The Lost Girl · Chapter 10 (1/5)

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The Fall of Manchester House

Alvina rose chastened and wistful. As she was doing her hair, she heard the plaintive nasal sound of Ciccio’s mandolin. She looked down the mixed vista of backyards and little gardens, and was able to catch sight of a portion of Ciccio, who was sitting on a box in the blue-brick yard of his house, bareheaded and in his shirtsleeves, twitching away at the wailing mandolin. It was not a warm morning, but there was a streak of sunshine. Alvina had noticed that Ciccio did not seem to feel the cold, unless it were a wind or a driving rain. He was playing the wildly-yearning Neapolitan songs, of which Alvina knew nothing. But, although she only saw a section of him, the glimpse of his head was enough to rouse in her that overwhelming fascination, which came and went in spells. His remoteness, his southernness, something velvety and dark. So easily she might miss him altogether! Within a hair’s-breadth she had let him disappear.

She hurried down. Geoffrey opened the door to her. She smiled at him in a quick, luminous smile, a magic change in her.

“I could hear Ciccio playing,” she said.

Geoffrey spread his rather thick lips in a smile, and jerked his head in the direction of the back door, with a deep, intimate look into Alvina’s eyes, as if to say his friend was lovesick.

“Shall I go through?” said Alvina.

Geoffrey laid his large hand on her shoulder for a moment, looked into her eyes, and nodded. He was a broad-shouldered fellow, with a rather flat, handsome face, well-coloured, and with the look of the Alpine ox about him, slow, eternal, even a little mysterious. Alvina was startled by the deep, mysterious look in his dark-fringed ox-eyes. The odd arch of his eyebrows made him suddenly seem not quite human to her. She smiled to him again, startled. But he only inclined his head, and with his heavy hand on her shoulder gently impelled her towards Ciccio.

When she came out at the back she smiled straight into Ciccio’s face, with her sudden, luminous smile. His hand on the mandolin trembled into silence. He sat looking at her with an instant reestablishment of knowledge. And yet she shrank from the long, inscrutable gaze of his black-set, tawny eyes. She resented him a little. And yet she went forward to him and stood so that her dress touched him. And still he gazed up at her, with the heavy, unspeaking look, that seemed to bear her down: he seemed like some creature that was watching her for his purposes. She looked aside at the black garden, which had a wiry gooseberry bush.

“You will come with me to Woodhouse?” she said.

He did not answer till she turned to him again. Then, as she met his eyes,

“To Woodhouse?” he said, watching her, to fix her.

“Yes,” she said, a little pale at the lips.

And she saw his eternal smile of triumph slowly growing round his mouth. She wanted to cover his mouth with her hand. She preferred his tawny eyes with their black brows and lashes. His eyes watched her as a cat watches a bird, but without the white gleam of ferocity. In his eyes was a deep, deep sun-warmth, something fathomless, deepening black and abysmal, but somehow sweet to her.

“Will you?” she repeated.

But his eyes had already begun to glimmer their consent. He turned aside his face, as if unwilling to give a straight answer.

“Yes,” he said.

“Play something to me,” she cried.

He lifted his face to her, and shook his head slightly.

“Yes do,” she said, looking down on him.

And he bent his head to the mandolin, and suddenly began to sing a Neapolitan song, in a faint, compressed head-voice, looking up at her again as his lips moved, looking straight into her face with a curious mocking caress as the muted voix blanche came through his lips at her, amid the louder quavering of the mandolin. The sound penetrated her like a thread of fire, hurting, but delicious, the high thread of his voice. She could see the Adam’s apple move in his throat, his brows tilted as he looked along his lashes at her all the time. Here was the strange sphinx singing again, and herself between its paws! She seemed almost to melt into his power.

Madame intervened to save her.

“What, serenade before breakfast! You have strong stomachs, I say. Eggs and ham are more the question, hein? Come, you smell them, don’t you?”

A flicker of contempt and derision went over Ciccio’s face as he broke off and looked aside.

“I prefer the serenade,” said Alvina. “I’ve had ham and eggs before.”

“You do, hein? Well⁠—always, you won’t. And now you must eat the ham and eggs, however. Yes? Isn’t it so?”

Ciccio rose to his feet, and looked at Alvina: as he would have looked at Gigi, had Gigi been there. His eyes said unspeakable things about Madame. Alvina flashed a laugh, suddenly. And a good-humoured, half-mocking smile came over his face too.

They turned to follow Madame into the house. And as Alvina went before him, she felt his fingers stroke the nape of her neck, and pass in a soft touch right down her back. She started as if some unseen creature had stroked her with its paw, and she glanced swiftly round, to see the face of Ciccio mischievous behind her shoulder.

“Now I think,” said Madame, “that today we all take the same train. We go by the Great Central as far as the junction, together. Then you, Allaye, go on to Knarborough, and we leave you until tomorrow. And now there is not much time.”

“I am going to Woodhouse,” said Ciccio in French.

“You also! By the train, or the bicycle?”

