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, four-square 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 four-square 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 good-bye to
the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras. Her face was cold and distant, but she smiled
slightly as she bade them good-bye.
“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 any one 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.
Having ten minutes still, Alvina sat down and wrote to Ciccio: “I am
glad I have got this post as nurse here. Every one is most kind, and I
feel at home already. I feel quite happy here. I shall think of my days
with the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras, and of you, who were such a stranger to
me. Good-bye.—A. H.”
This she addressed and posted. No doubt Madame would find occasion to
read it. But let her.
Alvina now settled down to her new work. There was of course a great
deal to do, for she had work both in the hospital and out in the town,
though chiefly out in the town. She went rapidly from case to case, as
she was summoned. And she was summoned at all hours. So that it was
tiring work, which left her no time to herself, except just in
snatches.
She had no serious acquaintance with anybody, she was too busy. The
matron and sisters and doctors and patients were all part of her day’s
work, and she regarded them as such. The men she chiefly ignored: she
felt much more friendly with the matron. She had many a cup of tea and
many a chat in the matron’s room, in the quiet, sunny afternoons when
the work was not pressing. Alvina took her quiet moments when she
could: for she never knew when she would be rung up by one or other of
the doctors in the town.
And so, from the matron, she learned to crochet. It was work she had
never taken to. But now she had her ball of cotton and her hook, and
she worked away as she chatted. She was in good health, and she was
getting fatter again. With the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras, she had improved a
good deal, her colour and her strength had returned. But undoubtedly
the nursing life, arduous as it was, suited her best. She became a
handsome, reposeful woman, jolly with the other nurses, really happy
with her friend the matron, who was well-bred and wise, and never
over-intimate.
The doctor with whom Alvina had most to do was a Dr. Mitchell, a
Scotchman. He had a large practice among the poor, and was an energetic
man. He was about fifty-four years old, tall, largely-built, with a
good figure, but with extraordinarily large feet and hands. His face
was red and clean-shaven, his eyes blue, his teeth very good. He
laughed and talked rather mouthingly. Alvina, who knew what the nurses
told her, knew that he had come as a poor boy and bottle-washer to Dr.
Robertson, a fellow-Scotchman, and that he had made his way up
gradually till he became a doctor himself, and had an independent
practice. Now he was quite rich—and a bachelor. But the nurses did not
set their bonnets at him very much, because he was rather mouthy and
overbearing.
In the houses of the poor he was a great autocrat.
“What is that stuff you’ve got there!” he inquired largely, seeing a
bottle of somebody’s Soothing Syrup by a poor woman’s bedside. “Take it
and throw it down the sink, and the next time you want a soothing syrup
put a little boot-blacking in hot water. It’ll do you just as much
good.”
Imagine the slow, pompous, large-mouthed way in which the red-faced,
handsomely-built man pronounced these words, and you realize why the
poor set such store by him.
He was eagle-eyed. Wherever he went, there was a scuffle directly his
foot was heard on the stairs. And he knew they were hiding something.
He sniffed the air: he glanced round with a sharp eye: and during the
course of his visit picked up a blue mug which was pushed behind the
looking-glass. He peered inside—and smelled it.
“Stout?” he said, in a tone of indignant inquiry: God-Almighty would
presumably take on just such a tone, finding the core of an apple flung
away among the dead-nettle of paradise: “Stout! Have you been drinking
stout?” This as he gazed down on the wan mother in the bed.
“They gave me a drop, doctor. I felt that low.”
The doctor marched out of the room, still holding the mug in his hand.
The sick woman watched him with haunted eyes. The attendant women threw
up their hands and looked at one another. Was he going for ever? There
came a sudden smash. The doctor had flung the blue mug downstairs. He
returned with a solemn stride.
“There!” he said. “And the next person that gives you stout will be
thrown down along with the mug.”
“Oh doctor, the bit o’ comfort!” wailed the sick woman. “It ud never do
me no harm.”
“Harm! Harm! With a stomach as weak as yours! Harm! Do you know better
than I do? What have I come here for? To be told by _you_ what will do
you harm and what won’t? It appears to me you need no doctor here, you
know everything already—”
“Oh no, doctor. It’s not like that. But when you feel as if you’d sink
through the bed, an’ you don’t know what to do with yourself—”
“Take a little beef-tea, or a little rice pudding. Take _nourishment_,
don’t take that muck. Do you hear—” charging upon the attendant women,
who shrank against the wall—“she’s to have nothing alcoholic at all,
and don’t let me catch you giving it her.”
“They say there’s nobbut fower per cent. i’ stout,” retorted the daring
female.
“Fower per cent.,” mimicked the doctor brutally. “Why, what does an
ignorant creature like _you_ know about fower per cent.”
