Chapter IX: Alvina Becomes Allaye (2)

Ciccio did not come during the first week. Alvina had a post-card from Madame, from Cheshire: rather far off. But such was the buzz and excitement over her material future, such a fever was worked up round about her that Alvina, the petty-propertied heroine of the moment, was quite carried away in a storm of schemes and benevolent suggestions. She answered Madame’s post-card, but did not give much thought to the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras. As a matter of fact, she was enjoying a real moment of importance, there at the centre of Woodhouse’s rather domineering benevolence: a benevolence which she unconsciously, but systematically frustrated. All this scheming for selling out and making reservations and hanging on and fixing prices and getting private bids for Manchester House and for the Endeavour, the excitement of forming a Limited Company to run the Endeavour, of seeing a lawyer about the sale of Manchester House and the auctioneer about the sale of the furniture, of receiving men who wanted to pick up the machines upstairs cheap, and of keeping everything dangling, deciding nothing, putting everything off till she had seen somebody else, this for the moment fascinated her, went to her head. It was not until the second week had passed that her excitement began to merge into irritation, and not until the third week had gone by that she began to feel herself entangled in an asphyxiating web of indecision, and her heart began to sing because Ciccio had never turned up. Now she would have given anything to see the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras again. But she did not know where they were. Now she began to loathe the excitement of her property: doubtfully hers, every stick of it. Now she would give anything to get away from Woodhouse, from the horrible buzz and entanglement of her sordid affairs. Now again her wild recklessness came over her.

She suddenly said she was going away somewhere: she would not say where. She cashed all the money she could: a hundred-and-twenty-five pounds. She took the train to Cheshire, to the last address of the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras: she followed them to Stockport: and back to Chinley: and there she was stuck for the night. Next day she dashed back almost to Woodhouse, and swerved round to Sheffield. There, in that black town, thank heaven, she saw their announcement on the wall. She took a taxi to their theatre, and then on to their lodgings. The first thing she saw was Louis, in his shirt sleeves, on the landing above.

She laughed with excitement and pleasure. She seemed another woman. Madame looked up, almost annoyed, when she entered.

“I couldn’t keep away from you, Madame,” she cried.

“Evidently,” said Madame.

Madame was darning socks for the young men. She was a wonderful mother for them, sewed for them, cooked for them, looked after them most carefully. Not many minutes was Madame idle.

“Do you mind?” said Alvina.

Madame darned for some moments without answering.

“And how is everything at Woodhouse?” she asked.

“I couldn’t bear it any longer. I couldn’t bear it. So I collected all the money I could, and ran away. Nobody knows where I am.”

Madame looked up with bright, black, censorious eyes, at the flushed girl opposite. Alvina had a certain strangeness and brightness, which Madame did not know, and a frankness which the Frenchwoman mistrusted, but found disarming.

“And all the business, the will and all?” said Madame.

“They’re still fussing about it.”

“And there is some money?”

“I have got a hundred pounds here,” laughed Alvina. “What there will be when everything is settled, I don’t know. But not very much, I’m sure of that.”

“How much do you think? A thousand pounds?”

“Oh, it’s just possible, you know. But it’s just as likely there won’t be another penny—”

Madame nodded slowly, as always when she did her calculations.

“And if there is nothing, what do you intend?” said Madame.

“I don’t know,” said Alvina brightly.

“And if there is something?”

“I don’t know either. But I thought, if you would let me play for you, I could keep myself for some time with my own money. You said perhaps I might be with the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras. I wish you would let me.”

Madame bent her head so that nothing showed but the bright black folds of her hair. Then she looked up, with a slow, subtle, rather jeering smile.

“Ciccio didn’t come to see you, hein?”

“No,” said Alvina. “Yet he promised.”

Again Madame smiled sardonically.

“Do you call it a promise?” she said. “You are easy to be satisfied with a word. A hundred pounds? No more?”

“A hundred and twenty—”

“Where is it?”

“In my bag at the station—in notes. And I’ve got a little here—” Alvina opened her purse, and took out some little gold and silver.

“At the station!” exclaimed Madame, smiling grimly. “Then perhaps you have nothing.”

“Oh, I think it’s quite safe, don’t you—?”

“Yes—maybe—since it is England. And you think a hundred and twenty pounds is enough?”

“What for?”

“To satisfy Ciccio.”

“I wasn’t thinking of him,” cried Alvina.

“No?” said Madame ironically. “I can propose it to him. Wait one moment.” She went to the door and called Ciccio.

He entered, looking not very good-tempered.

