drummer boy, a thin stick of threepennypieces. 

There they all were: burly dragoons of stout pennies, heavy andholding their ground, with a screen of halfpenny light infantry, officered by the immovable half-crown general, who in his turn wasflanked by all his staff of florin colonels and shilling captains, from whom lightly moved the nimble sixpenny lieutenants allignoring the wan, frail Joey of the threepenny-bits. 

Time after time James ran his almighty eye over his army. He lovedthem. He loved to feel that his table was pressed down, that itgroaned under their weight. He loved to see the pence, likeinnumerable pillars of cloud, standing waiting to lead on intowildernesses of unopened resource, while the silver, as pillars oflight, should guide the way down the long night of fortune. Theirweight sank sensually into his muscle, and gave him gratification. The dark redness of bronze, like full-blooded fleas, seemed aliveand pulsing, the silver was magic as if winged. 

CHAPTER VII

NATCHA-KEE-TAWARA

Mr. May and Alvina became almost inseparable, and Woodhouse buzzedwith scandal. Woodhouse could not believe that Mr. May wasabsolutely final in his horror of any sort of coming-on-ness in awoman. It could not believe that he was only _so_ fond of Alvinabecause she was like a sister to him, poor, lonely, harassed soulthat he was: a pure sister who really hadn't any body. For althoughMr. May was rather fond, in an epicurean way, of his own body, yetother people's bodies rather made him shudder. So that his grandutterance on Alvina was: "She's not physical, she's mental. "

He even explained to her one day how it was, in his naïve fashion. 

"There are two kinds of friendships, " he said, "physical and mental. The physical is a thing of the moment. Of cauce you quite _like_ theindividual, you remain quite nice with them, and so on, --to keep thething as decent as possible. It _is_ quite decent, so long as youkeep it so. But it is a thing of the moment. Which you know. It maylast a week or two, or a month or two. But you know from thebeginning it is going to end--quite finally--quite soon. You take itfor what it is. But it's so different with the mental friendships. _They_ are lasting. They are eternal--if anything human (he saidyuman) ever is eternal, ever _can_ be eternal. " He pressed his handstogether in an odd cherubic manner. He was quite sincere: if manever _can_ be quite sincere. 

Alvina was quite content to be one of his mental and eternalfriends, or rather _friendships_--since she existed _in abstractu_as far as he was concerned. For she did not find him at allphysically moving. Physically he was not there: he was oddly anabsentee. But his naïveté roused the serpent's tooth of her bitterirony. 

"And your wife?" she said to him. 

"Oh, my wife! Dreadful thought! _There_ I made the great mistake oftrying to find the two in one person! And _didn't_ I fall betweentwo stools! Oh dear, _didn't_ I? Oh, I fell between the two stoolsbeautifully, beautifully! And _then_--she nearly set the stools ontop of me. I thought I should never get up again. When I wasphysical, she was mental--Bernard Shaw and cold baths forsupper!--and when I was mental she was physical, and threw her armsround my neck. In the morning, mark you. Always in the morning, whenI was on the alert for business. Yes, invariably. What do you thinkof it? Could the devil himself have invented anything more trying?Oh dear me, don't mention it. Oh, what a time I had! Wonder I'malive. Yes, really! Although you smile. "

Alvina did more than smile. She laughed outright. And yet sheremained good friends with the odd little man. 

He bought himself a new, smart overcoat, that fitted his figure, anda new velour hat. And she even noticed, one day when he was curlinghimself up cosily on the sofa, that he had pale blue silk underwear, and purple silk suspenders. She wondered where he got them, and howhe afforded them. But there they were. 

James seemed for the time being wrapt in hisundertaking--particularly in the takings part of it. He seemed forthe time being contented--or nearly so, nearly so. Certainly therewas money coming in. But then he had to pay off all he had borrowedto buy his erection and its furnishings, and a bulk of penniessublimated into a very small £. S. D. Account, at the bank. 

The Endeavour was successful--yes, it was successful. But notoverwhelmingly so. On wet nights Woodhouse did not care to traildown to Lumley. And then Lumley was one of those depressed, negativespots on the face of the earth which have no pull at all. In thatregion of sharp hills with fine hill-brows, and shallow, ratherdreary canal-valleys, it was the places on the hill-brows, likeWoodhouse and Hathersedge and Rapton which flourished, while thedreary places down along the canals existed only for work-places, not for life and pleasure. It was just like James to have plantedhis endeavour down in the stagnant dust and rust of potteries andfoundries, where no illusion could bloom. 

He had dreamed of crowded houses every night, and of raised prices. But there was no probability of his being able to raise his prices. He had to figure lower than the Woodhouse Empire. He was second-ratefrom the start. His hope now lay in the tramway which was beingbuilt from Knarborough away through the country--a black countryindeed--through Woodhouse and Lumley and Hathersedge, to Rapton. When once this tramway-system was working, he would have a supply ofyouths and lasses always on tap, as it were. So he spread hisrainbow wings towards the future, and began to say:

"When we've got the trams, I shall buy a new machine and finerlenses, and I shall extend my premises. "

Mr. May did not talk business to Alvina. He was terribly secretivewith respect to business. But he said to her once, in the early yearfollowing their opening:

"Well, how do you think we're doing, Miss Houghton?"

"We're not doing any better than we did at first, I think, " shesaid. 

"No, " he answered. "No! That's true. That's perfectly true. But why?They seem to like the programs. "

"I think they do, " said Alvina. "I think they like them when they'rethere. But isn't it funny, they don't seem to want to come to them. I know they always talk as if we were second-rate. And they onlycome because they can't get to the Empire, or up to Hathersedge. We're a stop-gap. I know we are. "

Mr. May looked down in the mouth. He cocked his blue eyes at her, miserable and frightened. Failure began to frighten him abjectly. 

"Why do you think that is?" he said. 

"I don't believe they like the turns, " she said. 

"But _look_ how they applaud them! _Look_ how pleased they are!"

"I know. I know they like them once they're there, and they seethem. But they don't come again. They crowd the Empire--and theEmpire is only pictures now; and it's much cheaper to run. "

He watched her dismally. 

"I can't believe they want nothing but pictures. I can't believethey want everything in the flat, " he said, coaxing and miserable. He himself was not interested in the film. His interest was stillthe human interest in living performers and their living feats. "Why, " he continued, "they are ever so much more excited after agood turn, than after any film. "

"I know they are, " said Alvina. "But I don't believe they want to beexcited in that way. "

"In what way?" asked Mr. May plaintively. 

"By the things which the artistes do. I believe they're jealous. "

"Oh nonsense!" exploded Mr. May, starting as if he had been shot. Then he laid his hand on her arm. "But forgive my rudeness! I don'tmean it, of _cauce_! But do you mean to say that these collier loutsand factory girls are jealous of the things the artistes do, becausethey could never do them themselves?"

"I'm sure they are, " said Alvina. 

"But I _can't_ believe it, " said Mr. May, pouting up his mouth andsmiling at her as if she were a whimsical child. "What a low opinionyou have of human nature!"

"Have I?" laughed Alvina. "I've never reckoned it up. But I'm surethat these common people here are jealous if anybody does anythingor has anything they can't have themselves. "

"I can't believe it, " protested Mr. May. "Could they be so _silly_!And then why aren't they jealous of the extraordinary things whichare done on the film?"

"Because they don't see the flesh-and-blood people. I'm sure that'sit. The film is only pictures, like pictures in the _Daily Mirror_. And pictures don't have any feelings apart from their own feelings. I mean the feelings of the people who watch them. Pictures don'thave any life except in the people who watch them. And that's whythey like them. Because they make them feel that they areeverything. "

"The pictures make the colliers and lasses feel that they themselvesare everything? But how? They identify themselves with the heroesand heroines on the screen?"

"Yes--they take it all to themselves--and there isn't anythingexcept themselves. I know it's like that. It's because they canspread themselves over a film, and they _can't_ over a livingperformer. They're up against the performer himself. And they hateit. "

Mr. May watched her long and dismally. 

"I _can't_ believe people are like that!--sane people!" he said. "Why, to me the whole joy is in the living personality, the curious_personality_ of the artiste. That's what I enjoy so much. "

"I know. But that's where you're different from them. "

"But _am_ I?"

"Yes. You're not as up to the mark as they are. "

"Not up to the mark? What do you mean? Do you mean they are moreintelligent?"

"No, but they're more modern. You like things which aren't yourself. But they don't. They hate to admire anything that they can't take tothemselves. They hate anything that isn't themselves. And that's whythey like pictures. It's all themselves to them, all the time. "

He still puzzled. 

"You know I don't follow you, " he said, a little mocking, as if shewere making a fool of herself. 

"Because you don't know them. You don't know the common people. Youdon't know how conceited they are. "

He watched her a long time. 

"And you think we ought to cut out the variety, and give nothing butpictures, like the Empire?" he said. 

"I believe it takes best, " she said. 

"And costs less, " he answered. "But _then_! It's so dull. Oh my_word_, it's so dull. I don't think I could bear it. "

"And our pictures aren't good enough, " she said. "We should have toget a new machine, and pay for the expensive films. Our pictures doshake, and our films are rather ragged. "

"But then, _surely_ they're good enough!" he said. 

That was how matters stood. The Endeavour paid its way, and madejust a margin of profit--no more. Spring went on to summer, and thenthere was a very shadowy margin of profit. But James was not at alldaunted. He was waiting now for the trams, and building up hopessince he could not build in bricks and mortar. 

The navvies were busy in troops along the Knarborough Road, and downLumley Hill. Alvina became quite used to them. As she went down thehill soon after six o'clock in the evening, she met them troopinghome. And some of them she liked. There was an outlawed look aboutthem as they swung along the pavement--some of them; and there was acertain lurking set of the head which rather frightened her becauseit fascinated her. There was one tall young fellow with a red faceand fair hair, who looked as if he had fronted the seas and thearctic sun. He looked at her. They knew each other quite well, inpassing. And he would glance at perky Mr. May. Alvina tried tofathom what the young fellow's look meant. She wondered what hethought of Mr. May. 

She was surprised to hear Mr. May's opinion of the navvy. 

"_He's_ a handsome young man, now!" exclaimed her companion oneevening as the navvies passed. And all three turned round, to findall three turning round. Alvina laughed, and made eyes. At thatmoment she would cheerfully have gone along with the navvy. She wasgetting so tired of Mr. May's quiet prance. 

On the whole, Alvina enjoyed the cinema and the life it brought her. She accepted it. And she became somewhat vulgarized in her bearing. She was _déclassée_: she had lost her class altogether. The otherdaughters of respectable tradesmen avoided her now, or spoke to heronly from a distance. She was supposed to be "carrying on" with Mr. May. 

Alvina did not care. She rather liked it. She liked being_déclassée_. She liked feeling an outsider. At last she seemed tostand on her own ground. She laughed to herself as she went back andforth from Woodhouse to Lumley, between Manchester House and thePleasure Palace. She laughed when she saw her father's theatre-noticesplastered about. She laughed when she saw his thrilling announcementsin the _Woodhouse Weekly_. She laughed when she knew that all theWoodhouse youths recognized her, and looked on her as one of their inferior entertainers. She was off the map: and she liked it. 

For after all, she got a good deal of fun out of it. There was notonly the continual activity. There were the artistes. Every week shemet a new set of stars--three or four as a rule. She rehearsed withthem on Monday afternoons, and she saw them every evening, and twicea week at matinees. James now gave two performances eachevening--and he always had _some_ audience. So that Alvina hadopportunity to come into contact with all the odd people of theinferior stage. She found they were very much of a type: a littlefrowsy, a little flea-bitten as a rule, indifferent to ordinarymorality, and philosophical even if irritable. They were often veryirritable. And they had always a certain fund of callousphilosophy. Alvina did not _like_ them--you were not supposed, really, to get deeply emotional over them. But she found it amusingto see them all and know them all. It was so different fromWoodhouse, where everything was priced and ticketed. These peoplewere nomads. They didn't care a straw who you were or who youweren't. They had a most irritable professional vanity, and that wasall. It was most odd to watch them. They weren't very squeamish. Ifthe young gentlemen liked to peep round the curtain when the younglady was in her knickers: oh, well, she rather roundly told themoff, perhaps, but nobody minded. The fact that ladies wore knickersand black silk stockings thrilled nobody, any more than grease-paintor false moustaches thrilled. It was all part of the stock-in-trade. As for immorality--well, what did it amount to? Not a great deal. Most of the men cared far more about a drop of whiskey than aboutany more carnal vice, and most of the girls were good pals with eachother, men were only there to act with: even if the act was aprivate love-farce of an improper description. What's the odds? Youcouldn't get excited about it: not as a rule. 

Mr. May usually took rooms for the artistes in a house down inLumley. When any one particular was coming, he would go to a ratherbetter-class widow in Woodhouse. He never let Alvina take any partin the making of these arrangements, except with the widow inWoodhouse, who had long ago been a servant at Manchester House, andeven now came in to do cleaning. 

Odd, eccentric people they were, these entertainers. Most of themhad a streak of imagination, and most of them drank. Most of themwere middle-aged. Most of them had an abstracted manner; in ordinarylife, they seemed left aside, somehow. Odd, extraneous creatures, often a little depressed, feeling life slip away from them. Thecinema was killing them. 

Alvina had quite a serious flirtation with a man who played a fluteand piccolo. He was about fifty years old, still handsome, andgrowing stout. When sober, he was completely reserved. When ratherdrunk, he talked charmingly and amusingly--oh, most charmingly. Alvina quite loved him. But alas, _how_ he drank! But what a charmhe had! He went, and she saw him no more. 

The usual rather American-looking, clean-shaven, slightly pastyyoung man left Alvina quite cold, though he had an amiable and trulychivalrous _galanterie_. He was quite likeable. But so unattractive. Alvina was more fascinated by the odd fish: like the lady who didmarvellous things with six ferrets, or the Jap who was tattooed allover, and had the most amazing strong wrists, so that he could throwdown any collier, with one turn of the hand. Queer cuts these!--butjust a little bit beyond her. She watched them rather from adistance. She wished she could jump across the distance. Particularly with the Jap, who was almost quite naked, but clothedwith the most exquisite tattooing. Never would she forget the eaglethat flew with terrible spread wings between his shoulders, or thestrange mazy pattern that netted the roundness of his buttocks. Hewas not very large, but nicely shaped, and with no hair on hissmooth, tattooed body. He was almost blue in colour--that is, histattooing was blue, with pickings of brilliant vermilion: as forinstance round the nipples, and in a strange red serpent's-jaws overthe navel. A serpent went round his loins and haunches. He told herhow many times he had had blood-poisoning, during the process of histattooing. He was a queer, black-eyed creature, with a look ofsilence and toad-like lewdness. He frightened her. But when he wasdressed in common clothes, and was just a cheap, shoddy-lookingEuropean Jap, he was more frightening still. For his face--he wasnot tattooed above a certain ring low on his neck--was yellow andflat and basking with one eye open, like some age-old serpent. Shefelt he was smiling horribly all the time: lewd, unthinkable. Astrange sight he was in Woodhouse, on a sunny morning; ashabby-looking bit of riff-raff of the East, rather down at theheel. Who could have imagined the terrible eagle of his shoulders, the serpent of his loins, his supple, magic skin?

The summer passed again, and autumn. Winter was a better time forJames Houghton. The trams, moreover, would begin to run in January. 

He wanted to arrange a good program for the week when the tramsstarted. A long time ahead, Mr. May prepared it. The one item wasthe Natcha-Kee-Tawara Troupe. The Natcha-Kee-Tawara Troupe consistedof five persons, Madame Rochard and four young men. They were astrictly Red Indian troupe. But one of the young men, the GermanSwiss, was a famous yodeller, and another, the French Swiss, was agood comic with a French accent, whilst Madame and the German did ascreaming two-person farce. Their great turn, of course, was theNatcha-Kee-Tawara Red Indian scene. 

The Natcha-Kee-Tawaras were due in the third week in January, arriving from the Potteries on the Sunday evening. When Alvina camein from Chapel that Sunday evening, she found her widow, Mrs. Rollings, seated in the living room talking with James, who had ananxious look. Since opening the Pleasure Palace James was lessregular at Chapel. And moreover, he was getting old and shaky, andSunday was the one evening he might spend in peace. Add that on thisparticular black Sunday night it was sleeting dismally outside, andJames had already a bit of a cough, and we shall see that he didright to stay at home. 

Mrs. Rollings sat nursing a bottle. She was to go to the chemist forsome cough-cure, because Madame had got a bad cold. The chemist wasgone to Chapel--he wouldn't open till eight. 

Madame and the four young men had arrived at about six. Madame, saidMrs. Rollings, was a little fat woman, and she was complaining allthe time that she had got a cold on her chest, laying her hand onher chest and trying her breathing and going "He-e-e-er! Herr!" tosee if she could breathe properly. She, Mrs. Rollings, had suggestedthat Madame should put her feet in hot mustard and water, but Madamesaid she must have something to clear her chest. The four young menwere four nice civil young fellows. They evidently liked Madame. Madame had insisted on cooking the chops for the young men. Sheherself had eaten one, but she laid her hand on her chest when sheswallowed. One of the young men had gone out to get her some brandy, and he had come back with half-a-dozen large bottles of Bass aswell. 

Mr. Houghton was very much concerned over Madame's cold. He askedthe same questions again and again, to try and make sure how bad itwas. But Mrs. Rollings didn't seem quite to know. James wrinkled hisbrow. Supposing Madame could not take her part! He was most anxious. 

"Do you think you might go across with Mrs. Rollings and see howthis woman is, Alvina?" he said to his daughter. 

"I should think you'll never turn Alvina out on such a night, " saidMiss Pinnegar. "And besides, it isn't right. Where is Mr. May? It'shis business to go. "

"Oh!" returned Alvina. "_I_ don't mind going. Wait a minute, I'llsee if we haven't got some of those pastilles for burning. If it'svery bad, I can make one of those plasters mother used. "

And she ran upstairs. She was curious to see what Madame and herfour young men were like. 

With Mrs. Rollings she called at the chemist's back door, and thenthey hurried through the sleet to the widow's dwelling. It was notfar. As they went up the entry they heard the sound of voices. Butin the kitchen all was quiet. The voices came from the front room. 

Mrs. Rollings tapped. 

"Come in!" said a rather sharp voice. Alvina entered on the widow'sheels. 

"I've brought you the cough stuff, " said the widow. "And MissHuff'n's come as well, to see how you was. "

Four young men were sitting round the table in their shirt-sleeves, with bottles of Bass. There was much cigarette smoke. By the fire, which was burning brightly, sat a plump, pale woman with dark brighteyes and finely-drawn eyebrows: she might be any age between fortyand fifty. There were grey threads in her tidy black hair. She wasneatly dressed in a well-made black dress with a small lace collar. There was a slight look of self-commiseration on her face. She had acigarette between her drooped fingers. 

She rose as if with difficulty, and held out her plump hand, onwhich four or five rings showed. She had dropped the cigaretteunnoticed into the hearth. 

"How do you do, " she said. "I didn't catch your name. " Madame'svoice was a little plaintive and plangent now, like a bronze reedmournfully vibrating. 

"Alvina Houghton, " said Alvina. 

"Daughter of him as owns the thee-etter where you're goin' to act, "interposed the widow. 

"Oh yes! Yes! I see. Miss Houghton. I didn't know how it was said. Huff-ton--yes? Miss Houghton. I've got a bad cold on my chest--"laying her plump hand with the rings on her plump bosom. "But let meintroduce you to my young men--" A wave of the plump hand, whoseforefinger was very slightly cigarette-stained, towards the table. 

The four young men had risen, and stood looking at Alvina andMadame. The room was small, rather bare, with horse-hair andwhite-crochet antimacassars and a linoleum floor. The table also wascovered with a brightly-patterned American oil-cloth, shiny butclean. A naked gas-jet hung over it. For furniture, there were justchairs, arm-chairs, table, and a horse-hair antimacassar-ed sofa. Yet the little room seemed very full--full of people, young men withsmart waistcoats and ties, but without coats. 

"That is Max, " said Madame. "I shall tell you only their names, andnot their family names, because that is easier for you--"

In the meantime Max had bowed. He was a tall Swiss with almond eyesand a flattish face and a rather stiff, ramrod figure. 

"And that is Louis--" Louis bowed gracefully. He was a SwissFrenchman, moderately tall, with prominent cheekbones and a wingof glossy black hair falling on his temple. 

"And that is Géoffroi--Geoffrey--" Geoffrey made his bow--abroad-shouldered, watchful, taciturn man from Alpine France. 

"And that is Francesco--Frank--" Francesco gave a faint curl of hislip, half smile, as he saluted her involuntarily in a militaryfashion. He was dark, rather tall and loose, with yellow-tawny eyes. He was an Italian from the south. Madame gave another look at him. "He doesn't like his English name of Frank. You will see, he pulls aface. No, he doesn't like it. We call him Ciccio also--" But Cicciowas dropping his head sheepishly, with the same faint smile on hisface, half grimace, and stooping to his chair, wanting to sit down. 

"These are my family of young men, " said Madame. "We are drawn fromthree races, though only Ciccio is not of our mountains. Will youplease to sit down. "

They all took their chairs. There was a pause. 

"My young men drink a little beer, after their horrible journey. Asa rule, I do not like them to drink. But tonight they have a littlebeer. I do not take any myself, because I am afraid of inflamingmyself. " She laid her hand on her breast, and took long, uneasybreaths. "I feel it. I feel it _here_. " She patted her breast. "Itmakes me afraid for tomorrow. Will you perhaps take a glass of beer?Ciccio, ask for another glass--" Ciccio, at the end of the table, did not rise, but looked round at Alvina as if he presumed therewould be no need for him to move. The odd, supercilious curl of thelip persisted. Madame glared at him. But he turned the handsome sideof his cheek towards her, with the faintest flicker of a sneer. 

"No, thank you. I never take beer, " said Alvina hurriedly. 

"No? Never? Oh!" Madame folded her hands, but her black eyes stilldarted venom at Ciccio. The rest of the young men fingered theirglasses and put their cigarettes to their lips and blew the smokedown their noses, uncomfortably. 

Madame closed her eyes and leaned back a moment. Then her facelooked transparent and pallid, there were dark rings under her eyes, the beautifully-brushed hair shone dark like black glass above herears. She was obviously unwell. The young men looked at her, andmuttered to one another. 

"I'm afraid your cold is rather bad, " said Alvina. "Will you let metake your temperature?"

Madame started and looked frightened. 

"Oh, I don't think you should trouble to do that, " she said. 

Max, the tall, highly-coloured Swiss, turned to her, saying:

"Yes, you must have your temperature taken, and then we s'll know, shan't we. I had a hundred and five when we were in Redruth. "

Alvina had taken the thermometer from her pocket. Ciccio meanwhilemuttered something in French--evidently something rude--meant forMax. 

"What shall I do if I can't work tomorrow!" moaned Madame, seeingAlvina hold up the thermometer towards the light. "Max, what shallwe do?"

"You will stay in bed, and we must do the White Prisoner scene, "said Max, rather staccato and official. 

Ciccio curled his lip and put his head aside. Alvina went across toMadame with the thermometer. Madame lifted her plump hand and fendedoff Alvina, while she made her last declaration:

"Never--never have I missed my work, for a single day, for tenyears. Never. If I am going to lie abandoned, I had better die atonce. "

"Lie abandoned!" said Max. "You know you won't do no such thing. What are you talking about?"

"Take the thermometer, " said Geoffrey roughly, but with feeling. 

"Tomorrow, see, you will be well. Quite certain!" said Louis. Madamemournfully shook her head, opened her mouth, and sat back withclosed eyes and the stump of the thermometer comically protrudingfrom a corner of her lips. Meanwhile Alvina took her plump whitewrist and felt her pulse. 

"We can practise--" began Geoffrey. 

"Sh!" said Max, holding up his finger and looking anxiously atAlvina and Madame, who still leaned back with the stump of thethermometer jauntily perking up from her pursed mouth, while herface was rather ghastly. 

Max and Louis watched anxiously. Geoffrey sat blowing the smoke downhis nose, while Ciccio callously lit another cigarette, striking amatch on his boot-heel and puffing from under the tip of his ratherlong nose. Then he took the cigarette from his mouth, turned hishead, slowly spat on the floor, and rubbed his foot on his spit. Maxflapped his eyelids and looked all disdain, murmuring somethingabout "ein schmutziges italienisches Volk, " whilst Louis, refusingeither to see or to hear, framed the word "chien" on his lips. 

Then quick as lightning both turned their attention again to Madame. 

Her temperature was a hundred and two. 

"You'd better go to bed, " said Alvina. "Have you eaten anything?"

"One little mouthful, " said Madame plaintively. 

Max sat looking pale and stricken, Louis had hurried forward to takeMadame's hand. He kissed it quickly, then turned aside his headbecause of the tears in his eyes. Geoffrey gulped beer in largethroatfuls, and Ciccio, with his head bent, was watching from underhis eyebrows. 

"I'll run round for the doctor--" said Alvina. 

"Don't! Don't do that, my dear! Don't you go and do that! I'm likelyto a temperature--"

"Liable to a temperature, " murmured Louis pathetically. 

"I'll go to bed, " said Madame, obediently rising. 

"Wait a bit. I'll see if there's a fire in the bedroom, " saidAlvina. 

"Oh, my dear, you are too good. Open the door for her, Ciccio--"

Ciccio reached across at the door, but was too late. Max hadhastened to usher Alvina out. Madame sank back in her chair. 

"Never for ten years, " she was wailing. "Quoi faire, ah, quoifaire! Que ferez-vous, mes pauvres, sans votre Kishwégin. Quevais-je faire, mourir dans un tel pays! La bonne demoiselle--labonne demoiselle--elle a du coeur. Elle pourrait aussi être belle, s'il y avait un peu plus de chair. Max, liebster, schau ich sehrelend aus? Ach, oh jeh, oh jeh!"

"Ach nein, Madame, ach nein. Nicht so furchtbar elend, " said Max. 

"Manca il cuore solamente al Ciccio, " moaned Madame. "Che naturapovera, senza sentimento--niente di bello. Ahimé, che amico, cheragazzo duro, aspero--"

"Trova?" said Ciccio, with a curl of the lip. He looked, as hedropped his long, beautiful lashes, as if he might weep for allthat, if he were not bound to be misbehaving just now. 

So Madame moaned in four languages as she posed pallid in herarm-chair. Usually she spoke in French only, with her young men. Butthis was an extra occasion. 

"La pauvre Kishwégin!" murmured Madame. "Elle va finir au monde. Elle passe--la pauvre Kishwégin. "

Kishwégin was Madame's Red Indian name, the name under which shedanced her Squaw's fire-dance. 

Now that she knew she was ill, Madame seemed to become more ill. Herbreath came in little pants. She had a pain in her side. A feverishflush seemed to mount her cheek. The young men were all extremelyuncomfortable. Louis did not conceal his tears. Only Ciccio kept thethin smile on his lips, and added to Madame's annoyance and pain. 

Alvina came down to take her to bed. The young men all rose, andkissed Madame's hand as she went out: her poor jewelled hand, thatwas faintly perfumed with eau de Cologne. She spoke an appropriategood-night, to each of them. 

"Good-night, my faithful Max, I trust myself to you. Good-night, Louis, the tender heart. Good-night valiant Geoffrey. Ah Ciccio, donot add to the weight of my heart. Be good _braves_, all, bebrothers in one accord. One little prayer for poor Kishwégin. Good-night!"

After which valediction she slowly climbed the stairs, putting herhand on her knee at each step, with the effort. 

"No--no, " she said to Max, who would have followed to herassistance. "Do not come up. No--no!"

Her bedroom was tidy and proper. 

"Tonight, " she moaned, "I shan't be able to see that the boys'rooms are well in order. They are not to be trusted, no. They needan overseeing eye: especially Ciccio; especially Ciccio!"

She sank down by the fire and began to undo her dress. 

"You must let me help you, " said Alvina. "You know I have been anurse. "

"Ah, you are too kind, too kind, dear young lady. I am a lonely oldwoman. I am not used to attentions. Best leave me. "

"Let me help you, " said Alvina. 

"Alas, ahimé! Who would have thought Kishwégin would need help. Idanced last night with the boys in the theatre in Leek: and tonightI am put to bed in--what is the name of this place, dear?--It seemsI don't remember it. "

"Woodhouse, " said Alvina. 

"Woodhouse! Woodhouse! Is there not something called Woodlouse? Ibelieve. Ugh, horrible! Why is it horrible?"

Alvina quickly undressed the plump, trim little woman. She seemed sosoft. Alvina could not imagine how she could be a dancer on thestage, strenuous. But Madame's softness could flash into wildenergy, sudden convulsive power, like a cuttle-fish. Alvina brushedout the long black hair, and plaited it lightly. Then she got Madameinto bed. 

"Ah, " sighed Madame, "the good bed! The good bed! But cold--it is socold. Would you hang up my dress, dear, and fold my stockings?"

Alvina quickly folded and put aside the dainty underclothing. Queer, dainty woman, was Madame, even to her wonderful threadedblack-and-gold garters. 

"My poor boys--no Kishwégin tomorrow! You don't think I need see apriest, dear? A priest!" said Madame, her teeth chattering. 

"Priest! Oh no! You'll be better when we can get you warm. I thinkit's only a chill. Mrs. Rollings is warming a blanket--"

Alvina ran downstairs. Max opened the sitting-room door and stoodwatching at the sound of footsteps. His rather bony fists wereclenched beneath his loose shirt-cuffs, his eyebrows tragicallylifted. 

"Is she much ill?" he asked. 

"I don't know. But I don't think so. Do you mind heating theblanket while Mrs. Rollings makes thin gruel?"

Max and Louis stood heating blankets. Louis' trousers were cutrather tight at the waist, and gave him a female look. Max wasstraight and stiff. Mrs. Rollings asked Geoffrey to fill thecoal-scuttles and carry one upstairs. Geoffrey obediently went outwith a lantern to the coal-shed. Afterwards he was to carry up thehorse-hair arm-chair. 

"I must go home for some things, " said Alvina to Ciccio. "Will youcome and carry them for me?"

He started up, and with one movement threw away his cigarette. Hedid not look at Alvina. His beautiful lashes seemed to screen hiseyes. He was fairly tall, but loosely built for an Italian, withslightly sloping shoulders. Alvina noticed the brown, slenderMediterranean hand, as he put his fingers to his lips. It was a handsuch as she did not know, prehensile and tender and dusky. With anodd graceful slouch he went into the passage and reached for hiscoat. 

He did not say a word, but held aloof as he walked with Alvina. 

"I'm sorry for Madame, " said Alvina, as she hurried ratherbreathless through the night. "She does think for you men. "

But Ciccio vouchsafed no answer, and walked with his hands in thepockets of his water-proof, wincing from the weather. 

"I'm afraid she will never be able to dance tomorrow, " said Alvina. 

"You think she won't be able?" he said. 

"I'm almost sure she won't. "

After which he said nothing, and Alvina also kept silence till theycame to the black dark passage and encumbered yard at the back ofthe house. 

"I don't think you can see at all, " she said. "It's this way. " Shegroped for him in the dark, and met his groping hand. 

"This way, " she said. 

It was curious how light his fingers were in their clasp--almostlike a child's touch. So they came under the light from the windowof the sitting-room. 

Alvina hurried indoors, and the young man followed. 

"I shall have to stay with Madame tonight, " she explained hurriedly. "She's feverish, but she may throw it off if we can get her into asweat. " And Alvina ran upstairs collecting things necessary. Cicciostood back near the door, and answered all Miss Pinnegar'sentreaties to come to the fire with a shake of the head and a slightsmile of the lips, bashful and stupid. 

"But do come and warm yourself before you go out again, " said MissPinnegar, looking at the man as he drooped his head in the distance. He still shook dissent, but opened his mouth at last. 

"It makes it colder after, " he said, showing his teeth in a slight, stupid smile. 

"Oh well, if you think so, " said Miss Pinnegar, nettled. Shecouldn't make heads or tails of him, and didn't try. 

When they got back, Madame was light-headed, and talking excitedlyof her dance, her young men. The three young men were terrified. They had got the blankets scorching hot. Alvina smeared the plastersand applied them to Madame's side, where the pain was. What awhite-skinned, soft, plump child she seemed! Her pain meant a touchof pleurisy, for sure. The men hovered outside the door. Alvinawrapped the poor patient in the hot blankets, got a few spoonfuls ofhot gruel and whiskey down her throat, fastened her down in bed, lowered the light and banished the men from the stairs. Then she satdown to watch. Madame chafed, moaned, murmured feverishly. Alvinasoothed her, and put her hands in bed. And at last the poor dearbecame quiet. Her brow was faintly moist. She fell into a quietsleep, perspiring freely. Alvina watched her still, soothed her whenshe suddenly started and began to break out of the bedclothes, quieted her, pressed her gently, firmly down, folded her tight andmade her submit to the perspiration against which, in convulsivestarts, she fought and strove, crying that she was suffocating, shewas too hot, too hot. 

"Lie still, lie still, " said Alvina. "You must keep warm. "

Poor Madame moaned. How she hated seething in the bath of her ownperspiration. Her wilful nature rebelled strongly. She would havethrown aside her coverings and gasped into the cold air, if Alvinahad not pressed her down with that soft, inevitable pressure. 

So the hours passed, till about one o'clock, when the perspirationbecame less profuse, and the patient was really better, reallyquieter. Then Alvina went downstairs for a moment. She saw the lightstill burning in the front room. Tapping, she entered. There sat Maxby the fire, a picture of misery, with Louis opposite him, noddingasleep after his tears. On the sofa Geoffrey snored lightly, whileCiccio sat with his head on the table, his arms spread out, deadasleep. Again she noticed the tender, dusky Mediterranean hands, theslender wrists, slender for a man naturally loose and muscular. 

"Haven't you gone to bed?" whispered Alvina. "Why?"

Louis started awake. Max, the only stubborn watcher, shook his headlugubriously. 

"But she's better, " whispered Alvina. "She's perspired. She'sbetter. She's sleeping naturally. "

Max stared with round, sleep-whitened, owlish eyes, pessimistic andsceptical:

"Yes, " persisted Alvina. "Come and look at her. But don't wake her, whatever you do. "

Max took off his slippers and rose to his tall height. Louis, like ascared chicken, followed. Each man held his slippers in his hand. They noiselessly entered and peeped stealthily over the heapedbedclothes. Madame was lying, looking a little flushed and verygirlish, sleeping lightly, with a strand of black hair stuck to hercheek, and her lips lightly parted. 

Max watched her for some moments. Then suddenly he straightenedhimself, pushed back his brown hair that was brushed up in theGerman fashion, and crossed himself, dropping his knee as before analtar; crossed himself and dropped his knee once more; and then athird time crossed himself and inclined before the altar. Then hestraightened himself again, and turned aside. 

Louis also crossed himself. His tears burst out. He bowed and tookthe edge of a blanket to his lips, kissing it reverently. Then hecovered his face with his hand. 

Meanwhile Madame slept lightly and innocently on. 

Alvina turned to go. Max silently followed, leading Louis by thearm. When they got downstairs, Max and Louis threw themselves ineach other's arms, and kissed each other on either cheek, gravely, in Continental fashion. 

"She is better, " said Max gravely, in French. 

"Thanks to God, " replied Louis. 

Alvina witnessed all this with some amazement. The men did not heedher. Max went over and shook Geoffrey, Louis put his hand onCiccio's shoulder. The sleepers were difficult to wake. The wakersshook the sleeping, but in vain. At last Geoffrey began to stir. But in vain Louis lifted Ciccio's shoulders from the table. The headand the hands dropped inert. The long black lashes lay motionless, the rather long, fine Greek nose drew the same light breaths, themouth remained shut. Strange fine black hair, he had, close as fur, animal, and naked, frail-seeming, tawny hands. There was a silverring on one hand. 

Alvina suddenly seized one of the inert hands that slid on thetable-cloth as Louis shook the young man's shoulders. Tight shepressed the hand. Ciccio opened his tawny-yellowish eyes, thatseemed to have been put in with a dirty finger, as the saying goes, owing to the sootiness of the lashes and brows. He was quite drunkwith his first sleep, and saw nothing. 

"Wake up, " said Alvina, laughing, pressing his hand again. 

He lifted his head once more, suddenly clasped her hand, his eyescame to consciousness, his hand relaxed, he recognized her, and hesat back in his chair, turning his face aside and lowering hislashes. 

"Get up, great beast, " Louis was saying softly in French, pushinghim as ox-drivers sometimes push their oxen. Ciccio staggered to hisfeet. 

"She is better, " they told him. "We are going to bed. "

They took their candles and trooped off upstairs, each one bowing toAlvina as he passed. Max solemnly, Louis gallant, the other two dumband sleepy. They occupied the two attic chambers. 

Alvina carried up the loose bed from the sofa, and slept on thefloor before the fire in Madame's room. 

Madame slept well and long, rousing and stirring and settling offagain. It was eight o'clock before she asked her first question. Alvina was already up. 

"Oh--alors--Then I am better, I am quite well. I can dance today. "

"I don't think today, " said Alvina. "But perhaps tomorrow. "

"No, today, " said Madame. "I can dance today, because I am quitewell. I am Kishwégin. "

"You are better. But you must lie still today. Yes, really--you willfind you are weak when you try to stand. "

Madame watched Alvina's thin face with sullen eyes. 

"You are an Englishwoman, severe and materialist, " she said. 

Alvina started and looked round at her with wide blue eyes. 

"Why?" she said. There was a wan, pathetic look about her, a sort ofheroism which Madame detested, but which now she found touching. 

"Come!" said Madame, stretching out her plump jewelled hand. "Come, I am an ungrateful woman. Come, they are not good for you, thepeople, I see it. Come to me. "

Alvina went slowly to Madame, and took the outstretched hand. Madamekissed her hand, then drew her down and kissed her on either cheek, gravely, as the young men had kissed each other. 

"You have been good to Kishwégin, and Kishwégin has a heart thatremembers. There, Miss Houghton, I shall do what you tell me. Kishwégin obeys you. " And Madame patted Alvina's hand and nodded herhead sagely. 

"Shall I take your temperature?" said Alvina. 

"Yes, my dear, you shall. You shall bid me, and I shall obey. "

So Madame lay back on her pillow, submissively pursing thethermometer between her lips and watching Alvina with black eyes. 

"It's all right, " said Alvina, as she looked at the thermometer. "Normal. "

"Normal!" re-echoed Madame's rather guttural voice. "Good! Well, then when shall I dance?"

Alvina turned and looked at her. 

"I think, truly, " said Alvina, "it shouldn't be before Thursday orFriday. "

"Thursday!" repeated Madame. "You say Thursday?" There was a note ofstrong rebellion in her voice. 

"You'll be so weak. You've only just escaped pleurisy. I can onlysay what I truly think, can't I?"

"Ah, you Englishwomen, " said Madame, watching with black eyes. "Ithink you like to have your own way. In all things, to have your ownway. And over all people. You are so good, to have your own way. Yes, you good Englishwomen. Thursday. Very well, it shall beThursday. Till Thursday, then, Kishwégin does not exist. "

And she subsided, already rather weak, upon her pillow again. Whenshe had taken her tea and was washed and her room was tidied, shesummoned the young men. Alvina had warned Max that she wantedMadame to be kept as quiet as possible this day. 

As soon as the first of the four appeared, in his shirt-sleeves andhis slippers, in the doorway, Madame said:

"Ah, there you are, my young men! Come in! Come in! It is notKishwégin addresses you. Kishwégin does not exist till Thursday, asthe English demoiselle makes it. " She held out her hand, faintlyperfumed with eau de Cologne--the whole room smelled of eau deCologne--and Max stooped his brittle spine and kissed it. Shetouched his cheek gently with her other hand. 

"My faithful Max, my support. "

Louis came smiling with a bunch of violets and pinky anemones. Helaid them down on the bed before her, and took her hand, bowing andkissing it reverently. 

"You are better, dear Madame?" he said, smiling long at her. 

"Better, yes, gentle Louis. And better for thy flowers, chivalricheart. " She put the violets and anemones to her face with bothhands, and then gently laid them aside to extend her hand toGeoffrey. 

"The good Geoffrey will do his best, while there is no Kishwégin?"she said as he stooped to her salute. 

"Bien sûr, Madame. "

"Ciccio, a button off thy shirt-cuff. Where is my needle?" Shelooked round the room as Ciccio kissed her hand. 

"Did you want anything?" said Alvina, who had not followed theFrench. 

"My needle, to sew on this button. It is there, in the silk bag. "

"I will do it, " said Alvina. 

"Thank you. "

While Alvina sewed on the button, Madame spoke to her young men, principally to Max. They were to obey Max, she said, for he wastheir eldest brother. This afternoon they would practise well thescene of the White Prisoner. Very carefully they must practise, andthey must find some one who would play the young squaw--for in thisscene she had practically nothing to do, the young squaw, but justsit and stand. Miss Houghton--but ah, Miss Houghton must play thepiano, she could not take the part of the young squaw. Some otherthen. 

While the interview was going on, Mr. May arrived, full of concern. 

"Shan't we have the procession!" he cried. 

"Ah, the procession!" cried Madame. 

The Natcha-Kee-Tawara Troupe upon request would signalize its entryinto any town by a procession. The young men were dressed as Indian_braves_, and headed by Kishwégin they rode on horseback through themain streets. Ciccio, who was the crack horseman, having served avery well-known horsey Marchese in an Italian cavalry regiment, dida bit of show riding. 

Mr. May was very keen on the procession. He had the horses inreadiness. The morning was faintly sunny, after the sleet and badweather. And now he arrived to find Madame in bed and the young menholding council with her. 

"How _very_ unfortunate!" cried Mr. May. "How _very_ unfortunate!"

"Dreadful! Dreadful!" wailed Madame from the bed. 

"But can't we do _anything_?"

"Yes--you can do the White Prisoner scene--the young men can dothat, if you find a dummy squaw. Ah, I think I must get up afterall. "

Alvina saw the look of fret and exhaustion in Madame's face. 

"Won't you all go downstairs now?" said Alvina. "Mr. Max knows whatyou must do. "

And she shooed the five men out of the bedroom. 

"I _must_ get up. I won't dance. I will be a dummy. But I must bethere. It is too dre-eadful, too dre-eadful!" wailed Madame. 

"Don't take any notice of them. They can manage by themselves. Menare such babies. Let them carry it through by themselves. "

"Children--they are all children!" wailed Madame. "All children! Andso, what will they do without their old _gouvernante_? My poor_braves_, what will they do without Kishwégin? It is too dreadful, too dre-eadful, yes. The poor Mr. May--so _disappointed_. "

"Then let him _be_ disappointed, " cried Alvina, as she forciblytucked up Madame and made her lie still. 

