Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence (Illustrated), page 255
Even from Ciccio. For she felt he insulted her too. Subtly, they all did it. They had regard for her possibilities as an heiress. Five hundred, even two hundred pounds would have made all the difference. Useless to deny it. Even to Ciccio. Ciccio would have had a lifelong respect for her, if she had come with even so paltry a sum as two hundred pounds. Now she had nothing, he would coolly withhold this respect. She felt he might jeer at her. And she could not get away from this feeling.
Mercifully she had the bit of ready money. And she had a few trinkets which might be sold. Nothing else. Mercifully, for the mere moment, she was independent.
Whatever else she did, she must go back and pack. She must pack her two boxes, and leave them ready. For she felt that once she had left, she could never come back to Woodhouse again. If England had cliffs all round — why, when there was nowhere else to go and no getting beyond, she could walk over one of the cliffs. Meanwhile, she had her short run before her. She banked hard on her independence.
So she turned back to the town. She would not be able to take the twelve-forty train, for it was already mid-day. But she was glad. She wanted some time to herself. She would send Ciccio on. Slowly she climbed the familiar hill — slowly — and rather bitterly. She felt her native place insulted her: and she felt the Natchas insulted her. 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 can just 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 cold meat,” said Alvina. “Would you mind putting it ready while I go upstairs?”
“Sharpses and Fullbankses sent them bills,” said Mrs. Rollings. Alvina opened them, and turned pale. It was thirty pounds, the total funeral 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, and spread the cloth for Ciccio. When he was eating, Miss Pinnegar came in. She inquired for Alvina — and went upstairs.
“Have you had your dinner?” she said. For there was Alvina sitting writing 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 the scullery. When Alvina came down, she returned to the living room.
“Give this letter to Madame,” Alvina said to Ciccio. “I shall be at the 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 me father’s debts come to much more than everything is worth. Nothing is ours — not even the plate you’re eating from. Everything is under seal to be sold to pay off what is owing. So I’ve got to get my own clothes and boots together, or they’ll be sold with the rest. Mr. Beeby wants you to go round at seven this evening, Miss Pinnegar — before I forget.”
“Really!” gasped Miss Pinnegar. “Really! The house and the furniture and everything got to be sold up? Then we’re on the streets! I can’t believe it.”
“So he told me,” said Alvina.
“But how positively awful,” said Miss Pinnegar, sinking motionless into a chair.
“It’s not more than I expected,” said Alvina. “I’m putting my things into my two trunks, and I shall just ask Mrs. Slaney to store them for me. Then I’ve the bag I shall travel with.”
“Really!” gasped Miss Pinnegar. “I can’t believe it! And when have we got to get out?”
“Oh, I don’t think there’s a desperate hurry. They’ll take an inventory of all the things, and we can live on here till they’re actually 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’s impossible. He can never have left things so bad.”
“Ciccio,” said Alvina. “You’ll really have to go if you are to catch the train. You’ll give Madame my letter, won’t you? I should hate you to miss the train. I know she can’t bear me already, for all the fuss 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 never thought I should live to see the day,” said Miss Pinnegar.
“You might almost have expected it,” said Mrs. Rollings. “But you’re all right, yourself, Miss Pinnegar. Your money isn’t with his, is it?”
“No,” said Miss Pinnegar. “What little I have put by is safe. But it’s not enough to live on. It’s not enough to keep me, even supposing I only live another ten years. If I only spend a pound a week, it costs fifty-two pounds a year. And for ten years, look at it, 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, you know. 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 come from — ?”
“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’re not 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 way of taking it. The three women sat down to an uncomfortable dinner of cold 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 the end. You’re always knocked down.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Alvina, “if it’s only in the end. It doesn’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 your work.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Alvina laconically, “so long as you’ve enjoyed working and striving.”
But Miss Pinnegar was too angry to be philosophic. Alvina knew it was useless to be either angry or otherwise emotional. None the less, she also felt as if she had been knocked down. And she almost envied poor Miss Pinnegar the prospect of a little, day-by-day haberdashery shop in Tamworth. Her own problem seemed so much more menacing. “Answer or die,” said the Sphinx of fate. Miss Pinnegar could answer her own fate according to its question. She could say “haberdashery shop,” and her sphinx would recognize this answer as true to nature, and would be satisfied. But every individual has his own, or her own fate, and her own sphinx. Alvina’s sphinx was an old, deep thoroughbred, she would take no mongrel answers. And her thoroughbred teeth were long and sharp. To Alvina, the last of the fantastic but purebred race of Houghton, the problem of her fate was terribly abstruse.
The only thing to do was not to solve it: to stray on, and answer fate 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 my books,” 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 I owe anything?”
“I don’t think you do,” said Miss Pinnegar.
“I’m going to keep the insurance money, any way. They can say what they like. I’ve got it, and I’m going to keep it.”
“Well,” said Miss Pinnegar, “it’s not my business. But there’s Sharps and Fullbanks to pay.”
“I’ll pay those,” said Alvina. “You tell Atterwell what to put on father’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 — Six letters — thirty shillings. Seems an awful lot for Also of — ”
“But you can’t leave it out,” said Miss Pinnegar. “You can’t economize over that.”