The woman muttered a little under her breath.
“What? Speak out. Let me hear what you’ve got to say, my woman. I’ve no
doubt it’s something for my benefit—”
But the affronted woman rushed out of the room, and burst into tears on
the landing. After which Dr. Mitchell, mollified, largely told the
patient how she was to behave, concluding:
“Nourishment! Nourishment is what you want. Nonsense, don’t tell me you
can’t take it. Push it down if it won’t go down by itself—”
“Oh doctor—”
“Don’t say _oh doctor_ to me. Do as I tell you. That’s _your_
business.” After which he marched out, and the rattle of his motor car
was shortly heard.
Alvina got used to scenes like these. She wondered why the people stood
it. But soon she realized that they loved it—particularly the women.
“Oh, nurse, stop till Dr. Mitchell’s been. I’m scared to death of him,
for fear he’s going to shout at me.”
“Why does everybody put up with him?” asked innocent Alvina.
“Oh, he’s good-hearted, nurse, he _does_ feel for you.”
And everywhere it was the same: “Oh, he’s got a heart, you know. He’s
rough, but he’s got a heart. I’d rather have him than your smarmy
slormin sort. Oh, you feel safe with Dr. Mitchell, I don’t care what
you say.”
But to Alvina this peculiar form of blustering, bullying heart which
had all the women scurrying like chickens was not particularly
attractive.
The men did not like Dr. Mitchell, and would not have him if possible.
Yet since he was club doctor and panel doctor, they had to submit. The
first thing he said to a sick or injured labourer, invariably, was:
“And keep off the beer.”
“Oh ay!”
“Keep off the beer, or I shan’t set foot in this house again.”
“Tha’s got a red enough face on thee, tha nedna shout.”
“My face is red with exposure to all weathers, attending ignorant
people like you. I never touch alcohol in any form.”
“No, an’ I dunna. I drink a drop o’ beer, if that’s what you ca’
touchin’ alcohol. An’ I’m none th’ wuss for it, tha sees.”
“You’ve heard what I’ve told you.”
“Ah, I have.”
“And if you go on with the beer, you may go on with curing yourself.
_I_ shan’t attend you. You know I mean what I say, Mrs. Larrick”—this
to the wife.
“I do, doctor. And I know it’s true what you say. An’ I’m at him night
an’ day about it—”
“Oh well, if he will hear no reason, he must suffer for it. He mustn’t
think _I’m_ going to be running after him, if he disobeys my orders.”
And the doctor stalked off, and the woman began to complain.
None the less the women had their complaints against Dr. Mitchell. If
ever Alvina entered a clean house on a wet day, she was sure to hear
the housewife chuntering.
“Oh my lawk, come in nurse! What a day! Doctor’s not been yet. And he’s
bound to come now I’ve just cleaned up, trapesin’ wi’ his gret feet.
He’s got the biggest understandin’s of any man i’ Lancaster. My husband
says they’re the best pair o’ pasties i’ th’ kingdom. An’ he does make
such a mess, for he never stops to wipe his feet on th’ mat, marches
straight up your clean stairs—”
“Why don’t you tell him to wipe his feet?” said Alvina.
“Oh my word! Fancy me telling him! He’d jump down my throat with both
feet afore I’d opened my mouth. He’s not to be spoken to, he isn’t.
He’s my-lord, he is. You mustn’t look, or you’re done for.”
Alvina laughed. She knew they all liked him for browbeating them, and
having a heart over and above.
Sometimes he was given a good hit—though nearly always by a man. It
happened he was in a workman’s house when the man was at dinner.
“Canna yer gi’e a man summat better nor this ’ere pap, Missis?” said
the hairy husband, turning up his nose at the rice pudding.
“Oh go on,” cried the wife. “I hadna time for owt else.” Dr. Mitchell
was just stooping his handsome figure in the doorway.
“Rice pudding!” he exclaimed largely. “You couldn’t have anything more
wholesome and nourishing. I have a rice pudding every day of my
life—every day of my life, I do.”
The man was eating his pudding and pearling his big moustache copiously
with it. He did not answer.
“Do you doctor!” cried the woman. “And never no different.”
“Never,” said the doctor.
“Fancy that! You’re that fond of them?”
“I find they agree with me. They are light and digestible. And my
stomach is as weak as a baby’s.”
The labourer wiped his big moustache on his sleeve.
“Mine _isna_, tha sees,” he said, “so pap’s no use. ’S watter ter me. I
want ter feel as I’ve had summat: a bit o’ suetty dumplin’ an’ a pint
o’ hale, summat ter fill th’ hole up. An’ tha’d be th’ same if tha did
my work.”