“Be so good, my dear,” said Madame to him, “to go to the station and fetch Miss Houghton’s little bag. You have got the ticket, have you?” Alvina handed the luggage ticket to Madame. “Midland Railway,” said Madame. “And, Ciccio, you are listening—? Mind! There is a hundred and twenty pounds of Miss Houghton’s money in the bag. You hear? Mind it is not lost.”

“It’s all I have,” said Alvina.

“For the time, for the time—till the will is proved, it is all the cash she has. So mind doubly. You hear?”

“All right,” said Ciccio.

“Tell him what sort of a bag, Miss Houghton,” said Madame.

Alvina told him. He ducked and went. Madame listened for his final departure. Then she nodded sagely at Alvina.

“Take off your hat and coat, my dear. Soon we will have tea—when Cic’ returns. Let him think, let him think what he likes. So much money is certain, perhaps there will be more. Let him think. It will make all the difference that there is so much cash—yes, so much—”

“But would it _really_ make a difference to him?” cried Alvina.

“Oh my dear!” exclaimed Madame. “Why should it not? We are on earth, where we must eat. We are not in Paradise. If it were a thousand pounds, then he would want very badly to marry you. But a hundred and twenty is better than a blow to the eye, eh? Why sure!”

“It’s dreadful, though—!” said Alvina.

“Oh la-la! Dreadful! If it was Max, who is sentimental, then no, the money is nothing. But all the others—why, you see, they are men, and they know which side to butter their bread. Men are like cats, my dear, they don’t like their bread without butter. Why should they? Nor do I, nor do I.”

“Can I help with the darning?” said Alvina.

“Hein? I shall give you Ciccio’s socks, yes? He pushes holes in the toes—you see?” Madame poked two fingers through the hole in the toe of a red-and-black sock, and smiled a little maliciously at Alvina.

“I don’t mind which sock I darn,” she said.

“No? You don’t? Well then, I give you another. But if you like I will speak to him—”

“What to say?” asked Alvina.

“To say that you have so much money, and hope to have more. And that you like him—Yes? Am I right? You like him very much?—hein? Is it so?”

“And then what?” said Alvina.

“That he should tell me if he should like to marry you also—quite simply. What? Yes?”

“No,” said Alvina. “Don’t say anything—not yet.”

“Hé? Not yet? Not yet. All right, not yet then. You will see—”

Alvina sat darning the sock and smiling at her own shamelessness. The point that amused her most of all was the fact that she was not by any means sure she wanted to marry him. There was Madame spinning her web like a plump prolific black spider. There was Ciccio, the unrestful fly. And there was herself, who didn’t know in the least what she was doing. There sat two of them, Madame and herself, darning socks in a stuffy little bedroom with a gas fire, as if they had been born to it. And after all, Woodhouse wasn’t fifty miles away.

Madame went downstairs to get tea ready. Wherever she was, she superintended the cooking and the preparation of meals for her young men, scrupulous and quick. She called Alvina downstairs. Ciccio came in with the bag.

“See, my dear, that your money is safe,” said Madame.

Alvina unfastened her bag and counted the crisp white notes.

“And now,” said Madame, “I shall lock it in my little bank, yes, where it will be safe. And I shall give you a receipt, which the young men will witness.”

The party sat down to tea, in the stuffy sitting-room.

“Now, boys,” said Madame, “what do you say? Shall Miss Houghton join the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras? Shall she be our pianist?”

The eyes of the four young men rested on Alvina. Max, as being the responsible party, looked business-like. Louis was tender, Geoffrey round-eyed and inquisitive, Ciccio furtive.

“With great pleasure,” said Max. “But can the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras afford to pay a pianist for themselves?”

“No,” said Madame. “No. I think not. Miss Houghton will come for one month, to prove, and in that time she shall pay for herself. Yes? So she fancies it.”

“Can we pay her expenses?” said Max.

“No,” said Alvina. “Let me pay everything for myself, for a month. I should like to be with you, awfully—”

She looked across with a look half mischievous, half beseeching at the erect Max. He bowed as he sat at table.

“I think we shall all be honoured,” he said.

“Certainly,” said Louis, bowing also over his tea-cup.

Geoffrey inclined his head, and Ciccio lowered his eyelashes in indication of agreement.

“Now then,” said Madame briskly, “we are all agreed. Tonight we will have a bottle of wine on it. Yes, gentlemen? What d’you say? Chianti—hein?”

They all bowed above the table.

“And Miss Houghton shall have her professional name, eh? Because we cannot say Miss Houghton—what?”

“Do call me Alvina,” said Alvina.

“Alvina—Al-vy-na! No, excuse me, my dear, I don’t like it. I don’t like this ‘vy’ sound. Tonight we shall find a name.”

After tea they inquired for a room for Alvina. There was none in the house. But two doors away was another decent lodging-house, where a bedroom on the top floor was found for her.