"You are hard! You are a hard Englishwoman. All alike. All alike!"Madame subsided fretfully and weakly. Alvina moved softly about. And in a few minutes Madame was sleeping again. 

Alvina went downstairs. Mr. May was listening to Max, who wastelling in German all about the White Prisoner scene. Mr. May hadspent his boyhood in a German school. He cocked his head on oneside, and, laying his hand on Max's arm, entertained him in oddGerman. The others were silent. Ciccio made no pretence oflistening, but smoked and stared at his own feet. Louis and Geoffreyhalf understood, so Louis nodded with a look of deep comprehension, whilst Geoffrey uttered short, snappy "Ja!--Ja!--Doch!--Eben!"rather irrelevant. 

"I'll be the squaw, " cried Mr. May in English, breaking off andturning round to the company. He perked up his head in an odd, parrot-like fashion. "_I'll_ be the squaw! What's her name?Kishwégin? I'll be Kishwégin. " And he bridled and beamedself-consciously. 

The two tall Swiss looked down on him, faintly smiling. Ciccio, sitting with his arms on his knees on the sofa, screwed round hishead and watched the phenomenon of Mr. May with inscrutable, expressionless attention. 

"Let us go, " said Mr. May, bubbling with new importance. "Let us goand rehearse _this morning_, and let us do the procession thisafternoon, when the colliers are just coming home. There! What?Isn't that exactly the idea? Well! Will you be ready at once, _now_?"

He looked excitedly at the young men. They nodded with slow gravity, as if they were already _braves_. And they turned to put on theirboots. Soon they were all trooping down to Lumley, Mr. May prancinglike a little circus-pony beside Alvina, the four young men rollingahead. 

"What do you think of it?" cried Mr. May. "We've saved thesituation--what? Don't you think so? Don't you think we cancongratulate ourselves. "

They found Mr. Houghton fussing about in the theatre. He was ontenterhooks of agitation, knowing Madame was ill. 

Max gave a brilliant display of yodelling. 

"But I must _explain_ to them, " cried Mr. May. "I must _explain_ tothem what yodel means. "

And turning to the empty theatre, he began, stretching forth hishand. 

"In the high Alps of Switzerland, where eternal snows and glaciersreign over luscious meadows full of flowers, if you should chance toawaken, as I have done, in some lonely wooden farm amid the mountainpastures, you--er--you--let me see--if you--no--if you should chanceto _spend the night_ in some lonely wooden farm, amid the uplandpastures, dawn will awake you with a wild, inhuman song, you willopen your eyes to the first gleam of icy, eternal sunbeams, yourears will be ringing with weird singing, that has no words and nomeaning, but sounds as if some wild and icy god were warbling tohimself as he wandered among the peaks of dawn. You look forthacross the flowers to the blue snow, and you see, far off, a smallfigure of a man moving among the grass. It is a peasant singing hismountain song, warbling like some creature that lifted up its voiceon the edge of the eternal snows, before the human race began--"

During this oration James Houghton sat with his chin in his hand, devoured with bitter jealousy, measuring Mr. May's eloquence. Andthen he started, as Max, tall and handsome now in Tyrolese costume, white shirt and green, square braces, short trousers of chamoisleather stitched with green and red, firm-planted naked knees, nakedankles and heavy shoes, warbled his native Yodel strains, a piercingand disturbing sound. He was flushed, erect, keen tempered andfierce and mountainous. There was a fierce, icy passion in the man. Alvina began to understand Madame's subjection to him. 

Louis and Geoffrey did a farce dialogue, two foreigners at the samemoment spying a purse in the street, struggling with each other andprotesting they wanted to take it to the policeman, Ciccio, whostood solid and ridiculous. Mr. Houghton nodded slowly and gravely, as if to give his measured approval. 

Then all retired to dress for the great scene. Alvina practised themusic Madame carried with her. If Madame found a good pianist, shewelcomed the accompaniment: if not, she dispensed with it. 

"Am I all right?" said a smirking voice. 

And there was Kishwégin, dusky, coy, with long black hair and ashort chamois dress, gaiters and moccasins and bare arms: _so_ coy, and _so_ smirking. Alvina burst out laughing. 

"But shan't I do?" protested Mr. May, hurt. 

"Yes, you're wonderful, " said Alvina, choking. "But I _must_ laugh. "

"But why? Tell me why?" asked Mr. May anxiously. "Is it my_appearance_ you laugh at, or is it only _me_? If it's me I don'tmind. But if it's my appearance, tell me so. "

Here an appalling figure of Ciccio in war-paint strolled on to thestage. He was naked to the waist, wore scalp-fringed trousers, wasdusky-red-skinned, had long black hair and eagle's feathers--onlytwo feathers--and a face wonderfully and terribly painted withwhite, red, yellow, and black lines. He was evidently pleased withhimself. His curious soft slouch, and curious way of lifting his lipfrom his white teeth, in a sort of smile, was very convincing. 

"You haven't got the girdle, " he said, touching Mr. May's plumpwaist--"and some flowers in your hair. "

Mr. May here gave a sharp cry and a jump. A bear on its hind legs, slow, shambling, rolling its loose shoulders, was stretching a pawtowards him. The bear dropped heavily on four paws again, and alaugh came from its muzzle. 

"You won't have to dance, " said Geoffrey out of the bear. 

"Come and put in the flowers, " said Mr. May anxiously, to Alvina. 

In the dressing-room, the dividing-curtain was drawn. Max, indeerskin trousers but with unpainted torso looked very white andstrange as he put the last touches of war-paint on Louis' face. Heglanced round at Alvina, then went on with his work. There was asort of nobility about his erect white form and stiffly-carriedhead, the semi-luminous brown hair. He seemed curiously superior. 

Alvina adjusted the maidenly Mr. May. Louis arose, a _brave_ likeCiccio, in war-paint even more hideous. Max slipped on a tatteredhunting-shirt and cartridge belt. His face was a little darkened. Hewas the white prisoner. 

They arranged the scenery, while Alvina watched. It was soon done. Aback cloth of tree-trunks and dark forest: a wigwam, a fire, and acradle hanging from a pole. As they worked, Alvina tried in vain todissociate the two _braves_ from their war-paint. The lines weredrawn so cleverly that the grimace of ferocity was fixed andhorrible, so that even in the quiet work of scene-shifting Louis'stiffish, female grace seemed full of latent cruelty, whilstCiccio's more muscular slouch made her feel she would not trust himfor one single moment. Awful things men were, savage, cruel, underneath their civilization. 

The scene had its beauty. It began with Kishwégin alone at the doorof the wigwam, cooking, listening, giving an occasional push to thehanging cradle, and, if only Madame were taking the part, crooningan Indian cradle-song. Enter the _brave_ Louis with his whiteprisoner, Max, who has his hands bound to his side. Kishwégingravely salutes her husband--the bound prisoner is seated by thefire--Kishwégin serves food, and asks permission to feed theprisoner. The _brave_ Louis, hearing a sound, starts up with his bowand arrow. There is a dumb scene of sympathy between Kishwégin andthe prisoner--the prisoner wants his bonds cut. Re-enter the _brave_Louis--he is angry with Kishwégin--enter the _brave_ Ciccio haulinga bear, apparently dead. Kishwégin examines the bear, Ciccioexamines the prisoner. Ciccio tortures the prisoner, makes himstand, makes him caper unwillingly. Kishwégin swings the cradle. Theprisoner is tripped up--falls, and cannot rise. He lies near thefallen bear. Kishwégin carries food to Ciccio. The two _braves_converse in dumb show, Kishwégin swings the cradle and croons. Themen rise once more and bend over the prisoner. As they do so, thereis a muffled roar. The bear is sitting up. Louis swings round, andat the same moment the bear strikes him down. Ciccio springs forwardand stabs the bear, then closes with it. Kishwégin runs and cuts theprisoner's bonds. He rises, and stands trying to lift his numbed andpowerless arms, while the bear slowly crushes Ciccio, and Kishwéginkneels over her husband. The bear drops Ciccio lifeless, and turnsto Kishwégin. At that moment Max manages to kill the bear--he takesKishwégin by the hand and kneels with her beside the dead Louis. 

It was wonderful how well the men played their different parts. ButMr. May was a little too frisky as Kishwégin. However, it would do. 

Ciccio got dressed as soon as possible, to go and look at the horseshired for the afternoon procession. Alvina accompanied him, Mr. Mayand the others were busy. 

"You know I think it's quite wonderful, your scene, " she said toCiccio. 

He turned and looked down at her. His yellow, dusky-set eyes restedon her good-naturedly, without seeing her, his lip curled in aself-conscious, contemptuous sort of smile. 

"Not without Madame, " he said, with the slow, half-sneering, stupidsmile. "Without Madame--" he lifted his shoulders and spread hishands and tilted his brows--"fool's play, you know. "

"No, " said Alvina. "I think Mr. May is good, considering. What doesMadame _do_?" she asked a little jealously. 

"Do?" He looked down at her with the same long, half-sardonic lookof his yellow eyes, like a cat looking casually at a bird whichflutters past. And again he made his shrugging motion. "She does itall, really. The others--they are nothing--what they are Madame hasmade them. And now they think they've done it all, you see. You see, that's it. "

"But how has Madame made it all? Thought it out, you mean?"

"Thought it out, yes. And then _done_ it. You should see herdance--ah! You should see her dance round the bear, when I bring himin! Ah, a beautiful thing, you know. She claps her hand--" AndCiccio stood still in the street, with his hat cocked a little onone side, rather common-looking, and he smiled along his fine noseat Alvina, and he clapped his hands lightly, and he tilted hiseyebrows and his eyelids as if facially he were imitating a dance, and all the time his lips smiled stupidly. As he gave a littleassertive shake of his head, finishing, there came a great yell oflaughter from the opposite pavement, where a gang of pottery lasses, in aprons all spattered with grey clay, and hair and boots and skinspattered with pallid spots, had stood to watch. The girls oppositeshrieked again, for all the world like a gang of grey baboons. Ciccio turned round and looked at them with a sneer along his nose. They yelled the louder. And he was horribly uncomfortable, walkingthere beside Alvina with his rather small and effeminately-shodfeet. 

"How stupid they are, " said Alvina. "I've got used to them. "

"They should be--" he lifted his hand with a sharp, viciousmovement--"_smacked_, " he concluded, lowering his hand again. 

"Who is going to do it?" said Alvina. 

He gave a Neapolitan grimace, and twiddled the fingers of one handoutspread in the air, as if to say: "There you are! You've got tothank the fools who've failed to do it. "

"Why do you all love Madame so much?" Alvina asked. 

"How, love?" he said, making a little grimace. "We like her--we loveher--as if she were a mother. You say _love_--" He raised hisshoulders slightly, with a shrug. And all the time he looked down atAlvina from under his dusky eyelashes, as if watching her sideways, and his mouth had the peculiar, stupid, self-conscious, half-jeeringsmile. Alvina was a little bit annoyed. But she felt that a greatinstinctive good-naturedness came out of him, he was self-consciousand constrained, knowing she did not follow his language of gesture. For him, it was not yet quite natural to express himself in speech. Gesture and grimace were instantaneous, and spoke worlds of things, if you would but accept them. 

But certainly he was stupid, in her sense of the word. She couldhear Mr. May's verdict of him: "Like a child, you know, just ascharming and just as tiresome and just as stupid. "

"Where is your home?" she asked him. 

"In Italy. " She felt a fool. 

"Which part?" she insisted. 

"Naples, " he said, looking down at her sideways, searchingly. 

"It must be lovely, " she said. 

"Ha--!" He threw his head on one side and spread out his hands, asif to say--"What do you want, if you don't find Naples lovely. "

"I should like to see it. But I shouldn't like to die, " she said. 

"What?"

"They say 'See Naples and die, '" she laughed. 

He opened his mouth, and understood. Then he smiled at her directly. 

"You know what that means?" he said cutely. "It means see Naples anddie afterwards. Don't die _before_ you've seen it. " He smiled with aknowing smile. 

"I see! I see!" she cried. "I never thought of that. "

He was pleased with her surprise and amusement. 

"Ah Naples!" he said. "She is lovely--" He spread his hand acrossthe air in front of him--"The sea--and Posilippo--and Sorrento--andCapri--Ah-h! You've never been out of England?"

"No, " she said. "I should love to go. "

He looked down into her eyes. It was his instinct to say at once hewould take her. 

"You've seen nothing--nothing, " he said to her. 

"But if Naples is so lovely, how could you leave it?" she asked. 

"What?"

She repeated her question. For answer, he looked at her, held outhis hand, and rubbing the ball of his thumb across the tips of hisfingers, said, with a fine, handsome smile:

"Pennies! Money! You can't earn money in Naples. Ah, Naples isbeautiful, but she is poor. You live in the sun, and you earnfourteen, fifteen pence a day--"

"Not enough, " she said. 

He put his head on one side and tilted his brows, as if to say "Whatare you to do?" And the smile on his mouth was sad, fine, andcharming. There was an indefinable air of sadness or wistfulnessabout him, something so robust and fragile at the same time, thatshe was drawn in a strange way. 

"But you'll go back?" she said. 

"Where?"

"To Italy. To Naples. "

"Yes, I shall go back to Italy, " he said, as if unwilling to commithimself. "But perhaps I shan't go back to Naples. "

"Never?"

"Ah, never! I don't say never. I shall go to Naples, to see mymother's sister. But I shan't go to live--"

"Have you a mother and father?"

"I? No! I have a brother and two sisters--in America. Parents, none. They are dead. "

"And you wander about the world--" she said. 

He looked at her, and made a slight, sad gesture, indifferent also. 

"But you have Madame for a mother, " she said. 

He made another gesture this time: pressed down the corners of hismouth as if he didn't like it. Then he turned with the slow, finesmile. 

"Does a man want two mothers? Eh?" he said, as if he posed aconundrum. 

"I shouldn't think so, " laughed Alvina. 

He glanced at her to see what she meant, what she understood. 

"My mother is dead, see!" he said. "Frenchwomen--Frenchwomen--theyhave their babies till they are a hundred--"

"What do you mean?" said Alvina, laughing. 

"A Frenchman is a little man when he's seven years old--and if hismother comes, he is a little baby boy when he's seventy. Do you knowthat?"

"I _didn't_ know it, " said Alvina. 

"But now--you do, " he said, lurching round a corner with her. 

They had come to the stables. Three of the horses were there, including the thoroughbred Ciccio was going to ride. He stood andexamined the beasts critically. Then he spoke to them with strangesounds, patted them, stroked them down, felt them, slid his handdown them, over them, under them, and felt their legs. 

Then, he looked up from stooping there under the horses, with along, slow look of his yellow eyes, at Alvina. She feltunconsciously flattered. His long, yellow look lingered, holding hereyes. She wondered what he was thinking. Yet he never spoke. Heturned again to the horses. They seemed to understand him, to prickup alert. 

"This is mine, " he said, with his hand on the neck of the oldthoroughbred. It was a bay with a white blaze. 

"I think he's nice, " she said. "He seems so sensitive. "

"In England, " he answered suddenly, "horses live a long time, because they _don't_ live--never alive--see? In Englandrailway-engines are alive, and horses go on wheels. " He smiled intoher eyes as if she understood. She was a trifle nervous as he smiledat her from out of the stable, so yellow-eyed and half-mysterious, derisive. Her impulse was to turn and go away from the stable. But adeeper impulse made her smile into his face, as she said to him:

"They like you to touch them. "

"Who?" His eyes kept hers. Curious how _dark_ they seemed, with onlya yellow ring of pupil. He was looking right into her, beyond herusual self, impersonal. 

"The horses, " she said. She was afraid of his long, cat-like look. Yet she felt convinced of his ultimate good-nature. He seemed to herto be the only passionately good-natured man she had ever seen. Shewatched him vaguely, with strange vague trust, implicit belief inhim. In him--in what?

That afternoon the colliers trooping home in the winter afternoonwere rejoiced with a spectacle: Kishwégin, in her deerskin, fringedgaiters and fringed frock of deerskin, her long hair down her back, and with marvellous cloths and trappings on her steed, ridingastride on a tall white horse, followed by Max in chieftain's robesand chieftain's long head-dress of dyed feathers, then by the othersin war-paint and feathers and brilliant Navajo blankets. Theycarried bows and spears. Ciccio was without his blanket, naked tothe waist, in war-paint, and brandishing a long spear. He dashed upfrom the rear, saluted the chieftain with his arm and his spear onhigh as he swept past, suddenly drew up his rearing steed, andtrotted slowly back again, making his horse perform its paces. Hewas extraordinarily velvety and alive on horseback. 

Crowds of excited, shouting children ran chattering along thepavements. The colliers, as they tramped grey and heavy, in anintermittent stream uphill from the low grey west, stood on thepavement in wonder as the cavalcade approached and passed, jinglingthe silver bells of its trappings, vibrating the wonderful coloursof the barred blankets and saddle cloths, the scarlet wool of theaccoutrements, the bright tips of feathers. Women shrieked asCiccio, in his war-paint, wheeled near the pavement. Childrenscreamed and ran. The colliers shouted. Ciccio smiled in histerrifying war-paint, brandished his spear and trotted softly, likea flower on its stem, round to the procession. 

Miss Pinnegar and Alvina and James Houghton had come round intoKnarborough Road to watch. It was a great moment. Looking along theroad they saw all the shopkeepers at their doors, the pavementseager. And then, in the distance, the white horse jingling itstrappings of scarlet hair and bells, with the dusky Kishwéginsitting on the saddle-blanket of brilliant, lurid stripes, sittingimpassive and all dusky above that intermittent flashing of colour:then the chieftain, dark-faced, erect, easy, swathed in a whiteblanket, with scarlet and black stripes, and all his strange crestof white, tip-dyed feathers swaying down his back: as he came nearerone saw the wolfskin and the brilliant moccasins against the blacksides of his horse; Louis and Goeffrey followed, lurid, horrid inthe face, wearing blankets with stroke after stroke of blazingcolour upon their duskiness, and sitting stern, holding theirspears: lastly, Ciccio, on his bay horse with a green seat, flickering hither and thither in the rear, his feathers swaying, hishorse sweating, his face ghastlily smiling in its war-paint. So theyadvanced down the grey pallor of Knarborough Road, in the latewintry afternoon. Somewhere the sun was setting, and far overheadwas a flush of orange. 

"Well I never!" murmured Miss Pinnegar. "Well I never!"

The strange savageness of the striped Navajo blankets seemed to herunsettling, advancing down Knarborough Road: she examined Kishwégincuriously. 

"Can you _believe_ that that's Mr. May--he's exactly like a girl. Well, well--it makes you wonder what is and what isn't. But _aren't_they good? What? Most striking. Exactly like Indians. You can'tbelieve your eyes. My word what a terrifying race they--" Here sheuttered a scream and ran back clutching the wall as Ciccio sweptpast, brushing her with his horse's tail, and actually swinging hisspear so as to touch Alvina and James Houghton lightly with the buttof it. James too started with a cry, the mob at the corner screamed. But Alvina caught the slow, mischievous smile as the painted horrorshowed his teeth in passing; she was able to flash back an excitedlaugh. She felt his yellow-tawny eyes linger on her, in that onesecond, as if negligently. 

"I call that too much!" Miss Pinnegar was crying, thoroughly upset. "Now that was unnecessary! Why it was enough to scare one to death. Besides, it's dangerous. It ought to be put a stop to. I don'tbelieve in letting these show-people have liberties. "

The cavalcade was slowly passing, with its uneasy horses and itsflare of striped colour and its silent riders. Ciccio was trottingsoftly back, on his green saddle-cloth, suave as velvet, his dusky, naked torso beautiful. 

"Eh, you'd think he'd get his death, " the women in the crowd weresaying. 

"A proper savage one, that. Makes your blood run cold--"

"Ay, an' a man for all that, take's painted face for what's worth. Atidy man, _I_ say. "

He did not look at Alvina. The faint, mischievous smile uncoveredhis teeth. He fell in suddenly behind Geoffrey, with a jerk of hissteed, calling out to Geoffrey in Italian. 

It was becoming cold. The cavalcade fell into a trot, Mr. Mayshaking rather badly. Ciccio halted, rested his lance against alamp-post, switched his green blanket from beneath him, flung itround him as he sat, and darted off. They had all disappeared overthe brow of Lumley Hill, descending. He was gone too. In the wintrytwilight the crowd began, lingeringly, to turn away. And in somestrange way, it manifested its disapproval of the spectacle: asgrown-up men and women, they were a little bit insulted by such ashow. It was an anachronism. They wanted a direct appeal to themind. Miss Pinnegar expressed it. 

"Well, " she said, when she was safely back in Manchester House, withthe gas lighted, and as she was pouring the boiling water into thetea-pot, "You may say what you like. It's interesting in a way, justto show what savage Red-Indians were like. But it's childish. It'sonly childishness. I can't understand, myself, how people can go onliking shows. Nothing happens. It's not like the cinema, where yousee it all and take it all in at once; you _know_ everything at aglance. You don't know anything by looking at these people. You knowthey're only men dressed up, for money. I can't see why you shouldencourage it. I don't hold with idle show-people, parading round, Idon't, myself. I like to go to the cinema once a week. It'sinstruction, you take it all in at a glance, all you need to know, and it lasts you for a week. You can get to know everything aboutpeople's actual lives from the cinema. I don't see why you wantpeople dressing up and showing off. "

They sat down to their tea and toast and marmalade, during thisharangue. Miss Pinnegar was always like a douche of cold water toAlvina, bringing her back to consciousness after a deliciousexcitement. In a minute Madame and Ciccio and all seemed to becomeunreal--the actual unrealities: while the ragged dithering picturesof the film were actual, real as the day. And Alvina was always putout when this happened. She really hated Miss Pinnegar. Yet she hadnothing to answer. They _were_ unreal, Madame and Ciccio and therest. Ciccio was just a fantasy blown in on the wind, to blow awayagain. The real, permanent thing was Woodhouse, the _semper idem_Knarborough Road, and the unchangeable grubby gloom of ManchesterHouse, with the stuffy, padding Miss Pinnegar, and her father, whosefingers, whose very soul seemed dirty with pennies. These were thesolid, permanent fact. These were life itself. And Ciccio, splashingup on his bay horse and green cloth, he was a mountebank and anextraneous nonentity, a coloured old rag blown down the KnarboroughRoad into Limbo. Into Limbo. Whilst Miss Pinnegar and her father satfrowsily on for ever, eating their toast and cutting off the crust, and sipping their third cup of tea. They would never blowaway--never, never. Woodhouse was there to eternity. And theNatcha-Kee-Tawara Troupe was blowing like a rag of old paper intoLimbo. Nothingness! Poor Madame! Poor gallant histrionic Madame! Thefrowsy Miss Pinnegar could crumple her up and throw her down theutilitarian drain, and have done with her. Whilst Miss Pinnegarlived on for ever. 

This put Alvina into a sharp temper. 

"Miss Pinnegar, " she said. "I do think you go on in the mostunattractive way sometimes. You're a regular spoil-sport. "

"Well, " said Miss Pinnegar tartly. "I don't approve of your way ofsport, I'm afraid. "

"You can't disapprove of it as much as I hate your spoil-sportexistence, " said Alvina in a flare. 

"Alvina, are you mad!" said her father. 

"Wonder I'm not, " said Alvina, "considering what my life is. "

CHAPTER VIII

CICCIO

Madame did not pick up her spirits, after her cold. For two days shelay in bed, attended by Mrs. Rollings and Alvina and the young men. But she was most careful never to give any room for scandal. Theyoung men might not approach her save in the presence of some thirdparty. And then it was strictly a visit of ceremony or business. 

"Oh, your Woodhouse, how glad I shall be when I have left it, " shesaid to Alvina. "I feel it is unlucky for me. "

"Do you?" said Alvina. "But if you'd had this bad cold in someplaces, you might have been much worse, don't you think. "

"Oh my dear!" cried Madame. "Do you think I could confuse you in mydislike of this Woodhouse? Oh no! You are not Woodhouse. On thecontrary, I think it is unkind for you also, this place. Youlook--also--what shall I say--thin, not very happy. "

It was a note of interrogation. 

"I'm sure I dislike Woodhouse much more than you can, " repliedAlvina. 

"I am sure. Yes! I am sure. I see it. Why don't you go away? Whydon't you marry?"

"Nobody wants to marry me, " said Alvina. 

Madame looked at her searchingly, with shrewd black eyes under herarched eyebrows. 

"How!" she exclaimed. "How don't they? You are not bad looking, onlya little too thin--too haggard--"

She watched Alvina. Alvina laughed uncomfortably. 

"Is there _nobody_?" persisted Madame. 

"Not now, " said Alvina. "Absolutely nobody. " She looked with aconfused laugh into Madame's strict black eyes. "You see I didn'tcare for the Woodhouse young men, either. I _couldn't_. "

Madame nodded slowly up and down. A secret satisfaction came overher pallid, waxy countenance, in which her black eyes were like twinswift extraneous creatures: oddly like two bright little darkanimals in the snow. 

"Sure!" she said, sapient. "Sure! How could you? But there are othermen besides these here--" She waved her hand to the window. 

"I don't meet them, do I?" said Alvina. 

"No, not often. But sometimes! sometimes!"

There was a silence between the two women, very pregnant. 

"Englishwomen, " said Madame, "are so practical. Why are they?"

"I suppose they can't help it, " said Alvina. "But they're not halfso practical and clever as _you_, Madame. "

"Oh la--la! I am practical differently. I am practicalimpractically--" she stumbled over the words. "But your Sue now, inJude the Obscure--is it not an interesting book? And is she notalways too practically practical. If she had been impracticallypractical she could have been quite happy. Do you know what Imean?--no. But she is ridiculous. Sue: so Anna Karénine. Ridiculousboth. Don't you think?"

"Why?" said Alvina. 

"Why did they both make everybody unhappy, when they had the manthey wanted, and enough money? I think they are both so silly. Ifthey had been beaten, they would have lost all their practical ideasand troubles, merely forgot them, and been happy enough. I am awoman who says it. Such ideas they have are not tragical. No, not atall. They are nonsense, you see, nonsense. That is all. Nonsense. Sue and Anna, they are--non-sensical. That is all. No tragedywhatsoever. Nonsense. I am a woman. I know men also. And I knownonsense when I see it. Englishwomen are all nonsense: the worstwomen in the world for nonsense. "

"Well, I am English, " said Alvina. 

"Yes, my dear, you are English. But you are not necessarily sonon-sensical. Why are you at all?"

"Nonsensical?" laughed Alvina. "But I don't know what you call mynonsense. "

"Ah, " said Madame wearily. "They never understand. But I like you, my dear. I am an old woman--"

"Younger than I, " said Alvina. 

"Younger than you, because I am practical from the heart, and notonly from the head. You are not practical from the heart. And yetyou have a heart. "

"But all Englishwomen have good hearts, " protested Alvina. 

"No! No!" objected Madame. "They are all ve-ry kind, and ve-rypractical with their kindness. But they have no heart in all theirkindness. It is all head, all head: the kindness of the head. "

"I can't agree with you, " said Alvina. 

"No. No. I don't expect it. But I don't mind. You are very kind tome, and I thank you. But it is from the head, you see. And so Ithank you from the head. From the heart--no. "

Madame plucked her white fingers together and laid them on herbreast with a gesture of repudiation. Her black eyes staredspitefully. 

"But Madame, " said Alvina, nettled, "I should never be half such agood business woman as you. Isn't that from the head?"

"Ha! of course! Of course you wouldn't be a good business woman. Because you are kind from the head. I--" she tapped her forehead andshook her head--"I am not kind from the head. From the head I ambusiness-woman, good business-woman. Of course I am a goodbusiness-woman--of course! But--" here she changed her expression, widened her eyes, and laid her hand on her breast--"when the heartspeaks--then I listen with the heart. I do not listen with the head. The heart hears the heart. The head--that is another thing. But youhave blue eyes, you cannot understand. Only dark eyes--" She pausedand mused. 

"And what about yellow eyes?" asked Alvina, laughing. 

Madame darted a look at her, her lips curling with a very faint, fine smile of derision. Yet for the first time her black eyesdilated and became warm. 

"Yellow eyes like Ciccio's?" she said, with her great watchful eyesand her smiling, subtle mouth. "They are the darkest of all. " Andshe shook her head roguishly. 

"Are they!" said Alvina confusedly, feeling a blush burning up herthroat into her face. 

"Ha--ha!" laughed Madame. "Ha-ha! I am an old woman, you see. Myheart is old enough to be kind, and my head is old enough to beclever. My heart is kind to few people--very few--especially in thisEngland. My young men know that. But perhaps to you it is kind. "

"Thank you, " said Alvina. 

"There! From the head _Thank you_. It is not well done, you see. Yousee!"

But Alvina ran away in confusion. She felt Madame was having her ona string. 

Mr. May enjoyed himself hugely playing Kishwégin. When Madame camedownstairs Louis, who was a good satirical mimic, imitated him. Alvina happened to come into their sitting-room in the midst oftheir bursts of laughter. They all stopped and looked at hercautiously. 

"Continuez! Continuez!" said Madame to Louis. And to Alvina: "Sitdown, my dear, and see what a good actor we have in our Louis. "

Louis glanced round, laid his head a little on one side and drew inhis chin, with Mr. May's smirk exactly, and wagging his tailslightly, he commenced to play the false Kishwégin. He sidled andbridled and ejaculated with raised hands, and in the dumb show thetall Frenchman made such a ludicrous caricature of Mr. Houghton'smanager that Madame wept again with laughter, whilst Max leaned backagainst the wall and giggled continuously like some potinvoluntarily boiling. Geoffrey spread his shut fists across thetable and shouted with laughter, Ciccio threw back his head andshowed all his teeth in a loud laugh of delighted derision. Alvinalaughed also. But she flushed. There was a certain biting, annihilating quality in Louis' derision of the absentee. And theothers enjoyed it so much. At moments Alvina caught her lip betweenher teeth, it was so screamingly funny, and so annihilating. Shelaughed in spite of herself. In spite of herself she was shaken intoa convulsion of laughter. Louis was masterful--he mastered herpsyche. She laughed till her head lay helpless on the chair, shecould not move. Helpless, inert she lay, in her orgasm of laughter. The end of Mr. May. Yet she was hurt. 

And then Madame wiped her own shrewd black eyes, and nodded slowapproval. Suddenly Louis started and held up a warning finger. Theyall at once covered their smiles and pulled themselves together. Only Alvina lay silently laughing. 

"Oh, good morning, Mrs. Rollings!" they heard Mr. May's voice. "Yourcompany is lively. Is Miss Houghton here? May I go through?"

They heard his quick little step and his quick little tap. 

"Come in, " called Madame. 

The Natcha-Kee-Tawaras all sat with straight faces. Only poor Alvinalay back in her chair in a new weak convulsion. Mr. May glancedquickly round, and advanced to Madame. 

"Oh, good-morning, Madame, so glad to see you downstairs, " he said, taking her hand and bowing ceremoniously. "Excuse my intruding onyour mirth!" He looked archly round. Alvina was still incompetent. She lay leaning sideways in her chair, and could not even speak tohim. 

"It was evidently a good joke, " he said. "May I hear it too?"

"Oh, " said Madame, drawling. "It was no joke. It was only Louismaking a fool of himself, doing a turn. "

"Must have been a good one, " said Mr. May. "Can't we put it on?"

"No, " drawled Madame, "it was nothing--just a non-sensical mood ofthe moment. Won't you sit down? You would like a littlewhiskey?--yes?"

Max poured out whiskey and water for Mr. May. 

Alvina sat with her face averted, quiet, but unable to speak to Mr. May. Max and Louis had become polite. Geoffrey stared with his big, dark-blue eyes stolidly at the newcomer. Ciccio leaned with his armson his knees, looking sideways under his long lashes at the inertAlvina. 

"Well, " said Madame, "and are you satisfied with your houses?"

"Oh yes, " said Mr. May. "Quite! The two nights have been excellent. Excellent!"

"Ah--I am glad. And Miss Houghton tells me I should not dancetomorrow, it is too soon. "

"Miss Houghton _knows_, " said Mr. May archly. 

"Of course!" said Madame. "I must do as she tells me. "

"Why yes, since it is for your good, and not hers. "

"Of course! Of course! It is very kind of her. "

"Miss Houghton is _most_ kind--to _every one_, " said Mr. May. 

"I am sure, " said Madame. "And I am very glad you have been such agood Kishwégin. That is very nice also. "

"Yes, " replied Mr. May. "I begin to wonder if I have mistaken myvocation. I should have been _on_ the boards, instead of behindthem. "

"No doubt, " said Madame. "But it is a little late--"

The eyes of the foreigners, watching him, flattered Mr. May. 

"I'm afraid it is, " he said. "Yes. Popular taste is a mysteriousthing. How do you feel, now? Do you feel they appreciate your workas much as they did?"

Madame watched him with her black eyes. 

"No, " she replied. "They don't. The pictures are driving us away. Perhaps we shall last for ten years more. And after that, we arefinished. "

"You think so, " said Mr. May, looking serious. 

"I am sure, " she said, nodding sagely. 

"But why is it?" said Mr. May, angry and petulant. 

"Why is it? I don't know. I don't know. The pictures are cheap, andthey are easy, and they cost the audience nothing, no feeling of theheart, no appreciation of the spirit, cost them nothing of these. And so they like them, and they don't like us, because they must_feel_ the things we do, from the heart, and appreciate them fromthe spirit. There!"

"And they don't want to appreciate and to feel?" said Mr. May. 

"No. They don't want. They want it all through the eye, andfinished--so! Just curiosity, impertinent curiosity. That's all. Inall countries, the same. And so--in ten years' time--no moreKishwégin at all. "

"No. Then what future have you?" said Mr. May gloomily. 

"I may be dead--who knows. If not, I shall have my little apartmentin Lausanne, or in Bellizona, and I shall be a bourgeoise once more, and the good Catholic which I am. "

"Which I am also, " said Mr. May. 

"So! Are you? An American Catholic?"

"Well--English--Irish--American. "

"So!"

Mr. May never felt more gloomy in his life than he did that day. Where, finally, was he to rest his troubled head?

There was not all peace in the Natcha-Kee-Tawara group either. ForThursday, there was to be a change of program--"Kishwégin'sWedding--" (with the white prisoner, be if said)--was to take theplace of the previous scene. Max of course was the director of therehearsal. Madame would not come near the theatre when she herselfwas not to be acting. 

Though very quiet and unobtrusive as a rule, Max could suddenlyassume an air of _hauteur_ and overbearing which was really veryannoying. Geoffrey always fumed under it. But Ciccio it put intounholy, ungovernable tempers. For Max, suddenly, would reveal hiscontempt of the Eyetalian, as he called Ciccio, using the Cockneyword. 

"Bah! quelle tête de veau, " said Max, suddenly contemptuous andangry because Ciccio, who really was slow at taking in the thingssaid to him, had once more failed to understand. 

"Comment?" queried Ciccio, in his slow, derisive way. 

"_Comment_!" sneered Max, in echo. "_What?_ _What?_ Why what _did_ Isay? Calf's-head I said. Pig's-head, if that seems more suitable toyou. "

"To whom? To me or to you?" said Ciccio, sidling up. 

"To you, lout of an Italian. "

Max's colour was up, he held himself erect, his brown hair seemed torise erect from his forehead, his blue eyes glared fierce. 

"That is to say, to me, from an uncivilized German pig, ah? ah?"

All this in French. Alvina, as she sat at the piano, saw Max talland blanched with anger; Ciccio with his neck stuck out, obliviousand convulsed with rage, stretching his neck at Max. All were inordinary dress, but without coats, acting in their shirt-sleeves. Ciccio was clutching a property knife. 

"Now! None of that! None of that!" said Mr. May, peremptory. ButCiccio, stretching forward taut and immobile with rage, was quiteunconscious. His hand was fast on his stage knife. 

"A dirty Eyetalian, " said Max, in English, turning to Mr. May. "Theyunderstand nothing. "

But the last word was smothered in Ciccio's spring and stab. Maxhalf started on to his guard, received the blow on his collar-bone, near the pommel of the shoulder, reeled round on top of Mr. May, whilst Ciccio sprang like a cat down from the stage and boundedacross the theatre and out of the door, leaving the knife rattlingon the boards behind him. Max recovered and sprang like a demon, white with rage, straight out into the theatre after him. 

"Stop--stop--!" cried Mr. May. 

"Halte, Max! Max, Max, attends!" cried Louis and Geoffrey, as Louissprang down after his friend. Thud went the boards again, with thespring of a man. 

Alvina, who had been seated waiting at the piano below, started upand overturned her chair as Ciccio rushed past her. Now Max, white, with set blue eyes, was upon her. 

"Don't--!" she cried, lifting her hand to stop his progress. He sawher, swerved, and hesitated, turned to leap over the seats and avoidher, when Louis caught him and flung his arms round him. 

"Max--attends, ami! Laisse le partir. Max, tu sais que je t'aime. Tule sais, ami. Tu le sais. Laisse le partir. "

Max and Louis wrestled together in the gangway, Max looking downwith hate on his friend. But Louis was determined also, he wrestledas fiercely as Max, and at last the latter began to yield. He waspanting and beside himself. Louis still held him by the hand and bythe arm. 

"Let him go, brother, he isn't worth it. What does he understand, Max, dear brother, what does he understand? These fellows from thesouth, they are half children, half animal. They don't know whatthey are doing. Has he hurt you, dear friend? Has he hurt you? Itwas a dummy knife, but it was a heavy blow--the dog of an Italian. Let us see. "

So gradually Max was brought to stand still. From under the edge ofhis waistcoat, on the shoulder, the blood was already staining theshirt. 

"Are you cut, brother, brother?" said Louis. "Let us see. "

Max now moved his arm with pain. They took off his waistcoat andpushed back his shirt. A nasty blackening wound, with the skinbroken. 

"If the bone isn't broken!" said Louis anxiously. "If the bone isn'tbroken! Lift thy arm, frère--lift. It hurts you--so--. No--no--it isnot broken--no--the bone is not broken. "

"There is no bone broken, I know, " said Max. 

"The animal. He hasn't done _that_, at least. "

"Where do you imagine he's gone?" asked Mr. May. 

The foreigners shrugged their shoulders, and paid no heed. There wasno more rehearsal. 

"We had best go home and speak to Madame, " said Mr. May, who wasvery frightened for his evening performance. 

They locked up the Endeavour. Alvina was thinking of Ciccio. He wasgone in his shirt sleeves. She had taken his jacket and hat from thedressing-room at the back, and carried them under her rain-coat, which she had on her arm. 

Madame was in a state of perturbation. She had heard some one comein at the back, and go upstairs, and go out again. Mrs. Rollings hadtold her it was the Italian, who had come in in his shirt-sleevesand gone out in his black coat and black hat, taking his bicycle, without saying a word. Poor Madame! She was struggling into hershoes, she had her hat on, when the others arrived. 

"What is it?" she cried. 

She heard a hurried explanation from Louis. 

"Ah, the animal, the animal, he wasn't worth all my pains!" cried poorMadame, sitting with one shoe off and one shoe on. "Why, Max, why didstthou not remain man enough to control that insulting mountain temper ofthine. Have I not said, and said, and said that in the Natcha-Kee-Tawarathere was but one nation, the Red Indian, and but one tribe, the tribeof Kishwe? And now thou hast called him a dirty Italian, or a dog of anItalian, and he has behaved like an animal. Too much, too much of ananimal, too little _esprit_. But thou, Max, art almost as bad. Thytemper is a devil's, which maybe is worse than an animal's. Ah, thisWoodhouse, a curse is on it, I know it is. Would we were away from it. Will the week never pass? We shall have to find Ciccio. Without him thecompany is ruined--until I get a substitute. I must get a substitute. And how?--and where?--in this country?--tell me that. I am tired ofNatcha-Kee-Tawara. There is no true tribe of Kishwe--no, never. I havehad enough of Natcha-Kee-Tawara. Let us break up, let us part, _mesbraves_, let us say adieu here in this _funeste_ Woodhouse. "

"Oh, Madame, dear Madame, " said Louis, "let us hope. Let us swear acloser fidelity, dear Madame, our Kishwégin. Let us never part. Max, thou dost not want to part, brother, well-loved? Thou dost notwant to part, brother whom I love? And thou, Geoffrey, thou--"

Madame burst into tears, Louis wept too, even Max turned aside hisface, with tears. Alvina stole out of the room, followed by Mr. May. 

In a while Madame came out to them. 

"Oh, " she said. "You have not gone away! We are wondering which wayCiccio will have gone, on to Knarborough or to Marchay. Geoffreywill go on his bicycle to find him. But shall it be to Knarboroughor to Marchay?"

"Ask the policeman in the market-place, " said Alvina. "He's sure tohave noticed him, because Ciccio's yellow bicycle is so uncommon. "

Mr. May tripped out on this errand, while the others discussed amongthemselves where Ciccio might be. 

Mr. May returned, and said that Ciccio had ridden off down theKnarborough Road. It was raining slightly. 

"Ah!" said Madame. "And now how to find him, in that great town. Iam afraid he will leave us without pity. "

"Surely he will want to speak to Geoffrey before he goes, " saidLouis. "They were always good friends. "

They all looked at Geoffrey. He shrugged his broad shoulders. 

"Always good friends, " he said. "Yes. He will perhaps wait for me athis cousin's in Battersea. In Knarborough, I don't know. "

"How much money had he?" asked Mr. May. 

Madame spread her hands and lifted her shoulders. 

"Who knows?" she said. 

"These Italians, " said Louis, turning to Mr. May. "They have alwaysmoney. In another country, they will not spend one sou if they canhelp. They are like this--" And he made the Neapolitan gesturedrawing in the air with his fingers. 

"But would he abandon you all without a word?" cried Mr. May. 

"Yes! Yes!" said Madame, with a sort of stoic pathos. "_He_ would. He alone would do such a thing. But he would do it. "

"And what point would he make for?"

"What point? You mean where would he go? To Battersea, no doubt, tohis cousin--and then to Italy, if he thinks he has saved enoughmoney to buy land, or whatever it is. "

"And so good-bye to him, " said Mr. May bitterly. 

"Geoffrey ought to know, " said Madame, looking at Geoffrey. 

Geoffrey shrugged his shoulders, and would not give his comradeaway. 

"No, " he said. "I don't know. He will leave a message at Battersea, I know. But I don't know if he will go to Italy. "

"And you don't know where to find him in Knarborough?" asked Mr. May, sharply, very much on the spot. 

"No--I don't. Perhaps at the station he will go by train to London. "It was evident Geoffrey was not going to help Mr. May. 