“Train,” said Ciccio.

“Waste so much money?”

Ciccio raised his shoulders slightly.

When breakfast was over, and Alvina had gone to her room, Geoffrey went out into the back yard, where the bicycles stood.

“Cic’,” he said. “I should like to go with thee to Woodhouse. Come on bicycle with me.”

Ciccio shook his head.

“I’m going in train with her,” he said.

Geoffrey darkened with his heavy anger.

“I would like to see how it is, there, chez elle,” he said.

“Ask her,” said Ciccio.

Geoffrey watched him suddenly.

“Thou forsakest me,” he said. “I would like to see it, there.”

“Ask her,” repeated Ciccio. “Then come on bicycle.”

“You’re content to leave me,” muttered Geoffrey.

Ciccio touched his friend on his broad cheek, and smiled at him with affection.

“I don’t leave thee, Gigi. I asked thy advice. You said, Go. But come. Go and ask her, and then come. Come on bicycle, eh? Ask her! Go on! Go and ask her.”

Alvina was surprised to hear a tap at her door, and Gigi’s voice, in his strong foreign accent:

“Mees Houghton, I carry your bag.”

She opened her door in surprise. She was all ready.

“There it is,” she said, smiling at him.

But he confronted her like a powerful ox, full of dangerous force. Her smile had reassured him.

“Na, Allaye,” he said, “tell me something.”

“What?” laughed Alvina.

“Can I come to Woodhouse?”

“When?”

“Today. Can I come on bicycle, to tea, eh? At your house with you and Ciccio? Eh?”

He was smiling with a thick, doubtful, half sullen smile.

“Do!” said Alvina.

He looked at her with his large, dark-blue eyes.

“Really, eh?” he said, holding out his large hand.

She shook hands with him warmly.

“Yes, really!” she said. “I wish you would.”

“Good,” he said, a broad smile on his thick mouth. And all the time he watched her curiously, from his large eyes.

“Ciccio⁠—a good chap, eh?” he said.

“Is he?” laughed Alvina.

“Ha‑a⁠—!” Gigi shook his head solemnly. “The best!” He made such solemn eyes, Alvina laughed. He laughed too, and picked up her bag as if it were a bubble.

“Na Cic’⁠—” he said, as he saw Ciccio in the street. “Sommes d’accord.”

“Ben!” said Ciccio, holding out his hand for the bag. “Donne.”

“Ne-ne,” said Gigi, shrugging.

Alvina found herself on the new and busy station that Sunday morning, one of the little theatrical company. It was an odd experience. They were so obviously a theatrical company⁠—people apart from the world. Madame was darting her black eyes here and there, behind her spotted veil, and standing with the ostensible self-possession of her profession. Max was circling round with large strides, round a big black box on which the red words “Natcha-Kee-Tawara” showed mystic, and round the small bunch of stage fittings at the end of the platform. Louis was waiting to get the tickets, Gigi and Ciccio were bringing up the bicycles. They were a whole train of departure in themselves, busy, bustling, cheerful⁠—and curiously apart, vagrants.

Alvina strolled away towards the half-open bookstall. Geoffrey was standing monumental between her and the company. She returned to him.

“What time shall we expect you?” she said.

He smiled at her in his broad, friendly fashion.

“Expect me to be there? Why⁠—” he rolled his eyes and proceeded to calculate. “At four o’clock.”

“Just about the time when we get there,” she said.

He looked at her sagely, and nodded.

They were a good-humoured company in the railway carriage. The men smoked cigarettes and tapped off the ash on the heels of their boots, Madame watched every traveller with professional curiosity. Max scrutinized the newspaper, Lloyds, and pointed out items to Louis, who read them over Max’s shoulder, Ciccio suddenly smacked Geoffrey on the thigh, and looked laughing into his face. So till they arrived at the junction. And then there was a kissing and a taking of farewells, as if the company were separating forever. Louis darted into the refreshment bar and returned with little pies and oranges, which he deposited in the carriage, Madame presented Alvina with a packet of chocolate. And it was “Goodbye, goodbye, Allaye! Goodbye, Ciccio! Bon voyage. Have a good time, both.”

So Alvina sped on in the fast train to Knarborough with Ciccio.

“I do like them all,” she said.

He opened his mouth slightly and lifted his head up and down. She saw in the movement how affectionate he was, and in his own way, how emotional. He loved them all. She put her hand to his. He gave her hand one sudden squeeze, of physical understanding, then left it as if nothing had happened. There were other people in the carriage with them. She could not help feeling how sudden and lovely that moment’s grasp of his hand was: so warm, so whole.

And thus they watched the Sunday morning landscape slip by, as they ran into Knarborough. They went out to a little restaurant to eat. It was one o’clock.

“Isn’t it strange, that we are travelling together like this?” she said, as she sat opposite him.

He smiled, looking into her eyes.

“You think it’s strange?” he said, showing his teeth slightly.

“Don’t you?” she cried.

He gave a slight, laconic laugh.