“I think you are very well here,” said Madame.

“Quite nice,” said Alvina, looking round the hideous little room, and remembering her other term of probation, as a maternity nurse.

She dressed as attractively as possible, in her new dress of black voile, and imitating Madame, she put four jewelled rings on her fingers. As a rule she only wore the mourning-ring of black enamel and diamond, which had been always on Miss Frost’s finger. Now she left off this, and took four diamond rings, and one good sapphire. She looked at herself in her mirror as she had never done before, really interested in the effect she made. And in her dress she pinned a valuable old ruby brooch.

Then she went down to Madame’s house. Madame eyed her shrewdly, with just a touch of jealousy: the eternal jealousy that must exist between the plump, pale partridge of a Frenchwoman, whose black hair is so glossy and tidy, whose black eyes are so acute, whose black dress is so neat and _chic_, and the rather thin Englishwoman in soft voile, with soft, rather loose brown hair and demure, blue-grey eyes.

“Oh—a difference—what a difference! When you have a little more flesh—then—” Madame made a slight click with her tongue. “What a good brooch, eh?” Madame fingered the brooch. “Old paste—old paste—antique—”

“No,” said Alvina. “They are real rubies. It was my great-grandmother’s.”

“Do you mean it? Real? Are you sure—”

“I think I’m quite sure.”

Madame scrutinized the jewels with a fine eye.

“Hm!” she said. And Alvina did not know whether she was sceptical, or jealous, or admiring, or really impressed.

“And the diamonds are real?” said Madame, making Alvina hold up her hands.

“I’ve always understood so,” said Alvina.

Madame scrutinized, and slowly nodded her head. Then she looked into Alvina’s eyes, really a little jealous.

“Another four thousand francs there,” she said, nodding sagely.

“Really!” said Alvina.

“For sure. It’s enough—it’s enough—”

And there was a silence between the two women.

The young men had been out shopping for the supper. Louis, who knew where to find French and German stuff, came in with bundles, Ciccio returned with a couple of flasks, Geoffrey with sundry moist papers of edibles. Alvina helped Madame to put the anchovies and sardines and tunny and ham and salami on various plates, she broke off a bit of fern from one of the flower-pots, to stick in the pork-pie, she set the table with its ugly knives and forks and glasses. All the time her rings sparkled, her red brooch sent out beams, she laughed and was gay, she was quick, and she flattered Madame by being very deferential to her. Whether she was herself or not, in the hideous, common, stuffy sitting-room of the lodging-house she did not know or care. But she felt excited and gay. She knew the young men were watching her. Max gave his assistance wherever possible. Geoffrey watched her rings, half spell-bound. But Alvina was concerned only to flatter the plump, white, soft vanity of Madame. She carefully chose for Madame the finest plate, the clearest glass, the whitest-hafted knife, the most delicate fork. All of which Madame saw, with acute eyes.

At the theatre the same: Alvina played for Kishwégin, only for Kishwégin. And Madame had the time of her life.

“You know, my dear,” she said afterward to Alvina, “I understand sympathy in music. Music goes straight to the heart.” And she kissed Alvina on both cheeks, throwing her arms round her neck dramatically.

“I’m _so_ glad,” said the wily Alvina.

And the young men stirred uneasily, and smiled furtively.

They hurried home to the famous supper. Madame sat at one end of the table, Alvina at the other. Madame had Max and Louis by her side, Alvina had Ciccio and Geoffrey. Ciccio was on Alvina’s right hand: a delicate hint.

They began with hors d’oeuvres and tumblers three parts full of Chianti. Alvina wanted to water her wine, but was not allowed to insult the sacred liquid. There was a spirit of great liveliness and conviviality. Madame became paler, her eyes blacker, with the wine she drank, her voice became a little raucous.

“Tonight,” she said, “the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras make their feast of affiliation. The white daughter has entered the tribe of the Hirondelles, swallows that pass from land to land, and build their nests between roof and wall. A new swallow, a new Huron from the tents of the pale-face, from the lodges of the north, from the tribe of the Yenghees.” Madame’s black eyes glared with a kind of wild triumph down the table at Alvina. “Nameless, without having a name, comes the maiden with the red jewels, dark-hearted, with the red beams. Wine from the pale-face shadows, drunken wine for Kishwégin, strange wine for the _braves_ in their nostrils, Vaali, _à vous_.”

Madame lifted her glass.

“Vaali, drink to her—Boire à elle—” She thrust her glass forwards in the air. The young men thrust their glasses up towards Alvina, in a cluster. She could see their mouths all smiling, their teeth white as they cried in their throats: “Vaali! Vaali! Boire à vous.”