"Alors!" said Madame, cutting through this futility. "Go thou toKnarborough, Geoffrey, and see--and be back at the theatre for work. Go now. And if thou can'st find him, bring him again to us. Tell himto come out of kindness to me. Tell him. "

And she waved the young man away. He departed on his nine mile ridethrough the rain to Knarborough. 

"They know, " said Madame. "They know each other's places. It is alittle more than a year since we came to Knarborough. But they willremember. "

Geoffrey rode swiftly as possible through the mud. He did not carevery much whether he found his friend or not. He liked the Italian, but he never looked on him as a permanency. He knew Ciccio wasdissatisfied, and wanted a change. He knew that Italy was pullinghim away from the troupe, with which he had been associated now forthree years or more. And the Swiss from Martigny knew that theNeapolitan would go, breaking all ties, one day suddenly back toItaly. It was so, and Geoffrey was philosophical about it. 

He rode into town, and the first thing he did was to seek out themusic-hall artistes at their lodgings. He knew a good many of them. They gave him a welcome and a whiskey--but none of them had seenCiccio. They sent him off to other artistes, other lodging-houses. He went the round of associates known and unknown, of lodgingsstrange and familiar, of third-rate possible public houses. Then hewent to the Italians down in the Marsh--he knew these people alwaysask for one another. And then, hurrying, he dashed to the MidlandStation, and then to the Great Central Station, asking the porterson the London departure platform if they had seen his pal, a manwith a yellow bicycle, and a black bicycle cape. All to no purpose. 

Geoffrey hurriedly lit his lamp and swung off in the dark back toWoodhouse. He was a powerfully built, imperturbable fellow. Hepressed slowly uphill through the streets, then ran downhill intothe darkness of the industrial country. He had continually to crossthe new tram-lines, which were awkward, and he had occasionally tododge the brilliantly-illuminated tram-cars which threaded their wayacross-country through so much darkness. All the time it rained, andhis back wheel slipped under him, in the mud and on the newtram-track. 

As he pressed in the long darkness that lay between Slaters Mill andDurbeyhouses, he saw a light ahead--another cyclist. He moved to hisside of the road. The light approached very fast. It was a strongacetylene flare. He watched it. A flash and a splash and he saw thehumped back of what was probably Ciccio going by at a great pace onthe low racing machine. 

"Hi Cic'--! Ciccio!" he yelled, dropping off his own bicycle. 

"Ha-er-er!" he heard the answering shout, unmistakably Italian, waydown the darkness. 

He turned--saw the other cyclist had stopped. The flare swung round, and Ciccio softly rode up. He dropped off beside Geoffrey. 

"Toi!" said Ciccio. 

"Hé! Où vas-tu?"

"Hé!" ejaculated Ciccio. 

Their conversation consisted a good deal in noises variouslyejaculated. 

"Coming back?" asked Geoffrey. 

"Where've you been?" retorted Ciccio. 

"Knarborough--looking for thee. Where have you--?"

"Buckled my front wheel at Durbeyhouses. "

"Come off?"

"Hé!"

"Hurt?"

"Nothing. "

"Max is all right. "

"Merde!"

"Come on, come back with me. "

"Nay. " Ciccio shook his head. 

"Madame's crying. Wants thee to come back. "

Ciccio shook his head. 

"Come on, Cic'--" said Geoffrey. 

Ciccio shook his head. 

"Never?" said Geoffrey. 

"Basta--had enough, " said Ciccio, with an invisible grimace. 

"Come for a bit, and we'll clear together. "

Ciccio again shook his head. 

"What, is it adieu?"

Ciccio did not speak. 

"Don't go, comrade, " said Geoffrey. 

"Faut, " said Ciccio, slightly derisive. 

"Eh alors! I'd like to come with thee. What?"

"Where?"

"Doesn't matter. Thou'rt going to Italy?"

"Who knows!--seems so. "

"I'd like to go back. "

"Eh alors!" Ciccio half veered round. 

"Wait for me a few days, " said Geoffrey. 

"Where?"

"See you tomorrow in Knarborough. Go to Mrs. Pym's, 6 HampdenStreet. Gittiventi is there. Right, eh?"

"I'll think about it. "

"Eleven o'clock, eh?"

"I'll think about it. "

"Friends ever--Ciccio--eh?" Geoffrey held out his hand. 

Ciccio slowly took it. The two men leaned to each other and kissedfarewell, on either cheek. 

"Tomorrow, Cic'--"

"Au revoir, Gigi. "

Ciccio dropped on to his bicycle and was gone in a breath. Geoffreywaited a moment for a tram which was rushing brilliantly up to himin the rain. Then he mounted and rode in the opposite direction. Hewent straight down to Lumley, and Madame had to remain ontenterhooks till ten o'clock. 

She heard the news, and said:

"Tomorrow I go to fetch him. " And with this she went to bed. 

In the morning she was up betimes, sending a note to Alvina. Alvinaappeared at nine o'clock. 

"You will come with me?" said Madame. "Come. Together we will go toKnarborough and bring back the naughty Ciccio. Come with me, becauseI haven't all my strength. Yes, you will? Good! Good! Let us tellthe young men, and we will go now, on the tram-car. "

"But I am not properly dressed, " said Alvina. 

"Who will see?" said Madame. "Come, let us go. "

They told Geoffrey they would meet him at the corner of HampdenStreet at five minutes to eleven. 

"You see, " said Madame to Alvina, "they are very funny, these youngmen, particularly Italians. You must never let them think you havecaught them. Perhaps he will not let us see him--who knows? Perhapshe will go off to Italy all the same. "

They sat in the bumping tram-car, a long and wearying journey. Andthen they tramped the dreary, hideous streets of the manufacturingtown. At the corner of the street they waited for Geoffrey, who rodeup muddily on his bicycle. 

"Ask Ciccio to come out to us, and we will go and drink coffee atthe Geisha Restaurant--or tea or something, " said Madame. 

Again the two women waited wearily at the street-end. At lastGeoffrey returned, shaking his head. 

"He won't come?" cried Madame. 

"No. "

"He says he is going back to Italy?"

"To London. "

"It is the same. You can never trust them. Is he quite obstinate?"

Geoffrey lifted his shoulders. Madame could see the beginnings ofdefection in him too. And she was tired and dispirited. 

"We shall have to finish the Natcha-Kee-Tawara, that is all, " shesaid fretfully. 

Geoffrey watched her stolidly, impassively. 

"Dost thou want to go with him?" she asked suddenly. 

Geoffrey smiled sheepishly, and his colour deepened. But he did notspeak. 

"Go then--" she said. "Go then! Go with him! But for the sake of myhonour, finish this week at Woodhouse. Can I make Miss Houghton'sfather lose these two nights? Where is your shame? Finish this weekand then go, go--But finish this week. Tell Francesco that. I havefinished with him. But let him finish this engagement. Don't put meto shame, don't destroy my honour, and the honour of theNatcha-Kee-Tawara. Tell him that. "

Geoffrey turned again into the house. Madame, in her chic littleblack hat and spotted veil, and her trim black coat-and-skirt, stoodthere at the street-corner staring before her, shivering a littlewith cold, but saying no word of any sort. 

Again Geoffrey appeared out of the doorway. His face was impassive. 

"He says he doesn't want, " he said. 

"Ah!" she cried suddenly in French, "the ungrateful, the animal! Heshall suffer. See if he shall not suffer. The low canaille, withoutfaith or feeling. My Max, thou wert right. Ah, such canaille shouldbe beaten, as dogs are beaten, till they follow at heel. Will no onebeat him for me, no one? Yes. Go back. Tell him before he leavesEngland he shall feel the hand of Kishwégin, and it shall be heavierthan the Black Hand. Tell him that, the coward, that causes awoman's word to be broken against her will. Ah, canaille, canaille!Neither faith nor feeling, neither faith nor feeling. Trust themnot, dogs of the south. " She took a few agitated steps down thepavement. Then she raised her veil to wipe away her tears of angerand bitter disappointment. 

"Wait a bit, " said Alvina. "I'll go. " She was touched. 

"No. Don't you!" cried Madame. 

"Yes I will, " she said. The light of battle was in her eyes. "You'llcome with me to the door, " she said to Geoffrey. 

Geoffrey started obediently, and led the way up a long narrow stair, covered with yellow-and-brown oil-cloth, rather worn, on to the topof the house. 

"Ciccio, " he said, outside the door. 

"Oui!" came the curly voice of Ciccio. 

Geoffrey opened the door. Ciccio was sitting on a narrow bed, in arather poor attic, under the steep slope of the roof. 

"Don't come in, " said Alvina to Geoffrey, looking over her shoulderat him as she entered. Then she closed the door behind her, andstood with her back to it, facing the Italian. He sat loose on thebed, a cigarette between his fingers, dropping ash on the bareboards between his feet. He looked up curiously at Alvina. She stoodwatching him with wide, bright blue eyes, smiling slightly, andsaying nothing. He looked up at her steadily, on his guard, fromunder his long black lashes. 

"Won't you come?" she said, smiling and looking into his eyes. Heflicked off the ash of his cigarette with his little finger. Shewondered why he wore the nail of his little finger so long, so verylong. Still she smiled at him, and still he gave no sign. 

"Do come!" she urged, never taking her eyes from him. 

He made not the slightest movement, but sat with his hands droppedbetween his knees, watching her, the cigarette wavering up its bluethread of smoke. 

"Won't you?" she said, as she stood with her back to the door. "Won't you come?" She smiled strangely and vividly. 

Suddenly she took a pace forward, stooped, watching his face as iftimidly, caught his brown hand in her own and lifted it towardsherself. His hand started, dropped the cigarette, but was notwithdrawn. 

"You will come, won't you?" she said, smiling gently into hisstrange, watchful yellow eyes, that looked fixedly into hers, thedark pupil opening round and softening. She smiled into hissoftening round eyes, the eyes of some animal which stares in one ofits silent, gentler moments. And suddenly she kissed his hand, kissed it twice, quickly, on the fingers and the back. He wore asilver ring. Even as she kissed his fingers with her lips, thesilver ring seemed to her a symbol of his subjection, inferiority. She drew his hand slightly. And he rose to his feet. 

She turned round and took the door-handle, still holding his fingersin her left hand. 

"You are coming, aren't you?" she said, looking over her shoulderinto his eyes. And taking consent from his unchanging eyes, she letgo his hand and slightly opened the door. He turned slowly, andtaking his coat from a nail, slung it over his shoulders and drew iton. Then he picked up his hat, and put his foot on his half-smokedcigarette, which lay smoking still. He followed her out of the room, walking with his head rather forward, in the half loutish, sensual-subjected way of the Italians. 

As they entered the street, they saw the trim, French figure ofMadame standing alone, as if abandoned. Her face was very whiteunder her spotted veil, her eyes very black. She watched Cicciofollowing behind Alvina in his dark, hangdog fashion, and she didnot move a muscle until he came to a standstill in front of her. Shewas watching his face. 

"Te voilà donc!" she said, without expression. "Allons boire uncafé, hé? Let us go and drink some coffee. " She had now put aninflection of tenderness into her voice. But her eyes were blackwith anger. Ciccio smiled slowly, the slow, fine, stupid smile, andturned to walk alongside. 

Madame said nothing as they went. Geoffrey passed on his bicycle, calling out that he would go straight to Woodhouse. 

When the three sat with their cups of coffee, Madame pushed up herveil just above her eyes, so that it was a black band above herbrows. Her face was pale and full like a child's, but almost stonilyexpressionless, her eyes were black and inscrutable. She watchedboth Ciccio and Alvina with her black, inscrutable looks. 

"Would you like also biscuits with your coffee, the two of you?" shesaid, with an amiable intonation which her strange black looksbelied. 

"Yes, " said Alvina. She was a little flushed, as if defiant, whileCiccio sat sheepishly, turning aside his ducked head, the slow, stupid, yet fine smile on his lips. 

"And no more trouble with Max, hein?--you Ciccio?" said Madame, still with the amiable intonation and the same black, watching eyes. "No more of these stupid scenes, hein? What? Do you answer me. "

"No more from me, " he said, looking up at her with a narrow, cat-like look in his derisive eyes. 

"Ho? No? No more? Good then! It is good! We are glad, aren't we, Miss Houghton, that Ciccio has come back and there are to be nomore rows?--hein?--aren't we?"

"_I'm_ awfully glad, " said Alvina. 

"Awfully glad--yes--awfully glad! You hear, you Ciccio. And youremember another time. What? Don't you? Hé?"

He looked up at her, the slow, derisive smile curling his lips. 

"Sure, " he said slowly, with subtle intonation. 

"Yes. Good! Well then! Well then! We are all friends. We are allfriends, aren't we, all the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras? Hé? What you think?What you say?"

"Yes, " said Ciccio, again looking up at her with his yellow, glinting eyes. 

"All right! All right then! It is all right--forgotten--" Madamesounded quite frank and restored. But the sullen watchfulness in hereyes, and the narrowed look in Ciccio's, as he glanced at her, showed another state behind the obviousness of the words. "And MissHoughton is one of us! Yes? She has united us once more, and so shehas become one of us. " Madame smiled strangely from her blank, roundwhite face. 

"I should love to be one of the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras, " said Alvina. 

"Yes--well--why not? Why not become one? Why not? What you say, Ciccio? You can play the piano, perhaps do other things. Perhapsbetter than Kishwégin. What you say, Ciccio, should she not join us?Is she not one of us?"

He smiled and showed his teeth but did not answer. 

"Well, what is it? Say then? Shall she not?"

"Yes, " said Ciccio, unwilling to commit himself. 

"Yes, so I say! So I say. Quite a good idea! We will think of it, and speak perhaps to your father, and you shall come! Yes. "

So the two women returned to Woodhouse by the tram-car, while Cicciorode home on his bicycle. It was surprising how little Madame andAlvina found to say to one another. 

Madame effected the reunion of her troupe, and all seemed prettymuch as before. She had decided to dance the next night, theSaturday night. On Sunday the party would leave for Warsall, aboutthirty miles away, to fulfil their next engagement. 

That evening Ciccio, whenever he had a moment to spare, watchedAlvina. She knew it. But she could not make out what his watchingmeant. In the same way he might have watched a serpent, had he foundone gliding in the theatre. He looked at her sideways, furtively, but persistently. And yet he did not want to meet her glance. Heavoided her, and watched her. As she saw him standing, in hisnegligent, muscular, slouching fashion, with his head droppedforward, and his eyes sideways, sometimes she disliked him. Butthere was a sort of _finesse_ about his face. His skin wasdelicately tawny, and slightly lustrous. The eyes were set in sodark, that one expected them to be black and flashing. And then onemet the yellow pupils, sulphureous and remote. It was like meeting alion. His long, fine nose, his rather long, rounded chin and curlinglips seemed refined through ages of forgotten culture. He waswaiting: silent there, with something muscular and remote about hisvery droop, he was waiting. What for? Alvina could not guess. Shewanted to meet his eye, to have an open understanding with him. Buthe would not. When she went up to talk to him, he answered in hisstupid fashion, with a smile of the mouth and no change of the eyes, saying nothing at all. Obstinately he held away from her. When hewas in his war-paint, for one moment she hated his muscular, handsome, downward-drooping torso: so stupid and full. The finesharp uprightness of Max seemed much finer, clearer, more manly. Ciccio's velvety, suave heaviness, the very heave of his muscles, sofull and softly powerful, sickened her. 

She flashed away angrily on her piano. Madame, who was dancingKishwégin on the last evening, cast sharp glances at her. Alvina hadavoided Madame as Ciccio had avoided Alvina--elusive and yetconscious, a distance, and yet a connection. 

Madame danced beautifully. No denying it, she was an artist. Shebecame something quite different: fresh, virginal, pristine, a magiccreature flickering there. She was infinitely delicate andattractive. Her _braves_ became glamorous and heroic at once, andmagically she cast her spell over them. It was all very well forAlvina to bang the piano crossly. She could not put out the glowwhich surrounded Kishwégin and her troupe. Ciccio was handsome now:without war-paint, and roused, fearless and at the same timesuggestive, a dark, mysterious glamour on his face, passionate andremote. A stranger--and so beautiful. Alvina flashed at the piano, almost in tears. She hated his beauty. It shut her apart. She hadnothing to do with it. 

Madame, with her long dark hair hanging in finely-brushed tresses, her cheek burning under its dusky stain, was another creature. Howsoft she was on her feet. How humble and remote she seemed, asacross a chasm from the men. How submissive she was, with aneternity of inaccessible submission. Her hovering dance round thedead bear was exquisite: her dark, secretive curiosity, heradmiration of the massive, male strength of the creature, herquivers of triumph over the dead beast, her cruel exultation, andher fear that he was not really dead. It was a lovely sight, suggesting the world's morning, before Eve had bitten anywhite-fleshed apple, whilst she was still dusky, dark-eyed, andstill. And then her stealthy sympathy with the white prisoner! Nowindeed she was the dusky Eve tempted into knowledge. Her fascinationwas ruthless. She kneeled by the dead _brave_, her husband, as shehad knelt by the bear: in fear and admiration and doubt andexultation. She gave him the least little push with her foot. Deadmeat like the bear! And a flash of delight went over her, thatchanged into a sob of mortal anguish. And then, flickering, wicked, doubtful, she watched Ciccio wrestling with the bear. 

She was the clue to all the action, was Kishwégin. And her dark_braves_ seemed to become darker, more secret, malevolent, burningwith a cruel fire, and at the same time wistful, knowing their end. Ciccio laughed in a strange way, as he wrestled with the bear, as hehad never laughed on the previous evenings. The sound went out intothe audience, a soft, malevolent, derisive sound. And when the bearwas supposed to have crushed him, and he was to have fallen, hereeled out of the bear's arms and said to Madame, in his derisivevoice:

"Vivo sempre, Madame. " And then he fell. 

Madame stopped as if shot, hearing his words: "I am still alive, Madame. " She remained suspended motionless, suddenly wilted. Thenall at once her hand went to her mouth with a scream:

"The Bear!"

So the scene concluded itself. But instead of the tender, half-wistful triumph of Kishwégin, a triumph electric as it shouldhave been when she took the white man's hand and kissed it, therewas a doubt, a hesitancy, a nullity, and Max did not quite know whatto do. 

After the performance, neither Madame nor Max dared say anything toCiccio about his innovation into the play. Louis felt he had tospeak--it was left to him. 

"I say, Cic'--" he said, "why did you change the scene? It mighthave spoiled everything if Madame wasn't such a genius. Why did yousay that?"

"Why, " said Ciccio, answering Louis' French in Italian, "I am tiredof being dead, you see. "

Madame and Max heard in silence. 

When Alvina had played _God Save the King_ she went round behind thestage. But Ciccio and Geoffrey had already packed up the property, and left. Madame was talking to James Houghton. Louis and Max werebusy together. Mr. May came to Alvina. 

"Well, " he said. "That closes another week. I think we've done verywell, in face of difficulties, don't you?"

"Wonderfully, " she said. 

But poor Mr. May spoke and looked pathetically. He seemed to feelforlorn. Alvina was not attending to him. Her eye was roving. Shetook no notice of him. 

Madame came up. 

"Well, Miss Houghton, " she said, "time to say good-bye, I suppose. "

"How do you feel after dancing?" asked Alvina. 

"Well--not so strong as usual--but not so bad, you know. I shall beall right--thanks to you. I think your father is more ill than I. Tome he looks very ill. "

"Father wears himself away, " said Alvina. 

"Yes, and when we are no longer young, there is not so much to wear. Well, I must thank you once more--"

"What time do you leave in the morning?"

"By the train at half-past ten. If it doesn't rain, the young menwill cycle--perhaps all of them. Then they will go when they like--"

"I will come round to say good-bye--" said Alvina. 

"Oh no--don't disturb yourself--"

"Yes, I want to take home the things--the kettle for the bronchitis, and those things--"

"Oh thank you very much--but don't trouble yourself. I will sendCiccio with them--or one of the others--"

"I should like to say good-bye to you all, " persisted Alvina. 

Madame glanced round at Max and Louis. 

"Are we not all here? No. The two have gone. No! Well! Well whattime will you come?"

"About nine?"

"Very well, and I leave at ten. Very well. Then _au revoir_ till themorning. Good-night. "

"Good-night, " said Alvina. Her colour was rather flushed. 

She walked up with Mr. May, and hardly noticed he was there. Aftersupper, when James Houghton had gone up to count his pennies, Alvinasaid to Miss Pinnegar:

"Don't you think father looks rather seedy, Miss Pinnegar?"

"I've been thinking so a long time, " said Miss Pinnegar tartly. 

"What do you think he ought to do?"

"He's killing himself down there, in all weathers and freezing inthat box-office, and then the bad atmosphere. He's killing himself, that's all. "

"What can we do?"

"Nothing so long as there's that place down there. Nothing at all. "

Alvina thought so too. So she went to bed. 

She was up in time, and watching the clock. It was a grey morning, but not raining. At five minutes to nine, she hurried off to Mrs. Rollings. In the back yard the bicycles were out, glittering andmuddy according to their owners. Ciccio was crouching mending atire, crouching balanced on his toes, near the earth. He turned likea quick-eared animal glancing up as she approached, but did notrise. 

"Are you getting ready to go?" she said, looking down at him. Hescrewed his head round to her unwillingly, upside down, his chintilted up at her. She did not know him thus inverted. Her eyesrested on his face, puzzled. His chin seemed so large, aggressive. He was a little bit repellent and brutal, inverted. Yet shecontinued:

"Would you help me to carry back the things we brought for Madame?"

He rose to his feet, but did not look at her. He was wearing brokencycling shoes. He stood looking at his bicycle tube. 

"Not just yet, " she said. "I want to say good-bye to Madame. Willyou come in half an hour?"

"Yes, I will come, " he said, still watching his bicycle tube, whichsprawled nakedly on the floor. The forward drop of his head wascuriously beautiful to her, the straight, powerful nape of the neck, the delicate shape of the back of the head, the black hair. The waythe neck sprang from the strong, loose shoulders was beautiful. There was something mindless but _intent_ about the forward reach ofhis head. His face seemed colourless, neutral-tinted andexpressionless. 

She went indoors. The young men were moving about makingpreparations. 

"Come upstairs, Miss Houghton!" called Madame's voice from above. Alvina mounted, to find Madame packing. 

"It is an uneasy moment, when we are busy to move, " said Madame, looking up at Alvina as if she were a stranger. 

"I'm afraid I'm in the way. But I won't stay a minute. "

"Oh, it is all right. Here are the things you brought--" Madameindicated a little pile--"and thank you _very_ much, _very_ much. Ifeel you saved my life. And now let me give you one little token ofmy gratitude. It is not much, because we are not millionaires in theNatcha-Kee-Tawara. Just a little remembrance of our troublesomevisit to Woodhouse. "

She presented Alvina with a pair of exquisite bead moccasins, wovenin a weird, lovely pattern, with soft deerskin soles and sides. 

"They belong to Kishwégin, so it is Kishwégin who gives them to you, because she is grateful to you for saving her life, or at least froma long illness. "

"Oh--but I don't want to take them--" said Alvina. 

"You don't like them? Why?"

"I think they're lovely, lovely! But I don't want to take them fromyou--"

"If I give them, you do not take them from me. You receive them. Hé?" And Madame pressed back the slippers, opening her plumpjewelled hands in a gesture of finality. 

"But I don't like to take _these_, " said Alvina. "I feel they belongto Natcha-Kee-Tawara. And I don't want to rob Natcha-Kee-Tawara, doI? Do take them back. "

"No, I have given them. You cannot rob Natcha-Kee-Tawara in taking apair of shoes--impossible!"

"And I'm sure they are much too small for me. "

"Ha!" exclaimed Madame. "It is that! Try. "

"I know they are, " said Alvina, laughing confusedly. 

She sat down and took off her own shoe. The moccasin was a littletoo short--just a little. But it was charming on the foot, charming. 

"Yes, " said Madame. "It is too short. Very well. I must find yousomething else. "

"Please don't, " said Alvina. "Please don't find me anything. I don'twant anything. Please!"

"What?" said Madame, eyeing her closely. "You don't want? Why? Youdon't want anything from Natcha-Kee-Tawara, or from Kishwégin? Hé?From which?"

"Don't give me anything, please, " said Alvina. 

"All right! All right then. I won't. I won't give you anything. Ican't give you anything you want from Natcha-Kee-Tawara. "

And Madame busied herself again with the packing. 

"I'm awfully sorry you are going, " said Alvina. 

"Sorry? Why? Yes, so am I sorry we shan't see you any more. Yes, soI am. But perhaps we shall see you another time--hé? I shall sendyou a post-card. Perhaps I shall send one of the young men on hisbicycle, to bring you something which I shall buy for you. Yes?Shall I?"

"Oh! I should be awfully glad--but don't buy--" Alvina checkedherself in time. "Don't buy anything. Send me a little thing fromNatcha-Kee-Tawara. I _love_ the slippers--"

"But they are too small, " said Madame, who had been watching herwith black eyes that read every motive. Madame too had heravaricious side, and was glad to get back the slippers. "Verywell--very well, I will do that. I will send you some small thingfrom Natcha-Kee-Tawara, and one of the young men shall bring it. Perhaps Ciccio? Hé?"

"Thank you _so_ much, " said Alvina, holding out her hand. "Good-bye. I'm so sorry you're going. "

"Well--well! We are not going so very far. Not so very far. Perhapswe shall see each other another day. It may be. Good-bye!"

Madame took Alvina's hand, and smiled at her winsomely all at once, kindly, from her inscrutable black eyes. A sudden unusual kindness. Alvina flushed with surprise and a desire to cry. 

"Yes. I am sorry you are not with Natcha-Kee-Tawara. But we shallsee. Good-bye. I shall do my packing. "

Alvina carried down the things she had to remove. Then she went tosay good-bye to the young men, who were in various stages of theirtoilet. Max alone was quite presentable. 

Ciccio was just putting on the outer cover of his front tire. Shewatched his brown thumbs press it into place. He was quick and sure, much more capable, and even masterful, than you would have supposed, seeing his tawny Mediterranean hands. He spun the wheel round, patting it lightly. 

"Is it finished?"

"Yes, I think. " He reached his pump and blew up the tire. Shewatched his softly-applied force. What physical, muscular forcethere was in him. Then he swung round the bicycle, and stood itagain on its wheels. After which he quickly folded his tools. 

"Will you come now?" she said. 

He turned, rubbing his hands together, and drying them on an oldcloth. He went into the house, pulled on his coat and his cap, andpicked up the things from the table. 

"Where are you going?" Max asked. 

Ciccio jerked his head towards Alvina. 

"Oh, allow me to carry them, Miss Houghton. He is not fit--" saidMax. 

True, Ciccio had no collar on, and his shoes were burst. 

"I don't mind, " said Alvina hastily. "He knows where they go. Hebrought them before. "

"But I will carry them. I am dressed. Allow me--" and he began totake the things. "You get dressed, Ciccio. "

Ciccio looked at Alvina. 

"Do you want?" he said, as if waiting for orders. 

"Do let Ciccio take them, " said Alvina to Max. "Thank you _ever_ somuch. But let him take them. "

So Alvina marched off through the Sunday morning streets, with theItalian, who was down at heel and encumbered with an armful ofsick-room apparatus. She did not know what to say, and he saidnothing. 

"We will go in this way, " she said, suddenly opening the hall door. She had unlocked it before she went out, for that entrance washardly ever used. So she showed the Italian into the sombredrawing-room, with its high black bookshelves with rows and rows ofcalf-bound volumes, its old red and flowered carpet, its grand pianolittered with music. Ciccio put down the things as she directed, andstood with his cap in his hands, looking aside. 

"Thank you so much, " she said, lingering. 

He curled his lips in a faint deprecatory smile. 

"Nothing, " he murmured. 

His eye had wandered uncomfortably up to a portrait on the wall. 

"That was my mother, " said Alvina. 

He glanced down at her, but did not answer. 

"I am so sorry you're going away, " she said nervously. She stoodlooking up at him with wide blue eyes. 

The faint smile grew on the lower part of his face, which he keptaverted. Then he looked at her. 

"We have to move, " he said, with his eyes watching her reservedly, his mouth twisting with a half-bashful smile. 

"Do you like continually going away?" she said, her wide blue eyesfixed on his face. 

He nodded slightly. 

"We have to do it. I like it. "

What he said meant nothing to him. He now watched her fixedly, witha slightly mocking look, and a reserve he would not relinquish. 

"Do you think I shall ever see you again?" she said. 

"Should you like--?" he answered, with a sly smile and a faintshrug. 

"I should like awfully--" a flush grew on her cheek. She heard MissPinnegar's scarcely audible step approaching. 

He nodded at her slightly, watching her fixedly, turning up thecorners of his eyes slyly, his nose seeming slyly to sharpen. 

"All right. Next week, eh? In the morning?"

"Do!" cried Alvina, as Miss Pinnegar came through the door. Heglanced quickly over his shoulder. 

"Oh!" cried Miss Pinnegar. "I couldn't imagine who it was. " She eyedthe young fellow sharply. 

"Couldn't you?" said Alvina. "We brought back these things. "

"Oh yes. Well--you'd better come into the other room, to the fire, "said Miss Pinnegar. 

"I shall go along. Good-bye!" said Ciccio, and with a slight bow toAlvina, and a still slighter to Miss Pinnegar, he was out of theroom and out of the front door, as if turning tail. 

"I suppose they're going this morning, " said Miss Pinnegar. 

CHAPTER IX

ALVINA BECOMES ALLAYE

Alvina wept when the Natchas had gone. She loved them so much, shewanted to be with them. Even Ciccio she regarded as only one of theNatchas. She looked forward to his coming as to a visit from thetroupe. 

How dull the theatre was without them! She was tired of theEndeavour. She wished it did not exist. The rehearsal on the Mondaymorning bored her terribly. Her father was nervous and irritable. The previous week had tried him sorely. He had worked himself into astate of nervous apprehension such as nothing would have justified, unless perhaps, if the wooden walls of the Endeavour had burnt tothe ground, with James inside victimized like another Samson. He haddeveloped a nervous horror of all artistes. He did not feel safe forone single moment whilst he depended on a single one of them. 

"We shall have to convert into all pictures, " he said in a nervousfever to Mr. May. "Don't make any more engagements after the end ofnext month. "

"Really!" said Mr. May. "Really! Have you quite decided?"

"Yes quite! Yes quite!" James fluttered. "I have written about a newmachine, and the supply of films from Chanticlers. "

"Really!" said Mr. May. "Oh well then, in that case--" But he wasfilled with dismay and chagrin. 

"Of cauce, " he said later to Alvina, "I can't _possibly_ stop on ifwe are nothing but a picture show!" And he arched his blanched anddismal eyelids with ghastly finality. 

"Why?" cried Alvina. 

"Oh--why!" He was rather ironic. "Well, it's not my line at _all_. I'm not a _film-operator_!" And he put his head on one side with agrimace of contempt and superiority. 

"But you are, as well, " said Alvina. 

"Yes, _as well_. But not _only_! You _may_ wash the dishes in thescullery. But you're not only the _char_, are you?"

"But is it the same?" cried Alvina. 

"Of cauce!" cried Mr. May. "Of _cauce_ it's the same. "

Alvina laughed, a little heartlessly, into his pallid, strickeneyes. 

"But what will you do?" she asked. 

"I shall have to look for something else, " said the injured butdauntless little man. "There's nothing _else_, is there?"

"Wouldn't you stay on?" she asked. 

"I wouldn't think of it. I wouldn't think of it. " He turtled like aninjured pigeon. 

"Well, " she said, looking laconically into his face: "It's betweenyou and father--"

"Of _cauce_!" he said. "Naturally! Where else--!" But his tone was alittle spiteful, as if he had rested his last hopes on Alvina. 

Alvina went away. She mentioned the coming change to Miss Pinnegar. 

"Well, " said Miss Pinnegar, judicious but aloof, "it's a move in theright direction. But I doubt if it'll do any good. "

"Do you?" said Alvina. "Why?"

"I don't believe in the place, and I never did, " declared MissPinnegar. "I don't believe any good will come of it. "

"But why?" persisted Alvina. "What makes you feel so sure about it?"

"I don't know. But that's how I feel. And I have from the first. Itwas wrong from the first. It was wrong to begin it. "

"But why?" insisted Alvina, laughing. 

"Your father had no business to be led into it. He'd no business totouch this show business. It isn't like him. It doesn't belong tohim. He's gone against his own nature and his own life. "

"Oh but, " said Alvina, "father was a showman even in the shop. Healways was. Mother said he was like a showman in a booth. "

Miss Pinnegar was taken aback. 

"Well!" she said sharply. "If _that's_ what you've seen inhim!"--there was a pause. "And in that case, " she continued tartly, "I think some of the showman has come out in his daughter! orshow-woman!--which doesn't improve it, to my idea. "

"Why is it any worse?" said Alvina. "I enjoy it--and so doesfather. "

"No, " cried Miss Pinnegar. "There you're wrong! There you make amistake. It's all against his better nature. "

"Really!" said Alvina, in surprise. "What a new idea! But which isfather's better nature?"

"You may not know it, " said Miss Pinnegar coldly, "and if so, I cannever tell you. But that doesn't alter it. " She lapsed into deadsilence for a moment. Then suddenly she broke out, vicious and cold:"He'll go on till he's killed himself, and _then_ he'll know. "

The little adverb _then_ came whistling across the space like abullet. It made Alvina pause. Was her father going to die? Shereflected. Well, all men must die. 

She forgot the question in others that occupied her. First, couldshe bear it, when the Endeavour was turned into another cheap andnasty film-shop? The strange figures of the artistes passing underher observation had really entertained her, week by week. Some weeksthey had bored her, some weeks she had detested them, but there wasalways a chance in the coming week. Think of the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras!

She thought too much of the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras. She knew it. And shetried to force her mind to the contemplation of the new state ofthings, when she banged at the piano to a set of dithering andboring pictures. There would be her father, herself, and Mr. May--ora new operator, a new manager. The new manager!--she thought of himfor a moment--and thought of the mechanical factory-faced personswho _managed_ Wright's and the Woodhouse Empire. 

But her mind fell away from this barren study. She was obsessed bythe Natcha-Kee-Tawaras. They seemed to have fascinated her. Which ofthem it was, or what it was that had cast the spell over her, shedid not know. But she was as if hypnotized. She longed to be withthem. Her soul gravitated towards them all the time. 

Monday passed, and Ciccio did not come: Tuesday passed: andWednesday. In her soul she was sceptical of their keeping theirpromise--either Madame or Ciccio. Why should they keep theirpromise? She knew what these nomadic artistes were. And her soul wasstubborn within her. 

On Wednesday night there was another sensation at the Endeavour. Mr. May found James Houghton fainting in the box-office after theperformance had begun. What to do? He could not interrupt Alvina, nor the performance. He sent the chocolate-and-orange boy across tothe Pear Tree for brandy. 

James revived. "I'm all right, " he said, in a brittle fashion. "I'mall right. Don't bother. " So he sat with his head on his hand in thebox-office, and Mr. May had to leave him to operate the film. 

When the interval arrived, Mr. May hurried to the box-office, anarrow hole that James could just sit in, and there he found theinvalid in the same posture, semi-conscious. He gave him morebrandy. 

"I'm all right, I tell you, " said James, his eyes flaring. "Leave mealone. " But he looked anything but all right. 

Mr. May hurried for Alvina. When the daughter entered the ticketplace, her father was again in a state of torpor. 

"Father, " she said, shaking his shoulder gently. "What's thematter. "

He murmured something, but was incoherent. She looked at his face. It was grey and blank. 

"We shall have to get him home, " she said. "We shall have to get acab. "

"Give him a little brandy, " said Mr. May. 

The boy was sent for the cab, James swallowed a spoonful of brandy. He came to himself irritably. 

"What? What, " he said. "I won't have all this fuss. Go on with theperformance, there's no need to bother about me. " His eye was wild. 

"You must go home, father, " said Alvina. 

"Leave me alone! Will you leave me alone! Hectored by women all mylife--hectored by women--first one, then another. I won't standit--I won't stand it--" He looked at Alvina with a look of frenzy ashe lapsed again, fell with his head on his hands on histicket-board. Alvina looked at Mr. May. 

"We must get him home, " she said. She covered him up with a coat, and sat by him. The performance went on without music. At last thecab came. James, unconscious, was driven up to Woodhouse. He had tobe carried indoors. Alvina hurried ahead to make a light in the darkpassage. 

"Father's ill!" she announced to Miss Pinnegar. 

"Didn't I say so!" said Miss Pinnegar, starting from her chair. 

The two women went out to meet the cab-man, who had James in hisarms. 

"Can you manage?" cried Alvina, showing a light. 

"He doesn't weigh much, " said the man. 

"Tu-tu-tu-tu-tu-tu-tu!" went Miss Pinnegar's tongue, in a rapidtut-tut of distress. "What have I said, now, " she exclaimed. "Whathave I said all along?"

James was laid on the sofa. His eyes were half-shut. They made himdrink brandy, the boy was sent for the doctor, Alvina's bed waswarmed. The sick man was got to bed. And then started another vigil. Alvina sat up in the sick room. James started and muttered, but didnot regain consciousness. Dawn came, and he was the same. Pneumoniaand pleurisy and a touch of meningitis. Alvina drank her tea, took alittle breakfast, and went to bed at about nine o'clock in themorning, leaving James in charge of Miss Pinnegar. Time was allderanged. 

Miss Pinnegar was a nervous nurse. She sat in horror andapprehension, her eyebrows raised, starting and looking at James interror whenever he made a noise. She hurried to him and did what shecould. But one would have said she was repulsed, she found her taskunconsciously repugnant. 

During the course of the morning Mrs. Rollings came up and said thatthe Italian from last week had come, and could he speak to MissHoughton. 

"Tell him she's resting, and Mr. Houghton is seriously ill, " saidMiss Pinnegar sharply. 

When Alvina came downstairs at about four in the afternoon she founda package: a comb of carved bone, and a message from Madame: "ToMiss Houghton, with kindest greetings and most sincere thanks fromKishwégin. "

The comb with its carved, beast-faced serpent was her portion. Alvina asked if there had been any other message. None. 

Mr. May came in, and stayed for a dismal half-hour. Then Alvina wentback to her nursing. The patient was no better, still unconscious. Miss Pinnegar came down, red eyed and sullen looking. The conditionof James gave little room for hope. 

In the early morning he died. Alvina called Mrs. Rollings, and theycomposed the body. It was still only five o'clock, and not light. Alvina went to lie down in her father's little, rather chillychamber at the end of the corridor. She tried to sleep, but couldnot. At half-past seven she arose, and started the business of thenew day. The doctor came--she went to the registrar--and so on. 

Mr. May came. It was decided to keep open the theatre. He would findsome one else for the piano, some one else to issue the tickets. 

In the afternoon arrived Frederick Houghton, James's cousin andnearest relative. He was a middle-aged, blond, florid, church-goingdraper from Knarborough, well-to-do and very _bourgeois_. He triedto talk to Alvina in a fatherly fashion, or a friendly, or a helpfulfashion. But Alvina could not listen to him. He got on her nerves. 

Hearing the gate bang, she rose and hurried to the window. She wasin the drawing-room with her cousin, to give the interview itsproper air of solemnity. She saw Ciccio rearing his yellow bicycleagainst the wall, and going with his head forward along the narrow, dark way of the back yard, to the scullery door. 

"Excuse me a minute, " she said to her cousin, who looked upirritably as she left the room. 

She was just in time to open the door as Ciccio tapped. She stood onthe doorstep above him. He looked up, with a faint smile, from underhis black lashes. 

"How nice of you to come, " she said. But her face was blanched andtired, without expression. Only her large eyes looked blue in theirtiredness, as she glanced down at Ciccio. He seemed to her far away. 

"Madame asks how is Mr. Houghton, " he said. 

"Father! He died this morning, " she said quietly. 

"He died!" exclaimed the Italian, a flash of fear and dismay goingover his face. 

"Yes--this morning. " She had neither tears nor emotion, but justlooked down on him abstractedly, from her height on the kitchenstep. He dropped his eyes and looked at his feet. Then he lifted hiseyes again, and looked at her. She looked back at him, as fromacross a distance. So they watched each other, as strangers across awide, abstract distance. 

He turned and looked down the dark yard, towards the gate where hecould just see the pale grey tire of his bicycle, and the yellowmud-guard. He seemed to be reflecting. If he went now, he went forever. Involuntarily he turned and lifted his face again towards Alvina, as if studying her curiously. She remained there on the doorstep, neutral, blanched, with wide, still, neutral eyes. She did not seem tosee him. He studied her with alert, yellow-dusky, inscrutable eyes, until she met his look. And then he gave the faintest gesture with hishead, as of summons towards him. Her soul started, and died in her. Andagain he gave the slight, almost imperceptible jerk of the head, backwards and sideways, as if summoning her towards him. His face toowas closed and expressionless. But in his eyes, which kept hers, therewas a dark flicker of ascendancy. He was going to triumph over her. Sheknew it. And her soul sank as if it sank out of her body. It sank awayout of her body, left her there powerless, soulless. 

And yet as he turned, with his head stretched forward, to move away:as he glanced slightly over his shoulder: she stepped down from thestep, down to his level, to follow him. He went ducking along thedark yard, nearly to the gate. Near the gate, near his bicycle, wasa corner made by a shed. Here he turned, lingeringly, to her, andshe lingered in front of him. 

Her eyes were wide and neutral and submissive, with a new, awfulsubmission as if she had lost her soul. So she looked up at him, like a victim. There was a faint smile in his eyes. He stretchedforward over her. 

"You love me? Yes?--Yes?" he said, in a voice that seemed like apalpable contact on her. 

"Yes, " she whispered involuntarily, soulless, like a victim. He puthis arm round her, subtly, and lifted her. 

"Yes, " he re-echoed, almost mocking in his triumph. "Yes. Yes!" Andsmiling, he kissed her, delicately, with a certain finesse ofknowledge. She moaned in spirit, in his arms, felt herself dead, dead. And he kissed her with a finesse, a passionate finesse whichseemed like coals of fire on her head. 

They heard footsteps. Miss Pinnegar was coming to look for her. Ciccio set her down, looked long into her eyes, inscrutably, smiling, and said:

"I come tomorrow. "

With which he ducked and ran out of the yard, picking up his bicyclelike a feather, and, taking no notice of Miss Pinnegar, letting theyard-door bang to behind him. 

"Alvina!" said Miss Pinnegar. 

But Alvina did not answer. She turned, slipped past, ran indoors andupstairs to the little bare bedroom she had made her own. She lockedthe door and kneeled down on the floor, bowing down her head to herknees in a paroxysm on the floor. In a paroxysm--because she lovedhim. She doubled herself up in a paroxysm on her knees on thefloor--because she loved him. It was far more like pain, like agony, than like joy. She swayed herself to and fro in a paroxysm ofunbearable sensation, because she loved him. 

