The Lost Girl · Chapter 11 (1/5)

XI

Honourable Engagement

For days, after joining the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras, Alvina was very quiet, subdued, and rather remote, sensible of her humiliating position as a hanger-on. They none of them took much notice of her. They drifted on, rather disjointedly. The cordiality, the joie de vivre did not revive. Madame was a little irritable, and very exacting, and inclined to be spiteful. Ciccio went his way with Geoffrey.

In the second week, Madame found out that a man had been surreptitiously inquiring about them at their lodgings, from the landlady and the landlady’s blowsy daughter. It must have been a detective⁠—some shoddy detective. Madame waited. Then she sent Max over to Mansfield, on some fictitious errand. Yes, the lousy-looking dogs of detectives had been there too, making the most minute enquiries as to the behaviour of the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras, what they did, how their sleeping was arranged, how Madame addressed the men, what attitude the men took towards Alvina.

Madame waited again. And again, when they moved to Doncaster, the same two mongrel-looking fellows were lurking in the street, and plying the inmates of their lodging-house with questions. All the Natchas caught sight of the men. And Madame cleverly wormed out of the righteous and respectable landlady what the men had asked. Once more it was about the sleeping accommodation⁠—whether the landlady heard anything in the night⁠—whether she noticed anything in the bedrooms, in the beds.

No doubt about it, the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras were under suspicion. They were being followed, and watched. What for? Madame made a shrewd guess. “They want to say we are immoral foreigners,” she said.

“But what have our personal morals got to do with them?” said Max angrily.

“Yes⁠—but the English! They are so pure,” said Madame.

“You know,” said Louis, “somebody must have put them up to it⁠—”

“Perhaps,” said Madame, “somebody on account of Allaye.”

Alvina went white.

“Yes,” said Geoffrey. “White Slave Traffic! Mr. May said it.”

Madame slowly nodded.

“Mr. May!” she said. “Mr. May! It is he. He knows all about morals⁠—and immorals. Yes, I know. Yes⁠—yes⁠—yes! He suspects all our immoral doings, mes braves.”

“But there aren’t any, except mine,” cried Alvina, pale to the lips.

“You! You! There you are!” Madame smiled archly, and rather mockingly.

“What are we to do?” said Max, pale on the cheekbones.

“Curse them! Curse them!” Louis was muttering, in his rolling accent.

“Wait,” said Madame. “Wait. They will not do anything to us. You are only dirty foreigners, mes braves. At the most they will ask us only to leave their pure country.”

“We don’t interfere with none of them,” cried Max.

“Curse them,” muttered Louis.

“Never mind, mon cher. You are in a pure country. Let us wait.”

“If you think it’s me,” said Alvina, “I can go away.”

“Oh, my dear, you are only the excuse,” said Madame, smiling indulgently at her. “Let us wait, and see.”

She took it smilingly. But her cheeks were white as paper, and her eyes black as drops of ink, with anger.

“Wait and see!” she chanted ironically. “Wait and see! If we must leave the dear country⁠—then adieu!” And she gravely bowed to an imaginary England.

“I feel it’s my fault. I feel I ought to go away,” cried Alvina, who was terribly distressed, seeing Madame’s glitter and pallor, and the black brows of the men. Never had Ciccio’s brow looked so ominously black. And Alvina felt it was all her fault. Never had she experienced such a horrible feeling: as if something repulsive were creeping on her from behind. Every minute of these weeks was a horror to her: the sense of the low-down dogs of detectives hanging round, sliding behind them, trying to get hold of some clear proof of immorality on their part. And then⁠—the unknown vengeance of the authorities. All the repulsive secrecy, and all the absolute power of the police authorities. The sense of a great malevolent power which had them all the time in its grip, and was watching, feeling, waiting to strike the morbid blow: the sense of the utter helplessness of individuals who were not even accused, only watched and enmeshed! the feeling that they, the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras, herself included, must be monsters of hideous vice, to have provoked all this: and yet the sane knowledge that they, none of them, were monsters of vice; this was quite killing. The sight of a policeman would send up Alvina’s heart in a flame of fear, agony; yet she knew she had nothing legally to be afraid of. Every knock at the door was horrible.

She simply could not understand it. Yet there it was: they were watched, followed. Of that there was no question. And all she could imagine was that the troupe was secretly accused of White Slave Traffic by somebody in Woodhouse. Probably Mr. May had gone the round of the benevolent magnates of Woodhouse, concerning himself with her virtue, and currying favour with his concern. Of this she became convinced, that it was concern for her virtue which had started the whole business: and that the first instigator was Mr. May, who had got round some vulgar magistrate or County Councillor.