Ciccio was near to her. Under the table he laid his hand on her knee. Quickly she put forward her hand to protect herself. He took her hand, and looked at her along the glass as he drank. She saw his throat move as the wine went down it. He put down his glass, still watching her.

“Vaali!” he said, in his throat. Then across the table “Hé, Gigi—Viale! Le Petit Chemin! Comment? Me prends-tu? L’allée—”

There came a great burst of laughter from Louis.

“It is good, it is good!” he cried. “Oh Madame! Viale, it is Italian for the little way, the alley. That is too rich.”

Max went off into a high and ribald laugh.

“L’allée italienne!” he said, and shouted with laughter.

“Alley or avenue, what does it matter,” cried Madame in French, “so long as it is a good journey.”

Here Geoffrey at last saw the joke. With a strange determined flourish he filled his glass, cocking up his elbow.

“A toi, Cic’—et bon voyage!” he said, and then he tilted up his chin and swallowed in great throatfuls.

“Certainly! Certainly!” cried Madame. “To thy good journey, my Ciccio, for thou art not a great traveller—”

“Na, pour _ça_, y’a plus d’une voie,” said Geoffrey.

During this passage in French Alvina sat with very bright eyes looking from one to another, and not understanding. But she knew it was something improper, on her account. Her eyes had a bright, slightly-bewildered look as she turned from one face to another. Ciccio had let go her hand, and was wiping his lips with his fingers. He too was a little self-conscious.

“Assez de cette éternelle voix italienne,” said Madame. “Courage, courage au chemin d’Angleterre.”

“Assez de cette éternelle voix rauque,” said Ciccio, looking round. Madame suddenly pulled herself together.

“They will not have my name. They will call you Allay!” she said to Alvina. “Is it good? Will it do?”

“Quite,” said Alvina.

And she could not understand why Gigi, and then the others after him, went off into a shout of laughter. She kept looking round with bright, puzzled eyes. Her face was slightly flushed and tender looking, she looked naïve, young.

“Then you will become one of the tribe of Natcha-Kee-Tawara, of the name Allaye? Yes?”

“Yes,” said Alvina.

“And obey the strict rules of the tribe. Do you agree?”

“Yes.”

“Then listen.” Madame primmed and preened herself like a black pigeon, and darted glances out of her black eyes.

“We are one tribe, one nation—say it.”

“We are one tribe, one nation,” repeated Alvina.

“Say all,” cried Madame.

“We are one tribe, one nation—” they shouted, with varying accent.

“Good!” said Madame. “And no nation do we know but the nation of the Hirondelles—”

“No nation do we know but the nation of the Hirondelles,” came the ragged chant of strong male voices, resonant and gay with mockery.

“Hurons—Hirondelles, means _swallows_,” said Madame.

“Yes, I know,” said Alvina.

“So! you know! Well, then! We know no nation but the Hirondelles. WE HAVE NO LAW BUT HURON LAW!”

“We have no law but Huron law!” sang the response, in a deep, sardonic chant.

“WE HAVE NO LAWGIVER EXCEPT KISHWÉGIN.”

“We have no lawgiver except Kishwégin,” they sang sonorous.

“WE HAVE NO HOME BUT THE TENT OF KISHWÉGIN.”

“We have no home but the tent of Kishwégin.”

“THERE IS NO GOOD BUT THE GOOD OF NATCHA-KEE-TAWARA.”

“There is no good but the good of Natcha-Kee-Tawara.”

“WE ARE THE HIRONDELLES.”

“We are the Hirondelles.”

“WE ARE KISHWÉGIN.”

“We are Kishwégin.”

“WE ARE MONDAGUA.”

“We are Mondagua—”

“WE ARE ATONQUOIS—”

“We are Atonquois—”

“WE ARE PACOHUILA—”

“We are Pacohuila—”

“WE ARE WALGATCHKA—”

“We are Walgatchka—”

“WE ARE ALLAYE—”

“We are Allaye—”

“La musica! Pacohuila, la musica!” cried Madame, starting to her feet and sounding frenzied.

Ciccio got up quickly and took his mandoline from its case.

“A—A—Ai—Aii—eee—ya—” began Madame, with a long, faint wail. And on the wailing mandoline the music started. She began to dance a slight but intense dance. Then she waved for a partner, and set up a tarantella wail. Louis threw off his coat and sprang to tarantella attention, Ciccio rang out the peculiar tarantella, and Madame and Louis danced in the tight space.

“Brava—Brava!” cried the others, when Madame sank into her place. And they crowded forward to kiss her hand. One after the other, they kissed her fingers, whilst she laid her left hand languidly on the head of one man after another, as she sat slightly panting. Ciccio however did not come up, but sat faintly twanging the mandoline. Nor did Alvina leave her place.