Miss Pinnegar came and knocked at the door. 

"Alvina! Alvina! Oh, you are there! Whatever are you doing? Aren'tyou coming down to speak to your cousin?"

"Soon, " said Alvina. 

And taking a pillow from the bed, she crushed it against herself andswayed herself unconsciously, in her orgasm of unbearable feeling. Right in her bowels she felt it--the terrible, unbearable feeling. How could she bear it. 

She crouched over until she became still. A moment of stillnessseemed to cover her like sleep: an eternity of sleep in that onesecond. Then she roused and got up. She went to the mirror, still, evanescent, and tidied her hair, smoothed her face. She was sostill, so remote, she felt that nothing, nothing could ever touchher. 

And so she went downstairs, to that horrible cousin of her father's. She seemed so intangible, remote and virginal, that her cousin andMiss Pinnegar both failed to make anything of her. She answeredtheir questions simply, but did not talk. They talked to each other. And at last the cousin went away, with a profound dislike of MissAlvina. 

She did not notice. She was only glad he was gone. And she wentabout for the rest of the day elusive and vague. She slept deeplythat night, without dreams. 

The next day was Saturday. It came with a great storm of wind andrain and hail: a fury. Alvina looked out in dismay. She knew Cicciowould not be able to come--he could not cycle, and it was impossibleto get by train and return the same day. She was almost relieved. She was relieved by the intermission of fate, she was thankful forthe day of neutrality. 

In the early afternoon came a telegram: Coming both tomorrow morningdeepest sympathy Madame. Tomorrow was Sunday: and the funeral was inthe afternoon. Alvina felt a burning inside her, thinking of Ciccio. She winced--and yet she wanted him to come. Terribly she wanted himto come. 

She showed the telegram to Miss Pinnegar. 

"Good gracious!" said the weary Miss Pinnegar. "Fancy those people. And I warrant they'll want to be at the funeral. As if he wasanything to _them_--"

"I think it's very nice of her, " said Alvina. 

"Oh well, " said Miss Pinnegar. "If you think so. I don't fancy hewould have wanted such people following, myself. And what does shemean by _both_. Who's the other?" Miss Pinnegar looked sharply atAlvina. 

"Ciccio, " said Alvina. 

"The Italian! Why goodness me! What's _he_ coming for? I can't makeyou out, Alvina. Is that his name, Chicho? I never heard such aname. Doesn't sound like a name at all to me. There won't be roomfor them in the cabs. "

"We'll order another. "

"More expense. I never knew such impertinent people--"

But Alvina did not hear her. On the next morning she dressed herselfcarefully in her new dress. It was black voile. Carefully she didher hair. Ciccio and Madame were coming. The thought of Ciccio madeher shudder. She hung about, waiting. Luckily none of the funeralguests would arrive till after one o'clock. Alvina sat listless, musing, by the fire in the drawing-room. She left everything now toMiss Pinnegar and Mrs. Rollings. Miss Pinnegar, red-eyed andyellow-skinned, was irritable beyond words. 

It was nearly mid-day when Alvina heard the gate. She hurried toopen the front door. Madame was in her little black hat and herblack spotted veil, Ciccio in a black overcoat was closing the yarddoor behind her. 

"Oh, my dear girl!" Madame cried, trotting forward with outstretchedblack-kid hands, one of which held an umbrella: "I am so shocked--Iam so shocked to hear of your poor father. Am I to believe it?--am Ireally? No, I can't. "

She lifted her veil, kissed Alvina, and dabbed her eyes. Ciccio cameup the steps. He took off his hat to Alvina, smiled slightly as hepassed her. He looked rather pale, constrained. She closed the doorand ushered them into the drawing-room. 

Madame looked round like a bird, examining the room and thefurniture. She was evidently a little impressed. But all the timeshe was uttering her condolences. 

"Tell me, poor girl, how it happened?"

"There isn't much to tell, " said Alvina, and she gave the briefaccount of James's illness and death. 

"Worn out! Worn out!" Madame said, nodding slowly up and down. Herblack veil, pushed up, sagged over her brows like a mourning band. "You cannot afford to waste the stamina. And will you keep on thetheatre--with Mr. May--?"

Ciccio was sitting looking towards the fire. His presence madeAlvina tremble. She noticed how the fine black hair of his headshowed no parting at all--it just grew like a close cap, and waspushed aside at the forehead. Sometimes he looked at her, as Madametalked, and again looked at her, and looked away. 

At last Madame came to a halt. There was a long pause. 

"You will stay to the funeral?" said Alvina. 

"Oh my dear, we shall be too much--"

"No, " said Alvina. "I have arranged for you--"

"There! You think of everything. But I will come, not Ciccio. Hewill not trouble you. "

Ciccio looked up at Alvina. 

"I should like him to come, " said Alvina simply. But a deep flushbegan to mount her face. She did not know where it came from, shefelt so cold. And she wanted to cry. 

Madame watched her closely. 

"Siamo di accordo, " came the voice of Ciccio. 

Alvina and Madame both looked at him. He sat constrained, with hisface averted, his eyes dropped, but smiling. 

Madame looked closely at Alvina. 

"Is it true what he says?" she asked. 

"I don't understand him, " said Alvina. "I don't understand what hesaid. "

"That you have agreed with him--"

Madame and Ciccio both watched Alvina as she sat in her new blackdress. Her eyes involuntarily turned to his. 

"I don't know, " she said vaguely. "Have I--?" and she looked at him. 

Madame kept silence for some moments. Then she said gravely:

"Well!--yes!--well!" She looked from one to another. "Well, there isa lot to consider. But if you have decided--"

Neither of them answered. Madame suddenly rose and went to Alvina. She kissed her on either cheek. 

"I shall protect you, " she said. 

Then she returned to her seat. 

"What have you said to Miss Houghton?" she said suddenly to Ciccio, tackling him direct, and speaking coldly. 

He looked at Madame with a faint derisive smile. Then he turned toAlvina. She bent her head and blushed. 

"Speak then, " said Madame, "you have a reason. " She seemedmistrustful of him. 

But he turned aside his face, and refused to speak, sitting as if hewere unaware of Madame's presence. 

"Oh well, " said Madame. "I shall be there, Signorino. "

She spoke with a half-playful threat. Ciccio curled his lip. 

"You do not know him yet, " she said, turning to Alvina. 

"I know that, " said Alvina, offended. Then she added: "Wouldn't youlike to take off your hat?"

"If you truly wish me to stay, " said Madame. 

"Yes, please do. And will you hang your coat in the hall?" she saidto Ciccio. 

"Oh!" said Madame roughly. "He will not stay to eat. He will go outto somewhere. "

Alvina looked at him. 

"Would you rather?" she said. 

He looked at her with sardonic yellow eyes. 

"If you want, " he said, the awkward, derisive smile curling his lipsand showing his teeth. 

She had a moment of sheer panic. Was he just stupid and bestial? Thethought went clean through her. His yellow eyes watched hersardonically. It was the clean modelling of his dark, other-worldface that decided her--for it sent the deep spasm across her. 

"I'd like you to stay, " she said. 

A smile of triumph went over his face. Madame watched him stonily asshe stood beside her chair, one hand lightly balanced on her hip. Alvina was reminded of Kishwégin. But even in Madame's stonymistrust there was an element of attraction towards him. He hadtaken his cigarette case from his pocket. 

"On ne fume pas dans le salon, " said Madame brutally. 

"Will you put your coat in the passage?--and do smoke if you wish, "said Alvina. 

He rose to his feet and took off his overcoat. His face wasobstinate and mocking. He was rather floridly dressed, though inblack, and wore boots of black patent leather with tan uppers. Handsome he was--but undeniably in bad taste. The silver ring wasstill on his finger--and his close, fine, unparted hair went badlywith smart English clothes. He looked common--Alvina confessed it. And her heart sank. But what was she to do? He evidently was nothappy. Obstinacy made him stick out the situation. 

Alvina and Madame went upstairs. Madame wanted to see the deadJames. She looked at his frail, handsome, ethereal face, and crossedherself as she wept. 

"Un bel homme, cependant, " she whispered. "Mort en un jour. C'esttrop fort, voyez!" And she sniggered with fear and sobs. 

They went down to Alvina's bare room. Madame glanced round, as shedid in every room she entered. 

"This was father's bedroom, " said Alvina. "The other was mine. Hewouldn't have it anything but like this--bare. "

"Nature of a monk, a hermit, " whispered Madame. "Who would havethought it! Ah, the men, the men!"

And she unpinned her hat and patted her hair before the smallmirror, into which she had to peep to see herself. Alvina stoodwaiting. 

"And now--" whispered Madame, suddenly turning: "What about thisCiccio, hein?" It was ridiculous that she would not raise her voiceabove a whisper, upstairs there. But so it was. 

She scrutinized Alvina with her eyes of bright black glass. Alvinalooked back at her, but did not know what to say. 

"What about him, hein? Will you marry him? Why will you?"

"I suppose because I like him, " said Alvina, flushing. 

Madame made a little grimace. 

"Oh yes!" she whispered, with a contemptuous mouth. "Ohyes!--because you like him! But you know nothing _of_ him--nothing. How can you like him, not knowing him? He may be a real badcharacter. How would you like him then?"

"He isn't, is he?" said Alvina. 

"I don't know. I don't know. He may be. Even I, I don't knowhim--no, though he has been with me for three years. What is he? Heis a man of the people, a boatman, a labourer, an artist's model. Hesticks to nothing--"

"How old is he?" asked Alvina. 

"He is twenty-five--a boy only. And you? You are older. "

"Thirty, " confessed Alvina. 

"Thirty! Well now--so much difference! How can you trust him? Howcan you? Why does he want to marry you--why?"

"I don't know--" said Alvina. 

"No, and I don't know. But I know something of these Italian men, who are labourers in every country, just labourers and under-menalways, always down, down, down--" And Madame pressed her spreadpalms downwards. "And so--when they have a chance to come up--" sheraised her hand with a spring--"they are very conceited, and theytake their chance. He will want to rise, by you, and you will godown, with him. That is how it is. I have seen it before--yes--morethan one time--"

"But, " said Alvina, laughing ruefully. "He can't rise much becauseof me, can he?"

"How not? How not? In the first place, you are English, and hethinks to rise by that. Then you are not of the lower class, you areof the higher class, the class of the masters, such as employ Ciccioand men like him. How will he not rise in the world by you? Yes, hewill rise very much. Or he will draw you down, down--Yes, one oranother. And then he thinks that now you have money--now your fatheris dead--" here Madame glanced apprehensively at the closeddoor--"and they all like money, yes, very much, all Italians--"

"Do they?" said Alvina, scared. "I'm sure there won't _be_ anymoney. I'm sure father is in debt. "

"What? You think? Do you? Really? Oh poor Miss Houghton! Well--andwill you tell Ciccio that? Eh? Hein?"

"Yes--certainly--if it matters, " said poor Alvina. 

"Of course it matters. Of course it matters very much. It matters tohim. Because he will not have much. He saves, saves, saves, as theyall do, to go back to Italy and buy a piece of land. And if he hasyou, it will cost him much more, he cannot continue withNatcha-Kee-Tawara. All will be much more difficult--"

"Oh, I will tell him in time, " said Alvina, pale at the lips. 

"You will tell him! Yes. That is better. And then you will see. Buthe is obstinate--as a mule. And if he will still have you, then youmust think. Can you live in England as the wife of a labouring man, a dirty Eyetalian, as they all say? It is serious. It is notpleasant for you, who have not known it. I also have not known it. But I have seen--" Alvina watched with wide, troubled eyes, whileMadame darted looks, as from bright, deep black glass. 

"Yes, " said Alvina. "I should hate being a labourer's wife in anasty little house in a street--"

"In a house?" cried Madame. "It would not be in a house. They livemany together in one house. It would be two rooms, or even one room, in another house with many people not quite clean, you see--"

Alvina shook her head. 

"I couldn't stand that, " she said finally. 

"No!" Madame nodded approval. "No! you could not. They live in a badway, the Italians. They do not know the English home--never. Theydon't like it. Nor do they know the Swiss clean and proper house. No. They don't understand. They run into their holes to sleep or toshelter, and that is all. "

"The same in Italy?" said Alvina. 

"Even more--because there it is sunny very often--"

"And you don't need a house, " said Alvina. "I should like that. "

"Yes, it is nice--but you don't know the life. And you would bealone with people like animals. And if you go to Italy he will beatyou--he will beat you--"

"If I let him, " said Alvina. 

"But you can't help it, away there from everybody. Nobody will helpyou. If you are a wife in Italy, nobody will help you. You are hisproperty, when you marry by Italian law. It is not like England. There is no divorce in Italy. And if he beats you, you arehelpless--"

"But why should he beat me?" said Alvina. "Why should he want to?"

"They do. They are so jealous. And then they go into theirungovernable tempers, horrible tempers--"

"Only when they are provoked, " said Alvina, thinking of Max. 

"Yes, but you will not know what provokes him. Who can _say_ when hewill be provoked? And then he beats you--"

There seemed to be a gathering triumph in Madame's bright blackeyes. Alvina looked at her, and turned to the door. 

"At any rate I know now, " she said, in rather a flat voice. 

"And it is _true_. It is all of it true, " whispered Madamevindictively. Alvina wanted to run from her. 

"I _must_ go to the kitchen, " she said. "Shall we go down?"

Alvina did not go into the drawing-room with Madame. She was toomuch upset, and she had almost a horror of seeing Ciccio at thatmoment. 

Miss Pinnegar, her face stained carmine by the fire, was helpingMrs. Rollings with the dinner. 

"Are they both staying, or only one?" she said tartly. 

"Both, " said Alvina, busying herself with the gravy, to hide herdistress and confusion. 

"The man as well, " said Miss Pinnegar. "What does the woman want tobring _him_ for? I'm sure I don't know what your father would say--acommon show-fellow, _looks_ what he is--and staying to dinner. "

Miss Pinnegar was thoroughly out of temper as she tried thepotatoes. Alvina set the table. Then she went to the drawing-room. 

"Will you come to dinner?" she said to her two guests. 

Ciccio rose, threw his cigarette into the fire, and looked round. Outside was a faint, watery sunshine: but at least it was out ofdoors. He felt himself imprisoned and out of his element. He had anirresistible impulse to go. 

When he got into the hall he laid his hand on his hat. The stupid, constrained smile was on his face. 

"I'll go now, " he said. 

"We have set the table for you, " said Alvina. 

"Stop now, since you have stopped for so long, " said Madame, dartingher black looks at him. 

But he hurried on his coat, looking stupid. Madame lifted hereyebrows disdainfully. 

"This is polite behaviour!" she said sarcastically. 

Alvina stood at a loss. 

"You return to the funeral?" said Madame coldly. 

He shook his head. 

"When you are ready to go, " he said. 

"At four o'clock, " said Madame, "when the funeral has come home. Then we shall be in time for the train. "

He nodded, smiled stupidly, opened the door, and went. 

"This is just like him, to be so--so--" Madame could not expressherself as she walked down to the kitchen. 

"Miss Pinnegar, this is Madame, " said Alvina. 

"How do you do?" said Miss Pinnegar, a little distant andcondescending. Madame eyed her keenly. 

"Where is the man? I don't know his name, " said Miss Pinnegar. 

"He wouldn't stay, " said Alvina. "What _is_ his name, Madame?"

"Marasca--Francesco. Francesco Marasca--Neapolitan. "

"Marasca!" echoed Alvina. 

"It has a bad sound--a sound of a bad augury, bad sign, " saidMadame. "Ma-rà-sca!" She shook her head at the taste of thesyllables. 

"Why do you think so?" said Alvina. "Do you think there is a meaningin sounds? goodness and badness?"

"Yes, " said Madame. "Certainly. Some sounds are good, they are forlife, for creating, and some sounds are bad, they are fordestroying. Ma-rà-sca!--that is bad, like swearing. "

"But what sort of badness? What does it do?" said Alvina. 

"What does it do? It sends life down--down--instead of lifting itup. "

"Why should things always go up? Why should life always go up?" saidAlvina. 

"I don't know, " said Madame, cutting her meat quickly. There was apause. 

"And what about other names, " interrupted Miss Pinnegar, a littlelofty. "What about Houghton, for example?"

Madame put down her fork, but kept her knife in her hand. She lookedacross the room, not at Miss Pinnegar. 

"Houghton--! Huff-ton!" she said. "When it is said, it has a sound_against_: that is, against the neighbour, against humanity. Butwhen it is written _Hough-ton!_ then it is different, it is _for_. "

"It is always pronounced _Huff-ton_, " said Miss Pinnegar. 

"By us, " said Alvina. 

"We ought to know, " said Miss Pinnegar. 

Madame turned to look at the unhappy, elderly woman. 

"You are a relative of the family?" she said. 

"No, not a relative. But I've been here many years, " said MissPinnegar. 

"Oh, yes!" said Madame. Miss Pinnegar was frightfully affronted. Themeal, with the three women at table, passed painfully. 

Miss Pinnegar rose to go upstairs and weep. She felt very forlorn. Alvina rose to wipe the dishes, hastily, because the funeral guestswould all be coming. Madame went into the drawing-room to smoke hersly cigarette. 

Mr. May was the first to turn up for the lugubrious affair: verytight and tailored, but a little extinguished, all in black. Henever wore black, and was very unhappy in it, being almost morbidlysensitive to the impression the colour made on him. He was set toentertain Madame. 

She did not pretend distress, but sat black-eyed and watchful, verymuch her business self. 

"What about the theatre?--will it go on?" she asked. 

"Well I don't know. I don't know Miss Houghton's intentions, " saidMr. May. He was a little stilted today. 

"It's hers?" said Madame. 

"Why, as far as I understand--"

"And if she wants to sell out--?"

Mr. May spread his hands, and looked dismal, but distant. 

"You should form a company, and carry on--" said Madame. 

Mr. May looked even more distant, drawing himself up in an oddfashion, so that he looked as if he were trussed. But Madame'sshrewd black eyes and busy mind did not let him off. 

"Buy Miss Houghton out--" said Madame shrewdly. 

"Of cauce, " said Mr. May. "Miss Houghton herself must decide. "

"Oh sure--! You--are you married?"

"Yes. "

"Your wife here?"

"My wife is in London. "

"And children--?"

"A daughter. "

Madame slowly nodded her head up and down, as if she put thousandsof two-and-two's together. 

"You think there will be much to come to Miss Houghton?" she said. 

"Do you mean property? I really can't say. I haven't enquired. "

"No, but you have a good idea, eh?"

"I'm afraid I haven't. 

"No! Well! It won't be much, then?"

"Really, I don't know. I should say, not a _large_ fortune--!"

"No--eh?" Madame kept him fixed with her black eyes. "Do you thinkthe other one will get anything?"

"The _other one_--?" queried Mr. May, with an uprising cadence. Madame nodded slightly towards the kitchen. 

"The old one--the Miss--Miss Pin--Pinny--what you call her. "

"Miss Pinnegar! The manageress of the work-girls? Really, I don'tknow at all--" Mr. May was most freezing. 

"Ha--ha! Ha--ha!" mused Madame quietly. Then she asked: "Whichwork-girls do you say?"

And she listened astutely to Mr. May's forced account of thework-room upstairs, extorting all the details she desired to gather. Then there was a pause. Madame glanced round the room. 

"Nice house!" she said. "Is it their own?"

"So I _believe_--"

Again Madame nodded sagely. "Debts perhaps--eh? Mortgage--" and shelooked slyly sardonic. 

"Really!" said Mr. May, bouncing to his feet. "Do you mind if I goto speak to Mrs. Rollings--"

"Oh no--go along, " said Madame, and Mr. May skipped out in a temper. 

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, naïve 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. "

"Hé? 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 Kishwégin, only forKishwégin. 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 Kishwégin, strange wine for the _braves_ in their nostrils, Vaali, _à vous_. "

Madame lifted her glass. 

"Vaali, drink to her--Boire à 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 à 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 "Hé, Gigi--Viale! Le Petit Chemin! Comment? Me prends-tu? L'allée--"

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'allée 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 _ça_, 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 éternelle voix italienne, " said Madame. "Courage, courage au chemin d'Angleterre. "

"Assez de cette éternelle 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 naïve, 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 KISHWÉGIN. "

"We have no lawgiver except Kishwégin, " they sang sonorous. 

"WE HAVE NO HOME BUT THE TENT OF KISHWÉGIN. "

"We have no home but the tent of Kishwégin. "

"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 KISHWÉGIN. "

"We are Kishwégin. "

"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 ofKishwégin. 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 Kishwégin, " shesaid, in her Tawara manner. 

"And where is the _brave_ of Allaye, where is the arm that upholdsthe daughter of Kishwégin, 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, " saidKishwégin, and Ciccio, in his shirt-sleeves solemnly spread hisarms. 

"Stoop, stoop, Allaye, beneath the wings of Pacohuila, " saidKishwégin, faintly pressing Alvina on the shoulder. 

Alvina stooped and crouched under the right arm of Pacohuila. 

"Has the bird flown home?" chanted Kishwégin, to one of the strainsof their music. 

"The bird is home--" chanted the men. 

"Is the nest warm?" chanted Kishwégin. 

"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 ça!" 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. 

"Kishwégin 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 Kishwégin, 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, best 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. 

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 father!"

"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 Kishwégin'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. 

"Hé!" 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. 

"Hé!" he said. "How do I know!"

"I should have thought it was obvious, " said Miss Pinnegar. 

"Hé!" 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. 

"Hé--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--hé, 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 _idée 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 éloigné!" 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 monté si haut, mon beau. Pour moi, ça seraitdifficile de m'élever. J'aurais bien peur, moi. Tu te trouves aussiun peu ébahi, hein? n'est-ce pas?"

"Y'a place pour trois, " said Ciccio. 

"Non, je crêverais, là 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 Houghton? 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 Kishwégin 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. Voilà!" 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 ofKishwégin, to the Camp of the Tawaras. "

"Not tonight, _mon brave_, " said Ciccio. "Tonight we stay here, hein. Why separate, hein?--frère?"

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 breakfast, 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. Beeby. 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. "

He gave her a shrewd little smile. 

"Is the will proved?"

"Not yet. But I expect it will be through in a few days' time. "

"And are all the claims in?"

"Yes. I _think_ so. I think so!" And again he laid his hand on thepile of papers under the paper-weight, and ran through the edgeswith the tips of his fingers. 

"All those?" said Alvina. 

"Yes, " he said quietly. It sounded ominous. 

"Many!" said Alvina. 

"A fair amount! A fair amount! Let me show you a statement. "

He rose and brought her a paper. She made out, with the lawyer'shelp, that the claims against her father's property exceeded thegross estimate of his property by some seven hundred pounds. 

"Does it mean we owe seven hundred pounds?" she asked. 

"That is only on the _estimate_ of the property. It might, ofcourse, realize much more, when sold--or it might realize less. "

"How awful!" said Alvina, her courage sinking. 

"Unfortunate! Unfortunate! However, I don't think the realization ofthe property would amount to less than the estimate. I don't thinkso. "

"But even then, " said Alvina. "There is sure to be somethingowing--"

She saw herself saddled with her father's debts. 

"I'm afraid so, " said the lawyer. 

"And then what?" said Alvina. 

"Oh--the creditors will have to be satisfied with a little less thanthey claim, I suppose. Not a very great deal, you see. I don'texpect they will complain a great deal. In fact, some of them willbe less badly off than they feared. No, on that score we need nottrouble further. Useless if we do, anyhow. But now, about yourself. Would you like me to try to compound with the creditors, so that youcould have some sort of provision? They are mostly people who knowyou, know your condition: and I might try--"

"Try what?" said Alvina. 

"To make some sort of compound. Perhaps you might retain a lease ofMiss Pinnegar's work-rooms. Perhaps even something might be doneabout the cinematograph. What would you like--?"

Alvina sat still in her chair, looking through the window at the ivysprays, and the leaf buds on the lilac. She felt she could not, shecould not cut off every resource. In her own heart she hadconfidently expected a few hundred pounds: even a thousand or more. And that would make her _something_ of a catch, to people who hadnothing. But now!--nothing!--nothing at the back of her but herhundred pounds. When that was gone--!

In her dilemma she looked at the lawyer. 

"You didn't expect it would be quite so bad?" he said. 

"I think I didn't, " she said. 

"No. Well--it might have been worse. "

Again he waited. And again she looked at him vacantly. 

"What do you think?" he said. 

For answer, she only looked at him with wide eyes. 

"Perhaps you would rather decide later. "

"No, " she said. "No. It's no use deciding later. "

The lawyer watched her with curious eyes, his hand beat a littleimpatiently. 

"I will do my best, " he said, "to get what I can for you. "

"Oh well!" she said. "Better let everything go. I don't _want_ tohang on. Don't bother about me at all. I shall go away, anyhow. "

"You will go away?" said the lawyer, and he studied hisfinger-nails. 

"Yes. I shan't stay here. "

"Oh! And may I ask if you have any definite idea, where you willgo?"

"I've got an engagement as pianist, with a travelling theatricalcompany. "

"Oh indeed!" said the lawyer, scrutinizing her sharply. She staredaway vacantly out of the window. He took to the attentive study ofhis finger-nails once more. "And at a sufficient salary?"

"Quite sufficient, thank you, " said Alvina. 

"Oh! Well! Well now!--" He fidgetted a little. "You see, we are allold neighbours and connected with your father for many years. We--that is the persons interested, and myself--would not like tothink that you were driven out of Woodhouse--er--er--destitute. If--er--we could come to some composition--make some arrangementthat would be agreeable to you, and would, in some measure, secureyou a means of livelihood--"

He watched Alvina with sharp blue eyes. Alvina looked back at him, still vacantly. 

"No--thanks awfully!" she said. "But don't bother. I'm going away. "

"With the travelling theatrical company?"

"Yes. "

The lawyer studied his finger-nails intensely. 

"Well, " he said, feeling with a finger-tip an imaginary roughness ofone nail-edge. "Well, in that case--In that case--Supposing you havemade an irrevocable decision--"

He looked up at her sharply. She nodded slowly, like a porcelainmandarin. 

"In that case, " he said, "we must proceed with the valuation and thepreparation for the sale. "

"Yes, " she said faintly. 

"You realize, " he said, "that everything in Manchester House, exceptyour private personal property, and that of Miss Pinnegar, belongsto the claimants, your father's creditors, and may not be removedfrom the house. "

"Yes, " she said. 

"And it will be necessary to make an account of everything in thehouse. So if you and Miss Pinnegar will put your possessionsstrictly apart--But I shall see Miss Pinnegar during the course ofthe day. Would you ask her to call about seven--I think she is freethen--"

Alvina sat trembling. 

"I shall pack my things today, " she said. 

"Of course, " said the lawyer, "any little things to which you may beattached the claimants would no doubt wish you to regard as yourown. For anything of greater value--your piano, for example--Ishould have to make a personal request--"

"Oh, I don't want anything--" said Alvina. 

"No? Well! You will see. You will be here a few days?"

"No, " said Alvina. "I'm going away today. "

"Today! Is that also irrevocable?"

"Yes. I must go this afternoon. "

"On account of your engagement? May I ask where your company isperforming this week? Far away?"

"Mansfield!"

"Oh! Well then, in case I particularly wished to see you, you couldcome over?"

"If necessary, " said Alvina. "But I don't want to come to Woodhouseunless it _is_ necessary. Can't we write?"

"Yes--certainly! Certainly!--most things! Certainly! And now--"

He went into certain technical matters, and Alvina signed somedocuments. At last she was free to go. She had been almost an hourin the room. 

"Well, good-morning, Miss Houghton. You will hear from me, and Ifrom you. I wish you a pleasant experience in your new occupation. You are not leaving Woodhouse for ever. "

"Good-bye!" she said. And she hurried to the road. 

Try as she might, she felt as if she had had a blow which knockedher down. She felt she had had a blow. 

At the lawyer's gate she stood a minute. There, across a littlehollow, rose the cemetery hill. There were her graves: her mother's, Miss Frost's, her father's. Looking, she made out the white cross atMiss Frost's grave, the grey stone at her parents'. Then she turnedslowly, under the church wall, back to Manchester House. 

She felt humiliated. She felt she did not want to see anybody at all. She did not want to see Miss Pinnegar, nor the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras: andleast of all, Ciccio. She felt strange in Woodhouse, almost as if theground had risen from under her feet and hit her over the mouth. Thefact that Manchester House and its very furniture was under seal to besold on behalf of her father's creditors made her feel as if all herWoodhouse life had suddenly gone smash. She loathed the thought ofManchester House. She loathed staying another minute in it. 

And yet she did not want to go to the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras either. Thechurch clock above her clanged eleven. She ought to take thetwelve-forty train to Mansfield. Yet instead of going home sheturned off down the alley towards the fields and the brook. 

How many times had she gone that road! How many times had she seenMiss Frost bravely striding home that way, from her music-pupils. How many years had she noticed a particular wild cherry-tree comeinto blossom, a particular bit of black-thorn scatter its whitenessin among the pleached twigs of a hawthorn hedge. How often, how manysprings had Miss Frost come home with a bit of this black-thorn inher hand!

Alvina did _not_ want to go to Mansfield that afternoon. She feltinsulted. She knew she would be much cheaper in Madame's eyes. She knewher own position with the troupe would be humiliating. It would beopenly a little humiliating. But it would be much more maddeninglyhumiliating to stay in Woodhouse and experience the full flavour ofWoodhouse's calculated benevolence. She hardly knew which was worse:the cool look of insolent half-contempt, half-satisfaction with whichMadame would receive the news of her financial downfall, or theofficious patronage which she would meet from the Woodhouse magnates. She knew exactly how Madame's black eyes would shine, how her mouthwould curl with a sneering, slightly triumphant smile, as she heard thenews. And she could hear the bullying tone in which Henry Wagstaffwould dictate the Woodhouse benevolence to her. She wanted to go awayfrom them all--from them all--for ever. 

Even from Ciccio. For she felt he insulted her too. Subtly, they alldid it. They had regard for her possibilities as an heiress. Fivehundred, even two hundred pounds would have made all the difference. Useless to deny it. Even to Ciccio. Ciccio would have had a lifelongrespect for her, if she had come with even so paltry a sum as twohundred pounds. Now she had nothing, he would coolly withhold thisrespect. She felt he might jeer at her. And she could not get awayfrom this feeling. 

Mercifully she had the bit of ready money. And she had a fewtrinkets which might be sold. Nothing else. Mercifully, for the meremoment, she was independent. 

Whatever else she did, she must go back and pack. She must pack hertwo boxes, and leave them ready. For she felt that once she hadleft, she could never come back to Woodhouse again. If England hadcliffs all round--why, when there was nowhere else to go and nogetting beyond, she could walk over one of the cliffs. Meanwhile, she had her short run before her. She banked hard on herindependence. 

So she turned back to the town. She would not be able to take thetwelve-forty train, for it was already mid-day. But she was glad. She wanted some time to herself. She would send Ciccio on. Slowlyshe climbed the familiar hill--slowly--and rather bitterly. She felther native place insulted her: and she felt the Natchas insultedher. In the midst of the insult she remained isolated upon herself, and she wished to be alone. 

She found Ciccio waiting at the end of the yard: eternally waiting, it seemed. He was impatient. 

"You've been a long time, " he said. 

"Yes, " she answered. 

"We shall have to make haste to catch the train. "

"I can't go by this train. I shall have to come on later. You canjust eat a mouthful of lunch, and go now. "

They went indoors. Miss Pinnegar had not yet come down. Mrs. Rollings was busily peeling potatoes. 

"Mr. Marasca is going by the train, he'll have to have a little coldmeat, " said Alvina. "Would you mind putting it ready while I goupstairs?"

"Sharpses and Fullbankses sent them bills, " said Mrs. Rollings. Alvina opened them, and turned pale. It was thirty pounds, the totalfuneral expenses. She had completely forgotten them. 

"And Mr. Atterwell wants to know what you'd like put on th'headstone for your father--if you'd write it down. "

"All right. "

Mrs. Rollings popped on the potatoes for Miss Pinnegar's dinner, andspread the cloth for Ciccio. When he was eating, Miss Pinnegar camein. She inquired for Alvina--and went upstairs. 

"Have you had your dinner?" she said. For there was Alvina sittingwriting a letter. 

"I'm going by a later train, " said Alvina. 

"Both of you?"

"No. He's going now. "

Miss Pinnegar came downstairs again, and went through to thescullery. When Alvina came down, she returned to the living room. 

"Give this letter to Madame, " Alvina said to Ciccio. "I shall be atthe hall by seven tonight. I shall go straight there. "

"Why can't you come now?" said Ciccio. 

"I can't possibly, " said Alvina. "The lawyer has just told mefather's debts come to much more than everything is worth. Nothingis ours--not even the plate you're eating from. Everything is underseal to be sold to pay off what is owing. So I've got to get my ownclothes and boots together, or they'll be sold with the rest. Mr. Beeby wants you to go round at seven this evening, MissPinnegar--before I forget. "

"Really!" gasped Miss Pinnegar. "Really! The house and the furnitureand everything got to be sold up? Then we're on the streets! I can'tbelieve it. "

"So he told me, " said Alvina. 

"But how positively awful, " said Miss Pinnegar, sinking motionlessinto a chair. 

"It's not more than I expected, " said Alvina. "I'm putting my thingsinto my two trunks, and I shall just ask Mrs. Slaney to store themfor me. Then I've the bag I shall travel with. "

"Really!" gasped Miss Pinnegar. "I can't believe it! And when havewe got to get out?"

"Oh, I don't think there's a desperate hurry. They'll take aninventory of all the things, and we can live on here till they'reactually ready for the sale. "

"And when will that be?"

"I don't know. A week or two. "

"And is the cinematograph to be sold the same?"

"Yes--everything! The piano--even mother's portrait--"

"It's impossible to believe it, " said Miss Pinnegar. "It'simpossible. He can never have left things so bad. "

"Ciccio, " said Alvina. "You'll really have to go if you are to catchthe train. You'll give Madame my letter, won't you? I should hateyou to miss the train. I know she can't bear me already, for all thefuss and upset I cause. "

Ciccio rose slowly, wiping his mouth. 

"You'll be there at seven o'clock?" he said. 

"At the theatre, " she replied. 

And without more ado, he left. 

Mrs. Rollings came in. 

"You've heard?" said Miss Pinnegar dramatically. 

"I heard somethink, " said Mrs. Rollings. 

"Sold up! Everything to be sold up. Every stick and rag! I neverthought I should live to see the day, " said Miss Pinnegar. 

"You might almost have expected it, " said Mrs. Rollings. "But you'reall right, yourself, Miss Pinnegar. Your money isn't with his, isit?"

"No, " said Miss Pinnegar. "What little I have put by is safe. Butit's not enough to live on. It's not enough to keep me, evensupposing I only live another ten years. If I only spend a pound aweek, it costs fifty-two pounds a year. And for ten years, look atit, it's five hundred and twenty pounds. And you couldn't say less. And I haven't half that amount. I never had more than a wage, youknow. Why, Miss Frost earned a good deal more than I do. And _she_didn't leave much more than fifty. Where's the money to comefrom--?"

"But if you've enough to start a little business--" said Alvina. 

"Yes, it's what I shall _have_ to do. It's what I shall have to do. And then what about you? What about you?"

"Oh, don't bother about me, " said Alvina. 

"Yes, it's all very well, don't bother. But when you come to my age, you know you've _got_ to bother, and bother a great deal, if you'renot going to find yourself in a position you'd be sorry for. You_have_ to bother. And _you'll_ have to bother before you've done. "

"Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, " said Alvina. 

"Ha, sufficient for a good many days, it seems to me. "

Miss Pinnegar was in a real temper. To Alvina this seemed an odd wayof taking it. The three women sat down to an uncomfortable dinner ofcold meat and hot potatoes and warmed-up pudding. 

"But whatever you do, " pronounced Miss Pinnegar; "whatever you do, and however you strive, in this life, you're knocked down in theend. You're always knocked down. "

"It doesn't matter, " said Alvina, "if it's only in the end. Itdoesn't matter if you've had your life. "

"You've never had your life, till you're dead, " said Miss Pinnegar. "And if you work and strive, you've a right to the fruits of yourwork. "

"It doesn't matter, " said Alvina laconically, "so long as you'veenjoyed working and striving. "

But Miss Pinnegar was too angry to be philosophic. Alvina knew itwas useless to be either angry or otherwise emotional. None theless, she also felt as if she had been knocked down. And she almostenvied poor Miss Pinnegar the prospect of a little, day-by-dayhaberdashery shop in Tamworth. Her own problem seemed so much moremenacing. "Answer or die, " said the Sphinx of fate. Miss Pinnegarcould answer her own fate according to its question. She could say"haberdashery shop, " and her sphinx would recognize this answer astrue to nature, and would be satisfied. But every individual has hisown, or her own fate, and her own sphinx. Alvina's sphinx was anold, deep thoroughbred, she would take no mongrel answers. And herthoroughbred teeth were long and sharp. To Alvina, the last of thefantastic but pure-bred race of Houghton, the problem of her fatewas terribly abstruse. 

The only thing to do was not to solve it: to stray on, and answerfate with whatever came into one's head. No good striving with fate. Trust to a lucky shot, or take the consequences. 

"Miss Pinnegar, " said Alvina. "Have we any money in hand?"

"There is about twenty pounds in the bank. It's all shown in mybooks, " said Miss Pinnegar. 

"We couldn't take it, could we?"

"Every penny shows in the books. "

Alvina pondered again. 

"Are there more bills to come in?" she asked. "I mean my bills. Do Iowe anything?"

"I don't think you do, " said Miss Pinnegar. 

"I'm going to keep the insurance money, any way. They can say whatthey like. I've got it, and I'm going to keep it. "

"Well, " said Miss Pinnegar, "it's not my business. But there'sSharps and Fullbanks to pay. "

"I'll pay those, " said Alvina. "You tell Atterwell what to put onfather's stone. How much does it cost?"

"Five shillings a letter, you remember. "

"Well, we'll just put the name and the date. How much will that be?James Houghton. Born 17th January--"

"You'll have to put 'Also of, '" said Miss Pinnegar. 

"Also of--" said Alvina. "One--two--three--four--five--six--. Sixletters--thirty shillings. Seems an awful lot for _Also of_--"

"But you can't leave it out, " said Miss Pinnegar. "You can'teconomize over that. "

"I begrudge it, " said Alvina. 

CHAPTER XI

HONOURABLE ENGAGEMENT

For days, after joining the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras, Alvina was veryquiet, subdued, and rather remote, sensible of her humiliatingposition as a hanger-on. They none of them took much notice of her. They drifted on, rather disjointedly. The cordiality, the _joie devivre_ did not revive. Madame was a little irritable, and veryexacting, and inclined to be spiteful. Ciccio went his way withGeoffrey. 

In the second week, Madame found out that a man had beensurreptitiously inquiring about them at their lodgings, from thelandlady and the landlady's blowsy daughter. It must have been adetective--some shoddy detective. Madame waited. Then she sent Maxover to Mansfield, on some fictitious errand. Yes, the lousy-lookingdogs of detectives had been there too, making the most minuteenquiries as to the behaviour of the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras, what theydid, how their sleeping was arranged, how Madame addressed the men, what attitude the men took towards Alvina. 

Madame waited again. And again, when they moved to Doncaster, thesame two mongrel-looking fellows were lurking in the street, andplying the inmates of their lodging-house with questions. All theNatchas caught sight of the men. And Madame cleverly wormed out ofthe righteous and respectable landlady what the men had asked. Oncemore it was about the sleeping accommodation--whether the landladyheard anything in the night--whether she noticed anything in thebedrooms, in the beds. 

No doubt about it, the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras were under suspicion. Theywere being followed, and watched. What for? Madame made a shrewdguess. "They want to say we are immoral foreigners, " she said. 

"But what have our personal morals got to do with them?" said Maxangrily. 

"Yes--but the English! They are so pure, " said Madame. 

"You know, " said Louis, "somebody must have put them up to it--"

"Perhaps, " said Madame, "somebody on account of Allaye. "

Alvina went white. 

"Yes, " said Geoffrey. "White Slave Traffic! Mr. May said it. "

Madame slowly nodded. 

"Mr. May!" she said. "Mr. May! It is he. He knows all aboutmorals--and immorals. Yes, I know. Yes--yes--yes! He suspects allour immoral doings, _mes braves_. "

"But there aren't any, except mine, " cried Alvina, pale to the lips. 

"You! You! There you are!" Madame smiled archly, and rathermockingly. 

"What are we to do?" said Max, pale on the cheekbones. 

"Curse them! Curse them!" Louis was muttering, in his rollingaccent. 

"Wait, " said Madame. "Wait. They will not do anything to us. You areonly dirty foreigners, _mes braves_. At the most they will ask usonly to leave their pure country. "

"We don't interfere with none of them, " cried Max. 

"Curse them, " muttered Louis. 

"Never mind, _mon cher_. You are in a pure country. Let us wait. "

"If you think it's me, " said Alvina, "I can go away. "

"Oh, my dear, you are only the excuse, " said Madame, smilingindulgently at her. "Let us wait, and see. "

She took it smilingly. But her cheeks were white as paper, and hereyes black as drops of ink, with anger. 

"Wait and see!" she chanted ironically. "Wait and see! If we mustleave the dear country--then _adieu!_" And she gravely bowed to animaginary England. 

"I feel it's my fault. I feel I ought to go away, " cried Alvina, whowas terribly distressed, seeing Madame's glitter and pallor, and theblack brows of the men. Never had Ciccio's brow looked so ominouslyblack. And Alvina felt it was all her fault. Never had sheexperienced such a horrible feeling: as if something repulsive werecreeping on her from behind. Every minute of these weeks was ahorror to her: the sense of the low-down dogs of detectives hanginground, sliding behind them, trying to get hold of some clear proofof immorality on their part. And then--the unknown vengeance of theauthorities. All the repulsive secrecy, and all the absolute powerof the police authorities. The sense of a great malevolent powerwhich had them all the time in its grip, and was watching, feeling, waiting to strike the morbid blow: the sense of the utterhelplessness of individuals who were not even accused, only watchedand enmeshed! the feeling that they, the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras, herselfincluded, must be monsters of hideous vice, to have provoked allthis: and yet the sane knowledge that they, none of them, _were_monsters of vice; this was quite killing. The sight of a policemanwould send up Alvina's heart in a flame of fear, agony; yet she knewshe had nothing legally to be afraid of. Every knock at the door washorrible. 

She simply could not understand it. Yet there it was: they werewatched, followed. Of that there was no question. And all she couldimagine was that the troupe was secretly accused of White SlaveTraffic by somebody in Woodhouse. Probably Mr. May had gone theround of the benevolent magnates of Woodhouse, concerning himselfwith her virtue, and currying favour with his concern. Of this shebecame convinced, that it was concern for her virtue which hadstarted the whole business: and that the first instigator was Mr. May, who had got round some vulgar magistrate or County Councillor. 

