The Lost Girl Part 66

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," p.r.o.nounced 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 pure-bred 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 s.h.i.+llings a letter, you remember."

"Well, we'll just put the name and the date. How much will that be?

James Houghton. Born 17th January--"