“Pacohuila!” cried Madame, with an imperious gesture. “Allaye! Come—”

Ciccio laid down his mandoline and went to kiss the fingers of Kishwégin. Alvina also went forward. Madame held out her hand. Alvina kissed it. Madame laid her hand on the head of Alvina.

“This is the squaw Allaye, this is the daughter of Kishwégin,” she said, in her Tawara manner.

“And where is the _brave_ of Allaye, where is the arm that upholds the daughter of Kishwégin, which of the Swallows spreads his wings over the gentle head of the new one!”

“Pacohuila!” said Louis.

“Pacohuila! Pacohuila! Pacohuila!” said the others.

“Spread soft wings, spread dark-roofed wings, Pacohuila,” said Kishwégin, and Ciccio, in his shirt-sleeves solemnly spread his arms.

“Stoop, stoop, Allaye, beneath the wings of Pacohuila,” said Kishwégin, faintly pressing Alvina on the shoulder.

Alvina stooped and crouched under the right arm of Pacohuila.

“Has the bird flown home?” chanted Kishwégin, to one of the strains of their music.

“The bird is home—” chanted the men.

“Is the nest warm?” chanted Kishwégin.

“The nest is warm.”

“Does the he-bird stoop—?”

“He stoops.”

“Who takes Allaye?”

“Pacohuila.”

Ciccio gently stooped and raised Alvina to her feet.

“C’est ça!” said Madame, kissing her. “And now, children, unless the Sheffield policeman will knock at our door, we must retire to our wigwams all—”

Ciccio was watching Alvina. Madame made him a secret, imperative gesture that he should accompany the young woman.

“You have your key, Allaye?” she said.

“Did I have a key?” said Alvina.

Madame smiled subtly as she produced a latch-key.

“Kishwégin must open your doors for you all,” she said. Then, with a slight flourish, she presented the key to Ciccio. “I give it to him? Yes?” she added, with her subtle, malicious smile.

Ciccio, smiling slightly, and keeping his head ducked, took the key. Alvina looked brightly, as if bewildered, from one to another.

“Also the light!” said Madame, producing a pocket flash-light, which she triumphantly handed to Ciccio. Alvina watched him. She noticed how he dropped his head forward from his straight, strong shoulders, how beautiful that was, the strong, forward-inclining nape and back of the head. It produced a kind of dazed submission in her, the drugged sense of unknown beauty.

“And so good-night, Allaye—bonne nuit, fille des Tawara.” Madame kissed her, and darted black, unaccountable looks at her.

Each _brave_ also kissed her hand, with a profound salute. Then the men shook hands warmly with Ciccio, murmuring to him.

He did not put on his hat nor his coat, but ran round as he was to the neighbouring house with her, and opened the door. She entered, and he followed, flashing on the light. So she climbed weakly up the dusty, drab stairs, he following. When she came to her door, she turned and looked at him. His face was scarcely visible, it seemed, and yet so strange and beautiful. It was the unknown beauty which almost killed her.

“You aren’t coming?” she quavered.

He gave an odd, half-gay, half-mocking twitch of his thick dark brows, and began to laugh silently. Then he nodded again, laughing at her boldly, carelessly, triumphantly, like the dark Southerner he was. Her instinct was to defend herself. When suddenly she found herself in the dark.

She gasped. And as she gasped, he quite gently put her inside her room, and closed the door, keeping one arm round her all the time. She felt his heavy muscular predominance. So he took her in both arms, powerful, mysterious, horrible in the pitch dark. Yet the sense of the unknown beauty of him weighed her down like some force. If for one moment she could have escaped from that black spell of his beauty, she would have been free. But she could not. He was awful to her, shameless so that she died under his shamelessness, his smiling, progressive shamelessness. Yet she could not see him ugly. If only she could, for one second, have seen him ugly, he would not have killed her and made her his slave as he did. But the spell was on her, of his darkness and unfathomed handsomeness. And he killed her. He simply took her and assassinated her. How she suffered no one can tell. Yet all the time, his lustrous dark beauty, unbearable.

When later she pressed her face on his chest and cried, he held her gently as if she was a child, but took no notice, and she felt in the darkness that he smiled. It was utterly dark, and she knew he smiled, and she began to get hysterical. But he only kissed her, his smiling deepening to a heavy laughter, silent and invisible, but sensible, as he carried her away once more. He intended her to be his slave, she knew. And he seemed to throw her down and suffocate her like a wave. And she could have fought, if only the sense of his dark, rich handsomeness had not numbed her like a venom. So she was suffocated in his passion.