Madame did not consider Alvina's view very seriously. She thought itwas some personal malevolence against the Tawaras themselves, probably put up by some other professionals, with whom Madame wasnot popular. 

Be that as it may, for some weeks they went about in the shadow ofthis repulsive finger which was following after them, to touch themand destroy them with the black smear of shame. The men were silentand inclined to be sulky. They seemed to hold together. They seemedto be united into a strong, four-square silence and tension. Theykept to themselves--and Alvina kept to herself--and Madame kept toherself. So they went about. 

And slowly the cloud melted. It never broke. Alvina felt that thevery force of the sullen, silent fearlessness and fury in theTawaras had prevented its bursting. Once there had been a weakening, a cringing, they would all have been lost. But their hearts hardenedwith black, indomitable anger. And the cloud melted, it passed away. There was no sign. 

Early summer was now at hand. Alvina no longer felt at home with theNatchas. While the trouble was hanging over, they seemed to ignoreher altogether. The men hardly spoke to her. They hardly spoke toMadame, for that matter. They kept within the four-square enclosureof themselves. 

But Alvina felt herself particularly excluded, left out. And whenthe trouble of the detectives began to pass off, and the men becamemore cheerful again, wanted her to jest and be familiar with them, she responded verbally, but in her heart there was no response. 

Madame had been quite generous with her. She allowed her to pay forher room, and the expense of travelling. But she had her food withthe rest. Wherever she was, Madame bought the food for the party, and cooked it herself. And Alvina came in with the rest: she paid noboard. 

She waited, however, for Madame to suggest a small salary--or atleast, that the troupe should pay her living expenses. But Madamedid not make such a suggestion. So Alvina knew that she was not verybadly wanted. And she guarded her money, and watched for some otheropportunity. 

It became her habit to go every morning to the public library of thetown in which she found herself, to look through the advertisements:advertisements for maternity nurses, for nursery governesses, pianists, travelling companions, even ladies' maids. For some weeksshe found nothing, though she wrote several letters. 

One morning Ciccio, who had begun to hang round her again, accompanied her as she set out to the library. But her heart wasclosed against him. 

"Why are you going to the library?" he asked her. It was inLancaster. 

"To look at the papers and magazines. "

"Ha-a! To find a job, eh?"

His cuteness startled her for a moment. 

"If I found one I should take it, " she said. 

"Hé! I know that, " he said. 

It so happened that that very morning she saw on the notice-board ofthe library an announcement that the Borough Council wished toengage the services of an experienced maternity nurse, applicationsto be made to the medical board. Alvina wrote down the directions. Ciccio watched her. 

"What is a maternity nurse?" he said. 

"An _accoucheuse_!" she said. "The nurse who attends when babies areborn. "

"Do you know how to do that?" he said, incredulous, and jeeringslightly. 

"I was trained to do it, " she said. 

He said no more, but walked by her side as she returned to thelodgings. As they drew near the lodgings, he said:

"You don't want to stop with us any more?"

"I can't, " she said. 

He made a slight, mocking gesture. 

"'I can't, '" he repeated. "Why do you always say you can't?"

"Because I can't, " she said. 

"Pff--!" he went, with a whistling sound of contempt. 

But she went indoors to her room. Fortunately, when she had finallycleared her things from Manchester House, she had brought with herher nurse's certificate, and recommendations from doctors. She wroteout her application, took the tram to the Town Hall and dropped itin the letterbox there. Then she wired home to her doctor foranother reference. After which she went to the library and got out abook on her subject. If summoned, she would have to go before themedical board on Monday. She had a week. She read and pondered hard, recalling all her previous experience and knowledge. 

She wondered if she ought to appear before the board in uniform. Hernurse's dresses were packed in her trunk at Mrs. Slaney's, inWoodhouse. It was now May. The whole business at Woodhouse wasfinished. Manchester House and all the furniture was sold to someboot-and-shoe people: at least the boot-and-shoe people had thehouse. They had given four thousand pounds for it--which was abovethe lawyer's estimate. On the other hand, the theatre was sold foralmost nothing. It all worked out that some thirty-three pounds, which the creditors made up to fifty pounds, remained for Alvina. She insisted on Miss Pinnegar's having half of this. And so that wasall over. Miss Pinnegar was already in Tamworth, and her little shopwould be opened next week. She wrote happily and excitedly about it. 

Sometimes fate acts swiftly and without a hitch. On Thursday Alvinareceived her notice that she was to appear before the Board on thefollowing Monday. And yet she could not bring herself to speak of itto Madame till the Saturday evening. When they were all at supper, she said:

"Madame, I applied for a post of maternity nurse, to the Borough ofLancaster. "

Madame raised her eyebrows. Ciccio had said nothing. 

"Oh really! You never told me. "

"I thought it would be no use if it all came to nothing. They wantme to go and see them on Monday, and then they will decide--"

"Really! Do they! On Monday? And then if you get this work you willstay here? Yes?"

"Yes, of course. "

"Of course! Of course! Yes! H'm! And if not?"

The two women looked at each other. 

"What?" said Alvina. 

"If you _don't_ get it--! You are not _sure_?"

"No, " said Alvina. "I am not a bit sure. "

"Well then--! Now! And if you don't get it--?"

"What shall I do, you mean?"

"Yes, what shall you do?"

"I don't know. "

"How! you don't know! Shall you come back to us, then?"

"I will if you like--"

"If I like! If _I_ like! Come, it is not a question of if _I_ like. It is what do you want to do yourself. "

"I feel you don't want me very badly, " said Alvina. 

"Why? Why do you feel? Who makes you? Which of us makes you feel so?Tell me. "

"Nobody in particular. But I feel it. "

"Oh we-ell! If nobody makes you, and yet you feel it, it must be inyourself, don't you see? Eh? Isn't it so?"

"Perhaps it is, " admitted Alvina. 

"We-ell then! We-ell--" So Madame gave her her congé. "But if youlike to come back--if you _laike_--then--" Madame shrugged hershoulders--"you must come, I suppose. "

"Thank you, " said Alvina. 

The young men were watching. They seemed indifferent. Ciccio turnedaside, with his faint, stupid smile. 

In the morning Madame gave Alvina all her belongings, from thelittle safe she called her bank. 

"There is the money--so--and so--and so--that is correct. Pleasecount it once more!--" Alvina counted it and kept it clutched in herhand. "And there are your rings, and your chain, and yourlocket--see--all--everything--! But not the brooch. Where is thebrooch? Here! Shall I give it back, hein?"

"I gave it to you, " said Alvina, offended. She looked into Madame'sblack eyes. Madame dropped her eyes. 

"Yes, you gave it. But I thought, you see, as you have now not muchmo-oney, perhaps you would like to take it again--"

"No, thank you, " said Alvina, and she went away, leaving Madame withthe red brooch in her plump hand. 

"Thank goodness I've given her something valuable, " thought Alvinato herself, as she went trembling to her room. 

She had packed her bag. She had to find new rooms. She bade good-byeto the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras. Her face was cold and distant, but shesmiled slightly as she bade them good-bye. 

"And perhaps, " said Madame, "per-haps you will come to Wigantomorrow afternoon--or evening? Yes?"

"Thank you, " said Alvina. 

She went out and found a little hotel, where she took her room forthe night, explaining the cause of her visit to Lancaster. Her heartwas hard and burning. A deep, burning, silent anger againsteverything possessed her, and a profound indifference to mankind. 

And therefore, the next day, everything went as if by magic. She haddecided that at the least sign of indifference from the medicalboard people she would walk away, take her bag, and go toWindermere. She had never been to the Lakes. And Windermere was notfar off. She would not endure one single hint of contumely from anyone else. She would go straight to Windermere, to see the big lake. Why not do as she wished! She could be quite happy by herself amongthe lakes. And she would be absolutely free, absolutely free. Sherather looked forward to leaving the Town Hall, hurrying to take herbag and off to the station and freedom. Hadn't she still got about ahundred pounds? Why bother for one moment? To be quite alone in thewhole world--and quite, quite free, with her hundred pounds--theprospect attracted her sincerely. 

And therefore, everything went charmingly at the Town Hall. Themedical board were charming to her--charming. There was nohesitation at all. From the first moment she was engaged. And shewas given a pleasant room in a hospital in a garden, and the matronwas charming to her, and the doctors most courteous. 

When could she undertake to commence her duties? When did they wanther? The very _moment_ she could come. She could begin tomorrow--butshe had no uniform. Oh, the matron would lend her uniform andaprons, till her box arrived. 

So there she was--by afternoon installed in her pleasant little roomlooking on the garden, and dressed in a nurse's uniform. It was allsudden like magic. She had wired to Madame, she had wired for herbox. She was another person. 

Needless to say, she was glad. Needless to say that, in the morning, when she had thoroughly bathed, and dressed in clean clothes, andput on the white dress, the white apron, and the white cap, she feltanother person. So clean, she felt, so thankful! Her skin seemedcaressed and live with cleanliness and whiteness, luminous she felt. It was so different from being with the Natchas. 

In the garden the snowballs, guelder-roses, swayed softly amonggreen foliage, there was pink may-blossom, and single scarletmay-blossom, and underneath the young green of the trees, irisesrearing purple and moth-white. A young gardener was working--and aconvalescent slowly trailed a few paces. 

Having ten minutes still, Alvina sat down and wrote to Ciccio: "I amglad I have got this post as nurse here. Every one is most kind, andI feel at home already. I feel quite happy here. I shall think of mydays with the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras, and of you, who were such astranger to me. Good-bye. --A. H. "

This she addressed and posted. No doubt Madame would find occasionto read it. But let her. 

Alvina now settled down to her new work. There was of course a greatdeal to do, for she had work both in the hospital and out in thetown, though chiefly out in the town. She went rapidly from case tocase, as she was summoned. And she was summoned at all hours. Sothat it was tiring work, which left her no time to herself, exceptjust in snatches. 

She had no serious acquaintance with anybody, she was too busy. Thematron and sisters and doctors and patients were all part of herday's work, and she regarded them as such. The men she chieflyignored: she felt much more friendly with the matron. She had many acup of tea and many a chat in the matron's room, in the quiet, sunnyafternoons when the work was not pressing. Alvina took her quietmoments when she could: for she never knew when she would be rung upby one or other of the doctors in the town. 

And so, from the matron, she learned to crochet. It was work she hadnever taken to. But now she had her ball of cotton and her hook, andshe worked away as she chatted. She was in good health, and she wasgetting fatter again. With the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras, she had improveda good deal, her colour and her strength had returned. Butundoubtedly the nursing life, arduous as it was, suited her best. She became a handsome, reposeful woman, jolly with the other nurses, really happy with her friend the matron, who was well-bred and wise, and never over-intimate. 

The doctor with whom Alvina had most to do was a Dr. Mitchell, aScotchman. He had a large practice among the poor, and was anenergetic man. He was about fifty-four years old, tall, largely-built, with a good figure, but with extraordinarily largefeet and hands. His face was red and clean-shaven, his eyes blue, his teeth very good. He laughed and talked rather mouthingly. Alvina, who knew what the nurses told her, knew that he had come asa poor boy and bottle-washer to Dr. Robertson, a fellow-Scotchman, and that he had made his way up gradually till he became a doctorhimself, and had an independent practice. Now he was quite rich--anda bachelor. But the nurses did not set their bonnets at him verymuch, because he was rather mouthy and overbearing. 

In the houses of the poor he was a great autocrat. 

"What is that stuff you've got there!" he inquired largely, seeing abottle of somebody's Soothing Syrup by a poor woman's bedside. "Takeit and throw it down the sink, and the next time you want a soothingsyrup put a little boot-blacking in hot water. It'll do you just asmuch good. "

Imagine the slow, pompous, large-mouthed way in which the red-faced, handsomely-built man pronounced these words, and you realize why thepoor set such store by him. 

He was eagle-eyed. Wherever he went, there was a scuffle directlyhis foot was heard on the stairs. And he knew they were hidingsomething. He sniffed the air: he glanced round with a sharp eye:and during the course of his visit picked up a blue mug which waspushed behind the looking-glass. He peered inside--and smelled it. 

"Stout?" he said, in a tone of indignant inquiry: God-Almighty wouldpresumably take on just such a tone, finding the core of an appleflung away among the dead-nettle of paradise: "Stout! Have you beendrinking stout?" This as he gazed down on the wan mother in the bed. 

"They gave me a drop, doctor. I felt that low. "

The doctor marched out of the room, still holding the mug in hishand. The sick woman watched him with haunted eyes. The attendantwomen threw up their hands and looked at one another. Was he goingfor ever? There came a sudden smash. The doctor had flung the bluemug downstairs. He returned with a solemn stride. 

"There!" he said. "And the next person that gives you stout will bethrown down along with the mug. "

"Oh doctor, the bit o' comfort!" wailed the sick woman. "It ud neverdo me no harm. "

"Harm! Harm! With a stomach as weak as yours! Harm! Do you knowbetter than I do? What have I come here for? To be told by _you_what will do you harm and what won't? It appears to me you need nodoctor here, you know everything already--"

"Oh no, doctor. It's not like that. But when you feel as if you'dsink through the bed, an' you don't know what to do with yourself--"

"Take a little beef-tea, or a little rice pudding. Take_nourishment_, don't take that muck. Do you hear--" charging uponthe attendant women, who shrank against the wall--"she's to havenothing alcoholic at all, and don't let me catch you giving it her. "

"They say there's nobbut fower per cent. I' stout, " retorted thedaring female. 

"Fower per cent. , " mimicked the doctor brutally. "Why, what does anignorant creature like _you_ know about fower per cent. "

The woman muttered a little under her breath. 

"What? Speak out. Let me hear what you've got to say, my woman. I'veno doubt it's something for my benefit--"

But the affronted woman rushed out of the room, and burst into tearson the landing. After which Dr. Mitchell, mollified, largely toldthe patient how she was to behave, concluding:

"Nourishment! Nourishment is what you want. Nonsense, don't tell meyou can't take it. Push it down if it won't go down by itself--"

"Oh doctor--"

"Don't say _oh doctor_ to me. Do as I tell you. That's _your_business. " After which he marched out, and the rattle of his motorcar was shortly heard. 

Alvina got used to scenes like these. She wondered why the peoplestood it. But soon she realized that they loved it--particularly thewomen. 

"Oh, nurse, stop till Dr. Mitchell's been. I'm scared to death ofhim, for fear he's going to shout at me. "

"Why does everybody put up with him?" asked innocent Alvina. 

"Oh, he's good-hearted, nurse, he _does_ feel for you. "

And everywhere it was the same: "Oh, he's got a heart, you know. He's rough, but he's got a heart. I'd rather have him than yoursmarmy slormin sort. Oh, you feel safe with Dr. Mitchell, I don'tcare what you say. "

But to Alvina this peculiar form of blustering, bullying heart whichhad all the women scurrying like chickens was not particularlyattractive. 

The men did not like Dr. Mitchell, and would not have him ifpossible. Yet since he was club doctor and panel doctor, they had tosubmit. The first thing he said to a sick or injured labourer, invariably, was:

"And keep off the beer. "

"Oh ay!"

"Keep off the beer, or I shan't set foot in this house again. "

"Tha's got a red enough face on thee, tha nedna shout. "

"My face is red with exposure to all weathers, attending ignorantpeople like you. I never touch alcohol in any form. "

"No, an' I dunna. I drink a drop o' beer, if that's what you ca'touchin' alcohol. An' I'm none th' wuss for it, tha sees. "

"You've heard what I've told you. "

"Ah, I have. "

"And if you go on with the beer, you may go on with curing yourself. _I_ shan't attend you. You know I mean what I say, Mrs. Larrick"--this to the wife. 

"I do, doctor. And I know it's true what you say. An' I'm at himnight an' day about it--"

"Oh well, if he will hear no reason, he must suffer for it. Hemustn't think _I'm_ going to be running after him, if he disobeys myorders. " And the doctor stalked off, and the woman began tocomplain. 

None the less the women had their complaints against Dr. Mitchell. If ever Alvina entered a clean house on a wet day, she was sure tohear the housewife chuntering. 

"Oh my lawk, come in nurse! What a day! Doctor's not been yet. Andhe's bound to come now I've just cleaned up, trapesin' wi' his gretfeet. He's got the biggest understandin's of any man i' Lancaster. My husband says they're the best pair o' pasties i' th' kingdom. An'he does make such a mess, for he never stops to wipe his feet on th'mat, marches straight up your clean stairs--"

"Why don't you tell him to wipe his feet?" said Alvina. 

"Oh my word! Fancy me telling him! He'd jump down my throat withboth feet afore I'd opened my mouth. He's not to be spoken to, heisn't. He's my-lord, he is. You mustn't look, or you're done for. "

Alvina laughed. She knew they all liked him for browbeating them, and having a heart over and above. 

Sometimes he was given a good hit--though nearly always by a man. Ithappened he was in a workman's house when the man was at dinner. 

"Canna yer gi'e a man summat better nor this 'ere pap, Missis?" saidthe hairy husband, turning up his nose at the rice pudding. 

"Oh go on, " cried the wife. "I hadna time for owt else. " Dr. Mitchell was just stooping his handsome figure in the doorway. 

"Rice pudding!" he exclaimed largely. "You couldn't have anythingmore wholesome and nourishing. I have a rice pudding every day of mylife--every day of my life, I do. "

The man was eating his pudding and pearling his big moustachecopiously with it. He did not answer. 

"Do you doctor!" cried the woman. "And never no different. "

"Never, " said the doctor. 

"Fancy that! You're that fond of them?"

"I find they agree with me. They are light and digestible. And mystomach is as weak as a baby's. "

The labourer wiped his big moustache on his sleeve. 

"Mine _isna_, tha sees, " he said, "so pap's no use. 'S watter terme. I want ter feel as I've had summat: a bit o' suetty dumplin' an'a pint o' hale, summat ter fill th' hole up. An' tha'd be th' sameif tha did my work. "

"If I did your work, " sneered the doctor. "Why I do ten times thework that any one of you does. It's just the work that has ruined mydigestion, the never getting a quiet meal, and never a whole night'srest. When do you think _I_ can sit at table and digest my dinner? Ihave to be off looking after people like you--"

"Eh, tha can ta'e th' titty-bottle wi' thee, " said the labourer. 

But Dr. Mitchell was furious for weeks over this. It put him in ablack rage to have his great manliness insulted. Alvina was quietlyamused. 

The doctor began by being rather lordly and condescending with her. But luckily she felt she knew her work at least as well as he knewit. She smiled and let him condescend. Certainly she neither fearednor even admired him. To tell the truth, she rather disliked him:the great, red-faced bachelor of fifty-three, with his bald spot andhis stomach as weak as a baby's, and his mouthing imperiousness andhis good heart which was as selfish as it could be. Nothing can bemore cocksuredly selfish than a good heart which believes in its ownbeneficence. He was a little too much the teetotaller on the onehand to be so largely manly on the other. Alvina preferred thelabourers with their awful long moustaches that got full of food. And he was a little too loud-mouthedly lordly to be in human goodtaste. 

As a matter of fact, he was conscious of the fact that he had risento be a gentleman. Now if a man is conscious of being a _gentleman_, he is bound to be a little less than a _man_. But if he is gnawedwith anxiety lest he may _not_ be a gentleman, he is only pitiable. There is a third case, however. If a man must loftily, by hismanner, assert that he is _now_ a gentleman, he shows himself aclown. For Alvina, poor Dr. Mitchell fell into this third category, of clowns. She tolerated him good-humouredly, as women so oftentolerate ninnies and _poseurs_. She smiled to herself when she sawhis large and important presence on the board. She smiled when shesaw him at a sale, buying the grandest pieces of antique furniture. She smiled when he talked of going up to Scotland, for grouseshooting, or of snatching an hour on Sunday morning, for golf. Andshe talked him over, with quiet, delicate malice, with the matron. He was no favourite at the hospital. 

Gradually Dr. Mitchell's manner changed towards her. From hisimperious condescension he took to a tone of uneasy equality. Thisdid not suit him. Dr. Mitchell had no equals: he had only the vaststratum of inferiors, towards whom he exercised his quite profitablebeneficence--it brought him in about two thousand a year: and thenhis superiors, people who had been born with money. It was thetradesmen and professionals who had started at the bottom andclambered to the motor-car footing, who distressed him. Andtherefore, whilst he treated Alvina on this uneasy tradesmanfooting, he felt himself in a false position. 

She kept her attitude of quiet amusement, and little by little hesank. From being a lofty creature soaring over her head, he was nowlike a big fish poking its nose above water and making eyes at her. He treated her with rather presuming deference. 

"You look tired this morning, " he barked at her one hot day. 

"I think it's thunder, " she said. 

"Thunder! Work, you mean, " and he gave a slight smile. "I'm going todrive you back. "

"Oh no, thanks, don't trouble! I've got to call on the way. "

"Where have you got to call?"

She told him. 

"Very well. That takes you no more than five minutes. I'll wait foryou. Now take your cloak. "

She was surprised. Yet, like other women, she submitted. 

As they drove he saw a man with a barrow of cucumbers. He stoppedthe car and leaned towards the man. 

"Take that barrow-load of poison and _bury_ it!" he shouted, in hisstrong voice. The busy street hesitated. 

"What's that, mister?" replied the mystified hawker. 

Dr. Mitchell pointed to the green pile of cucumbers. 

"Take that barrow-load of poison, and bury it, " he called, "beforeyou do anybody any more harm with it. "

"What barrow-load of poison's that?" asked the hawker, approaching. A crowd began to gather. 

"What barrow-load of poison is that!" repeated the doctor. "Why yourbarrow-load of cucumbers. "

"Oh, " said the man, scrutinizing his cucumbers carefully. To besure, some were a little yellow at the end. "How's that? Cumbers isright enough: fresh from market this morning. "

"Fresh or not fresh, " said the doctor, mouthing his wordsdistinctly, "you might as well put poison into your stomach, asthose things. Cucumbers are the worst thing you can eat. "

"Oh!" said the man, stuttering. "That's 'appen for them as doesn'tlike them. I niver knowed a cumber do _me_ no harm, an' I eat 'emlike a happle. " Whereupon the hawker took a "cumber" from hisbarrow, bit off the end, and chewed it till the sap squirted. "What's wrong with that?" he said, holding up the bitten cucumber. 

"I'm not talking about what's wrong with that, " said the doctor. "Mybusiness is what's wrong with the stomach it goes into. I'm adoctor. And I know that those things cause me half my work. Theycause half the internal troubles people suffer from in summertime. "

"Oh ay! That's no loss to you, is it? Me an' you's partners. Morecumbers I sell, more graft for you, 'cordin' to that. What's wrongthen. _Cum-bers! Fine fresh Cum-berrrs! All fresh and juisty, allcheap and tasty--!_" yelled the man. 

"I am a doctor not only to cure illness, but to prevent it where Ican. And cucumbers are poison to everybody. "

"_Cum-bers! Cum-bers! Fresh cumbers!_" yelled the man, Dr. Mitchell started his car. 

"When will they learn intelligence?" he said to Alvina, smiling andshowing his white, even teeth. 

"I don't care, you know, myself, " she said. "I should always letpeople do what they wanted--"

"Even if you knew it would do them harm?" he queried, smiling withamiable condescension. 

"Yes, why not! It's their own affair. And they'll do themselves harmone way or another. "

"And you wouldn't try to prevent it?"

"You might as well try to stop the sea with your fingers. "

"You think so?" smiled the doctor. "I see, you are a pessimist. Youare a pessimist with regard to human nature. "

"Am I?" smiled Alvina, thinking the rose would smell as sweet. Itseemed to please the doctor to find that Alvina was a pessimist withregard to human nature. It seemed to give her an air of distinction. In his eyes, she _seemed_ distinguished. He was in a fair way todote on her. 

She, of course, when he began to admire her, liked him much better, and even saw graceful, boyish attractions in him. There was reallysomething childish about him. And this something childish, since itlooked up to her as if she were the saving grace, naturallyflattered her and made her feel gentler towards him. 

He got in the habit of picking her up in his car, when he could. Andhe would tap at the matron's door, smiling and showing all hisbeautiful teeth, just about tea-time. 

"May I come in?" His voice sounded almost flirty. 

"Certainly. "

"I see you're having tea! Very nice, a cup of tea at this hour!"

"Have one too, doctor. "

"I will with pleasure. " And he sat down wreathed with smiles. Alvinarose to get a cup. "I didn't intend to disturb you, nurse, " he said. "Men are always intruders, " he smiled to the matron. 

"Sometimes, " said the matron, "women are charmed to be intrudedupon. "

"Oh really!" his eyes sparkled. "Perhaps _you_ wouldn't say so, nurse?" he said, turning to Alvina. Alvina was just reaching at thecupboard. Very charming she looked, in her fresh dress and cap andsoft brown hair, very attractive her figure, with its full, softloins. She turned round to him. 

"Oh yes, " she said. "I quite agree with the matron. "

"Oh, you do!" He did not quite know how to take it. "But you mindbeing disturbed at your tea, I am sure. "

"No, " said Alvina. "We are so used to being disturbed. "

"Rather weak, doctor?" said the matron, pouring the tea. 

"Very weak, please. "

The doctor was a little laboured in his gallantry, but unmistakablygallant. When he was gone, the matron looked demure, and Alvinaconfused. Each waited for the other to speak. 

"Don't you think Dr. Mitchell is quite coming out?" said Alvina. 

"Quite! _Quite_ the ladies' man! I wonder who it is can be_bringing_ him out. A very praiseworthy work, I am sure. " She lookedwickedly at Alvina. 

"No, don't look at me, " laughed Alvina, "_I_ know nothing about it. "

"Do you think it may be _me_!" said the matron, mischievous. 

"I'm sure of it, matron! He begins to show some taste at last. "

"There now!" said the matron. "I shall put my cap straight. " And shewent to the mirror, fluffing her hair and settling her cap. 

"There!" she said, bobbing a little curtsey to Alvina. 

They both laughed, and went off to work. 

But there was no mistake, Dr. Mitchell was beginning to expand. WithAlvina he quite unbent, and seemed even to sun himself when she wasnear, to attract her attention. He smiled and smirked and becameoddly self-conscious: rather uncomfortable. He liked to hang overher chair, and he made a great event of offering her a cigarettewhenever they met, although he himself never smoked. He had a goldcigarette case. 

One day he asked her in to see his garden. He had a pleasant oldsquare house with a big walled garden. He showed her his flowers andhis wall-fruit, and asked her to eat his strawberries. He bade heradmire his asparagus. And then he gave her tea in the drawing-room, with strawberries and cream and cakes, of all of which he atenothing. But he smiled expansively all the time. He was a made man:and now he was really letting himself go, luxuriating in everything;above all, in Alvina, who poured tea gracefully from the oldGeorgian tea-pot, and smiled so pleasantly above the Queen Annetea-cups. 

And she, wicked that she was, admired every detail of hisdrawing-room. It was a pleasant room indeed, with roses outside theFrench door, and a lawn in sunshine beyond, with bright red flowersin beds. But indoors, it was insistently antique. Alvina admired theJacobean sideboard and the Jacobean arm-chairs and the Hepplewhitewall-chairs and the Sheraton settee and the Chippendale stands andthe Axminster carpet and the bronze clock with Shakespeare andAriosto reclining on it--yes, she even admired Shakespeare on theclock--and the ormolu cabinet and the bead-work foot-stools and thedreadful Sèvres dish with a cherub in it and--but why enumerate. Sheadmired _everything_! And Dr. Mitchell's heart expanded in his bosomtill he felt it would burst, unless he either fell at her feet ordid something extraordinary. He had never even imagined what it wasto be so expanded: what a delicious feeling. He could have kissedher feet in an ecstasy of wild expansion. But habit, so far, prevented his doing more than beam. 

Another day he said to her, when they were talking of age:

"You are as young as you feel. Why, when I was twenty I felt I hadall the cares and responsibility of the world on my shoulders. Andnow I am middle-aged more or less, I feel as light as if I were justbeginning life. " He beamed down at her. 

"Perhaps you _are_ only just beginning your _own_ life, " she said. "You have lived for your work till now. "

"It may be that, " he said. "It may be that up till now I have livedfor others, for my patients. And now perhaps I may be allowed tolive a little more for myself. " He beamed with real luxury, saw thereal luxury of life begin. 

"Why shouldn't you?" said Alvina. 

"Oh yes, I intend to, " he said, with confidence. 

He really, by degrees, made up his mind to marry now, and to retirein part from his work. That is, he would hire another assistant, and give himself a fair amount of leisure. He was inordinately proudof his house. And now he looked forward to the treat of his life:hanging round the woman he had made his wife, following her about, feeling proud of her and his house, talking to her from morning tillnight, really finding himself in her. When he had to go his roundsshe would go with him in the car: he made up his mind she would bewilling to accompany him. He would teach her to drive, and theywould sit side by side, she driving him and waiting for him. And hewould run out of the houses of his patients, and find her sittingthere, and he would get in beside her and feel so snug and so sureand so happy as she drove him off to the next case, he informing herabout his work. 

And if ever she did not go out with him, she would be there on thedoorstep waiting for him the moment she heard the car. And theywould have long, cosy evenings together in the drawing-room, as heluxuriated in her very presence. She would sit on his knees and theywould be snug for hours, before they went warmly and deliciously tobed. And in the morning he need not rush off. He would loiter aboutwith her, they would loiter down the garden looking at every newflower and every new fruit, she would wear fresh flowery dresses andno cap on her hair, he would never be able to tear himself away fromher. Every morning it would be unbearable to have to tear himselfaway from her, and every hour he would be rushing back to her. Theywould be simply everything to one another. And how he would enjoyit! Ah!

He pondered as to whether he would have children. A child would takeher away from him. That was his first thought. But then--! Ah well, he would have to leave it till the time. Love's young dream is neverso delicious as at the virgin age of fifty-three. 

But he was quite cautious. He made no definite advances till he hadput a plain question. It was August Bank Holiday, that for everblack day of the declaration of war, when his question was put. Forthis year of our story is the fatal year 1914. 

There was quite a stir in the town over the declaration of war. Butmost people felt that the news was only intended to give an extrathrill to the all-important event of Bank Holiday. Half the worldhad gone to Blackpool or Southport, the other half had gone to theLakes or into the country. Lancaster was busy with a sort of fête, notwithstanding. And as the weather was decent, everybody was in areal holiday mood. 

So that Dr. Mitchell, who had contrived to pick up Alvina at theHospital, contrived to bring her to his house at half-past three, for tea. 

"What do you think of this new war?" said Alvina. 

"Oh, it will be over in six weeks, " said the doctor easily. Andthere they left it. Only, with a fleeting thought, Alvina wonderedif it would affect the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras. She had never heard anymore of them. 

"Where would you have liked to go today?" said the doctor, turningto smile at her as he drove the car. 

"I think to Windermere--into the Lakes, " she said. 

"We might make a tour of the Lakes before long, " he said. She wasnot thinking, so she took no particular notice of the speech. 

"How nice!" she said vaguely. 

"We could go in the car, and take them as we chose, " said thedoctor. 

"Yes, " she said, wondering at him now. 

When they had had tea, quietly and gallantly tête-à-tête in hisdrawing-room, he asked her if she would like to see the other roomsof the house. She thanked him, and he showed her the substantial oakdining-room, and the little room with medical works and a revolvingchair, which he called his study: then the kitchen and the pantry, the housekeeper looking askance; then upstairs to his bedroom, whichwas very fine with old mahogany tall-boys and silver candle-stickson the dressing-table, and brushes with green ivory backs, and ahygienic white bed and straw mats: then the visitors' bedroomcorresponding, with its old satin-wood furniture and cream-colouredchairs with large, pale-blue cushions, and a pale carpet withreddish wreaths. Very nice, lovely, awfully nice, I do like that, isn't that beautiful, I've never seen anything like that! came thegratifying fireworks of admiration from Alvina. And he smiled andgloated. But in her mind she was thinking of Manchester House, andhow dark and horrible it was, how she hated it, but how it hadimpressed Ciccio and Geoffrey, how they would have loved to feelthemselves masters of it, and how done in the eye they were. Shesmiled to herself rather grimly. For this afternoon she was feelingunaccountably uneasy and wistful, yearning into the distance again:a trick she thought she had happily lost. 

The doctor dragged her up even to the slanting attics. He was a bigman, and he always wore navy blue suits, well-tailored andimmaculate. Unconsciously she felt that big men in good navy-bluesuits, especially if they had reddish faces and rather big feet andif their hair was wearing thin, were a special type all tothemselves, solid and rather namby-pamby and tiresome. 

"What very nice attics! I think the many angles which the roofmakes, the different slants, you know, are so attractive. Oh, andthe fascinating little window!" She crouched in the hollow of thesmall dormer window. "Fascinating! See the town and the hills! Iknow I should want this room for my own. "

"Then have it, " he said. "Have it for _one_ of your own. "

She crept out of the window recess and looked up at him. He wasleaning forward to her, smiling, self-conscious, tentative, andeager. She thought it best to laugh it off. 

"I was only talking like a child, from the imagination, " she said. 

"I quite understand that, " he replied deliberately. "But I amspeaking what I _mean_--"

She did not answer, but looked at him reproachfully. He was smilingand smirking broadly at her. 

"Won't you marry me, and come and have this garret for your own?" Hespoke as if he were offering her a chocolate. He smiled with curiousuncertainty. 

"I don't know, " she said vaguely. 

His smile broadened. 

"Well now, " he said, "make up your mind. I'm not good at _talking_about love, you know. But I think I'm pretty good at _feeling_ it, you know. I want you to come here and be happy: with me. " He addedthe two last words as a sort of sly post-scriptum, and as if tocommit himself finally. 

"But I've never thought about it, " she said, rapidly cogitating. 

"I know you haven't. But think about it now--" He began to be hugelypleased with himself. "Think about it now. And tell me if you couldput up with _me_, as well as the garret. " He beamed and put his heada little on one side--rather like Mr. May, for one second. But hewas much more dangerous than Mr. May. He was overbearing, and hadthe devil's own temper if he was thwarted. This she knew. He was abig man in a navy blue suit, with very white teeth. 

Again she thought she had better laugh it off. 

"It's you I _am_ thinking about, " she laughed, flirting still. "It'syou I _am_ wondering about. "

"Well, " he said, rather pleased with himself, "you wonder about metill you've made up your mind--"

"I will--" she said, seizing the opportunity. "I'll wonder about youtill I've made up my mind--shall I?"

"Yes, " he said. "That's what I wish you to do. And the next time Iask you, you'll let me know. That's it, isn't it?" He smiledindulgently down on her: thought her face young and charming, charming. 

"Yes, " she said. "But don't ask me too soon, will you?"

"How, too soon--?" He smiled delightedly. 

"You'll give me time to wonder about you, won't you? You won't askme again this month, will you?"

"This month?" His eyes beamed with pleasure. He enjoyed theprocrastination as much as she did. "But the month's only justbegun! However! Yes, you shall have your way. I won't ask you againthis month. "

"And I'll promise to wonder about you all the month, " she laughed. 

"That's a bargain, " he said. 

They went downstairs, and Alvina returned to her duties. She wasvery much excited, very much excited indeed. A big, well-to-do manin a navy blue suit, of handsome appearance, aged fifty-three, withwhite teeth and a delicate stomach: it _was_ exciting. A sureposition, a very nice home and lovely things in it, once they weredragged about a bit. And of course he'd adore her. That went withoutsaying. She was as fussy as if some one had given her a lovely newpair of boots. She was really fussy and pleased with herself: and_quite_ decided she'd take it all on. That was how it put itself toher: she would take it all on. 

Of course there was the man himself to consider. But he was quitepresentable. There was nothing at all against it: nothing at all. Ifhe had pressed her during the first half of the month of August, hewould almost certainly have got her. But he only beamed inanticipation. 

Meanwhile the stir and restlessness of the war had begun, and wasmaking itself felt even in Lancaster. And the excitement and theunease began to wear through Alvina's rather glamorous fussiness. Some of her old fretfulness came back on her. Her spirit, which hadbeen as if asleep these months, now woke rather irritably, andchafed against its collar. Who was this elderly man, that she shouldmarry him? Who was he, that she should be kissed by him. Actuallykissed and fondled by him! Repulsive. She avoided him like theplague. Fancy reposing against his broad, navy blue waistcoat! Shestarted as if she had been stung. Fancy seeing his red, smiling facejust above hers, coming down to embrace her! She pushed it away withher open hand. And she ran away, to avoid the thought. 

And yet! And yet! She would be so comfortable, she would be sowell-off for the rest of her life. The hateful problem of materialcircumstance would be solved for ever. And she knew well how hatefulmaterial circumstances can make life. 

Therefore, she could not decide in a hurry. But she bore poor Dr. Mitchell a deep grudge, that he could not grant her all theadvantages of his offer, and excuse her the acceptance of himhimself. She dared not decide in a hurry. And this very fear, like ayoke on her, made her resent the man who drove her to decision. 

Sometimes she rebelled. Sometimes she laughed unpleasantly in theman's face: though she dared not go _too_ far: for she was a littleafraid of him and his rabid temper, also. In her moments of sullenrebellion she thought of Natcha-Kee-Tawara. She thought of themdeeply. She wondered where they were, what they were doing, how thewar had affected them. Poor Geoffrey was a Frenchman--he would haveto go to France to fight. Max and Louis were Swiss, it would notaffect them: nor Ciccio, who was Italian. She wondered if the troupewas in England: if they would continue together when Geoffrey wasgone. She wondered if they thought of her. She felt they did. Shefelt they did not forget her. She felt there was a connection. 

In fact, during the latter part of August she wondered a good dealmore about the Natchas than about Dr. Mitchell. But wondering aboutthe Natchas would not help her. She felt, if she knew where theywere, she would fly to them. But then she knew she wouldn't. 

When she was at the station she saw crowds and bustle. People wereseeing their young men off. Beer was flowing: sailors on the trainwere tipsy: women were holding young men by the lapel of the coat. And when the train drew away, the young men waving, the women criedaloud and sobbed after them. 

A chill ran down Alvina's spine. This was another matter, apart fromher Dr. Mitchell. It made him feel very unreal, trivial. She did notknow what she was going to do. She realized she must dosomething--take some part in the wild dislocation of life. She knewthat she would put off Dr. Mitchell again. 

She talked the matter over with the matron. The matron advised herto procrastinate. Why not volunteer for war-service? True, she was amaternity nurse, and this was hardly the qualification needed forthe nursing of soldiers. But still, she _was_ a nurse. 

Alvina felt this was the thing to do. Everywhere was a stir and aseethe of excitement. Men were active, women were needed too. Sheput down her name on the list of volunteers for active service. Thiswas on the last day of August. 

On the first of September Dr. Mitchell was round at the hospitalearly, when Alvina was just beginning her morning duties there. Hewent into the matron's room, and asked for Nurse Houghton. Thematron left them together. 

The doctor was excited. He smiled broadly, but with a tension ofnervous excitement. Alvina was troubled. Her heart beat fast. 

"Now!" said Dr. Mitchell. "What have you to say to me?"

She looked up at him with confused eyes. He smiled excitedly andmeaningful at her, and came a little nearer. 

"Today is the day when you answer, isn't it?" he said. "Now then, let me hear what you have to say. "

But she only watched him with large, troubled eyes, and did notspeak. He came still nearer to her. 

"Well then, " he said, "I am to take it that silence gives consent. "And he laughed nervously, with nervous anticipation, as he tried toput his arm round her. But she stepped suddenly back. 

"No, not yet, " she said. 

"Why?" he asked. 

"I haven't given my answer, " she said. 

"Give it then, " he said, testily. 

"I've volunteered for active service, " she stammered. "I felt Iought to do something. "

"Why?" he asked. He could put a nasty intonation into thatmonosyllable. "I should have thought you would answer _me_ first. "

She did not answer, but watched him. She did not like him. 

"I only signed yesterday, " she said. 

"Why didn't you leave it till tomorrow? It would have lookedbetter. " He was angry. But he saw a half-frightened, half-guiltylook on her face, and during the weeks of anticipation he had workedhimself up. 

"But put that aside, " he smiled again, a little dangerously. "Youhave still to answer my question. Having volunteered for war servicedoesn't prevent your being engaged to me, does it?"

Alvina watched him with large eyes. And again he came very near toher, so that his blue-serge waistcoat seemed, to impinge on her, andhis purplish red face was above her. 

"I'd rather not be engaged, under the circumstances, " she said. 

"Why?" came the nasty monosyllable. "What have the circumstances gotto do with it?"

"Everything is so uncertain, " she said. "I'd rather wait. "

"Wait! Haven't you waited long enough? There's nothing at all toprevent your getting engaged to me now. Nothing whatsoever! Comenow. I'm old enough not to be played with. And I'm much too much inlove with you to let you go on indefinitely like this. Come now!" Hesmiled imminent, and held out his large hand for her hand. "Let meput the ring on your finger. It will be the proudest day of my lifewhen I make you my wife. Give me your hand--"

Alvina was wavering. For one thing, mere curiosity made her want tosee the ring. She half lifted her hand. And but for the knowledgethat he would kiss her, she would have given it. But he would kissher--and against that she obstinately set her will. She put her handbehind her back, and looked obstinately into his eyes. 

"Don't play a game with me, " he said dangerously. 

But she only continued to look mockingly and obstinately into hiseyes. 

"Come, " he said, beckoning for her to give her hand. 

With a barely perceptible shake of the head, she refused, staring athim all the time. His ungovernable temper got the better of him. Hesaw red, and without knowing, seized her by the shoulder, swung herback, and thrust her, pressed her against the wall as if he wouldpush her through it. His face was blind with anger, like a hot, redsun. Suddenly, almost instantaneously, he came to himself again anddrew back his hands, shaking his right hand as if some rat hadbitten it. 

"I'm sorry!" he shouted, beside himself. "I'm sorry. I didn't meanit. I'm sorry. " He dithered before her. 

She recovered her equilibrium, and, pale to the lips, looked at himwith sombre eyes. 

"I'm sorry!" he continued loudly, in his strange frenzy like a smallboy. "Don't remember! Don't remember! Don't think I did it. "

His face was a kind of blank, and unconsciously he wrung the handthat had gripped her, as if it pained him. She watched him, andwondered why on earth all this frenzy. She was left rather cold, shedid not at all feel the strong feelings he seemed to expect of her. There was nothing so very unnatural, after all, in being bumped upsuddenly against the wall. Certainly her shoulder hurt where he hadgripped it. But there were plenty of worse hurts in the world. Shewatched him with wide, distant eyes. 