“I begrudge it,” said Alvina.
CHAPTER XI
HONOURABLE ENGAGEMENT
For days, after joining the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras, Alvina was very quiet, subdued, and rather remote, sensible of her humiliating position as a hanger-on. They none of them took much notice of her. They drifted on, rather disjointedly. The cordiality, the joie de vivre did not revive. Madame was a little irritable, and very exacting, and inclined to be spiteful. Ciccio went his way with Geoffrey.
In the second week, Madame found out that a man had been surreptitiously inquiring about them at their lodgings, from the landlady and the landlady’s blowsy daughter. It must have been a detective — some shoddy detective. Madame waited. Then she sent Max over to Mansfield, on some fictitious errand. Yes, the lousy-looking dogs of detectives had been there too, making the most minute enquiries as to the behaviour of the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras, what they did, 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, the same two mongrel-looking fellows were lurking in the street, and plying the inmates of their lodging-house with questions. All the Natchas caught sight of the men. And Madame cleverly wormed out of the righteous and respectable landlady what the men had asked. Once more it was about the sleeping accommodation — whether the landlady heard anything in the night — whether she noticed anything in the bedrooms, in the beds.
No doubt about it, the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras were under suspicion. They were being followed, and watched. What for? Madame made a shrewd guess. “They want to say we are immoral foreigners,” she said.
“But what have our personal morals got to do with them?” said Max angrily.
“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 about morals — and immortals. Yes, I know. Yes — yes — yes! He suspects all our 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 rather mockingly.
“What are we to do?” said Max, pale on the cheekbones.
“Curse them! Curse them!” Louis was muttering, in his rolling accent.
“Wait,” said Madame. “Wait. They will not do anything to us. You are only dirty foreigners, mes braves. At the most they will ask us only 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, smiling indulgently at her. “Let us wait, and see.”
She took it smilingly. But her cheeks were white as paper, and her eyes black as drops of ink, with anger.
“Wait and see!” she chanted ironically. “Wait and see! If we must leave the dear country — then _adieu!_” And she gravely bowed to an imaginary England.
“I feel it’s my fault. I feel I ought to go away,” cried Alvina, who was terribly distressed, seeing Madame’s glitter and pallor, and the black brows of the men. Never had Ciccio’s brow looked so ominously black. And Alvina felt it was all her fault. Never had she experienced such a horrible feeling: as if something repulsive were creeping on her from behind. Every minute of these weeks was a horror to her: the sense of the low-down dogs of detectives hanging round, sliding behind them, trying to get hold of some clear proof of immorality on their part. And then — the unknown vengeance of the authorities. All the repulsive secrecy, and all the absolute power of the police authorities. The sense of a great malevolent power which had them all the time in its grip, and was watching, feeling, waiting to strike the morbid blow: the sense of the utter helplessness of individuals who were not even accused, only watched and enmeshed! the feeling that they, the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras, herself included, must be monsters of hideous vice, to have provoked all this: and yet the sane knowledge that they, none of them, were monsters of vice; this was quite killing. The sight of a policeman would send up Alvina’s heart in a flame of fear, agony; yet she knew she had nothing legally to be afraid of. Every knock at the door was horrible.
She simply could not understand it. Yet there it was: they were watched, followed. Of that there was no question. And all she could imagine was that the troupe was secretly accused of White Slave Traffic by somebody in Woodhouse. Probably Mr. May had gone the round of the benevolent magnates of Woodhouse, concerning himself with her virtue, and currying favour with his concern. Of this she became convinced, that it was concern for her virtue which had started 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 it was some personal malevolence against the Tawaras themselves, probably put up by some other professionals, with whom Madame was not popular.
Be that as it may, for some weeks they went about in the shadow of this repulsive finger which was following after them, to touch them and destroy them with the black smear of shame. The men were silent and inclined to be sulky. They seemed to hold together. They seemed to be united into a strong, four-square silence and tension. They kept to themselves — and Alvina kept to herself — and Madame kept to herself. So they went about.
And slowly the cloud melted. It never broke. Alvina felt that the very force of the sullen, silent fearlessness and fury in the Tawaras had prevented its bursting. Once there had been a weakening, a cringing, they would all have been lost. But their hearts hardened with 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 the Natchas. While the trouble was hanging over, they seemed to ignore her altogether. The men hardly spoke to her. They hardly spoke to Madame, for that matter. They kept within the four-square enclosure of themselves.
But Alvina felt herself particularly excluded, left out. And when the trouble of the detectives began to pass off, and the men became more 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 for her room, and the expense of travelling. But she had her food with the rest. Wherever she was, Madame bought the food for the party, and cooked it herself. And Alvina came in with the rest: she paid no board.
She waited, however, for Madame to suggest a small salary — or at least, that the troupe should pay her living expenses. But Madame did not make such a suggestion. So Alvina knew that she was not very badly wanted. And she guarded her money, and watched for some other opportunity.
It became her habit to go every morning to the public library of the town 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 weeks she 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 was closed against him.
“Why are you going to the library?” he asked her. It was in Lancaster.
“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.