In the morning when it was light he turned and looked at her from under his long black lashes, a long, steady, cruel, faintly-smiling look from his tawny eyes, searching her as if to see whether she were still alive. And she looked back at him, heavy-eyed and half subjected. He smiled slightly at her, rose, and left her. And she turned her face to the wall, feeling beaten. Yet not quite beaten to death. Save for the fatal numbness of her love for him, she could still have escaped him. But she lay inert, as if envenomed. He wanted to make her his slave.

When she went down to the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras for breakfast she found them waiting for her. She was rather frail and tender-looking, with wondering eyes that showed she had been crying.

“Come, daughter of the Tawaras,” said Madame brightly to her. “We have been waiting for you. Good-morning, and all happiness, eh? Look, it is a gift-day for you—”

Madame smilingly led Alvina to her place. Beside her plate was a bunch of violets, a bunch of carnations, a pair of exquisite bead moccasins, and a pair of fine doeskin gloves delicately decorated with feather-work on the cuffs. The slippers were from Kishwégin, the gloves from Mondagua, the carnations from Atonquois, the violets from Walgatchka—all _To the Daughter of the Tawaras, Allaye_, as it said on the little cards.

“The gift of Pacohuila you know,” said Madame, smiling. “The brothers of Pacohuila are your brothers.”

One by one they went to her and each one laid the back of her fingers against his forehead, saying in turn:

“I am your brother Mondagua, Allaye!”

“I am your brother Atonquois, Allaye!”

“I am your brother Walgatchka, Allaye, best brother, you know—” So spoke Geoffrey, looking at her with large, almost solemn eyes of affection. Alvina smiled a little wanly, wondering where she was. It was all so solemn. Was it all mockery, play-acting? She felt bitterly inclined to cry.

Meanwhile Madame came in with the coffee, which she always made herself, and the party sat down to breakfast. Ciccio sat on Alvina’s right, but he seemed to avoid looking at her or speaking to her. All the time he looked across the table, with the half-asserted, knowing look in his eyes, at Gigi: and all the time he addressed himself to Gigi, with the throaty, rich, plangent quality in his voice, that Alvina could not bear, it seemed terrible to her: and he spoke in French: and the two men seemed to be exchanging unspeakable communications. So that Alvina, for all her wistfulness and subjectedness, was at last seriously offended. She rose as soon as possible from table. In her own heart she wanted attention and public recognition from Ciccio—none of which she got. She returned to her own house, to her own room, anxious to tidy everything, not wishing to have her landlady in the room. And she half expected Ciccio to come to speak to her.

As she was busy washing a garment in the bowl, her landlady knocked and entered. She was a rough and rather beery-looking Yorkshire woman, not attractive.

“Oh, yo’n made yer bed then, han’ yer!”

“Yes,” said Alvina. “I’ve done everything.”

“I see yer han. Yo’n bin sharp.”

Alvina did not answer.

“Seems yer doin’ yersen a bit o’ weshin’.”

Still Alvina didn’t answer.

“Yo’ can ’ing it i’ th’ back yard.”

“I think it’ll dry here,” said Alvina.

“Isna much dryin’ up here. Send us howd when ’t’s ready. Yo’ll ’appen be wantin’ it. I can dry it off for yer i’ t’ kitchen. You don’t take a drop o’ nothink, do yer?”

“No,” said Alvina. “I don’t like it.”

“Summat a bit stronger ’n ’t bottle, my sakes alive! Well, yo mun ha’e yer fling, like t’ rest. But coom na, which on ’em is it? I catched sight on ’im goin’ out, but I didna ma’e out then which on ’em it wor. He—eh, it’s a pity you don’t take a drop of nothink, it’s a world’s pity. Is it the fairest on ’em, the tallest.”

“No,” said Alvina. “The darkest one.”

“Oh ay! Well, ’s a strappin’ anuff feller, for them as goes that road. I thought Madame was partikler. I s’ll charge yer a bit more, yer know. I s’ll ’ave to make a bit out of it. _I’m_ partikler as a rule. I don’t like ’em comin’ in an’ goin’ out, you know. Things get said. You look so quiet, you do. Come now, it’s worth a hextra quart to me, else I shan’t have it, I shan’t. You can’t make as free as all that with the house, you know, be it what it may—”

She stood red-faced and dour in the doorway. Alvina quietly gave her half-a-sovereign.

“Nay, lass,” said the woman, “if you share niver a drop o’ th’ lashins, you mun split it. Five shillin’s is oceans, ma wench. I’m not down on you—not me. On’y we’ve got to keep up appearances a bit, you know. Dash my rags, it’s a caution!”

“I haven’t got five shillings—” said Alvina.

“Yer’ve not? All right, gi’e ’s ha ’efcrown today, an’ t’other termorrer. It’ll keep, it’ll keep. God bless you for a good wench. A’ open ’eart ’s worth all your bum-righteousness. It is for me. An’ a sight more. You’re all right, ma wench, you’re all right—”

And the rather bleary woman went nodding away.