And he fell on his knees before her, as she backed against thebookcase, and he caught hold of the edge of her dress-bottom, drawing it to him. Which made her rather abashed, and much moreuncomfortable. 

"Forgive me!" he said. "Don't remember! Forgive me! Love me! Loveme! Forgive me and love me! Forgive me and love me!"

As Alvina was looking down dismayed on the great, red-faced, elderlyman, who in his crying-out showed his white teeth like a child, andas she was gently trying to draw her skirt from his clutch, thedoor opened, and there stood the matron, in her big frilled cap. Alvina glanced at her, flushed crimson and looked down to the man. She touched his face with her hand. 

"Never mind, " she said. "It's nothing. Don't think about it. "

He caught her hand and clung to it. 

"Love me! Love me! Love me!" he cried. 

The matron softly closed the door again, withdrawing. 

"Love me! Love me!"

Alvina was absolutely dumbfounded by this scene. She had no idea mendid such things. It did not touch her, it dumbfounded her. 

The doctor, clinging to her hand, struggled to his feet and flunghis arms round her, clasping her wildly to him. 

"You love me! You love me, don't you?" he said, vibrating and besidehimself as he pressed her to his breast and hid his face against herhair. At such a moment, what was the good of saying she didn't? Butshe didn't. Pity for his shame, however, kept her silent, motionlessand silent in his arms, smothered against the blue-serge waistcoatof his broad breast. 

He was beginning to come to himself. He became silent. But he stillstrained her fast, he had no idea of letting her go. 

"You will take my ring, won't you?" he said at last, still in thestrange, lamentable voice. "You will take my ring. "

"Yes, " she said coldly. Anything for a quiet emergence from thisscene. 

He fumbled feverishly in his pocket with one hand, holding her stillfast by the other arm. And with one hand he managed to extract thering from its case, letting the case roll away on the floor. It wasa diamond solitaire. 

"Which finger? Which finger is it?" he asked, beginning to smilerather weakly. She extricated her hand, and held out her engagementfinger. Upon it was the mourning-ring Miss Frost had always worn. The doctor slipped the diamond solitaire above the mourning ring, and folded Alvina to his breast again. 

"Now, " he said, almost in his normal voice. "Now I know you loveme. " The pleased self-satisfaction in his voice made her angry. Shemanaged to extricate herself. 

"You will come along with me now?" he said. 

"I can't, " she answered. "I must get back to my work here. "

"Nurse Allen can do that. "

"I'd rather not. "

"Where are you going today?"

She told him her cases. 

"Well, you will come and have tea with me. I shall expect you tohave tea with me every day. "

But Alvina was straightening her crushed cap before the mirror, anddid not answer. 

"We can see as much as we like of each other now we're engaged, " hesaid, smiling with satisfaction. 

"I wonder where the matron is, " said Alvina, suddenly going into thecool white corridor. He followed her. And they met the matron justcoming out of the ward. 

"Matron!" said Dr. Mitchell, with a return of his old mouthingimportance. "You may congratulate Nurse Houghton and me on ourengagement--" He smiled largely. 

"I may congratulate _you_, you mean, " said the matron. 

"Yes, of course. And both of us, since we are now one, " he replied. 

"Not quite, yet, " said the matron gravely. 

And at length she managed to get rid of him. 

At once she went to look for Alvina, who had gone to her duties. 

"Well, I _suppose_ it is all right, " said the matron gravely. 

"No it isn't, " said Alvina. "I shall _never_ marry him. "

"Ah, never is a long while! Did he hear me come in?"

"No, I'm sure he didn't. "

"Thank goodness for that. "

"Yes indeed! It was perfectly horrible. Following me round on hisknees and shouting for me to love him! Perfectly horrible!"

"Well, " said the matron. "You never know what men will do tillyou've known them. And then you need be surprised at nothing, _nothing_. I'm surprised at nothing they do--"

"I must say, " said Alvina, "I was surprised. Very unpleasantly. "

"But you accepted him--"

"Anything to quieten him--like a hysterical child. "

"Yes, but I'm not sure you haven't taken a very risky way ofquietening him, giving him what he wanted--"

"I think, " said Alvina, "I can look after myself. I may be moved anyday now. "

"Well--!" said the matron. "He may prevent your getting moved, youknow. He's on the board. And if he says you are indispensable--"

This was a new idea for Alvina to cogitate. She had counted on aspeedy escape. She put his ring in her apron pocket, and there sheforgot it until he pounced on her in the afternoon, in the house ofone of her patients. He waited for her, to take her off. 

"Where is your ring?" he said. 

And she realized that it lay in the pocket of a soiled, discardedapron--perhaps lost for ever. 

"I shan't wear it on duty, " she said. "You know that. "

She had to go to tea with him. She avoided his love-making, bytelling him any sort of spooniness revolted her. And he was too muchan old bachelor to take easily to a fondling habit--before marriage, at least. So he mercifully left her alone: he was on the wholedevoutly thankful she wanted to be left alone. But he wanted her tobe there. That was his greatest craving. He wanted her to be alwaysthere. And so he craved for marriage: to possess her entirely, andto have her always there with him, so that he was never alone. Aloneand apart from all the world: but by her side, always by her side. 

"Now when shall we fix the marriage?" he said. "It is no goodputting it back. We both know what we are doing. And now theengagement is announced--"

He looked at her anxiously. She could see the hysterical little boyunder the great, authoritative man. 

"Oh, not till after Christmas!" she said. 

"After Christmas!" he started as if he had been bitten. "Nonsense!It's nonsense to wait so long. Next month, at the latest. "

"Oh no, " she said. "I don't think so soon. "

"Why not? The sooner the better. You had better send in yourresignation at once, so that you're free. "

"Oh but is there any need? I may be transferred for war service. "

"That's not likely. You're our only maternity nurse--"

And so the days went by. She had tea with him practically everyafternoon, and she got used to him. They discussed the furnishing--shecould not help suggesting a few alterations, a few arrangementsaccording to _her_ idea. And he drew up a plan of a wedding tour inScotland. Yet she was quite certain she would not marry him. The matronlaughed at her certainty. "You will drift into it, " she said. "He istying you down by too many little threads. "

"Ah, well, you'll see!" said Alvina. 

"Yes, " said the matron. "I _shall_ see. "

And it was true that Alvina's will was indeterminate, at this time. She was _resolved_ not to marry. But her will, like a spring that ishitched somehow, did not fly direct against the doctor. She had sentin her resignation, as he suggested. But not that she might be freeto marry him, but that she might be at liberty to flee him. So shetold herself. Yet she worked into his hands. 

One day she sat with the doctor in the car near the station--it wastowards the end of September--held up by a squad of soldiers inkhaki, who were marching off with their band wildly playing, toembark on the special troop train that was coming down from thenorth. The town was in great excitement. War-fever was spreadingeverywhere. Men were rushing to enlist--and being constantlyrejected, for it was still the days of regular standards. 

As the crowds surged on the pavement, as the soldiers tramped to thestation, as the traffic waited, there came a certain flow in theopposite direction. The 4:15 train had come in. People werestruggling along with luggage, children were running with spades andbuckets, cabs were crawling along with families: it was the seasidepeople coming home. Alvina watched the two crowds mingle. 

And as she watched she saw two men, one carrying a mandoline caseand a suit-case which she knew. It was Ciccio. She did not know theother man; some theatrical individual. The two men halted almostnear the car, to watch the band go by. Alvina saw Ciccio quite nearto her. She would have liked to squirt water down his brown, handsome, oblivious neck. She felt she hated him. He stood there, watching the music, his lips curling in his faintly-derisive Italianmanner, as he talked to the other man. His eyelashes were as longand dark as ever, his eyes had still the attractive look of beingset in with a smutty finger. He had got the same brownish suit on, which she disliked, the same black hat set slightly, jauntily overone eye. He looked common: and yet with that peculiar southernaloofness which gave him a certain beauty and distinction in hereyes. She felt she hated him, rather. She felt she had been let downby him. 

The band had passed. A child ran against the wheel of the standingcar. Alvina suddenly reached forward and made a loud, screechingflourish on the hooter. Every one looked round, including the laden, tramping soldiers. 

"We can't move yet, " said Dr. Mitchell. 

But Alvina was looking at Ciccio at that moment. He had turned withthe rest, looking inquiringly at the car. And his quick eyes, thewhites of which showed so white against his duskiness, the yellowpupils so non-human, met hers with a quick flash of recognition. Hismouth began to curl in a smile of greeting. But she stared at himwithout moving a muscle, just blankly stared, abstracting everyscrap of feeling, even of animosity or coldness, out of her gaze. She saw the smile die on his lips, his eyes glance sideways, andagain sideways, with that curious animal shyness which characterizedhim. It was as if he did not want to see her looking at him, and ranfrom side to side like a caged weasel, avoiding her blank, glaucouslook. 

She turned pleasantly to Dr. Mitchell. 

"What did you say?" she asked sweetly. 

CHAPTER XII

ALLAYE ALSO IS ENGAGED

Alvina found it pleasant to be respected as she was respected inLancaster. It is not only the prophet who hath honour _save_ in hisown country: it is every one with individuality. In this northerntown Alvina found that her individuality really told. Already shebelonged to the revered caste of medicine-men. And into the bargainshe was a personality, a person. 

Well and good. She was not going to cheapen herself. She felt thateven in the eyes of the natives--the well-to-do part, at least--shelost a _little_ of her distinction when she was engaged to Dr. Mitchell. The engagement had been announced in _The Times_, _TheMorning Post_, _The Manchester Guardian_, and the local _News_. Nofear about its being known. And it cast a slight slur of vulgarfamiliarity over her. In Woodhouse, she knew, it elevated her in thecommon esteem tremendously. But she was no longer in Woodhouse. Shewas in Lancaster. And in Lancaster her engagement pigeonholed her. Apart from Dr. Mitchell she had a magic potentiality. Connected withhim, she was a known and labelled quantity. 

This she gathered from her contact with the local gentry. The matronwas a woman of family, who somehow managed, in her big, white, frilled cap, to be distinguished like an abbess of old. The reallytoney women of the place came to take tea in her room, and theselittle teas in the hospital were like a little elegant femaleconspiracy. There was a slight flavour of art and literature about. The matron had known Walter Pater, in the somewhat remote past. 

Alvina was admitted to these teas with the few women who formed thetoney intellectual élite of this northern town. There was a certainfreemasonry in the matron's room. The matron, a lady-doctor, aclergyman's daughter, and the wives of two industrial magnates ofthe place, these five, and then Alvina, formed the little group. They did not meet a great deal outside the hospital. But they alwaysmet with that curious female freemasonry which can form a law untoitself even among most conventional women. They talked as they wouldnever talk before men, or before feminine outsiders. They threwaside the whole vestment of convention. They discussed plainly thethings they thought about--even the most secret--and they were quitecalm about the things they did--even the most impossible. Alvinafelt that her transgression was a very mild affair, and that herengagement was really _infra dig_. 

"And are you going to marry him?" asked Mrs. Tuke, with a long, coollook. 

"I can't _imagine_ myself--" said Alvina. 

"Oh, but so many things happen outside one's imagination. That'swhere your body has you. I can't _imagine_ that I'm going to have achild--" She lowered her eyelids wearily and sardonically over herlarge eyes. 

Mrs. Tuke was the wife of the son of a local manufacturer. She wasabout twenty-eight years old, pale, with great dark-grey eyes and anarched nose and black hair, very like a head on one of the lovelySyracusan coins. The odd look of a smile which wasn't a smile, atthe corners of the mouth, the arched nose, and the slowness of thebig, full, classic eyes gave her the dangerous Greek look of theSyracusan women of the past: the dangerous, heavily-civilized womenof old Sicily: those who laughed about the latomia. 

"But do you think you can have a child without wanting it _at all_?"asked Alvina. 

"Oh, but there isn't _one bit_ of me wants it, not _one bit_. My_flesh_ doesn't want it. And my mind doesn't--yet there it is!" Shespread her fine hands with a flicker of inevitability. 

"Something must want it, " said Alvina. 

"Oh!" said Mrs. Tuke. "The universe is one big machine, and we'rejust part of it. " She flicked out her grey silk handkerchief, anddabbed her nose, watching with big, black-grey eyes the fresh faceof Alvina. 

"There's not _one bit_ of me concerned in having this child, " shepersisted to Alvina. "My flesh isn't concerned, and my mind isn't. And _yet_!--_le voilà!_--I'm just _planté_. I can't _imagine_ why Imarried Tommy. And yet--I did--!" She shook her head as if it wasall just beyond her, and the pseudo-smile at the corners of herageless mouth deepened. 

Alvina was to nurse Mrs. Tuke. The baby was expected at the end ofAugust. But already the middle of September was here, and the babyhad not arrived. 

The Tukes were not very rich--the young ones, that is. Tommy wantedto compose music, so he lived on what his father gave him. Hisfather gave him a little house outside the town, a house furnishedwith expensive bits of old furniture, in a way that the townspeoplethought insane. But there you are--Effie would insist on dabbing arare bit of yellow brocade on the wall, instead of a picture, and inpainting apple-green shelves in the recesses of the whitewashed wallof the dining-room. Then she enamelled the hall-furniture yellow, and decorated it with curious green and lavender lines and flowers, and had unearthly cushions and Sardinian pottery with unspeakablepeaked griffins. 

What were you to make of such a woman! Alvina slept in her housethese days, instead of at the hospital. For Effie was a very badsleeper. She would sit up in bed, the two glossy black plaitshanging beside her white, arch face, wrapping loosely round her herdressing-gown of a sort of plumbago-coloured, dark-grey silk linedwith fine silk of metallic blue, and there, ivory and jet-black andgrey like black-lead, she would sit in the white bedclothesflicking her handkerchief and revealing a flicker of kingfisher-bluesilk and white silk night dress, complaining of her neuritis nerveand her own impossible condition, and begging Alvina to stay withher another half-hour, and suddenly studying the big, blood-redstone on her finger as if she was reading something in it. 

"I believe I shall be like the woman in the _Cent Nouvelles_ andcarry my child for five years. Do you know that story? She said thateating a parsley leaf on which bits of snow were sticking startedthe child in her. It might just as well--"

Alvina would laugh and get tired. There was about her a kind of halfbitter sanity and nonchalance which the nervous woman liked. 

One night as they were sitting thus in the bedroom, at nearly eleveno'clock, they started and listened. Dogs in the distance had alsostarted to yelp. A mandoline was wailing its vibration in the nightoutside, rapidly, delicately quivering. Alvina went pale. She knewit was Ciccio. She had seen him lurking in the streets of the town, but had never spoken to him. 

"What's this?" cried Mrs. Tuke, cocking her head on one side. "Music! A mandoline! How extraordinary! Do you think it's aserenade?--" And she lifted her brows archly. 

"I should think it is, " said Alvina. 

"How extraordinary! What a moment to choose to serenade the lady!_Isn't_ it like life--! I _must_ look at it--"

She got out of bed with some difficulty, wrapped her dressing-gownround her, pushed her feet into slippers, and went to the window. She opened the sash. It was a lovely moonlight night of September. Below lay the little front garden, with its short drive and its irongates that closed on the high-road. From the shadow of the high-roadcame the noise of the mandoline. 

"Hello, Tommy!" called Mrs. Tuke to her husband, whom she saw on thedrive below her. "How's your musical ear--?"

"All right. Doesn't it disturb you?" came the man's voice from themoonlight below. 

"Not a bit. I like it. I'm waiting for the voice. '_O Richard, O monroi!_'--"

But the music had stopped. 

"There!" cried Mrs. Tuke. "You've frightened him off! And we'redying to be serenaded, aren't we, nurse?" She turned to Alvina. "Dogive me my fur, will you? Thanks so much. Won't you open the otherwindow and look out there--?"

Alvina went to the second window. She stood looking out. 

"Do play again!" Mrs. Tuke called into the night. "Do singsomething. " And with her white arm she reached for a glory rose thathung in the moonlight from the wall, and with a flash of her whitearm she flung it toward the garden wall--ineffectually, of course. 

"Won't you play again?" she called into the night, to the unseen. "Tommy, go indoors, the bird won't sing when you're about. "

"It's an Italian by the sound of him. Nothing I hate more thanemotional Italian music. Perfectly nauseating. "

"Never mind, dear. I know it sounds as if all their insides werecoming out of their mouth. But we want to be serenaded, don't we, nurse?--"

Alvina stood at her window, but did not answer. 

"Ah-h?" came the odd query from Mrs. Tuke. "Don't you like it?"

"Yes, " said Alvina. "Very much. "

"And aren't you dying for the song?"

"Quite. "

"There!" cried Mrs. Tuke, into the moonlight. "Una canzonebella-bella--molto bella--"

She pronounced her syllables one by one, calling into the night. Itsounded comical. There came a rude laugh from the drive below. 

"Go indoors, Tommy! He won't sing if you're there. Nothing will singif you're there, " called the young woman. 

They heard a footstep on the gravel, and then the slam of the halldoor. 

"Now!" cried Mrs. Tuke. 

They waited. And sure enough, came the fine tinkle of the mandoline, and after a few moments, the song. It was one of the well-knownNeapolitan songs, and Ciccio sang it as it should be sung. 

Mrs. Tuke went across to Alvina. 

"Doesn't he put his _bowels_ into it--?" she said, laying her handon her own full figure, and rolling her eyes mockingly. "I'm _sure_it's more effective than senna-pods. "

Then she returned to her own window, huddled her furs over herbreast, and rested her white elbows in the moonlight. 

 "Torn' a Surrientu Fammi campar--"

The song suddenly ended, in a clamorous, animal sort of yearning. Mrs. Tuke was quite still, resting her chin on her fingers. Alvinaalso was still. Then Mrs. Tuke slowly reached for the rose-buds onthe old wall. 

"Molto bella!" she cried, half ironically. "Molto bella! Je vousenvoie une rose--" And she threw the roses out on to the drive. Aman's figure was seen hovering outside the gate, on the high-road. "Entrez!" called Mrs. Tuke. "Entrez! Prenez votre rose. Come in andtake your rose. "

The man's voice called something from the distance. 

"What?" cried Mrs. Tuke. 

"Je ne peux pas entrer. "

"Vous ne pouvez pas entrer? Pourquoi alors! La porte n'est pasfermée à clef. Entrez donc!"

"Non. On n'entre pas--" called the well-known voice of Ciccio. 

"Quoi faire, alors! Alvina, take him the rose to the gate, will you?Yes do! Their singing is horrible, I think. I can't go down to him. But do take him the roses, and see what he looks like. Yes do!" Mrs. Tuke's eyes were arched and excited. Alvina looked at her slowly. Alvina also was smiling to herself. 

She went slowly down the stairs and out of the front door. From abush at the side she pulled two sweet-smelling roses. Then in thedrive she picked up Effie's flowers. Ciccio was standing outside thegate. 

"Allaye!" he said, in a soft, yearning voice. 

"Mrs. Tuke sent you these roses, " said Alvina, putting the flowersthrough the bars of the gate. 

"Allaye!" he said, caressing her hand, kissing it with a soft, passionate, yearning mouth. Alvina shivered. Quickly he opened thegate and drew her through. He drew her into the shadow of the wall, and put his arms round her, lifting her from her feet withpassionate yearning. 

"Allaye!" he said. "I love you, Allaye, my beautiful, Allaye. I loveyou, Allaye!" He held her fast to his breast and began to walk awaywith her. His throbbing, muscular power seemed completely to envelopher. He was just walking away with her down the road, clinging fastto her, enveloping her. 

"Nurse! Nurse! I can't see you! Nurse!--" came the long call of Mrs. Tuke through the night. Dogs began to bark. 

"Put me down, " murmured Alvina. "Put me down, Ciccio. "

"Come with me to Italy. Come with me to Italy, Allaye. I can't go toItaly by myself, Allaye. Come with me, be married to me--Allaye, Allaye--"

His voice was a strange, hoarse whisper just above her face, hestill held her in his throbbing, heavy embrace. 

"Yes--yes!" she whispered. "Yes--yes! But put me down, Ciccio. Putme down. "

"Come to Italy with me, Allaye. Come with me, " he still reiterated, in a voice hoarse with pain and yearning. 

"Nurse! Nurse! Wherever are you? Nurse! I want you, " sang theuneasy, querulous voice of Mrs. Tuke. 

"Do put me down!" murmured Alvina, stirring in his arms. 

He slowly relaxed his clasp, and she slid down like rain to earth. But still he clung to her. 

"Come with me, Allaye! Come with me to Italy!" he said. 

She saw his face, beautiful, non-human in the moonlight, and sheshuddered slightly. 

"Yes!" she said. "I will come. But let me go now. Where is yourmandoline?"

He turned round and looked up the road. 

"Nurse! You absolutely _must_ come. I can't bear it, " cried thestrange voice of Mrs. Tuke. 

Alvina slipped from the man, who was a little bewildered, andthrough the gate into the drive. 

"You must come!" came the voice in pain from the upper window. 

Alvina ran upstairs. She found Mrs. Tuke crouched in a chair, with adrawn, horrified, terrified face. As her pains suddenly gripped her, she uttered an exclamation, and pressed her clenched fists hard onher face. 

"The pains have begun, " said Alvina, hurrying to her. 

"Oh, it's horrible! It's horrible! I don't want it!" cried the womanin travail. Alvina comforted her and reassured her as best shecould. And from outside, once more, came the despairing howl of theNeapolitan song, animal and inhuman on the night. 

 "E tu dic' Io part', addio! T'alluntare di sta core, Nel paese del amore Tien' o cor' di non turnar' --Ma nun me lasciar'--"

It was almost unendurable. But suddenly Mrs. Tuke became quitestill, and sat with her fists clenched on her knees, her twojet-black plaits dropping on either side of her ivory face, her bigeyes fixed staring into space. At the line--

 Ma nun me lasciar'--

she began to murmur softly to herself--"Yes, it's dreadful! It'shorrible! I can't understand it. What does it mean, that noise? It'sas bad as these pains. What does it mean? What does he say? I canunderstand a little Italian--" She paused. And again came the suddencomplaint:

 Ma nun me lasciar'--

"Ma nun me lasciar'--!" she murmured, repeating the music. "Thatmeans--Don't leave me! Don't leave me! But why? Why shouldn't onehuman being go away from another? What does it mean? That _awful_noise! Isn't love the most horrible thing! I think it's horrible. Itjust does one in, and turns one into a sort of howling animal. I'mhowling with one sort of pain, he's howling with another. Twohellish animals howling through the night! I'm not myself, he's nothimself. Oh, I think it's horrible. What does he look like, Nurse?Is he beautiful? Is he a great hefty brute?"

She looked with big, slow, enigmatic eyes at Alvina. 

"He's a man I knew before, " said Alvina. 

Mrs. Tuke's face woke from its half-trance. 

"Really! Oh! A man you knew before! Where?"

"It's a long story, " said Alvina. "In a travelling music-halltroupe. "

"In a travelling music-hall troupe! How extraordinary! Why, how didyou come across such an individual--?"

Alvina explained as briefly as possible. Mrs. Tuke watched her. 

"Really!" she said. "You've done all those things!" And shescrutinized Alvina's face. "You've had some effect on him, that'sevident, " she said. Then she shuddered, and dabbed her nose with herhandkerchief. "Oh, the flesh is a _beastly_ thing!" she cried. "Tomake a man howl outside there like that, because you're here. And tomake me howl because I've got a child inside me. It's unbearable!What does he look like, really?"

"I don't know, " said Alvina. "Not extraordinary. Rather a heftybrute--"

Mrs. Tuke glanced at her, to detect the irony. 

"I should like to see him, " she said. "Do you think I might?"

"I don't know, " said Alvina, non-committal. 

"Do you think he might come up? Ask him. Do let me see him. "

"Do you really want to?" said Alvina. 

"Of course--" Mrs. Tuke watched Alvina with big, dark, slow eyes. Then she dragged herself to her feet. Alvina helped her into bed. 

"Do ask him to come up for a minute, " Effie said. "We'll give him aglass of Tommy's famous port. Do let me see him. Yes do!" Shestretched out her long white arm to Alvina, with sudden imploring. 

Alvina laughed, and turned doubtfully away. 

The night was silent outside. But she found Ciccio leaning against agate-pillar. He started up. 

"Allaye!" he said. 

"Will you come in for a moment? I can't leave Mrs. Tuke. "

Ciccio obediently followed Alvina into the house and up the stairs, without a word. He was ushered into the bedroom. He drew back whenhe saw Effie in the bed, sitting with her long plaits and her darkeyes, and the subtle-seeming smile at the corners of her mouth. 

"Do come in!" she said. "I want to thank you for the music. Nursesays it was for her, but I enjoyed it also. Would you tell me thewords? I think it's a wonderful song. "

Ciccio hung back against the door, his head dropped, and the shy, suspicious, faintly malicious smile on his face. 

"Have a glass of port, do!" said Effie. "Nurse, give us all one. Ishould like one too. And a biscuit. " Again she stretched out herlong white arm from the sudden blue lining of her wrap, suddenly, asif taken with the desire. Ciccio shifted on his feet, watchingAlvina pour out the port. 

He swallowed his in one swallow, and put aside his glass. 

"Have some more!" said Effie, watching over the top of her glass. 

He smiled faintly, stupidly, and shook his head. 

"Won't you? Now tell me the words of the song--"

He looked at her from out of the dusky hollows of his brow, and didnot answer. The faint, stupid half-smile, half-sneer was on hislips. 

"Won't you tell them me? I understood one line--"

Ciccio smiled more pronouncedly as he watched her, but did notspeak. 

"I understood one line, " said Effie, making big eyes at him. "_Manon me lasciare_--_Don't leave me!_ There, isn't that it?"

He smiled, stirred on his feet, and nodded. 

"Don't leave me! There, I knew it was that. Why don't you want Nurseto leave you? Do you want her to be with you _every minute_?"

He smiled a little contemptuously, awkwardly, and turned aside hisface, glancing at Alvina. Effie's watchful eyes caught the glance. It was swift, and full of the terrible yearning which so horrifiedher. 

At the same moment a spasm crossed her face, her expression wentblank. 

"Shall we go down?" said Alvina to Ciccio. 

He turned immediately, with his cap in his hand, and followed. Inthe hall he pricked up his ears as he took the mandoline from thechest. He could hear the stifled cries and exclamations from Mrs. Tuke. At the same moment the door of the study opened, and themusician, a burly fellow with troubled hair, came out. 

"Is that Mrs. Tuke?" he snapped anxiously. 

"Yes. The pains have begun, " said Alvina. 

"Oh God! And have you left her!" He was quite irascible. 

"Only for a minute, " said Alvina. 

But with a _Pf_! of angry indignation, he was climbing the stairs. 

"She is going to have a child, " said Alvina to Ciccio. "I shall haveto go back to her. " And she held out her hand. 

He did not take her hand, but looked down into her face with thesame slightly distorted look of overwhelming yearning, yearningheavy and unbearable, in which he was carried towards her as on aflood. 

"Allaye!" he said, with a faint lift of the lip that showed histeeth, like a pained animal: a curious sort of smile. He could notgo away. 

"I shall have to go back to her, " she said. 

"Shall you come with me to Italy, Allaye?"

"Yes. Where is Madame?"

"Gone! Gigi--all gone. "

"Gone where?"

"Gone back to France--called up. "

"And Madame and Louis and Max?"

"Switzerland. "

He stood helplessly looking at her. 

"Well, I must go, " she said. 

He watched her with his yellow eyes, from under his long blacklashes, like some chained animal, haunted by doom. She turned andleft him standing. 

She found Mrs. Tuke wildly clutching the edge of the sheets, andcrying: "No, Tommy dear. I'm awfully fond of you, you know I am. Butgo away. Oh God, go away. And put a space between us. Put a spacebetween us!" she almost shrieked. 

He pushed up his hair. He had been working on a big choral workwhich he was composing, and by this time he was almost demented. 

"Can't you stand my presence!" he shouted, and dashed downstairs. 

"Nurse!" cried Effie. "It's _no use_ trying to get a grip on life. You're just at the mercy of _Forces_, " she shrieked angrily. 

"Why not?" said Alvina. "There are good life-forces. Even the willof God is a life-force. "

"You don't understand! I want to be _myself_. And I'm _not_ myself. I'm just torn to pieces by _Forces_. It's horrible--"

"Well, it's not my fault. I didn't make the universe, " said Alvina. "If you have to be torn to pieces by forces, well, you have. Otherforces will put you together again. "

"I don't want them to. I want to be myself. I don't want to benailed together like a chair, with a hammer. I want to be myself. "

"You won't be nailed together like a chair. You should have faith inlife. "

"But I hate life. It's nothing but a mass of forces. _I_ amintelligent. Life isn't intelligent. Look at it at this moment. Doyou call this intelligent? Oh--Oh! It's horrible! Oh--!" She waswild and sweating with her pains. Tommy flounced out downstairs, beside himself. He was heard talking to some one in the moonlightoutside. To Ciccio. He had already telephoned wildly for the doctor. But the doctor had replied that Nurse would ring him up. 

The moment Mrs. Tuke recovered her breath she began again. 

"I hate life, and faith, and such things. Faith is only fear. Andlife is a mass of unintelligent forces to which intelligent beingsare submitted. Prostituted. Oh--oh!!--prostituted--"

"Perhaps life itself is something bigger than intelligence, " saidAlvina. 

"Bigger than intelligence!" shrieked Effie. "_Nothing_ is biggerthan intelligence. Your man is a hefty brute. His yellow eyes_aren't_ intelligent. They're _animal_--"

"No, " said Alvina. "Something else. I wish he didn't attract me--"

"There! Because you're not content to be at the mercy of _Forces_!"cried Effie. "I'm not. I'm not. I want to be myself. And so forcestear me to pieces! Tear me to pie--eee--Oh-h-h! No!--"

Downstairs Tommy had walked Ciccio back into the house again, andthe two men were drinking port in the study, discussing Italy, forwhich Tommy had a great sentimental affection, though he hated allItalian music after the younger Scarlatti. They drank port allthrough the night, Tommy being strictly forbidden to interfereupstairs, or even to fetch the doctor. They drank three and a halfbottles of port, and were discovered in the morning by Alvina fastasleep in the study, with the electric light still burning. Tommyslept with his fair and ruffled head hanging over the edge of thecouch like some great loose fruit, Ciccio was on the floor, facedownwards, his face in his folded arms. 

Alvina had a great difficulty in waking the inert Ciccio. In theend, she had to leave him and rouse Tommy first: who in rousing felloff the sofa with a crash which woke him disagreeably. So that heturned on Alvina in a fury, and asked her what the hell she thoughtshe was doing. In answer to which Alvina held up a finger warningly, and Tommy, suddenly remembering, fell back as if he had been struck. 

"She is sleeping now, " said Alvina. 

"Is it a boy or a girl?" he cried. 

"It isn't born yet, " she said. 

"Oh God, it's an accursed fugue!" cried the bemused Tommy. Afterwhich they proceeded to wake Ciccio, who was like the dead doll inPetrushka, all loose and floppy. When he was awake, however, hesmiled at Alvina, and said: "Allaye!"

The dark, waking smile upset her badly. 

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 fiancé, 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. 

"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. 

CHAPTER XIV

THE JOURNEY ACROSS

The train began to move. Giuseppe ran alongside, holding Ciccio'shand still; the women and children were crying and waving theirhandkerchiefs, the other men were shouting messages, making strange, eager gestures. And Alvina sat quite still, wonderingly. And so thebig, heavy train drew out, leaving the others small and dim on theplatform. It was foggy, the river was a sea of yellow beneath theponderous iron bridge. The morning was dim and dank. 

The train was very full. Next to Alvina sat a trim Frenchwomanreading _L'Aiglon_. There was a terrible encumbrance of packages andluggage everywhere. Opposite her sat Ciccio, his black overcoat openover his pale-grey suit, his black hat a little over his left eye. He glanced at her from time to time, smiling constrainedly. Sheremained very still. They ran through Bromley and out into the opencountry. It was grey, with shivers of grey sunshine. On the downsthere was thin snow. The air in the train was hot, heavy with thecrowd and tense with excitement and uneasiness. The train seemed torush ponderously, massively, across the Weald. 

And so, through Folkestone to the sea. There was sun in the sky now, and white clouds, in the sort of hollow sky-dome above the greyearth with its horizon walls of fog. The air was still. The seaheaved with a sucking noise inside the dock. Alvina and Ciccio sataft on the second-class deck, their bags near them. He put a whitemuffler round himself, Alvina hugged herself in her beaver scarf andmuff. She looked tender and beautiful in her still vagueness, andCiccio, hovering about her, was beautiful too, his estrangement gavehim a certain wistful nobility which for the moment put him beyondall class inferiority. The passengers glanced at them across themagic of estrangement. 

The sea was very still. The sun was fairly high in the open sky, where white cloud-tops showed against the pale, wintry blue. Acrossthe sea came a silver sun-track. And Alvina and Ciccio looked at thesun, which stood a little to the right of the ship's course. 

"The sun!" said Ciccio, nodding towards the orb and smiling to her. 

"I love it, " she said. 

He smiled again, silently. He was strangely moved: she did not knowwhy. 

The wind was cold over the wintry sea, though the sun's beams werewarm. They rose, walked round the cabins. Other ships were atsea--destroyers and battleships, grey, low, and sinister on thewater. Then a tall bright schooner glimmered far down the channel. Some brown fishing smacks kept together. All was very still in thewintry sunshine of the Channel. 

So they turned to walk to the stern of the boat. And Alvina's heartsuddenly contracted. She caught Ciccio's arm, as the boat rolledgently. For there behind, behind all the sunshine, was England. England, beyond the water, rising with ash-grey, corpse-grey cliffs, and streaks of snow on the downs above. England, like a long, ash-grey coffin slowly submerging. She watched it, fascinated andterrified. It seemed to repudiate the sunshine, to remainunilluminated, long and ash-grey and dead, with streaks of snow likecerements. That was England! Her thoughts flew to Woodhouse, thegrey centre of it all. Home!

Her heart died within her. Never had she felt so utterly strange andfar-off. Ciccio at her side was as nothing, as spell-bound shewatched, away off, behind all the sunshine and the sea, the grey, snow-streaked substance of England slowly receding and sinking, submerging. She felt she could not believe it. It was like lookingat something else. What? It was like a long, ash-grey coffin, winter, slowly submerging in the sea. England?

She turned again to the sun. But clouds and veils were alreadyweaving in the sky. The cold was beginning to soak in, moreover. Shesat very still for a long time, almost an eternity. And when shelooked round again there was only a bank of mist behind, beyond thesea: a bank of mist, and a few grey, stalking ships. She must watchfor the coast of France. 

And there it was already, looming up grey and amorphous, patchedwith snow. It had a grey, heaped, sordid look in the November light. She had imagined Boulogne gay and brilliant. Whereas it was moregrey and dismal than England. But not that magical, mystic, phantomlook. 

The ship slowly put about, and backed into the harbour. She watchedthe quay approach. Ciccio was gathering up the luggage. Then camethe first cry one ever hears: "_Porteur! Porteur!_ Want a_porteur_?" A porter in a blouse strung the luggage on his strap, and Ciccio and Alvina entered the crush for the exit and thepassport inspection. There was a tense, eager, frightened crowd, andofficials shouting directions in French and English. Alvina foundherself at last before a table where bearded men in uniforms weresplashing open the big pink sheets of the English passports: shefelt strange and uneasy, that her passport was unimpressive andItalian. The official scrutinized her, and asked questions ofCiccio. Nobody asked her anything--she might have been Ciccio'sshadow. So they went through to the vast, crowded cavern of aCustoms house, where they found their porter waving to them in themob. Ciccio fought in the mob while the porter whisked off Alvina toget seats in the big train. And at last she was planted once more ina seat, with Ciccio's place reserved beside her. And there she sat, looking across the railway lines at the harbour, in the last burstof grey sunshine. Men looked at her, officials stared at her, soldiers made remarks about her. And at last, after an eternity, Ciccio came along the platform, the porter trotting behind. 

They sat and ate the food they had brought, and drank wine and tea. And after weary hours the train set off through snow-patched countryto Paris. Everywhere was crowded, the train was stuffy without beingwarm. Next to Alvina sat a large, fat, youngish Frenchman whooverflowed over her in a hot fashion. Darkness began to fall. Thetrain was very late. There were strange and frightening delays. Strange lights appeared in the sky, everybody seemed to be listeningfor strange noises. It was all such a whirl and confusion thatAlvina lost count, relapsed into a sort of stupidity. Gleams, flashes, noises and then at last the frenzy of Paris. 

It was night, a black city, and snow falling, and no train thatnight across to the Gare de Lyon. In a state of semi-stupefactionafter all the questionings and examinings and blusterings, theywere finally allowed to go straight across Paris. But this meantanother wild tussle with a Paris taxi-driver, in the filtering snow. So they were deposited in the Gare de Lyon. 

And the first person who rushed upon them was Geoffrey, in a rathergrimy private's uniform. He had already seen some hard service, andhad a wild, bewildered look. He kissed Ciccio and burst into tearson his shoulder, there in the great turmoil of the entrance hall ofthe Gare de Lyon. People looked, but nobody seemed surprised. Geoffrey sobbed, and the tears came silently down Ciccio's cheeks. 

"I've waited for you since five o'clock, and I've got to go backnow. Ciccio! Ciccio! I wanted so badly to see you. I shall never seethee again, brother, my brother!" cried Gigi, and a sob shook him. 

"Gigi! Mon Gigi. Tu as done regu ma lettre?"

"Yesterday. O Ciccio, Ciccio, I shall die without thee!"

"But no, Gigi, frère. You won't die. "

"Yes, Ciccio, I shall. I know I shall. "

"I say _no_, brother, " said Ciccio. But a spasm suddenly took him, he pulled off his hat and put it over his face and sobbed into it. 

"Adieu, ami! Adieu!" cried Gigi, clutching the other man's arm. Ciccio took his hat from his tear-stained face and put it on hishead. Then the two men embraced. 

"_Toujours à toi!_" said Geoffrey, with a strange, solemn salute infront of Ciccio and Alvina. Then he turned on his heel and marchedrapidly out of the station, his soiled soldier's overcoat flappingin the wind at the door. Ciccio watched him go. Then he turned andlooked with haunted eyes into the eyes of Alvina. And then theyhurried down the desolate platform in the darkness. Many people, Italians, largely, were camped waiting there, while bits of snowwavered down. Ciccio bought food and hired cushions. The trainbacked in. There was a horrible fight for seats, men scramblingthrough windows. Alvina got a place--but Ciccio had to stay in thecorridor. 

Then the long night journey through France, slow and blind. Thetrain was now so hot that the iron plate on the floor burnt Alvina'sfeet. Outside she saw glimpses of snow. A fat Italian hotel-keeperput on a smoking cap, covered the light, and spread himself beforeAlvina. In the next carriage a child was screaming. It screamed allthe night--all the way from Paris to Chambéry it screamed. The traincame to sudden halts, and stood still in the snow. The hotel-keepersnored. Alvina became almost comatose, in the burning heat of thecarriage. And again the train rumbled on. And again she saw glimpsesof stations, glimpses of snow, through the chinks in the curtainedwindows. And again there was a jerk and a sudden halt, a drowsymutter from the sleepers, somebody uncovering the light, andsomebody covering it again, somebody looking out, somebody trampingdown the corridor, the child screaming. 

The child belonged to two poor Italians--Milanese--a shred of a thinlittle man, and a rather loose woman. They had five tiny children, all boys: and the four who could stand on their feet all worescarlet caps. The fifth was a baby. Alvina had seen a Frenchofficial yelling at the poor shred of a young father on theplatform. 

When morning came, and the bleary people pulled the curtains, it wasa clear dawn, and they were in the south of France. There was nosign of snow. The landscape was half southern, half Alpine. Whitehouses with brownish tiles stood among almond trees and cactus. Itwas beautiful, and Alvina felt she had known it all before, in ahappier life. The morning was graceful almost as spring. She wentout in the corridor to talk to Ciccio. 

He was on his feet with his back to the inner window, rollingslightly to the motion of the train. His face was pale, he had thatsombre, haunted, unhappy look. Alvina, thrilled by the southerncountry, was smiling excitedly. 

"This is my first morning abroad, " she said. 

"Yes, " he answered. 

"I love it here, " she said. "Isn't this like Italy?"

He looked darkly out of the window, and shook his head. 

But the sombre look remained on his face. She watched him. And herheart sank as she had never known it sink before. 

"Are you thinking of Gigi?" she said. 

He looked at her, with a faint, unhappy, bitter smile, but he saidnothing. He seemed far off from her. A wild unhappiness beat insideher breast. She went down the corridor, away from him, to avoid thisnew agony, which after all was not her agony. She listened to thechatter of French and Italian in the corridor. She felt theexcitement and terror of France, inside the railway carriage: andoutside she saw white oxen slowly ploughing, beneath the lingeringyellow poplars of the sub-Alps, she saw peasants looking up, she sawa woman holding a baby to her breast, watching the train, she sawthe excited, yeasty crowds at the station. And they passed a river, and a great lake. And it all seemed bigger, nobler than England. Shefelt vaster influences spreading around, the Past was greater, moremagnificent in these regions. For the first time the nostalgia ofthe vast Roman and classic world took possession of her. And shefound it splendid. For the first time she opened her eyes on acontinent, the Alpine core of a continent. And for the first timeshe realized what it was to escape from the smallish perfection ofEngland, into the grander imperfection of a great continent. 

Near Chambéry they went down for breakfast to the restaurant car. And secretly, she was very happy. Ciccio's distress made her uneasy. But underneath she was extraordinarily relieved and glad. Ciccio didnot trouble her very much. The sense of the bigness of the landsabout her, the excitement of travelling with Continental people, thepleasantness of her coffee and rolls and honey, the feeling thatvast events were taking place--all this stimulated her. She hadbrushed, as it were, the fringe of the terror of the war and theinvasion. Fear was seething around her. And yet she was excited andglad. The vast world was in one of its convulsions, and she wasmoving amongst it. Somewhere, she believed in the convulsion, theevent elated her. 

The train began to climb up to Modane. How wonderful the Alpswere!--what a bigness, an unbreakable power was in the mountains! Upand up the train crept, and she looked at the rocky slopes, theglistening peaks of snow in the blue heaven, the hollow valleys withfir trees and low-roofed houses. There were quarries near therailway, and men working. There was a strange mountain town, dirty-looking. And still the train climbed up and up, in the hotmorning sunshine, creeping slowly round the mountain loops, so thata little brown dog from one of the cottages ran alongside the trainfor a long way, barking at Alvina, even running ahead of thecreeping, snorting train, and barking at the people ahead. Alvina, looking out, saw the two unfamiliar engines snorting out theirsmoke round the bend ahead. And the morning wore away to mid-day. 