“And I can hardly bear it that I love you so much,” she said, quavering, across the potatoes.

He glanced furtively round, to see if anyone was listening, if anyone might hear. He would have hated it. But no one was near. Beneath the tiny table, he took her two knees between his knees, and pressed them with a slow, immensely powerful pressure. Helplessly she put her hand across the table to him. He covered it for one moment with his hand, then ignored it. But her knees were still between the powerful, living vice of his knees.

“Eat!” he said to her, smiling, motioning to her plate. And he relaxed her.

They decided to go out to Woodhouse on the tramcar, a long hour’s ride. Sitting on the top of the covered car, in the atmosphere of strong tobacco smoke, he seemed self-conscious, withdrawn into his own cover, so obviously a dark-skinned foreigner. And Alvina, as she sat beside him, was reminded of the woman with the negro husband, down in Lumley. She understood the woman’s reserve. She herself felt, in the same way, something of an outcast, because of the man at her side. An outcast! And glad to be an outcast. She clung to Ciccio’s dark, despised foreign nature. She loved it, she worshipped it, she defied all the other world. Dark, he sat beside her, drawn in to himself, overcast by his presumed inferiority among these northern industrial people. And she was with him, on his side, outside the pale of her own people.

There were already acquaintances on the tram. She nodded in answer to their salutation, but so obviously from a distance, that they kept turning round to eye her and Ciccio. But they left her alone. The breach between her and them was established forever⁠—and it was her will which established it.

So up and down the weary hills of the hilly, industrial countryside, till at last they drew near to Woodhouse. They passed the ruins of Throttle-Ha’penny, and Alvina glanced at it indifferent. They ran along the Knarborough Road. A fair number of Woodhouse young people were strolling along the pavements in their Sunday clothes. She knew them all. She knew Lizzie Bates’s fox furs, and Fanny Clough’s lilac costume, and Mrs. Smitham’s winged hat. She knew them all. And almost inevitably the old Woodhouse feeling began to steal over her, she was glad they could not see her, she was a little ashamed of Ciccio. She wished, for the moment, Ciccio were not there. And as the time came to get down, she looked anxiously back and forth to see at which halt she had better descend⁠—where fewer people would notice her. But then she threw her scruples to the wind, and descended into the staring, Sunday afternoon street, attended by Ciccio, who carried her bag. She knew she was a marked figure.

They slipped round to Manchester House. Miss Pinnegar expected Alvina, but by the train, which came later. So she had to be knocked up, for she was lying down. She opened the door looking a little patched in her cheeks, because of her curious colouring, and a little forlorn, and a little dumpy, and a little irritable.

“I didn’t know there’d be two of you,” was her greeting.

“Didn’t you,” said Alvina, kissing her. “Ciccio came to carry my bag.”

“Oh,” said Miss Pinnegar. “How do you do?” and she thrust out her hand to him. He shook it loosely.

“I had your wire,” said Miss Pinnegar. “You said the train. Mrs. Rollings is coming in at four again⁠—”

“Oh all right⁠—” said Alvina.

The house was silent and afternoon-like. Ciccio took off his coat and sat down in Mr. Houghton’s chair. Alvina told him to smoke. He kept silent and reserved. Miss Pinnegar, a poor, patch-cheeked, rather round-backed figure with grey-brown fringe, stood as if she did not quite know what to say or do.

She followed Alvina upstairs to her room.

“I can’t think why you bring him here,” snapped Miss Pinnegar. “I don’t know what you’re thinking about. The whole place is talking already.”

“I don’t care,” said Alvina. “I like him.”

“Oh⁠—for shame!” cried Miss Pinnegar, lifting her hand with Miss Frost’s helpless, involuntary movement. “What do you think of yourself? And your father a month dead.”

“It doesn’t matter. Father is dead. And I’m sure the dead don’t mind.”

“I never knew such things as you say.”

“Why? I mean them.”

Miss Pinnegar stood blank and helpless.

“You’re not asking him to stay the night,” she blurted.

“Yes. And I’m going back with him to Madame tomorrow. You know I’m part of the company now, as pianist.”

“And are you going to marry him?”

“I don’t know.”

“How can you say you don’t know! Why, it’s awful. You make me feel I shall go out of my mind.”

“But I don’t know,” said Alvina.

“It’s incredible! Simply incredible! I believe you’re out of your senses. I used to think sometimes there was something wrong with your mother. And that’s what it is with you. You’re not quite right in your mind. You need to be looked after.”

“Do I, Miss Pinnegar! Ah, well, don’t you trouble to look after me, will you?”

“No one will if I don’t.”

“I hope no one will.”

There was a pause.

“I’m ashamed to live another day in Woodhouse,” said Miss Pinnegar.

“I’m leaving it forever,” said Alvina.

“I should think so,” said Miss Pinnegar.

Suddenly she sank into a chair, and burst into tears, wailing:

“Your poor father! Your poor father!”

“I’m sure the dead are all right. Why must you pity him?”