Alvina ought to have minded. But she didn’t. She even laughed into her ricketty mirror. At the back of her thoughts, all she minded was that Ciccio did not pay her some attention. She really expected him now to come to speak to her. If she could have imagined how far he was from any such intention.

So she loitered unwillingly at her window high over the grey, hard, cobbled street, and saw her landlady hastening along the black asphalt pavement, her dirty apron thrown discreetly over what was most obviously a quart jug. She followed the squat, intent figure with her eye, to the public-house at the corner. And then she saw Ciccio humped over his yellow bicycle, going for a steep and perilous ride with Gigi.

Still she lingered in her sordid room. She could feel Madame was expecting her. But she felt inert, weak, incommunicative. Only a real fear of offending Madame drove her down at last.

Max opened the door to let her in.

“Ah!” he said. “You’ve come. We were wondering about you.”

“Thank you,” she said, as she passed into the dirty hall where still two bicycles stood.

“Madame is in the kitchen,” he said.

Alvina found Madame trussed in a large white apron, busy rubbing a yellow-fleshed hen with lemon, previous to boiling.

“Ah!” said Madame. “So there you are! I have been out and done my shopping, and already begun to prepare the dinner. Yes, you may help me. Can you wash leeks? Yes? Every grain of sand? Shall I trust you then—?”

Madame usually had a kitchen to herself, in the morning. She either ousted her landlady, or used her as second cook. For Madame was a gourmet, if not gourmand. If she inclined towards self-indulgence in any direction, it was in the direction of food. She _loved_ a good table. And hence the Tawaras saved less money than they might. She was an exacting, tormenting, bullying cook. Alvina, who knew well enough how to prepare a simple dinner, was offended by Madame’s exactions. Madame turning back the green leaves of a leek, and hunting a speck of earth down into the white, like a flea in a bed, was too much for Alvina.

“I’m afraid I shall never be particular enough,” she said. “Can’t I do anything else for you?”

“For me? I need nothing to be done for me. But for the young men—yes, I will show you in one minute—”

And she took Alvina upstairs to her room, and gave her a pair of the thin leather trousers fringed with hair, belonging to one of the _braves_. A seam had ripped. Madame gave Alvina a fine awl and some waxed thread.

“The leather is not good in these things of Gigi’s,” she said. “It is badly prepared. See, like this.” And she showed Alvina another place where the garment was repaired. “Keep on your apron. At the week-end you must fetch more clothes, not spoil this beautiful gown of voile. Where have you left your diamonds? What? In your room? Are they locked? Oh my dear—!” Madame turned pale and darted looks of fire at Alvina. “If they are stolen—!” she cried. “Oh! I have become quite weak, hearing you!” She panted and shook her head. “If they are not stolen, you have the Holy Saints alone to be thankful for keeping them. But run, run!”

And Madame really stamped her foot.

“Bring me everything you’ve got—every _thing_ that is valuable. I shall lock it up. How _can_ you—”

Alvina was hustled off to her lodging. Fortunately nothing was gone. She brought all to Madame, and Madame fingered the treasures lovingly.

“Now what you want you must ask me for,” she said.

With what close curiosity Madame examined the ruby brooch.

“You can have that if you like, Madame,” said Alvina.

“You mean—what?”

“I will give you that brooch if you like to take it—”

“Give me this—!” cried Madame, and a flash went over her face. Then she changed into a sort of wheedling. “No—no. I shan’t take it! I shan’t take it. You don’t want to give away such a thing.”

“I don’t mind,” said Alvina. “Do take it if you like it.”

“Oh no! Oh no! I can’t take it. A beautiful thing it is, really. It would be worth over a thousand francs, because I believe it is quite genuine.”

“I’m sure it’s genuine,” said Alvina. “Do have it since you like it.”

“Oh, I can’t! I can’t!—”

“Yes do—”

“The beautiful red stones!—antique gems, antique gems—! And do you really give it to me?”

“Yes, I should like to.”

“You are a girl with a noble heart—” Madame threw her arms round Alvina’s neck, and kissed her. Alvina felt very cool about it. Madame locked up the jewels quickly, after one last look.

“My fowl,” she said, “which must not boil too fast.”

At length Alvina was called down to dinner. The young men were at table, talking as young men do, not very interestingly. After the meal, Ciccio sat and twanged his mandoline, making its crying noise vibrate through the house.

“I shall go and look at the town,” said Alvina.

“And who shall go with you?” asked Madame.

“I will go alone,” said Alvina, “unless you will come, Madame.”

“Alas no, I can’t. I can’t come. Will you really go alone?”

