The Lost Girl · Chapter 9 (5/6)

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 flowerpots, to stick in the porkpie, 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 spellbound. 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 paleface, 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 paleface 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 naive, 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 mandolin from its case.

“A⁠—A⁠—Ai⁠—Aii⁠—eee⁠—ya⁠—” began Madame, with a long, faint wail. And on the wailing mandolin 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 mandolin. Nor did Alvina leave her place.

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

Ciccio laid down his mandolin 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 shirtsleeves 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 latchkey.

“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 flashlight, 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, playacting? 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.