Ciccio became excited as they neared Modane, the frontier station. His eye lit up again, he pulled himself together for the entranceinto Italy. Slowly the train rolled in to the dismal station. Andthen a confusion indescribable, of porters and masses of luggage, the unspeakable crush and crowd at the customs barriers, the moreintense crowd through the passport office, all like a madness. 

They were out on the platform again, they had secured their places. Ciccio wanted to have luncheon in the station restaurant. They wentthrough the passages. And there in the dirty station gang-ways andbig corridors dozens of Italians were lying on the ground, men, women, children, camping with their bundles and packages in heaps. They were either emigrants or refugees. Alvina had never seen peopleherd about like cattle, dumb, brute cattle. It impressed her. Shecould not grasp that an Italian labourer would lie down just wherehe was tired, in the street, on a station, in any corner, like adog. 

In the afternoon they were slipping down the Alps towards Turin. Andeverywhere was snow--deep, white, wonderful snow, beautiful andfresh, glistening in the afternoon light all down the mountainslopes, on the railway track, almost seeming to touch the train. Andtwilight was falling. And at the stations people crowded in oncemore. 

It had been dark a long time when they reached Turin. Many peoplealighted from the train, many surged to get in. But Ciccio andAlvina had seats side by side. They were becoming tired now. Butthey were in Italy. Once more they went down for a meal. And thenthe train set off again in the night for Alessandria and Genoa, Pisaand Rome. 

It was night, the train ran better, there was a more easy sense inItaly. Ciccio talked a little with other travelling companions. AndAlvina settled her cushion, and slept more or less till Genoa. Afterthe long wait at Genoa she dozed off again. She woke to see the seain the moonlight beneath her--a lovely silvery sea, coming right tothe carriage. The train seemed to be tripping on the edge of theMediterranean, round bays, and between dark rocks and under castles, a night-time fairy-land, for hours. She watched spell-bound:spell-bound by the magic of the world itself. And she thought toherself: "Whatever life may be, and whatever horror men have madeof it, the world is a lovely place, a magic place, something tomarvel over. The world is an amazing place. "

This thought dozed her off again. Yet she had a consciousness oftunnels and hills and of broad marshes pallid under a moon and acoming dawn. And in the dawn there was Pisa. She watched the wordhanging in the station in the dimness: "Pisa. " Ciccio told herpeople were changing for Florence. It all seemed wonderful toher--wonderful. She sat and watched the black station--then sheheard the sound of the child's trumpet. And it did not occur to herto connect the train's moving on with the sound of the trumpet. 

But she saw the golden dawn, a golden sun coming out of levelcountry. She loved it. She loved being in Italy. She loved thelounging carelessness of the train, she liked having Italian money, hearing the Italians round her--though they were neither asbeautiful nor as melodious as she expected. She loved watching theglowing antique landscape. She read and read again: "E pericolososporgersi, " and "E vietato fumare, " and the other little magicalnotices on the carriages. Ciccio told her what they meant, and howto say them. And sympathetic Italians opposite at once asked him ifthey were married and who and what his bride was, and they gazed ather with bright, approving eyes, though she felt terribly bedraggledand travel-worn. 

"You come from England? Yes! Nice contry!" said a man in a corner, leaning forward to make this display of his linguistic capacity. 

"Not so nice as this, " said Alvina. 

"Eh?"

Alvina repeated herself. 

"Not so nice? Oh? No! Fog, eh!" The fat man whisked his fingers inthe air, to indicate fog in the atmosphere. "But nice contry!Very--_convenient_. "

He sat up in triumph, having achieved this word. And theconversation once more became a spatter of Italian. The women werevery interested. They looked at Alvina, at every atom of her. Andshe divined that they were wondering if she was already with child. Sure enough, they were asking Ciccio in Italian if she was "makinghim a baby. " But he shook his head and did not know, just a bitconstrained. So they ate slices of sausages and bread and friedrice-balls, with wonderfully greasy fingers, and they drank redwine in big throatfuls out of bottles, and they offered their fareto Ciccio and Alvina, and were charmed when she said to Ciccio she_would_ have some bread and sausage. He picked the strips off thesausage for her with his fingers, and made her a sandwich with aroll. The women watched her bite it, and bright-eyed and pleasedthey said, nodding their heads--

"Buono? Buono?"

And she, who knew this word, understood, and replied:

"Yes, good! Buono!" nodding her head likewise. Which caused immensesatisfaction. The women showed the whole paper of sausage slices, and nodded and beamed and said:

"Se vuole ancora--!"

And Alvina bit her wide sandwich, and smiled, and said:

"Yes, awfully nice!"

And the women looked at each other and said something, and Cicciointerposed, shaking his head. But one woman ostentatiously wiped abottle mouth with a clean handkerchief, and offered the bottle toAlvina, saying:

"Vino buono. Vecchio! Vecchio!" nodding violently and indicatingthat she should drink. She looked at Ciccio, and he looked back ather, doubtingly. 

"Shall I drink some?" she said. 

"If you like, " he replied, making an Italian gesture ofindifference. 

So she drank some of the wine, and it dribbled on to her chin. Shewas not good at managing a bottle. But she liked the feeling ofwarmth it gave her. She was very tired. 

"Si piace? Piace?"

"Do you like it, " interpreted Ciccio. 

"Yes, very much. What is very much?" she asked of Ciccio. 

"Molto. "

"Si, molto. Of course, I knew molto, from, music, " she added. 

The women made noises, and smiled and nodded, and so the trainpulsed on till they came to Rome. There was again, the wild scramblewith luggage, a general leave taking, and then the masses of peopleon the station at Rome. _Roma! Roma!_ What was it to Alvina but aname, and a crowded, excited station, and Ciccio running after theluggage, and the pair of them eating in a station restaurant?

Almost immediately after eating, they were in the train once more, with new fellow travellers, running south this time towards Naples. In a daze of increasing weariness Alvina watched the dreary, to hersordid-seeming Campagna that skirts the railway, the broken aqueducttrailing in the near distance over the stricken plain. She saw atram-car, far out from everywhere, running up to cross the railway. She saw it was going to Frascati. 

And slowly the hills approached--they passed the vines of thefoothills, the reeds, and were among the mountains. Wonderful littletowns perched fortified on rocks and peaks, mountains rose straightup off the level plain, like old topographical prints, riverswandered in the wild, rocky places, it all seemed ancient andshaggy, savage still, under all its remote civilization, this regionof the Alban Mountains south of Rome. So the train clambered up anddown, and went round corners. 

They had not far to go now. Alvina was almost too tired to care whatit would be like. They were going to Ciccio's native village. Theywere to stay in the house of his uncle, his mother's brother. Thisuncle had been a model in London. He had built a house on the landleft by Ciccio's grandfather. He lived alone now, for his wife wasdead and his children were abroad. Giuseppe was his son: Giuseppe ofBattersea, in whose house Alvina had stayed. 

This much Alvina knew. She knew that a portion of the land down atPescocalascio belonged to Ciccio: a bit of half-savage, ancientearth that had been left to his mother by old Francesco Califano, her hard-grinding peasant father. This land remained integral in theproperty, and was worked by Ciccio's two uncles, Pancrazio andGiovanni. Pancrazio was the well-to-do uncle, who had been a modeland had built a "villa. " Giovanni was not much good. That was howCiccio put it. 

They expected Pancrazio to meet them at the station. Cicciocollected his bundles and put his hat straight and peered out of thewindow into the steep mountains of the afternoon. There was a townin the opening between steep hills, a town on a flat plain that raninto the mountains like a gulf. The train drew up. They had arrived. 

Alvina was so tired she could hardly climb down to the platform. Itwas about four o'clock. Ciccio looked up and down for Pancrazio, butcould not see him. So he put his luggage into a pile on theplatform, told Alvina to stand by it, whilst he went off for theregistered boxes. A porter came and asked her questions, of whichshe understood nothing. Then at last came Ciccio, shouldering onesmall trunk, whilst a porter followed, shouldering another. Out theytrotted, leaving Alvina abandoned with the pile of hand luggage. Shewaited. The train drew out. Ciccio and the porter came bustlingback. They took her out through the little gate, to where, in theflat desert space behind the railway, stood two great drabmotor-omnibuses, and a rank of open carriages. Ciccio was handing upthe handbags to the roof of one of the big post-omnibuses. When itwas finished the man on the roof came down, and Ciccio gave him andthe station porter each sixpence. The station-porter immediatelythrew his coin on the ground with a gesture of indignant contempt, spread his arms wide and expostulated violently. Ciccio expostulatedback again, and they pecked at each other, verbally, like two birds. It ended by the rolling up of the burly, black moustached driver ofthe omnibus. Whereupon Ciccio quite amicably gave the porter twonickel twopences in addition to the sixpence, whereupon the porterquite lovingly wished him "buon' viaggio. "

So Alvina was stowed into the body of the omnibus, with Ciccio ather side. They were no sooner seated than a voice was heard, inbeautifully-modulated English:

"You are here! Why how have I missed you?"

It was Pancrazio, a smallish, rather battered-looking, shabbyItalian of sixty or more, with a big moustache and reddish-rimmedeyes and a deeply-lined face. He was presented to Alvina. 

"How have I missed you?" he said. "I was on the station when thetrain came, and I did not see you. "

But it was evident he had taken wine. He had no further opportunityto talk. The compartment was full of large, mountain-peasants withblack hats and big cloaks and overcoats. They found Pancrazio a seatat the far end, and there he sat, with his deeply-lined, impassiveface and slightly glazed eyes. He had yellow-brown eyes like Ciccio. But in the uncle the eyelids dropped in a curious, heavy way, theeyes looked dull like those of some old, rakish tom-cat, they wereslightly rimmed with red. A curious person! And his English, thoughslow, was beautifully pronounced. He glanced at Alvina with slow, impersonal glances, not at all a stare. And he sat for the most partimpassive and abstract as a Red Indian. 

At the last moment a large black priest was crammed in, and the doorshut behind him. Every available seat was let down and occupied. Thesecond great post-omnibus rolled away, and then the one for Molafollowed, rolling Alvina and Ciccio over the next stage of theirjourney. 

The sun was already slanting to the mountain tops, shadows werefalling on the gulf of the plain. The omnibus charged at a greatspeed along a straight white road, which cut through the cultivatedlevel straight towards the core of the mountain. By the road-side, peasant men in cloaks, peasant women in full-gathered dresses withwhite bodices or blouses having great full sleeves, tramped in theridge of grass, driving cows or goats, or leading heavily-ladenasses. The women had coloured kerchiefs on their heads, like thewomen Alvina remembered at the Sunday-School treats, who used totell fortunes with green little love-birds. And they all trampedalong towards the blue shadow of the closing-in mountains, leavingthe peaks of the town behind on the left. 

At a branch-road the 'bus suddenly stopped, and there it sat calmlyin the road beside an icy brook, in the falling twilight. Greatmoth-white oxen waved past, drawing a long, low load of wood; thepeasants left behind began to come up again, in picturesque groups. The icy brook tinkled, goats, pigs and cows wandered and shook theirbells along the grassy borders of the road and the flat, unbrokenfields, being driven slowly home. Peasants jumped out of the omnibuson to the road, to chat--and a sharp air came in. High overhead, asthe sun went down, was the curious icy radiance of snow mountains, and a pinkness, while shadow deepened in the valley. 

At last, after about half an hour, the youth who was conductor ofthe omnibus came running down the wild side-road, everybodyclambered in, and away the vehicle charged, into the neck of theplain. With a growl and a rush it swooped up the first loop of theascent. Great precipices rose on the right, the ruddiness of sunsetabove them. The road wound and swirled, trying to get up the pass. The omnibus pegged slowly up, then charged round a corner, swirledinto another loop, and pegged heavily once more. It seemed darkbetween the closing-in mountains. The rocks rose very high, theroad looped and swerved from one side of the wide defile to theother, the vehicle pulsed and persisted. Sometimes there was ahouse, sometimes a wood of oak-trees, sometimes the glimpse of aravine, then the tall white glisten of snow above the earthlyblackness. And still they went on and on, up the darkness. 

Peering ahead, Alvina thought she saw the hollow between the peaks, which was the top of the pass. And every time the omnibus took a newturn, she thought it was coming out on the top of this hollowbetween the heights. But no--the road coiled right away again. 

A wild little village came in sight. This was the destination. Againno. Only the tall, handsome mountain youth who had sat across fromher, descended grumbling because the 'bus had brought him past hisroad, the driver having refused to pull up. Everybody expostulatedwith him, and he dropped into the shadow. The big priest squeezedinto his place. The 'bus wound on and on, and always towards thathollow sky-line between the high peaks. 

At last they ran up between buildings nipped between highrock-faces, and out into a little market-place, the crown of thepass. The luggage was got out and lifted down. Alvina descended. There she was, in a wild centre of an old, unfinished littlemountain town. The façade of a church rose from a small eminence. Awhite road ran to the right, where a great open valley showedfaintly beyond and beneath. Low, squalid sort of buildings stoodaround--with some high buildings. And there were bare little trees. The stars were in the sky, the air was icy. People stood darkly, excitedly about, women with an odd, shell-pattern head-dress ofgofered linen, something like a parlour-maid's cap, came and staredhard. They were hard-faced mountain women. 

Pancrazio was talking to Ciccio in dialect. 

"I couldn't get a cart to come down, " he said in English. "But Ishall find one here. Now what will you do? Put the luggage inGrazia's place while you wait?--"

They went across the open place to a sort of shop called the PostRestaurant. It was a little hole with an earthen floor and a smellof cats. Three crones were sitting over a low brass brazier, inwhich charcoal and ashes smouldered. Men were drinking. Ciccioordered coffee with rum--and the hard-faced Grazia, in her unfreshhead-dress, dabbled the little dirty coffee-cups in dirty water, took the coffee-pot out of the ashes, poured in the old blackboiling coffee three parts full, and slopped the cup over with rum. Then she dashed in a spoonful of sugar, to add to the pool in thesaucer, and her customers were served. 

However, Ciccio drank up, so Alvina did likewise, burning her lipssmartly. Ciccio paid and ducked his way out. 

"Now what will you buy?" asked Pancrazio. 

"Buy?" said Ciccio. 

"Food, " said Pancrazio. "Have you brought food?"

"No, " said Ciccio. 

So they trailed up stony dark ways to a butcher, and got a big redslice of meat; to a baker, and got enormous flat loaves. Sugar andcoffee they bought. And Pancrazio lamented in his elegant Englishthat no butter was to be obtained. Everywhere the hard-faced womencame and stared into Alvina's face, asking questions. And bothCiccio and Pancrazio answered rather coldly, with some _hauteur_. There was evidently not too much intimacy between the people ofPescocalascio and these semi-townfolk of Ossona. Alvina felt as ifshe were in a strange, hostile country, in the darkness of thesavage little mountain town. 

At last they were ready. They mounted into a two-wheeled cart, Alvina and Ciccio behind, Pancrazio and the driver in front, theluggage promiscuous. The bigger things were left for the morrow. Itwas icy cold, with a flashing darkness. The moon would not rise tilllater. 

And so, without any light but that of the stars, the cart wentspanking and rattling downhill, down the pale road which wound downthe head of the valley to the gulf of darkness below. Down in thedarkness into the darkness they rattled, wildly, and without heed, the young driver making strange noises to his dim horse, cracking awhip and asking endless questions of Pancrazio. 

Alvina sat close to Ciccio. He remained almost impassive. The windwas cold, the stars flashed. And they rattled down the rough, broadroad under the rocks, down and down in the darkness. Ciccio satcrouching forwards, staring ahead. Alvina was aware of mountains, rocks, and stars. 

"I didn't know it was so _wild_!" she said. 

"It is not much, " he said. There was a sad, plangent note in hisvoice. He put his hand upon her. 

"You don't like it?" he said. 

"I think it's lovely--wonderful, " she said, dazed. 

He held her passionately. But she did not feel she neededprotecting. It was all wonderful and amazing to her. She could notunderstand why he seemed upset and in a sort of despair. To herthere was magnificence in the lustrous stars and the steepnesses, magic, rather terrible and grand. 

They came down to the level valley bed, and went rolling along. There was a house, and a lurid red fire burning outside against thewall, and dark figures about it. 

"What is that?" she said. "What are they doing?"

"I don't know, " said Ciccio. "Cosa fanno li--eh?"

"Ka--? Fanno il buga'--" said the driver. 

"They are doing some washing, " said Pancrazio, explanatory. 

"Washing!" said Alvina. 

"Boiling the clothes, " said Ciccio. 

On the cart rattled and bumped, in the cold night, down the high-wayin the valley. Alvina could make out the darkness of the slopes. Overhead she saw the brilliance of Orion. She felt she was quite, quite lost. She had gone out of the world, over the border, intosome place of mystery. She was lost to Woodhouse, to Lancaster, toEngland--all lost. 

They passed through a darkness of woods, with a swift sound of coldwater. And then suddenly the cart pulled up. Some one came out of alighted doorway in the darkness. 

"We must get down here--the cart doesn't go any further, " saidPancrazio. 

"Are we there?" said Alvina. 

"No, it is about a mile. But we must leave the cart. "

Ciccio asked questions in Italian. Alvina climbed down. 

"Good-evening! Are you cold?" came a loud, raucous, American-Italianfemale voice. It was another relation of Ciccio's. Alvina stared andlooked at the handsome, sinister, raucous-voiced young woman whostood in the light of the doorway. 

"Rather cold, " she said. 

"Come in, and warm yourself, " said the young woman. 

"My sister's husband lives here, " explained Pancrazio. 

Alvina went through the doorway into the room. It was a sort ofinn. On the earthen floor glowed a great round pan of charcoal, which looked like a flat pool of fire. Men in hats and cloaks sat ata table playing cards by the light of a small lamp, a man waspouring wine. The room seemed like a cave. 

"Warm yourself, " said the young woman, pointing to the flat disc offire on the floor. She put a chair up to it, and Alvina sat down. The men in the room stared, but went on noisily with their cards. Ciccio came in with luggage. Men got up and greeted him effusively, watching Alvina between whiles as if she were some alien creature. Words of American sounded among the Italian dialect. 

There seemed to be a confab of some sort, aside. Ciccio came andsaid to her:

"They want to know if we will stay the night here. "

"I would rather go on home, " she said. 

He averted his face at the word home. 

"You see, " said Pancrazio, "I think you might be more comfortablehere, than in my poor house. You see I have no woman to care forit--"

Alvina glanced round the cave of a room, at the rough fellows intheir black hats. She was thinking how she would be "morecomfortable" here. 

"I would rather go on, " she said. 

"Then we will get the donkey, " said Pancrazio stoically. And Alvinafollowed him out on to the high-road. 

From a shed issued a smallish, brigand-looking fellow carrying alantern. He had his cloak over his nose and his hat over his eyes. His legs were bundled with white rag, crossed and crossed with hidestraps, and he was shod in silent skin sandals. 

"This is my brother Giovanni, " said Pancrazio. "He is not quitesensible. " Then he broke into a loud flood of dialect. 

Giovanni touched his hat to Alvina, and gave the lantern toPancrazio. Then he disappeared, returning in a few moments with theass. Ciccio came out with the baggage, and by the light of thelantern the things were slung on either side of the ass, in a ratherprecarious heap. Pancrazio tested the rope again. 

"There! Go on, and I shall come in a minute. "

"Ay-er-er!" cried Giovanni at the ass, striking the flank of thebeast. Then he took the leading rope and led up on the dark high-way, stalking with his dingy white legs under his muffled cloak, leadingthe ass. Alvina noticed the shuffle of his skin-sandalled feet, thequiet step of the ass. 

She walked with Ciccio near the side of the road. He carried thelantern. The ass with its load plodded a few steps ahead. There weretrees on the road-side, and a small channel of invisible but noisywater. Big rocks jutted sometimes. It was freezing, the mountainhigh-road was congealed. High stars flashed overhead. 

"How strange it is!" said Alvina to Ciccio. "Are you glad you havecome home?"

"It isn't my home, " he replied, as if the word fretted him. "Yes, Ilike to see it again. But it isn't the place for young people tolive in. You will see how you like it. "

She wondered at his uneasiness. It was the same in Pancrazio. Thelatter now came running to catch them up. 

"I think you will be tired, " he said. "You ought to have stayed atmy relation's house down there. "

"No, I am not tired, " said Alvina. "But I'm hungry. "

"Well, we shall eat something when we come to my house. "

They plodded in the darkness of the valley high-road. Pancrazio tookthe lantern and went to examine the load, hitching the ropes. Agreat flat loaf fell out, and rolled away, and smack came a littlevalise. Pancrazio broke into a flood of dialect to Giovanni, handinghim the lantern. Ciccio picked up the bread and put it under hisarm. 

"Break me a little piece, " said Alvina. 

And in the darkness they both chewed bread. 

After a while, Pancrazio halted with the ass just ahead, and tookthe lantern from Giovanni. 

"We must leave the road here, " he said. 

And with the lantern he carefully, courteously showed Alvina a smalltrack descending in the side of the bank, between bushes. Alvinaventured down the steep descent, Pancrazio following showing a light. In the rear was Giovanni, making noises at the ass. They all pickedtheir way down into the great white-bouldered bed of a mountain river. It was a wide, strange bed of dry boulders, pallid under the stars. There was a sound of a rushing river, glacial-sounding. The placeseemed wild and desolate. In the distance was a darkness of bushes, along the far shore. 

Pancrazio swinging the lantern, they threaded their way through theuneven boulders till they came to the river itself--not very wide, but rushing fast. A long, slender, drooping plank crossed over. Alvina crossed rather tremulous, followed by Pancrazio with thelight, and Ciccio with the bread and the valise. They could hear theclick of the ass and the ejaculations of Giovanni. 

Pancrazio went back over the stream with the light. Alvina saw thedim ass come up, wander uneasily to the stream, plant his fore legs, and sniff the water, his nose right down. 

"Er! Err!" cried Pancrazio, striking the beast on the flank. 

But it only lifted its nose and turned aside. It would not take thestream. Pancrazio seized the leading rope angrily and turnedupstream. 

"Why were donkeys made! They are beasts without sense, " his voicefloated angrily across the chill darkness. 

Ciccio laughed. He and Alvina stood in the wide, stony river-bed, inthe strong starlight, watching the dim figures of the ass and themen crawl upstream with the lantern. 

Again the same performance, the white muzzle of the ass stoopingdown to sniff the water suspiciously, his hind-quarters tilted upwith the load. Again the angry yells and blows from Pancrazio. Andthe ass seemed to be taking the water. But no! After a longdeliberation he drew back. Angry language sounded through thecrystal air. The group with the lantern moved again upstream, becoming smaller. 

Alvina and Ciccio stood and watched. The lantern looked small up thedistance. But there--a clocking, shouting, splashing sound. 

"He is going over, " said Ciccio. 

Pancrazio came hurrying back to the plank with the lantern. 

"Oh the stupid beast! I could kill him!" cried he. 

"Isn't he used to the water?" said Alvina. 

"Yes, he is. But he won't go except where he thinks he will go. Youmight kill him before he should go. "

They picked their way across the river bed, to the wild scrub andbushes of the farther side. There they waited for the ass, whichcame up clicking over the boulders, led by the patient Giovanni. Andthen they took a difficult, rocky track ascending between banks. Alvina felt the uneven scramble a great effort. But she got up. Again they waited for the ass. And then again they struck off tothe right, under some trees. 

A house appeared dimly. 

"Is that it?" said Alvina. 

"No. It belongs to me. But that is not my house. A few stepsfurther. Now we are on my land. "

They were treading a rough sort of grass-land--and still climbing. It ended in a sudden little scramble between big stones, andsuddenly they were on the threshold of a quite important-lookinghouse: but it was all dark. 

"Oh!" exclaimed Pancrazio, "they have done nothing that I toldthem. " He made queer noises of exasperation. 

"What?" said Alvina. 

"Neither made a fire nor anything. Wait a minute--"

The ass came up. Ciccio, Alvina, Giovanni and the ass waited in thefrosty starlight under the wild house. Pancrazio disappeared roundthe back. Ciccio talked to Giovanni. He seemed uneasy, as if he feltdepressed. 

Pancrazio returned with the lantern, and opened the big door. Alvinafollowed him into a stone-floored, wide passage, where stood farmimplements, where a little of straw and beans lay in a corner, andwhence rose bare wooden stairs. So much she saw in the glimpse oflantern-light, as Pancrazio pulled the string and entered thekitchen: a dim-walled room with a vaulted roof and a great dark, open hearth, fireless: a bare room, with a little rough darkfurniture: an unswept stone floor: iron-barred windows, rathersmall, in the deep-thickness of the wall, one-half shut with a drabshutter. It was rather like a room on the stage, gloomy, not meantto be lived in. 

"I will make a light, " said Pancrazio, taking a lamp from themantel-piece, and proceeding to wind it up. 

Ciccio stood behind Alvina, silent. He had put down the bread andvalise on a wooden chest. She turned to him. 

"It's a beautiful room, " she said. 

Which, with its high, vaulted roof, its dirty whitewash, its greatblack chimney, it really was. But Ciccio did not understand. Hesmiled gloomily. 

The lamp was lighted. Alvina looked round in wonder. 

"Now I will make a fire. You, Ciccio, will help Giovanni with thedonkey, " said Pancrazio, scuttling with the lantern. 

Alvina looked at the room. There was a wooden settle in front of thehearth, stretching its back to the room. There was a little tableunder a square, recessed window, on whose sloping ledge werenewspapers, scattered letters, nails and a hammer. On the table weredried beans and two maize cobs. In a corner were shelves, with twochipped enamel plates, and a small table underneath, on which stooda bucket of water with a dipper. Then there was a wooden chest, twolittle chairs, and a litter of faggots, cane, vine-twigs, baremaize-hubs, oak-twigs filling the corner by the hearth. 

Pancrazio came scrambling in with fresh faggots. 

"They have not done what I told them, the tiresome people!" he said. "I told them to make a fire and prepare the house. You will beuncomfortable in my poor home. I have no woman, nothing, everythingis wrong--"

He broke the pieces of cane and kindled them in the hearth. Soonthere was a good blaze. Ciccio came in with the bags and the food. 

"I had better go upstairs and take my things off, " said Alvina. "Iam so hungry. "

"You had better keep your coat on, " said Pancrazio. "The room iscold. " Which it was, ice-cold. She shuddered a little. She took offher hat and fur. 

"Shall we fry some meat?" said Pancrazio. 

He took a frying-pan, found lard in the wooden chest--it was thefood-chest--and proceeded to fry pieces of meat in a frying-pan overthe fire. Alvina wanted to lay the table. But there was no cloth. 

"We will sit here, as I do, to eat, " said Pancrazio. He produced twoenamel plates and one soup-plate, three penny iron forks and two oldknives, and a little grey, coarse salt in a wooden bowl. These heplaced on the seat of the settle in front of the fire. Ciccio wassilent. 

The settle was dark and greasy. Alvina feared for her clothes. Butshe sat with her enamel plate and her impossible fork, a piece ofmeat and a chunk of bread, and ate. It was difficult--but the foodwas good, and the fire blazed. Only there was a film of wood-smokein the room, rather smarting. Ciccio sat on the settle beside her, and ate in large mouthfuls. 

"I think it's fun, " said Alvina. 

He looked at her with dark, haunted, gloomy eyes. She wondered whatwas the matter with him. 

"Don't you think it's fun?" she said, smiling. 

He smiled slowly. 

"You won't like it, " he said. 

"Why not?" she cried, in panic lest he prophesied truly. 

Pancrazio scuttled in and out with the lantern. He brought wrinkledpears, and green, round grapes, and walnuts, on a white cloth, andpresented them. 

"I think my pears are still good, " he said. "You must eat them, andexcuse my uncomfortable house. "

Giovanni came in with a big bowl of soup and a bottle of milk. Therewas room only for three on the settle before the hearth. He pushedhis chair among the litter of fire-kindling, and sat down. He hadbright, bluish eyes, and a fattish face--was a man of about fifty, but had a simple, kindly, slightly imbecile face. All the men kepttheir hats on. 

The soup was from Giovanni's cottage. It was for Pancrazio and him. But there was only one spoon. So Pancrazio ate a dozen spoonfuls, and handed the bowl to Giovanni--who protested and tried torefuse--but accepted, and ate ten spoonfuls, then handed the bowlback to his brother, with the spoon. So they finished the bowlbetween them. Then Pancrazio found wine--a whitish wine, not verygood, for which he apologized. And he invited Alvina to coffee. Which she accepted gladly. 

For though the fire was warm in front, behind was very cold. Pancrazio stuck a long pointed stick down the handle of a saucepan, and gave this utensil to Ciccio, to hold over the fire and scald themilk, whilst he put the tin coffee-pot in the ashes. He took a longiron tube or blow-pipe, which rested on two little feet at the farend. This he gave to Giovanni to blow the fire. 

Giovanni was a fire-worshipper. His eyes sparkled as he took theblowing tube. He put fresh faggots behind the fire--though Pancrazioforbade him. He arranged the burning faggots. And then softly heblew a red-hot fire for the coffee. 

"Basta! Basta!" said Ciccio. But Giovanni blew on, his eyessparkling, looking to Alvina. He was making the fire beautiful forher. 

There was one cup, one enamelled mug, one little bowl. This was thecoffee-service. Pancrazio noisily ground the coffee. He seemed to doeverything, old, stooping as he was. 

At last Giovanni took his leave--the kettle which hung on the hookover the fire was boiling over. Ciccio burnt his hand lifting itoff. And at last, at last Alvina could go to bed. 

Pancrazio went first with the candle--then Ciccio with the blackkettle--then Alvina. The men still had their hats on. Their bootstramped noisily on the bare stairs. 

The bedroom was very cold. It was a fair-sized room with a concretefloor and white walls, and window-door opening on a little balcony. There were two high white beds on opposite sides of the room. Thewash-stand was a little tripod thing. 

The air was very cold, freezing, the stone floor was dead cold tothe feet. Ciccio sat down on a chair and began to take off hisboots. She went to the window. The moon had risen. There was a floodof light on dazzling white snow tops, glimmering and marvellous inthe evanescent night. She went out for a moment on to the balcony. It was a wonder-world: the moon over the snow heights, the pallidvalley-bed away below; the river hoarse, and round about her, scrubby, blue-dark foothills with twiggy trees. Magical it allwas--but so cold. 

"You had better shut the door, " said Ciccio. 

She came indoors. She was dead tired, and stunned with cold, andhopelessly dirty after that journey. Ciccio had gone to bed withoutwashing. 

"Why does the bed rustle?" she asked him. 

It was stuffed with dry maize-leaves, the dry sheathes from thecobs--stuffed enormously high. He rustled like a snake among deadfoliage. 

Alvina washed her hands. There was nothing to do with the water butthrow it out of the door. Then she washed her face, thoroughly, ingood hot water. What a blessed relief! She sighed as she driedherself. 

"It does one good!" she sighed. 

Ciccio watched her as she quickly brushed her hair. She was almoststupefied with weariness and the cold, bruising air. Blindly shecrept into the high, rustling bed. But it was made high in themiddle. And it was icy cold. It shocked her almost as if she hadfallen into water. She shuddered, and became semi-conscious withfatigue. The blankets were heavy, heavy. She was dazed withexcitement and wonder. She felt vaguely that Ciccio was miserable, and wondered why. 

She woke with a start an hour or so later. The moon was in the room. She did not know where she was. And she was frightened. And she wascold. A real terror took hold of her. Ciccio in his bed was quitestill. Everything seemed electric with horror. She felt she woulddie instantly, everything was so terrible around her. She could notmove. She felt that everything around her was horrific, extinguishing her, putting her out. Her very being was threatened. In another instant she would be transfixed. 

Making a violent effort she sat up. The silence of Ciccio in his bedwas as horrible as the rest of the night. She had a horror of himalso. What would she do, where should she flee? She waslost--lost--lost utterly. 

The knowledge sank into her like ice. Then deliberately she got outof bed and went across to him. He was horrible and frightening, buthe was warm. She felt his power and his warmth invade her andextinguish her. The mad and desperate passion that was in him senther completely unconscious again, completely unconscious. 

CHAPTER XV

THE PLACE CALLED CALIFANO

There is no mistake about it, Alvina was a lost girl. She was cutoff from everything she belonged to. Ovid isolated in Thrace mightwell lament. The soul itself needs its own mysterious nourishment. This nourishment lacking, nothing is well. 

At Pescocalascio it was the mysterious influence of the mountainsand valleys themselves which seemed always to be annihilating theEnglishwoman: nay, not only her, but the very natives themselves. Ciccio and Pancrazio clung to her, essentially, as if she saved themalso from extinction. It needed all her courage. Truly, she had tosupport the souls of the two men. 

At first she did not realize. She was only stunned with thestrangeness of it all: startled, half-enraptured with the terrificbeauty of the place, half-horrified by its savage annihilation ofher. But she was stunned. The days went by. 

It seems there are places which resist us, which have the power tooverthrow our psychic being. It seems as if every country has itspotent negative centres, localities which savagely and triumphantlyrefuse our living culture. And Alvina had struck one of them, hereon the edge of the Abruzzi. 

She was not in the village of Pescocalascio itself. That was a longhour's walk away. Pancrazio's house was the chief of a tiny hamletof three houses, called Califano because the Califanos had made it. There was the ancient, savage hole of a house, quite windowless, where Pancrazio and Ciccio's mother had been born: the family home. Then there was Pancrazio's villa. And then, a little below, anothernewish, modern house in a sort of wild meadow, inhabited by thepeasants who worked the land. Ten minutes' walk away was anothercluster of seven or eight houses, where Giovanni lived. But therewas no shop, no post nearer than Pescocalascio, an hour's heavyroad up deep and rocky, wearying tracks. 

And yet, what could be more lovely than the sunny days: pure, hot, blue days among the mountain foothills: irregular, steep littlehills half wild with twiggy brown oak-trees and marshes and broomheaths, half cultivated, in a wild, scattered fashion. Lovely, inthe lost hollows beyond a marsh, to see Ciccio slowly ploughing withtwo great white oxen: lovely to go with Pancrazio down to the wildscrub that bordered the river-bed, then over the white-bouldered, massive desert and across stream to the other scrubby savage shore, and so up to the high-road. Pancrazio was very happy if Alvina wouldaccompany him. He liked it that she was not afraid. And her sense ofthe beauty of the place was an infinite relief to him. 

Nothing could have been more marvellous than the winter twilight. Sometimes Alvina and Pancrazio were late returning with the ass. Andthen gingerly the ass would step down the steep banks, alreadybeginning to freeze when the sun went down. And again and again hewould balk the stream, while a violet-blue dusk descended on thewhite, wide stream-bed, and the scrub and lower hills became dark, and in heaven, oh, almost unbearably lovely, the snow of the nearmountains was burning rose, against the dark-blue heavens. Howunspeakably lovely it was, no one could ever tell, the grand, pagantwilight of the valleys, savage, cold, with a sense of ancient godswho knew the right for human sacrifice. It stole away the soul ofAlvina. She felt transfigured in it, clairvoyant in another mysteryof life. A savage hardness came in her heart. The gods who haddemanded human sacrifice were quite right, immutably right. Thefierce, savage gods who dipped their lips in blood, these were thetrue gods. 

The terror, the agony, the nostalgia of the heathen past was aconstant torture to her mediumistic soul. She did not know what itwas. But it was a kind of neuralgia in the very soul, never to belocated in the human body, and yet physical. Coming over the brow ofa heathy, rocky hillock, and seeing Ciccio beyond leaning deep overthe plough, in his white shirt-sleeves following the slow, waving, moth-pale oxen across a small track of land turned up in the heathenhollow, her soul would go all faint, she would almost swoon withrealization of the world that had gone before. And Ciccio was sosilent, there seemed so much dumb magic and anguish in him, as if hewere for ever afraid of himself and the thing he was. He seemed, inhis silence, to _concentrate_ upon her so terribly. She believed shewould not live. 

Sometimes she would go gathering acorns, large, fine acorns, aprecious crop in that land where the fat pig was almost an object ofveneration. Silently she would crouch filling the pannier. And faroff she would hear the sound of Giovanni chopping wood, of Cicciocalling to the oxen or Pancrazio making noises to the ass, or thesound of a peasant's mattock. Over all the constant speech of thepassing river, and the real breathing presence of the upper snows. And a wild, terrible happiness would take hold of her, beyonddespair, but very like despair. No one would ever find her. She hadgone beyond the world into the pre-world, she had reopened on theold eternity. 

And then Maria, the little elvish old wife of Giovanni, would comeup with the cows. One cow she held by a rope round its horns, andshe hauled it from the patches of young corn into the rough grass, from the little plantation of trees in among the heath. Maria worethe full-pleated white-sleeved dress of the peasants, and a redkerchief on her head. But her dress was dirty, and her face wasdirty, and the big gold rings of her ears hung from ears whichperhaps had never been washed. She was rather smoke-dried too, fromperpetual wood-smoke. 

Maria in her red kerchief hauling the white cow, and screaming atit, would come laughing towards Alvina, who was rather afraid ofcows. And then, screaming high in dialect, Maria would talk to her. Alvina smiled and tried to understand. Impossible. It was notstrictly a human speech. It was rather like the crying ofhalf-articulate animals. It certainly was not Italian. And yetAlvina by dint of constant hearing began to pick up the coagulatedphrases. 

She liked Maria. She liked them all. They were all very kind to her, as far as they knew. But they did not know. And they were kind witheach other. For they all seemed lost, like lost, forlorn aborigines, and they treated Alvina as if she were a higher being. They lovedher that she would strip maize-cobs or pick acorns. But they wereall anxious to serve her. And it seemed as if they needed some oneto serve. It seemed as if Alvina, the Englishwoman, had a certainmagic glamour for them, and so long as she was happy, it was asupreme joy and relief to them to have her there. But it seemed toher she would not live. 

And when she was unhappy! Ah, the dreadful days of cold rain mingledwith sleet, when the world outside was more than impossible, and thehouse inside was a horror. The natives kept themselves alive bygoing about constantly working, dumb and elemental. But what wasAlvina to do?

For the house was unspeakable. The only two habitable rooms were thekitchen and Alvina's bedroom: and the kitchen, with its littlegrated windows high up in the wall, one of which had a broken paneand must keep one-half of its shutters closed, was like a darkcavern vaulted and bitter with wood-smoke. Seated on the settlebefore the fire, the hard, greasy settle, Alvina could indeed keepthe fire going, with faggots of green oak. But the smoke hurt herchest, she was not clean for one moment, and she could do nothingelse. The bedroom again was just impossibly cold. And there was noother place. And from far away came the wild braying of an ass, primeval and desperate in the snow. 

The house was quite large; but uninhabitable. Downstairs, on theleft of the wide passage where the ass occasionally stood out of theweather, and where the chickens wandered in search of treasure, wasa big, long apartment where Pancrazio kept implements and tools andpotatoes and pumpkins, and where four or five rabbits hoppedunexpectedly out of the shadows. Opposite this, on the right, wasthe cantina, a dark place with wine-barrels and more agriculturalstores. This was the whole of the downstairs. 

Going upstairs, half way up, at the turn of the stairs was theopening of a sort of barn, a great wire-netting behind which showeda glow of orange maize-cobs and some wheat. Upstairs were fourrooms. But Alvina's room alone was furnished. Pancrazio slept in theunfurnished bedroom opposite, on a pile of old clothes. Beyond was aroom with litter in it, a chest of drawers, and rubbish of old booksand photographs Pancrazio had brought from England. There was abattered photograph of Lord Leighton, among others. The fourth room, approached through the corn-chamber, was always locked. 

Outside was just as hopeless. There had been a little garden withinthe stone enclosure. But fowls, geese, and the ass had made an endof this. Fowl-droppings were everywhere, indoors and out, the assleft his pile of droppings to steam in the winter air on thethreshold, while his heartrending bray rent the air. Roads therewere none: only deep tracks, like profound ruts with rocks in them, in the hollows, and rocky, grooved tracks over the brows. The hollowgrooves were full of mud and water, and one struggled slipperilyfrom rock to rock, or along narrow grass-ledges. 

What was to be done, then, on mornings that were dark with sleet?Pancrazio would bring a kettle of hot water at about half-pasteight. For had he not travelled Europe with English gentlemen, as asort of model-valet! Had he not _loved_ his English gentlemen? Evennow, he was infinitely happier performing these little attentionsfor Alvina than attending to his wretched domains. 

Ciccio rose early, and went about in the hap-hazard, useless way ofItalians all day long, getting nothing done. Alvina came out of theicy bedroom to the black kitchen. Pancrazio would be gallantlyheating milk for her, at the end of a long stick. So she would siton the settle and drink her coffee and milk, into which she dippedher dry bread. Then the day was before her. 

She washed her cup and her enamelled plate, and she tried to cleanthe kitchen. But Pancrazio had on the fire a great black pot, dangling from the chain. He was boiling food for the eternalpig--the only creature for which any cooking was done. Ciccio wastramping in with faggots. Pancrazio went in and out, back and forthfrom his pot. 

Alvina stroked her brow and decided on a method. Once she was rid ofPancrazio, she would wash every cup and plate and utensil in boilingwater. Well, at last Pancrazio went off with his great black pan, and she set to. But there were not six pieces of crockery in thehouse, and not more than six cooking utensils. These were soonscrubbed. Then she scrubbed the two little tables and the shelves. She lined the food-chest with clean paper. She washed the highwindow-ledges and the narrow mantel-piece, that had large mounds ofdusty candle-wax, in deposits. Then she tackled the settle. Shescrubbed it also. Then she looked at the floor. And even she, English housewife as she was, realized the futility of trying towash it. As well try to wash the earth itself outside. It was just apiece of stone-laid earth. She swept it as well as she could, andmade a little order in the faggot-heap in the corner. Then shewashed the little, high-up windows, to try and let in light. 

And what was the difference? A dank wet soapy smell, and not muchmore. Maria had kept scuffling admiringly in and out, crying herwonderment and approval. She had most ostentatiously chased out anobtrusive hen, from this temple of cleanliness. And that was all. 

It was hopeless. The same black walls, the same floor, the same coldfrom behind, the same green-oak wood-smoke, the same bucket of waterfrom the well--the same come-and-go of aimless busy men, the samecackle of wet hens, the same hopeless nothingness. 

Alvina stood up against it for a time. And then she caught a badcold, and was wretched. Probably it was the wood-smoke. But herchest was raw, she felt weak and miserable. She could not sit in herbedroom, for it was too cold. If she sat in the darkness of thekitchen she was hurt with smoke, and perpetually cold behind herneck. And Pancrazio rather resented the amount of faggots consumedfor nothing. The only hope would have been in work. But there wasnothing in that house to be done. How could she even sew?