“Yes, I want to go to the women’s shops,” said Alvina.

“You want to! All right then! And you will come home at tea-time, yes?”

As soon as Alvina had gone out Ciccio put away his mandoline and lit a cigarette. Then after a while he hailed Geoffrey, and the two young men sallied forth. Alvina, emerging from a draper’s shop in Rotherhampton Broadway, found them loitering on the pavement outside. And they strolled along with her. So she went into a shop that sold ladies’ underwear, leaving them on the pavement. She stayed as long as she could. But there they were when she came out. They had endless lounging patience.

“I thought you would be gone on,” she said.

“No hurry,” said Ciccio, and he took away her parcels from her, as if he had a right. She wished he wouldn’t tilt the flap of his black hat over one eye, and she wished there wasn’t quite so much waist-line in the cut of his coat, and that he didn’t smoke cigarettes against the end of his nose in the street. But wishing wouldn’t alter him. He strayed alongside as if he half belonged, and half didn’t—most irritating.

She wasted as much time as possible in the shops, then they took the tram home again. Ciccio paid the three fares, laying his hand restrainingly on Gigi’s hand, when Gigi’s hand sought pence in his trouser pocket, and throwing his arm over his friend’s shoulder, in affectionate but vulgar triumph, when the fares were paid. Alvina was on her high horse.

They tried to talk to her, they tried to ingratiate themselves—but she wasn’t having any. She talked with icy pleasantness. And so the tea-time passed, and the time after tea. The performance went rather mechanically, at the theatre, and the supper at home, with bottled beer and boiled ham, was a conventionally cheerful affair. Even Madame was a little afraid of Alvina this evening.

“I am tired, I shall go early to my room,” said Alvina.

“Yes, I think we are all tired,” said Madame.

“Why is it?” said Max metaphysically—“why is it that two merry evenings never follow one behind the other.”

“Max, beer makes thee a _farceur_ of a fine quality,” said Madame. Alvina rose.

“Please don’t get up,” she said to the others. “I have my key and can see quite well,” she said. “Good-night all.”

They rose and bowed their good-nights. But Ciccio, with an obstinate and ugly little smile on his face, followed her.

“Please don’t come,” she said, turning at the street door. But obstinately he lounged into the street with her. He followed her to her door.

“Did you bring the flash-light?” she said. “The stair is so dark.”

He looked at her, and turned as if to get the light. Quickly she opened the house-door and slipped inside, shutting it sharply in his face. He stood for some moments looking at the door, and an ugly little look mounted his straight nose. He too turned indoors.

Alvina hurried to bed and slept well. And the next day the same, she was all icy pleasantness. The Natcha-Kee-Tawaras were a little bit put out by her. She was a spoke in their wheel, a scotch to their facility. She made them irritable. And that evening—it was Friday—Ciccio did not rise to accompany her to her house. And she knew they were relieved that she had gone.

That did not please her. The next day, which was Saturday, the last and greatest day of the week, she found herself again somewhat of an outsider in the troupe. The tribe had assembled in its old unison. She was the intruder, the interloper. And Ciccio never looked at her, only showed her the half-averted side of his cheek, on which was a slightly jeering, ugly look.

“Will you go to Woodhouse tomorrow?” Madame asked her, rather coolly. They none of them called her Allaye any more.

“I’d better fetch some things, hadn’t I?” said Alvina.

“Certainly, if you think you will stay with us.”

This was a nasty slap in the face for her. But:

“I want to,” she said.

“Yes! Then you will go to Woodhouse tomorrow, and come to Mansfield on Monday morning? Like that shall it be? You will stay one night at Woodhouse?”

Through Alvina’s mind flitted the rapid thought—“They want an evening without me.” Her pride mounted obstinately. She very nearly said—“I may stay in Woodhouse altogether.” But she held her tongue.

After all, they were very common people. They ought to be glad to have her. Look how Madame snapped up that brooch! And look what an uncouth lout Ciccio was! After all, she was demeaning herself shamefully staying with them in common, sordid lodgings. After all, she had been bred up differently from that. They had horribly low standards—such low standards—not only of morality, but of life altogether. Really, she had come down in the world, conforming to such standards of life. She evoked the images of her mother and Miss Frost: ladies, and noble women both. Whatever could she be thinking of herself!

However, there was time for her to retrace her steps. She had not given herself away. Except to Ciccio. And her heart burned when she thought of him, partly with anger and mortification, partly, alas, with undeniable and unsatisfied love. Let her bridle as she might, her heart burned, and she wanted to look at him, she wanted him to notice her. And instinct told her that he might ignore her for ever. She went to her room an unhappy woman, and wept and fretted till morning, chafing between humiliation and yearning.