Madame did not consider Alvina’s view very seriously. She thought it was some personal malevolence against the Tawaras themselves, probably put up by some other professionals, with whom Madame was not popular.

Be that as it may, for some weeks they went about in the shadow of this repulsive finger which was following after them, to touch them and destroy them with the black smear of shame. The men were silent and inclined to be sulky. They seemed to hold together. They seemed to be united into a strong, foursquare silence and tension. They kept to themselves⁠—and Alvina kept to herself⁠—and Madame kept to herself. So they went about.

And slowly the cloud melted. It never broke. Alvina felt that the very force of the sullen, silent fearlessness and fury in the Tawaras had prevented its bursting. Once there had been a weakening, a cringing, they would all have been lost. But their hearts hardened with black, indomitable anger. And the cloud melted, it passed away. There was no sign.

Early summer was now at hand. Alvina no longer felt at home with the Natchas. While the trouble was hanging over, they seemed to ignore her altogether. The men hardly spoke to her. They hardly spoke to Madame, for that matter. They kept within the foursquare enclosure of themselves.

But Alvina felt herself particularly excluded, left out. And when the trouble of the detectives began to pass off, and the men became more cheerful again, wanted her to jest and be familiar with them, she responded verbally, but in her heart there was no response.

Madame had been quite generous with her. She allowed her to pay for her room, and the expense of travelling. But she had her food with the rest. Wherever she was, Madame bought the food for the party, and cooked it herself. And Alvina came in with the rest: she paid no board.

She waited, however, for Madame to suggest a small salary⁠—or at least, that the troupe should pay her living expenses. But Madame did not make such a suggestion. So Alvina knew that she was not very badly wanted. And she guarded her money, and watched for some other opportunity.

It became her habit to go every morning to the public library of the town in which she found herself, to look through the advertisements: advertisements for maternity nurses, for nursery governesses, pianists, travelling companions, even ladies’ maids. For some weeks she found nothing, though she wrote several letters.

One morning Ciccio, who had begun to hang round her again, accompanied her as she set out to the library. But her heart was closed against him.

“Why are you going to the library?” he asked her. It was in Lancaster.

“To look at the papers and magazines.”

“Ha‑a! To find a job, eh?”

His cuteness startled her for a moment.

“If I found one I should take it,” she said.

“Hé! I know that,” he said.

It so happened that that very morning she saw on the notice-board of the library an announcement that the Borough Council wished to engage the services of an experienced maternity nurse, applications to be made to the medical board. Alvina wrote down the directions. Ciccio watched her.

“What is a maternity nurse?” he said.

“An accoucheuse!” she said. “The nurse who attends when babies are born.”

“Do you know how to do that?” he said, incredulous, and jeering slightly.

“I was trained to do it,” she said.

He said no more, but walked by her side as she returned to the lodgings. As they drew near the lodgings, he said:

“You don’t want to stop with us any more?”

“I can’t,” she said.

He made a slight, mocking gesture.

“ ‘I can’t,’ ” he repeated. “Why do you always say you can’t?”

“Because I can’t,” she said.

“Pff⁠—!” he went, with a whistling sound of contempt.

But she went indoors to her room. Fortunately, when she had finally cleared her things from Manchester House, she had brought with her her nurse’s certificate, and recommendations from doctors. She wrote out her application, took the tram to the Town Hall and dropped it in the letterbox there. Then she wired home to her doctor for another reference. After which she went to the library and got out a book on her subject. If summoned, she would have to go before the medical board on Monday. She had a week. She read and pondered hard, recalling all her previous experience and knowledge.

She wondered if she ought to appear before the board in uniform. Her nurse’s dresses were packed in her trunk at Mrs. Slaney’s, in Woodhouse. It was now May. The whole business at Woodhouse was finished. Manchester House and all the furniture was sold to some boot-and-shoe people: at least the boot-and-shoe people had the house. They had given four thousand pounds for it⁠—which was above the lawyer’s estimate. On the other hand, the theatre was sold for almost nothing. It all worked out that some thirty-three pounds, which the creditors made up to fifty pounds, remained for Alvina. She insisted on Miss Pinnegar’s having half of this. And so that was all over. Miss Pinnegar was already in Tamworth, and her little shop would be opened next week. She wrote happily and excitedly about it.

Sometimes fate acts swiftly and without a hitch. On Thursday Alvina received her notice that she was to appear before the Board on the following Monday. And yet she could not bring herself to speak of it to Madame till the Saturday evening. When they were all at supper, she said:

“Madame, I applied for a post of maternity nurse, to the Borough of Lancaster.”

Madame raised her eyebrows. Ciccio had said nothing.

“Oh really! You never told me.”

