The Lost Girl Part 13

Alvina piloted the man through the long, dark, enc.u.mbered way of the shop. 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 the closed door. Then, lifting his lip, he turned away.

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

"Extremely intelligent," said James Houghton, s.h.i.+fting 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 saw him sauntering down the street in all his leisure, a sort of anger possessed her. On Sunday, she slipped down from the choir into the Chapel, and out through the main entrance, whilst he awaited her at the small exit. And by good luck, when he called one evening in the week, she was out. She returned down the yard. And there, through the uncurtained window, she saw him sitting awaiting her. Without a thought, she turned on her heel and fled away. She did not come in till he had gone.

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

"Yes," laughed Alvina. "I came down the yard and saw him. So I went back 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 Sat.u.r.day. Alvina had inherited Miss Frost's task of attending to the Chapel flowers once a quarter. She had been round the gardens of her friends, and gathered the scarlet and hot yellow and purple flowers of August, asters, red stocks, tall j.a.panese sunflowers, coreopsis, geraniums. With these in her basket she 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, pleasant building--she heard hammering from the organ-loft, and saw the flicker of a candle. Some workman busy before Sunday. She shut the baize 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 the side windows, the big stained-gla.s.s window at the end was deep and full of glowing colour, in which the yellows and reds were richest.

Above in the organ-loft the hammering continued. She arranged her flowers in many vases, till the communion table was like the window, a tangle of strong yellow, and crimson, and purple, and bronze-green. She tried to keep the effect light and kaleidoscopic, an interplay of tossed pieces of strong, hot colour, vibrating and lightly 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 the organ-loft, followed by a cursing.

"Are you hurt?" called Alvina, looking up into s.p.a.ce. The candle had disappeared.

But there was no reply. Feeling curious, she went out of the Chapel to the stairs in the side porch, and ran up to the organ. She went round the side--and there she saw a man in his s.h.i.+rt-sleeves sitting crouched in the obscurity on the floor between the organ and the wall of the back, while a collapsed pair of steps lay between her and him. It was too dark to see who it was.

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

Alvina advanced towards him, picking her way over the steps. He was sitting 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 were savage with anger. Her face was near his.

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

"Let me see," she said.

He removed his hands from clasping his s.h.i.+n, some distance above the ankle. She put her fingers over the bone, over his stocking, to feel if there was any fracture. Immediately her fingers were wet with blood. Then he did a curious thing. With both his hands he pressed her 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 her hand over his broken s.h.i.+n, completely oblivious, as some people are when they have had a shock and a hurt, intense on one point of consciousness only, and for the rest unconscious.

Then he began to come to himself. The pain modified itself. He could not bear the sudden acute hurt to his s.h.i.+n. That was one of his sensitive, unbearable parts.

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

Without a thought, he pulled his trouser-leg higher and rolled down his 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 a little ledge of the organ. So she brought him a light, whilst he examined his broken s.h.i.+n. The blood was flowing, but not so much. It was a nasty cut bruise, swelling and looking very painful. He sat looking at it absorbedly, bent over it in the candle-light.

"It's not so very bad, when the pain goes off," she said, noticing the black hairs of his s.h.i.+n. "We'd better tie it up. Have you got a handkerchief?"

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

She looked round for his jacket. He annoyed her a little, by being completely oblivious of her. She got his handkerchief and wiped her fingers on it. Then of her own kerchief she made a pad for the wound.

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

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

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

She looked at the wound, and wiped it a little. Then she folded the pad of her own handkerchief, and laid it over the hurt. And again he did the same thing, he took her hand as if it were a plaster, and applied it to his wound, pressing it cautiously but firmly down. She was 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 firm compression he imposed on her. It was as if the pressure on her hand pressed her into oblivion.

"Tie it up," he said briskly.

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

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