The Lost Girl Part 65

"And it will be necessary to make an account of everything in the house. So if you and Miss Pinnegar will put your possessions strictly apart--But I shall see Miss Pinnegar during the course of the day. Would you ask her to call about seven--I think she is free then--"

Alvina sat trembling.

"I shall pack my things today," she said.

"Of course," said the lawyer, "any little things to which you may be attached the claimants would no doubt wish you to regard as your own. For anything of greater value--your piano, for example--I should 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 is performing this week? Far away?"

"Mansfield!"

"Oh! Well then, in case I particularly wished to see you, you could come over?"

"If necessary," said Alvina. "But I don't want to come to Woodhouse unless it _is_ necessary. Can't we write?"

"Yes--certainly! Certainly!--most things! Certainly! And now--"

He went into certain technical matters, and Alvina signed some doc.u.ments. At last she was free to go. She had been almost an hour in the room.

"Well, good-morning, Miss Houghton. You will hear from me, and I from 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 knocked her down. She felt she had had a blow.

At the lawyer's gate she stood a minute. There, across a little hollow, rose the cemetery hill. There were her graves: her mother's, Miss Frost's, her father's. Looking, she made out the white cross at Miss Frost's grave, the grey stone at her parents'. Then she turned slowly, 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: and least of all, Ciccio. She felt strange in Woodhouse, almost as if the ground had risen from under her feet and hit her over the mouth. The fact that Manchester House and its very furniture was under seal to be sold on behalf of her father's creditors made her feel as if all her Woodhouse life had suddenly gone smash. She loathed the thought of Manchester House. She loathed staying another minute in it.

And yet she did not want to go to the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras either. The church clock above her clanged eleven. She ought to take the twelve-forty train to Mansfield. Yet instead of going home she turned off down the alley towards the fields and the brook.

How many times had she gone that road! How many times had she seen Miss Frost bravely striding home that way, from her music-pupils.

How many years had she noticed a particular wild cherry-tree come into blossom, a particular bit of black-thorn scatter its whiteness in among the pleached twigs of a hawthorn hedge. How often, how many springs had Miss Frost come home with a bit of this black-thorn in her hand!

Alvina did _not_ want to go to Mansfield that afternoon. She felt insulted. She knew she would be much cheaper in Madame's eyes. She knew her own position with the troupe would be humiliating. It would be openly a little humiliating. But it would be much more maddeningly humiliating to stay in Woodhouse and experience the full flavour of Woodhouse's calculated benevolence. She hardly knew which was worse: the cool look of insolent half-contempt, half-satisfaction with which Madame would receive the news of her financial downfall, or the officious patronage which she would meet from the Woodhouse magnates.

She knew exactly how Madame's black eyes would s.h.i.+ne, how her mouth would curl with a sneering, slightly triumphant smile, as she heard the news. And she could hear the bullying tone in which Henry Wagstaff would dictate the Woodhouse benevolence to her. She wanted to go away from them all--from them all--for ever.

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.