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 sh
e 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 yourwo
rk."
"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.
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