“I thought it would be no use if it all came to nothing. They want me to go and see them on Monday, and then they will decide⁠—”

“Really! Do they! On Monday? And then if you get this work you will stay here? Yes?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Of course! Of course! Yes! H’m! And if not?”

The two women looked at each other.

“What?” said Alvina.

“If you don’t get it⁠—! You are not sure?”

“No,” said Alvina. “I am not a bit sure.”

“Well then⁠—! Now! And if you don’t get it⁠—?”

“What shall I do, you mean?”

“Yes, what shall you do?”

“I don’t know.”

“How! you don’t know! Shall you come back to us, then?”

“I will if you like⁠—”

“If I like! If I like! Come, it is not a question of if I like. It is what do you want to do yourself.”

“I feel you don’t want me very badly,” said Alvina.

“Why? Why do you feel? Who makes you? Which of us makes you feel so? Tell me.”

“Nobody in particular. But I feel it.”

“Oh we‑ell! If nobody makes you, and yet you feel it, it must be in yourself, don’t you see? Eh? Isn’t it so?”

“Perhaps it is,” admitted Alvina.

“We‑ell then! We‑ell⁠—” So Madame gave her her congé. “But if you like to come back⁠—if you laike⁠—then⁠—” Madame shrugged her shoulders⁠—“you must come, I suppose.”

“Thank you,” said Alvina.

The young men were watching. They seemed indifferent. Ciccio turned aside, with his faint, stupid smile.

In the morning Madame gave Alvina all her belongings, from the little safe she called her bank.

“There is the money⁠—so⁠—and so⁠—and so⁠—that is correct. Please count it once more!⁠—” Alvina counted it and kept it clutched in her hand. “And there are your rings, and your chain, and your locket⁠—see⁠—all⁠—everything⁠—! But not the brooch. Where is the brooch? Here! Shall I give it back, hein?”

“I gave it to you,” said Alvina, offended. She looked into Madame’s black eyes. Madame dropped her eyes.

“Yes, you gave it. But I thought, you see, as you have now not much mo‑oney, perhaps you would like to take it again⁠—”

“No, thank you,” said Alvina, and she went away, leaving Madame with the red brooch in her plump hand.

“Thank goodness I’ve given her something valuable,” thought Alvina to herself, as she went trembling to her room.

She had packed her bag. She had to find new rooms. She bade goodbye to the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras. Her face was cold and distant, but she smiled slightly as she bade them goodbye.

“And perhaps,” said Madame, “per‑haps you will come to Wigan tomorrow afternoon⁠—or evening? Yes?”

“Thank you,” said Alvina.

She went out and found a little hotel, where she took her room for the night, explaining the cause of her visit to Lancaster. Her heart was hard and burning. A deep, burning, silent anger against everything possessed her, and a profound indifference to mankind.

And therefore, the next day, everything went as if by magic. She had decided that at the least sign of indifference from the medical board people she would walk away, take her bag, and go to Windermere. She had never been to the Lakes. And Windermere was not far off. She would not endure one single hint of contumely from anyone else. She would go straight to Windermere, to see the big lake. Why not do as she wished! She could be quite happy by herself among the lakes. And she would be absolutely free, absolutely free. She rather looked forward to leaving the Town Hall, hurrying to take her bag and off to the station and freedom. Hadn’t she still got about a hundred pounds? Why bother for one moment? To be quite alone in the whole world⁠—and quite, quite free, with her hundred pounds⁠—the prospect attracted her sincerely.

And therefore, everything went charmingly at the Town Hall. The medical board were charming to her⁠—charming. There was no hesitation at all. From the first moment she was engaged. And she was given a pleasant room in a hospital in a garden, and the matron was charming to her, and the doctors most courteous.

When could she undertake to commence her duties? When did they want her? The very moment she could come. She could begin tomorrow⁠—but she had no uniform. Oh, the matron would lend her uniform and aprons, till her box arrived.

So there she was⁠—by afternoon installed in her pleasant little room looking on the garden, and dressed in a nurse’s uniform. It was all sudden like magic. She had wired to Madame, she had wired for her box. She was another person.

Needless to say, she was glad. Needless to say that, in the morning, when she had thoroughly bathed, and dressed in clean clothes, and put on the white dress, the white apron, and the white cap, she felt another person. So clean, she felt, so thankful! Her skin seemed caressed and live with cleanliness and whiteness, luminous she felt. It was so different from being with the Natchas.

In the garden the snowballs, guelder-roses, swayed softly among green foliage, there was pink may-blossom, and single scarlet may-blossom, and underneath the young green of the trees, irises rearing purple and moth-white. A young gardener was working⁠—and a convalescent slowly trailed a few paces.