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 debris 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 fri
ghtened 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 andfu
ll 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 galere._
The Lost Girl Page 5