She was to prepare the mid-day and evening meals. But with no pots, and over a smoking wood fire, what could she prepare? Black andgreasy, she boiled potatoes and fried meat in lard, in along-handled frying pan. Then Pancrazio decreed that Maria shouldprepare macaroni with the tomato sauce, and thick vegetable soup, and sometimes polenta. This coarse, heavy food was wearying beyondwords. 

Alvina began to feel she would die, in the awful comfortlessmeaninglessness of it all. True, sunny days returned and some magic. But she was weak and feverish with her cold, which would not getbetter. So that even in the sunshine the crude comfortlessness andinferior savagery of the place only repelled her. 

The others were depressed when she was unhappy. 

"Do you wish you were back in England?" Ciccio asked her, with alittle sardonic bitterness in his voice. She looked at him withoutanswering. He ducked and went away. 

"We will make a fire-place in the other bedroom, " said Pancrazio. 

No sooner said than done. Ciccio persuaded Alvina to stay in bed afew days. She was thankful to take refuge. Then she heard a rarecome-and-go. Pancrazio, Ciccio, Giovanni, Maria and a mason all setabout the fire-place. Up and down stairs they went, Maria carryingstone and lime on her head, and swerving in Alvina's doorway, withher burden perched aloft, to shout a few unintelligible words. Inthe intervals of lime-carrying she brought the invalid her soup orher coffee or her hot milk. 

It turned out quite a good job--a pleasant room with two windows, that would have all the sun in the afternoon, and would see themountains on one hand, the far-off village perched up on the other. When she was well enough they set off one early Monday morning tothe market in Ossona. They left the house by starlight, but dawnwas coming by the time they reached the river. At the high-road, Pancrazio harnessed the ass, and after endless delay they jogged offto Ossona. The dawning mountains were wonderful, dim-green and mauveand rose, the ground rang with frost. Along the roads many peasantswere trooping to market, women in their best dresses, some of thickheavy silk with the white, full-sleeved bodices, dresses green, lavender, dark-red, with gay kerchiefs on the head: men muffled incloaks, treading silently in their pointed skin sandals: asses withloads, carts full of peasants, a belated cow. 

The market was lovely, there in the crown of the pass, in the oldtown, on the frosty sunny morning. Bulls, cows, sheep, pigs, goatsstood and lay about under the bare little trees on the platform highover the valley: some one had kindled a great fire of brush-wood, and men crowded round, out of the blue frost. From laden assesvegetables were unloaded, from little carts all kinds of things, boots, pots, tin-ware, hats, sweet-things, and heaps of corn andbeans and seeds. By eight o'clock in the December morning the marketwas in full swing: a great crowd of handsome mountain people, allpeasants, nearly all in costume, with different head-dresses. 

Ciccio and Pancrazio and Alvina went quietly about. They bought potsand pans and vegetables and sweet-things and thick rush matting andtwo wooden arm-chairs and one old soft arm-chair, going quietly andbargaining modestly among the crowd, as Anglicized Italians do. 

The sun came on to the market at about nine o'clock, and then, fromthe terrace of the town gate, Alvina looked down on the wonderfulsight of all the coloured dresses of the peasant women, the blackhats of the men, the heaps of goods, the squealing pigs, the palelovely cattle, the many tethered asses--and she wondered if shewould die before she became one with it altogether. It wasimpossible for her to become one with it altogether. Ciccio wouldhave to take her to England again, or to America. He was alwayshinting at America. 

But then, Italy might enter the war. Even here it was the greattheme of conversation. She looked down on the seethe of the market. The sun was warm on her. Ciccio and Pancrazio were bargaining fortwo cowskin rugs: she saw Ciccio standing with his head ratherforward. Her husband! She felt her heart die away within her. 

All those other peasant women, did they feel as she did?--the samesort of acquiescent passion, the same lapse of life? She believedthey did. The same helpless passion for the man, the same remotenessfrom the world's actuality? Probably, under all their tension ofmoney and money-grubbing and vindictive mountain morality and ratherhorrible religion, probably they felt the same. She was one withthem. But she could never endure it for a life-time. It was only atest on her. Ciccio must take her to America, or England--to Americapreferably. 

And even as he turned to look for her, she felt a strange thrillingin her bowels: a sort of trill strangely within her, yet extraneousto her. She caught her hand to her flank. And Ciccio was looking upfor her from the market beneath, searching with that quick, hastylook. He caught sight of her. She seemed to glow with a delicatelight for him, there beyond all the women. He came straight towardsher, smiling his slow, enigmatic smile. He could not bear it if helost her. She knew how he loved her--almost inhumanly, elementally, without communication. And she stood with her hand to her side, herface frightened. She hardly noticed him. It seemed to her she waswith child. And yet in the whole market-place she was aware ofnothing but him. 

"We have bought the skins, " he said. "Twenty-seven lire each. "

She looked at him, his dark skin, his golden eyes--so near to her, so unified with her, yet so incommunicably remote. How far off washis being from hers!

"I believe I'm going to have a child, " she said. 

"Eh?" he ejaculated quickly. But he had understood. His eyes shoneweirdly on her. She felt the strange terror and loveliness of hispassion. And she wished she could lie down there by that town gate, in the sun, and swoon for ever unconscious. Living was almost toogreat a demand on her. His yellow, luminous eyes watched her andenveloped her. There was nothing for her but to yield, yield, yield. And yet she could not sink to earth. 

She saw Pancrazio carrying the skins to the little cart, which wastilted up under a small, pale-stemmed tree on the platform above thevalley. Then she saw him making his way quickly back through thecrowd, to rejoin them. 

"Did you feel something?" said Ciccio. 

"Yes--here--!" she said, pressing her hand on her side as thesensation trilled once more upon her consciousness. She looked athim with remote, frightened eyes. 

"That's good--" he said, his eyes full of a triumphant, incommunicable meaning. 

"Well!--And now, " said Pancrazio, coming up, "shall we go and eatsomething?"

They jogged home in the little flat cart in the wintry afternoon. Itwas almost night before they had got the ass untackled from theshafts, at the wild lonely house where Pancrazio left the cart. Giovanni was there with the lantern. Ciccio went on ahead withAlvina, whilst the others stood to load up the ass by the high-way. 

Ciccio watched Alvina carefully. When they were over the river, andamong the dark scrub, he took her in his arms and kissed her withlong, terrible passion. She saw the snow-ridges flare with evening, beyond his cheek. They had glowed dawn as she crossed the riveroutwards, they were white-fiery now in the dusk sky as she returned. What strange valley of shadow was she threading? What was theterrible man's passion that haunted her like a dark angel? Why wasshe so much beyond herself?

CHAPTER XVI

SUSPENSE

Christmas was at hand. There was a heap of maize cobs stillunstripped. Alvina sat with Ciccio stripping them, in thecorn-place. 

"Will you be able to stop here till the baby is born?" he asked her. 

She watched the films of the leaves come off from the burning goldmaize cob under his fingers, the long, ruddy cone of fruition. Theheap of maize on one side burned like hot sunshine, she felt itreally gave off warmth, it glowed, it burned. On the other side thefilmy, crackly, sere sheaths were also faintly sunny. Again andagain the long, red-gold, full ear of corn came clear in his hands, and was put gently aside. He looked up at her, with his yellow eyes. 

"Yes, I think so, " she said. "Will you?"

"Yes, if they let me. I should like it to be born here. "

"Would you like to bring up a child here?" she asked. 

"You wouldn't be happy here, so long, " he said, sadly. 

"Would you?"

He slowly shook his head: indefinite. 

She was settling down. She had her room upstairs, her cups andplates and spoons, her own things. Pancrazio had gone back to hisold habit, he went across and ate with Giovanni and Maria, Ciccioand Alvina had their meals in their pleasant room upstairs. Theywere happy alone. Only sometimes the terrible influence of the placepreyed on her. 

However, she had a clean room of her own, where she could sew andread. She had written to the matron and Mrs. Tuke, and Mrs. Tuke hadsent books. Also she helped Ciccio when she could, and Maria wasteaching her to spin the white sheep's wool into coarse thread. 

This morning Pancrazio and Giovanni had gone off somewhere, Alvinaand Ciccio were alone on the place, stripping the last maize. Suddenly, in the grey morning air, a wild music burst out: thedrone of a bagpipe, and a man's high voice half singing, halfyelling a brief verse, at the end of which a wild flourish on someother reedy wood instrument. Alvina sat still in surprise. It was astrange, high, rapid, yelling music, the very voice of themountains. Beautiful, in our musical sense of the word, it was not. But oh, the magic, the nostalgia of the untamed, heathen past whichit evoked. 

"It is for Christmas, " said Ciccio. "They will come every day now. "

Alvina rose and went round to the little balcony. Two men stoodbelow, amid the crumbling of finely falling snow. One, the elder, had a bagpipe whose bag was patched with shirting: the younger wasdressed in greenish clothes, he had his face lifted, and was yellingthe verses of the unintelligible Christmas ballad: short, rapidverses, followed by a brilliant flourish on a short wooden pipe heheld ready in his hand. Alvina felt he was going to be out ofbreath. But no, rapid and high came the next verse, verse afterverse, with the wild scream on the little new pipe in between, overthe roar of the bagpipe. And the crumbs of snow were like a speckledveil, faintly drifting the atmosphere and powdering the litteredthreshold where they stood--a threshold littered with faggots, leaves, straw, fowls and geese and ass droppings, and rag thrown outfrom the house, and pieces of paper. 

The carol suddenly ended, the young man snatched off his hat toAlvina who stood above, and in the same breath he was gone, followedby the bagpipe. Alvina saw them dropping hurriedly down the inclinebetween the twiggy wild oaks. 

"They will come every day now, till Christmas, " said Ciccio. "Theygo to every house. "

And sure enough, when Alvina went down, in the cold, silent house, and out to the well in the still crumbling snow, she heard the soundfar off, strange, yelling, wonderful: and the same ache for she knewnot what overcame her, so that she felt one might go mad, there inthe veiled silence of these mountains, in the great hilly valley cutoff from the world. 

Ciccio worked all day on the land or round about. He was building alittle earth closet also: the obvious and unscreened place outsidewas impossible. It was curious how little he went to Pescocalascio, how little he mixed with the natives. He seemed always to withholdsomething from them. Only with his relatives, of whom he had many, he was more free, in a kind of family intimacy. 

Yet even here he was guarded. His uncle at the mill, an unwashed, fat man with a wife who tinkled with gold and grime, and who shouteda few lost words of American, insisted on giving Alvina wine and asort of cake made with cheese and rice. Ciccio too was feasted, inthe dark hole of a room. And the two natives seemed to press theircheer on Alvina and Ciccio whole-heartedly. 

"How nice they are!" said Alvina when she had left. "They give sofreely. "

But Ciccio smiled a wry smile, silent. 

"Why do you make a face?" she said. 

"It's because you are a foreigner, and they think you will go awayagain, " he said. 

"But I should have thought that would make them less generous, " shesaid. 

"No. They like to give to foreigners. They don't like to give to thepeople here. Giocomo puts water in the wine which he sells to thepeople who go by. And if I leave the donkey in her shed, I giveMarta Maria something, or the next time she won't let me have it. Ha, they are--they are sly ones, the people here. "

"They are like that everywhere, " said Alvina. 

"Yes. But nowhere they say so many bad things about people ashere--nowhere where I have ever been. "

It was strange to Alvina to feel the deep-bed-rock distrust whichall the hill-peasants seemed to have of one another. They werewatchful, venomous, dangerous. 

"Ah, " said Pancrazio, "I am glad there is a woman in my house oncemore. "

"But did _nobody_ come in and do for you before?" asked Alvina. "Whydidn't you pay somebody?"

"Nobody will come, " said Pancrazio, in his slow, aristocraticEnglish. "Nobody will come, because I am a man, and if somebodyshould see her at my house, they will all talk. "

"Talk!" Alvina looked at the deeply-lined man of sixty-six, "Butwhat will they say?"

"Many bad things. Many bad things indeed. They are not good peoplehere. All saying bad things, and all jealous. They don't like mebecause I have a house--they think I am too much a _signore_. Theysay to me 'Why do you think you are a signore?' Oh, they are badpeople, envious, you cannot have anything to do with them. "

"They are nice to me, " said Alvina. 

"They think you will go away. But if you stay, they will say badthings. You must wait. Oh, they are evil people, evil against oneanother, against everybody but strangers who don't know them--"

Alvina felt the curious passion in Pancrazio's voice, the passion of aman who has lived for many years in England and known the socialconfidence of England, and who, coming back, is deeply injured by theancient malevolence of the remote, somewhat gloomy hill-peasantry. Sheunderstood also why he was so glad to have her in his house, so proud, why he loved serving her. She seemed to see a fairness, a luminousnessin the northern soul, something free, touched with divinity such as"these people here" lacked entirely. 

When she went to Ossona with him, she knew everybody questioned himabout her and Ciccio. She began to get the drift of thequestions--which Pancrazio answered with reserve. 

"And how long are they staying?"

This was an invariable, envious question. And invariably Pancrazioanswered with a reserved--

"Some months. As long as _they_ like. "

And Alvina could feel waves of black envy go out against Pancrazio, because she was domiciled with him, and because she sat with him inthe flat cart, driving to Ossona. 

Yet Pancrazio himself was a study. He was thin, and very shabby, andrather out of shape. Only in his yellow eyes lurked a strangesardonic fire, and a leer which puzzled her. When Ciccio happened tobe out in the evening he would sit with her and tell her stories ofLord Leighton and Millais and Alma Tadema and other academiciansdead and living. There would sometimes be a strange passivity on hisworn face, an impassive, almost Red Indian look. And then again hewould stir into a curious, arch, malevolent laugh, for all the worldlike a debauched old tom-cat. His narration was like this: eithersimple, bare, stoical, with a touch of nobility; or else satiric, malicious, with a strange, rather repellent jeering. 

"Leighton--he wasn't Lord Leighton then--he wouldn't have me to sitfor him, because my figure was too poor, he didn't like it. He likedfair young men, with plenty of flesh. But once, when he was doing apicture--I don't know if you know it? It is a crucifixion, with aman on a cross, and--" He described the picture. "No! Well, themodel had to be tied hanging on to a wooden cross. And it made yousuffer! Ah!" Here the odd, arch, diabolic yellow flare lit upthrough the stoicism of Pancrazio's eyes. "Because Leighton, he wascruel to his model. He wouldn't let you rest. 'Damn you, you've gotto keep still till I've finished with you, you devil, ' so he said. Well, for this man on the cross, he couldn't get a model who woulddo it for him. They all tried it once, but they would not go again. So they said to him, he must try Califano, because Califano was theonly man who would stand it. At last then he sent for me. 'I don'tlike your damned figure, Califano, ' he said to me, 'but nobody willdo this if you won't. Now will you do it? 'Yes!' I said, 'I will. 'So he tied me up on the cross. And he paid me well, so I stood it. Well, he kept me tied up, hanging you know forwards naked on thiscross, for four hours. And then it was luncheon. And after luncheonhe would tie me again. Well, I suffered. I suffered so much, that Imust lean against the wall to support me to walk home. And in thenight I could not sleep, I could cry with the pains in my arms andmy ribs, I had no sleep. 'You've said you'd do it, so now you must, 'he said to me. 'And I will do it, ' I said. And so he tied me up. This cross, you know, was on a little raised place--I don't knowwhat you call it--"

"A platform, " suggested Alvina. 

"A platform. Now one day when he came to do something to me, when Iwas tied up, he slipped back over this platform, and he pulled me, who was tied on the cross, with him. So we all fell down, he withthe naked man on top of him, and the heavy cross on top of us both. I could not move, because I was tied. And it was so, with me on topof him, and the heavy cross, that he could not get out. So he had tolie shouting underneath me until some one came to the studio tountie me. No, we were not hurt, because the top of the cross fell sothat it did not crush us. 'Now you have had a taste of the cross, ' Isaid to him. 'Yes, you devil, but I shan't let you off, ' he said tome. 

"To make the time go he would ask me questions. Once he said, 'Now, Califano, what time is it? I give you three guesses, and if youguess right once I give you sixpence. ' So I guessed three o'clock. 'That's one. Now then, what time is it? 'Again, three o'clock. 'That's two guesses gone, you silly devil. Now then, what time isit? 'So now I was obstinate, and I said _Three o'clock_. He took outhis watch. 'Why damn you, how did you know? I give you a shilling--'It was three o'clock, as I said, so he gave me a shilling instead ofsixpence as he had said--"

It was strange, in the silent winter afternoon, downstairs in theblack kitchen, to sit drinking a cup of tea with Pancrazio andhearing these stories of English painters. It was strange to look atthe battered figure of Pancrazio, and think how much he had beencrucified through the long years in London, for the sake of lateVictorian art. It was strangest of all to see through his yellow, often dull, red-rimmed eyes these blithe and well-conditionedpainters. Pancrazio looked on them admiringly and contemptuously, asan old, rakish tom-cat might look on such frivolous well-groomedyoung gentlemen. 

As a matter of fact Pancrazio had never been rakish or debauched, but mountain-moral, timid. So that the queer, half-sinister drop ofhis eyelids was curious, and the strange, wicked yellow flare thatcame into his eyes was almost frightening. There was in the man asort of sulphur-yellow flame of passion which would light up in hisbattered body and give him an almost diabolic look. Alvina felt thatif she were left much alone with him she would need all her Englishascendancy not to be afraid of him. 

It was a Sunday morning just before Christmas when Alvina and Ciccioand Pancrazio set off for Pescocalascio for the first time. Snow hadfallen--not much round the house, but deep between the banks as theyclimbed. And the sun was very bright. So that the mountains weredazzling. The snow was wet on the roads. They wound betweenoak-trees and under the broom-scrub, climbing over the jumbled hillsthat lay between the mountains, until the village came near. Theygot on to a broader track, where the path from a distant villagejoined theirs. They were all talking, in the bright clear air of themorning. 

A little man came down an upper path. As he joined them near thevillage he hailed them in English:

"Good morning. Nice morning. "

"Does everybody speak English here?" asked Alvina. 

"I have been eighteen years in Glasgow. I am only here for a trip. "

He was a little Italian shop-keeper from Glasgow. He was mostfriendly, insisted on paying for drinks, and coffee and almondbiscuits for Alvina. Evidently he also was grateful to Britain. 

The village was wonderful. It occupied the crown of an eminence inthe midst of the wide valley. From the terrace of the high-road thevalley spread below, with all its jumble of hills, and two rivers, set in the walls of the mountains, a wide space, but imprisoned. Itglistened with snow under the blue sky. But the lowest hollows werebrown. In the distance, Ossona hung at the edge of a platform. Manyvillages clung like pale swarms of birds to the far slopes, orperched on the hills beneath. It was a world within a world, avalley of many hills and townlets and streams shut in beyond access. 

Pescocalascio itself was crowded. The roads were sloppy with snow. But none the less, peasants in full dress, their feet soaked in theskin sandals, were trooping in the sun, purchasing, selling, bargaining for cloth, talking all the time. In the shop, which wasalso a sort of inn, an ancient woman was making coffee over acharcoal brazier, while a crowd of peasants sat at the tables at theback, eating the food they had brought. 

Post was due at mid-day. Ciccio went to fetch it, whilst Pancraziotook Alvina to the summit, to the castle. There, in the levelregion, boys were snowballing and shouting. The ancient castle, badly cracked by the last earthquake, looked wonderfully down on thevalley of many hills beneath, Califano a speck down the left, Ossonaa blot to the right, suspended, its towers and its castle clear inthe light. Behind the castle of Pescocalascio was a deep, steepvalley, almost a gorge, at the bottom of which a river ran, andwhere Pancrazio pointed out the electricity works of the village, deep in the gloom. Above this gorge, at the end, rose the longslopes of the mountains, up to the vivid snow--and across again wasthe wall of the Abruzzi. 

They went down, past the ruined houses broken by the earthquake. Ciccio still had not come with the post. A crowd surged at thepost-office door, in a steep, black, wet side-street. Alvina's feetwere sodden. Pancrazio took her to the place where she could drinkcoffee and a strega, to make her warm. On the platform of thehigh-way, above the valley, people were parading in the hot sun. Alvina noticed some ultra-smart young men. They came up toPancrazio, speaking English. Alvina hated their Cockney accent andflorid showy vulgar presence. They were more models. Pancrazio wascool with them. 

Alvina sat apart from the crowd of peasants, on a chair the oldcrone had ostentatiously dusted for her. Pancrazio ordered beer forhimself. Ciccio came with letters--long-delayed letters, that hadbeen censored. Alvina's heart went down. 

The first she opened was from Miss Pinnegar--all war and fear andanxiety. The second was a letter, a real insulting letter from Dr. Mitchell. "I little thought, at the time when I was hoping to makeyou my wife, that you were carrying on with a dirty Italianorgan-grinder. So your fair-seeming face covered the schemes andvice of your true nature. Well, I can only thank Providence whichspared me the disgust and shame of marrying you, and I hope that, when I meet you on the streets of Leicester Square, I shall haveforgiven you sufficiently to be able to throw you a coin--"

Here was a pretty little epistle! In spite of herself, she went paleand trembled. She glanced at Ciccio. Fortunately he was turninground talking to another man. She rose and went to the ruddybrazier, as if to warm her hands. She threw on the screwed-upletter. The old crone said something unintelligible to her. Shewatched the letter catch fire--glanced at the peasants at thetable--and out at the wide, wild valley. The world beyond could nothelp, but it still had the power to injure one here. She felt shehad received a bitter blow. A black hatred for the Mitchells of thisworld filled her. 

She could hardly bear to open the third letter. It was from Mrs. Tuke, and again, all war. Would Italy join the Allies? She ought to, her every interest lay that way. Could Alvina bear to be so far off, when such terrible events were happening near home? Could shepossibly be happy? Nurses were so valuable now. She, Mrs. Tuke, hadvolunteered. She would do whatever she could. She had had to leaveoff nursing Jenifer, who had an _excellent_ Scotch nurse, muchbetter than a mother. Well, Alvina and Mrs. Tuke might yet meet insome hospital in France. So the letter ended. 

Alvina sat down, pale and trembling. Pancrazio was watching hercuriously. 

"Have you bad news?" he asked. 

"Only the war. "

"Ha!" and the Italian gesture of half-bitter "what can one do?"

They were talking war--all talking war. The dandy young models hadleft England because of the war, expecting Italy to come in. Andeverybody talked, talked, talked. Alvina looked round her. It allseemed alien to her, bruising upon the spirit. 

"Do you think I shall ever be able to come here alone and do myshopping by myself?" she asked. 

"You must never come alone, " said Pancrazio, in his curious, benevolent courtesy. "Either Ciccio or I will come with you. Youmust never come so far alone. "

"Why not?" she said. 

"You are a stranger here. You are not a contadina--" Alvina couldfeel the oriental idea of women, which still leaves its mark on theMediterranean, threatening her with surveillance and subjection. Shesat in her chair, with cold wet feet, looking at the sunshineoutside, the wet snow, the moving figures in the strong light, themen drinking at the counter, the cluster of peasant women bargainingfor dress-material. Ciccio was still turning talking in the rapidway to his neighbour. She knew it was war. She noticed the movementof his finely-modelled cheek, a little sallow this morning. 

And she rose hastily. 

"I want to go into the sun, " she said. 

When she stood above the valley in the strong, tiring light, sheglanced round. Ciccio inside the shop had risen, but he was stillturning to his neighbour and was talking with all his hands and allhis body. He did not talk with his mind and lips alone. His wholephysique, his whole living body spoke and uttered and emphasizeditself. 

A certain weariness possessed her. She was beginning to realizesomething about him: how he had no sense of home and domestic life, as an Englishman has. Ciccio's home would never be his castle. Hiscastle was the piazza of Pescocalascio. His home was nothing to himbut a possession, and a hole to sleep in. He didn't _live_ in it. Helived in the open air, and in the community. When the true Italiancame out in him, his veriest home was the piazza of Pescocalascio, the little sort of market-place where the roads met in the village, under the castle, and where the men stood in groups and talked, talked, talked. This was where Ciccio belonged: his active, mindfulself. His active, mindful self was none of hers. She only had hispassive self, and his family passion. His masculine mind andintelligence had its home in the little public square of hisvillage. She knew this as she watched him now, with all his bodytalking politics. He could not break off till he had finished. Andthen, with a swift, intimate handshake to the group with whom he hadbeen engaged, he came away, putting all his interest off fromhimself. 

She tried to make him talk and discuss with her. But he wouldn't. Anobstinate spirit made him darkly refuse masculine conversation withher. 

"If Italy goes to war, you will have to join up?" she asked him. 

"Yes, " he said, with a smile at the futility of the question. 

"And I shall have to stay here?"

He nodded, rather gloomily. 

"Do you want to go?" she persisted. 

"No, I don't want to go. "

"But you think Italy ought to join in?"

"Yes, I do. "

"Then you _do_ want to go--"

"I want to go if Italy goes in--and she ought to go in--"

Curious, he was somewhat afraid of her, he half venerated her, andhalf despised her. When she tried to make him discuss, in themasculine way, he shut obstinately against her, something like achild, and the slow, fine smile of dislike came on his face. Instinctively he shut off all masculine communication from her, particularly politics and religion. He would discuss both, violently, with other men. In politics he was something of aSocialist, in religion a freethinker. But all this had nothing to dowith Alvina. He would not enter on a discussion in English. 

Somewhere in her soul, she knew the finality of his refusal to holddiscussion with a woman. So, though at times her heart hardened withindignant anger, she let herself remain outside. The more so, asshe felt that in matters intellectual he was rather stupid. Let himgo to the piazza or to the wine-shop, and talk. 

To do him justice, he went little. Pescocalascio was only half hisown village. The nostalgia, the campanilismo from which Italianssuffer, the craving to be in sight of the native church-tower, tostand and talk in the native market place or piazza, this was onlyhalf formed in Ciccio, taken away as he had been from Pescocalasciowhen so small a boy. He spent most of his time working in the fieldsand woods, most of his evenings at home, often weaving a specialkind of fishnet or net-basket from fine, frail strips of cane. Itwas a work he had learned at Naples long ago. Alvina meanwhile wouldsew for the child, or spin wool. She became quite clever at drawingthe strands of wool from her distaff, rolling them fine and evenbetween her fingers, and keeping her bobbin rapidly spinning awaybelow, dangling at the end of the thread. To tell the truth, she washappy in the quietness with Ciccio, now they had their own pleasantroom. She loved his presence. She loved the quality of his silence, so rich and physical. She felt he was never very far away: that hewas a good deal a stranger in Califano, as she was: that he clung toher presence as she to his. Then Pancrazio also contrived to serveher and shelter her, he too, loved her for being there. They bothrevered her because she was with child. So that she lived more andmore in a little, isolate, illusory, wonderful world then, content, moreover, because the living cost so little. She had sixty pounds ofher own money, always intact in the little case. And after all, thehigh-way beyond the river led to Ossona, and Ossona gave access tothe railway, and the railway would take her anywhere. 

So the month of January passed, with its short days and its bits ofsnow and bursts of sunshine. On sunny days Alvina walked down to thedesolate river-bed, which fascinated her. When Pancrazio wascarrying up stone or lime on the ass, she accompanied him. AndPancrazio was always carrying up something, for he loved theextraneous jobs like building a fire-place much more than the heavywork of the land. Then she would find little tufts of wild narcissusamong the rocks, gold-centred pale little things, many on one stem. And their scent was powerful and magical, like the sound of the menwho came all those days and sang before Christmas. She loved them. There was green hellebore too, a fascinating plant--and one or twolittle treasures, the last of the rose-coloured Alpine cyclamens, near the earth, with snake-skin leaves, and so rose, so rose, likeviolets for shadowiness. She sat and cried over the first she found:heaven knows why. 

In February, as the days opened, the first almond trees floweredamong grey olives, in warm, level corners between the hills. But itwas March before the real flowering began. And then she hadcontinual bowl-fuls of white and blue violets, she had sprays ofalmond blossom, silver-warm and lustrous, then sprays of peach andapricot, pink and fluttering. It was a great joy to wander lookingfor flowers. She came upon a bankside all wide with lavendercrocuses. The sun was on them for the moment, and they were openedflat, great five-pointed, seven-pointed lilac stars, with burningcentres, burning with a strange lavender flame, as she had seen somemetal burn lilac-flamed in the laboratory of the hospital atIslington. All down the oak-dry bankside they burned their greatexposed stars. And she felt like going down on her knees and bendingher forehead to the earth in an oriental submission, they were soroyal, so lovely, so supreme. She came again to them in the morning, when the sky was grey, and they were closed, sharp clubs, wonderfully fragile on their stems of sap, among leaves and oldgrass and wild periwinkle. They had wonderful dark stripes runningup their cheeks, the crocuses, like the clear proud stripes on abadger's face, or on some proud cat. She took a handful of thesappy, shut, striped flames. In her room they opened into a grandbowl of lilac fire. 

March was a lovely month. The men were busy in the hills. Shewandered, extending her range. Sometimes with a strange fear. But itwas a fear of the elements rather than of man. One day she wentalong the high-road with her letters, towards the village of CasaLatina. The high-road was depressing, wherever there were houses. For the houses had that sordid, ramshackle, slummy look almostinvariable on an Italian high-road. They were patched with ahideous, greenish mould-colour, blotched, as if with leprosy. Itfrightened her, till Pancrazio told her it was only the coppersulphate that had sprayed the vines hitched on to the walls. Butnone the less the houses were sordid, unkempt, slummy. One house byitself could make a complete slum. 

Casa Latina was across the valley, in the shadow. Approaching itwere rows of low cabins--fairly new. They were the one-storeydwellings commanded after the earthquake. And hideous they were. Thevillage itself was old, dark, in perpetual shadow of the mountain. Streams of cold water ran round it. The piazza was gloomy, forsaken. But there was a great, twin-towered church, wonderful from outside. 

She went inside, and was almost sick with repulsion. The place waslarge, whitewashed, and crowded with figures in glass cases and exvoto offerings. The lousy-looking, dressed-up dolls, life size andtinselly, that stood in the glass cases; the blood-streaked Jesus onthe crucifix; the mouldering, mumbling, filthy peasant women ontheir knees; all the sense of trashy, repulsive, degradedfetish-worship was too much for her. She hurried out, shrinking fromthe contamination of the dirty leather door-curtain. 

Enough of Casa Latina. She would never go _there_ again. She wasbeginning to feel that, if she lived in this part of the world atall, she must avoid the _inside_ of it. She must never, if she couldhelp it, enter into any interior but her own--neither into house norchurch nor even shop or post-office, if she could help it. Themoment she went through a door the sense of dark repulsiveness cameover her. If she was to save her sanity she must keep to the openair, and avoid any contact with human interiors. When she thought ofthe insides of the native people she shuddered with repulsion, as inthe great, degraded church of Casa Latina. They were horrible. 

Yet the outside world was so fair. Corn and maize were growing greenand silken, vines were in the small bud. Everywhere little grapehyacinths hung their blue bells. It was a pity they reminded her ofthe many-breasted Artemis, a picture of whom, or of whose statue, she had seen somewhere. Artemis with her clusters of breasts washorrible to her, now she had come south: nauseating beyond words. And the milky grape hyacinths reminded her. 

She turned with thankfulness to the magenta anemones that were sogay. Some one told her that wherever Venus had shed a tear forAdonis, one of these flowers had sprung. They were not tear-like. And yet their red-purple silkiness had something pre-world about it, at last. The more she wandered, the more the shadow of the by-gonepagan world seemed to come over her. Sometimes she felt she wouldshriek and go mad, so strong was the influence on her, somethingpre-world and, it seemed to her now, vindictive. She seemed to feelin the air strange Furies, Lemures, things that had haunted her withtheir tomb-frenzied vindictiveness since she was a child and hadpored over the illustrated Classical Dictionary. Black and cruelpresences were in the under-air. They were furtive and slinking. They bewitched you with loveliness, and lurked with fangs to hurtyou afterwards. There it was: the fangs sheathed in beauty: thebeauty first, and then, horribly, inevitably, the fangs. 

Being a great deal alone, in the strange place, fancies possessedher, people took on strange shapes. Even Ciccio and Pancrazio. Andit came that she never wandered far from the house, from her room, after the first months. She seemed to hide herself in her room. There she sewed and spun wool and read, and learnt Italian. Her menwere not at all anxious to teach her Italian. Indeed her chiefteacher, at first, was a young fellow called Bussolo. He was a modelfrom London, and he came down to Califano sometimes, hanging about, anxious to speak English. 

Alvina did not care for him. He was a dandy with pale grey eyes anda heavy figure. Yet he had a certain penetrating intelligence. 

"No, this country is a country for old men. It is only for old men, "he said, talking of Pescocalascio. "You won't stop here. Nobodyyoung can stop here. "

The odd plangent certitude in his voice penetrated her. And all theyoung people said the same thing. They were all waiting to go away. But for the moment the war held them up. 

Ciccio and Pancrazio were busy with the vines. As she watched themhoeing, crouching, tying, tending, grafting, mindless and utterlyabsorbed, hour after hour, day after day, thinking vines, livingvines, she wondered they didn't begin to sprout vine-buds and vinestems from their own elbows and neck-joints. There was something toher unnatural in the quality of the attention the men gave to thewine. It was a sort of worship, almost a degradation again. Andheaven knows, Pancrazio's wine was poor enough, his grapes almostinvariably bruised with hail-stones, and half-rotten instead ofripe. 

The loveliness of April came, with hot sunshine. Astonishing theferocity of the sun, when he really took upon himself to blaze. Alvina was amazed. The burning day quite carried her away. She lovedit: it made her quite careless about everything, she was just sweptalong in the powerful flood of the sunshine. In the end, she feltthat intense sunlight had on her the effect of night: a sort ofdarkness, and a suspension of life. She had to hide in her room tillthe cold wind blew again. 

Meanwhile the declaration of war drew nearer, and became inevitable. She knew Ciccio would go. And with him went the chance of herescape. She steeled herself to bear the agony of the knowledge thathe would go, and she would be left alone in this place, whichsometimes she hated with a hatred unspeakable. After a spell of hot, intensely dry weather she felt she would die in this valley, witherand go to powder as some exposed April roses withered and dried intodust against a hot wall. Then the cool wind came in a storm, thenext day there was grey sky and soft air. The rose-coloured wildgladioli among the young green corn were a dream of beauty, themorning of the world. The lovely, pristine morning of the world, before our epoch began. Rose-red gladioli among corn, in among therocks, and small irises, black-purple and yellow blotched withbrown, like a wasp, standing low in little desert places, that wouldseem forlorn but for this weird, dark-lustrous magnificence. Thenthere were the tiny irises, only one finger tall, growing in dryplaces, frail as crocuses, and much tinier, and blue, blue as theeye of the morning heaven, which was a morning earlier, morepristine than ours. The lovely translucent pale irises, tiny andmorning-blue, they lasted only a few hours. But nothing could bemore exquisite, like gods on earth. It was the flowers that broughtback to Alvina the passionate nostalgia for the place. The humaninfluence was a bit horrible to her. But the flowers that came outand uttered the earth in magical expression, they cast a spell onher, bewitched her and stole her own soul away from her. 

She went down to Ciccio where he was weeding armfuls of rose-redgladioli from the half-grown wheat, and cutting the lushness of thefirst weedy herbage. He threw down his sheaves of gladioli, and withhis sickle began to cut the forest of bright yellow corn-marigolds. He looked intent, he seemed to work feverishly. 

"Must they all be cut?" she said, as she went to him. 

He threw aside the great armful of yellow flowers, took off his cap, and wiped the sweat from his brow. The sickle dangled loose in hishand. 

"We have declared war, " he said. 

In an instant she realized that she had seen the figure of the oldpost-carrier dodging between the rocks. Rose-red and gold-yellow ofthe flowers swam in her eyes. Ciccio's dusk-yellow eyes werewatching her. She sank on her knees on a sheaf of corn-marigolds. Her eyes, watching him, were vulnerable as if stricken to death. Indeed she felt she would die. 

"You will have to go?" she said. 

"Yes, we shall all have to go. " There seemed a certain sound oftriumph in his voice. Cruel!

She sank lower on the flowers, and her head dropped. But she wouldnot be beaten. She lifted her face. 

"If you are very long, " she said, "I shall go to England. I can'tstay here very long without you. "

"You will have Pancrazio--and the child, " he said. 

"Yes. But I shall still be myself. I can't stay here very longwithout you. I shall go to England. "

He watched her narrowly. 

"I don't think they'll let you, " he said. 

"Yes they will. "

At moments she hated him. He seemed to want to crush her altogether. She was always making little plans in her mind--how she could getout of that great cruel valley and escape to Rome, to Englishpeople. She would find the English Consul and he would help her. Shewould do anything rather than be really crushed. She knew how easyit would be, once her spirit broke, for her to die and be buried inthe cemetery at Pescocalascio. 

And they would all be so sentimental about her--just as Pancraziowas. She felt that in some way Pancrazio had killed his wife--notconsciously, but unconsciously, as Ciccio might kill _her_. Pancrazio would tell Alvina about his wife and her ailments. And heseemed always anxious to prove that he had been so good to her. Nodoubt he had been good to her, also. But there was somethingunderneath--malevolent in his spirit, some caged-in sort of cruelty, malignant beyond his control. It crept out in his stories. And itrevealed itself in his fear of his dead wife. Alvina knew that inthe night the elderly man was afraid of his dead wife, and of herghost or her avenging spirit. He would huddle over the fire in fear. In the same way the cemetery had a fascination of horror forhim--as, she noticed, for most of the natives. It was an ugly, square place, all stone slabs and wall-cupboards, enclosed infour-square stone walls, and lying away beneath Pescocalasciovillage obvious as if it were on a plate. 

"That is our cemetery, " Pancrazio said, pointing it out to her, "where we shall all be carried some day. "

And there was fear, horror in his voice. He told her how the men hadcarried his wife there--a long journey over the hill-tracks, almosttwo hours. 

These were days of waiting--horrible days of waiting for Ciccio tobe called up. One batch of young men left the village--and there wasa lugubrious sort of saturnalia, men and women alike got ratherdrunk, the young men left amid howls of lamentation and shrieks ofdistress. Crowds accompanied them to Ossona, whence they weremarched towards the railway. It was a horrible event. 

A shiver of horror and death went through the valley. In alugubrious way, they seemed to enjoy it. 

"You'll never be satisfied till you've gone, " she said to Ciccio. "Why don't they be quick and call you?"

"It will be next week, " he said, looking at her darkly. In thetwilight he came to her, when she could hardly see him. 

"Are you sorry you came here with me, Allaye?" he asked. There wasmalice in the very question. 

She put down the spoon and looked up from the fire. He stoodshadowy, his head ducked forward, the firelight faint on hisenigmatic, timeless, half-smiling face. 

"I'm not sorry, " she answered slowly, using all her courage. "Because I love you--"

She crouched quite still on the hearth. He turned aside his face. After a moment or two he went out. She stirred her pot slowly andsadly. She had to go downstairs for something. 

And there on the landing she saw him standing in the darkness withhis arm over his face, as if fending a blow. 

"What is it?" she said, laying her hand on him. He uncovered hisface. 

"I would take you away if I could, " he said. 

"I can wait for you, " she answered. 

He threw himself in a chair that stood at a table there on the broadlanding, and buried his head in his arms. 

"Don't wait for me! Don't wait for me!" he cried, his voice muffled. 

"Why not?" she said, filled with terror. He made no sign. "Why not?"she insisted. And she laid her fingers on his head. 

He got up and turned to her. 

"I love you, even if it kills me, " she said. 

But he only turned aside again, leaned his arm against the wall, andhid his face, utterly noiseless. 

"What is it?" she said. "What is it? I don't understand. " He wipedhis sleeve across his face, and turned to her. 

"I haven't any hope, " he said, in a dull, dogged voice. 

She felt her heart and the child die within her. 

"Why?" she said. 

Was she to bear a hopeless child?

"You _have_ hope. Don't make a scene, " she snapped. And she wentdownstairs, as she had intended. 

And when she got into the kitchen, she forgot what she had come for. She sat in the darkness on the seat, with all life gone dark andstill, death and eternity settled down on her. Death and eternitywere settled down on her as she sat alone. And she seemed to hearhim moaning upstairs--"I can't come back. I can't come back. " Sheheard it. She heard it so distinctly, that she never knew whether ithad been an actual utterance, or whether it was her inner ear whichhad heard the inner, unutterable sound. She wanted to answer, tocall to him. But she could not. Heavy, mute, powerless, there shesat like a lump of darkness, in that doomed Italian kitchen. "Ican't come back. " She heard it so fatally. 

She was interrupted by the entrance of Pancrazio. 

"Oh!" he cried, startled when, having come near the fire, he caughtsight of her. And he said something, frightened, in Italian. 

"Is it you? Why are you in the darkness?" he said. 

"I am just going upstairs again. "

"You frightened me. "

She went up to finish the preparing of the meal. Ciccio came down toPancrazio. The latter had brought a newspaper. The two men sat onthe settle, with the lamp between them, reading and talking thenews. 

Ciccio's group was called up for the following week, as he had said. The departure hung over them like a doom. Those were perhaps theworst days of all: the days of the impending departure. Neither ofthem spoke about it. 

But the night before he left she could bear the silence no more. 

"You will come back, won't you?" she said, as he sat motionless inhis chair in the bedroom. It was a hot, luminous night. There wasstill a late scent of orange blossom from the garden, thenightingale was shaking the air with his sound. At times other, honey scents wafted from the hills. 

"You will come back?" she insisted. 

"Who knows?" he replied. 

"If you make up your mind to come back, you will come back. We haveour fate in our hands, " she said. 

He smiled slowly. 

"You think so?" he said. 

"I know it. If you don't come back it will be because you don't wantto--no other reason. It won't be because you can't. It will bebecause you don't want to. "

"Who told you so?" he asked, with the same cruel smile. 

"I know it, " she said. 

"All right, " he answered. 

But he still sat with his hands abandoned between his knees. 

"So make up your mind, " she said. 

He sat motionless for a long while: while she undressed and brushedher hair and went to bed. And still he sat there unmoving, like acorpse. It was like having some unnatural, doomed, unbearablepresence in the room. She blew out the light, that she need not seehim. But in the darkness it was worse. 

At last he stirred--he rose. He came hesitating across to her. 

"I'll come back, Allaye, " he said quietly. "Be damned to them all. "She heard unspeakable pain in his voice. 

"To whom?" she said, sitting up. 

He did not answer, but put his arms round her. 

"I'll come back, and we'll go to America, " he said. 

"You'll come back to me, " she whispered, in an ecstasy of pain andrelief. It was not her affair, where they should go, so long as hereally returned to her. 

"I'll come back, " he said. 

"Sure?" she whispered, straining him to her.