“If I did your work,” sneered the doctor. “Why I do ten times the work
that any one of you does. It’s just the work that has ruined my
digestion, the never getting a quiet meal, and never a whole night’s
rest. When do you think _I_ can sit at table and digest my dinner? I
have to be off looking after people like you—”
“Eh, tha can ta’e th’ titty-bottle wi’ thee,” said the labourer.
But Dr. Mitchell was furious for weeks over this. It put him in a black
rage to have his great manliness insulted. Alvina was quietly amused.
The doctor began by being rather lordly and condescending with her. But
luckily she felt she knew her work at least as well as he knew it. She
smiled and let him condescend. Certainly she neither feared nor even
admired him. To tell the truth, she rather disliked him: the great,
red-faced bachelor of fifty-three, with his bald spot and his stomach
as weak as a baby’s, and his mouthing imperiousness and his good heart
which was as selfish as it could be. Nothing can be more cocksuredly
selfish than a good heart which believes in its own beneficence. He was
a little too much the teetotaller on the one hand to be so largely
manly on the other. Alvina preferred the labourers with their awful
long moustaches that got full of food. And he was a little too
loud-mouthedly lordly to be in human good taste.
As a matter of fact, he was conscious of the fact that he had risen to
be a gentleman. Now if a man is conscious of being a _gentleman_, he is
bound to be a little less than a _man_. But if he is gnawed with
anxiety lest he may _not_ be a gentleman, he is only pitiable. There is
a third case, however. If a man must loftily, by his manner, assert
that he is _now_ a gentleman, he shows himself a clown. For Alvina,
poor Dr. Mitchell fell into this third category, of clowns. She
tolerated him good-humouredly, as women so often tolerate ninnies and
_poseurs_. She smiled to herself when she saw his large and important
presence on the board. She smiled when she saw him at a sale, buying
the grandest pieces of antique furniture. She smiled when he talked of
going up to Scotland, for grouse shooting, or of snatching an hour on
Sunday morning, for golf. And she talked him over, with quiet, delicate
malice, with the matron. He was no favourite at the hospital.
Gradually Dr. Mitchell’s manner changed towards her. From his imperious
condescension he took to a tone of uneasy equality. This did not suit
him. Dr. Mitchell had no equals: he had only the vast stratum of
inferiors, towards whom he exercised his quite profitable
beneficence—it brought him in about two thousand a year: and then his
superiors, people who had been born with money. It was the tradesmen
and professionals who had started at the bottom and clambered to the
motor-car footing, who distressed him. And therefore, whilst he treated
Alvina on this uneasy tradesman footing, he felt himself in a false
position.
She kept her attitude of quiet amusement, and little by little he sank.
From being a lofty creature soaring over her head, he was now like a
big fish poking its nose above water and making eyes at her. He treated
her with rather presuming deference.
“You look tired this morning,” he barked at her one hot day.
“I think it’s thunder,” she said.
“Thunder! Work, you mean,” and he gave a slight smile. “I’m going to
drive you back.”
“Oh no, thanks, don’t trouble! I’ve got to call on the way.”
“Where have you got to call?”
She told him.
“Very well. That takes you no more than five minutes. I’ll wait for
you. Now take your cloak.”
She was surprised. Yet, like other women, she submitted.
As they drove he saw a man with a barrow of cucumbers. He stopped the
car and leaned towards the man.
“Take that barrow-load of poison and _bury_ it!” he shouted, in his
strong voice. The busy street hesitated.
“What’s that, mister?” replied the mystified hawker.
Dr. Mitchell pointed to the green pile of cucumbers.
“Take that barrow-load of poison, and bury it,” he called, “before you
do anybody any more harm with it.”
“What barrow-load of poison’s that?” asked the hawker, approaching. A
crowd began to gather.
“What barrow-load of poison is that!” repeated the doctor. “Why your
barrow-load of cucumbers.”
“Oh,” said the man, scrutinizing his cucumbers carefully. To be sure,
some were a little yellow at the end. “How’s that? Cumbers is right
enough: fresh from market this morning.”
“Fresh or not fresh,” said the doctor, mouthing his words distinctly,
“you might as well put poison into your stomach, as those things.
Cucumbers are the worst thing you can eat.”
“Oh!” said the man, stuttering. “That’s ’appen for them as doesn’t like
them. I niver knowed a cumber do _me_ no harm, an’ I eat ’em like a
happle.” Whereupon the hawker took a “cumber” from his barrow, bit off
the end, and chewed it till the sap squirted. “What’s wrong with that?”
he said, holding up the bitten cucumber.
“I’m not talking about what’s wrong with that,” said the doctor. “My
business is what’s wrong with the stomach it goes into. I’m a doctor.
And I know that those things cause me half my work. They cause half the
internal troubles people suffer from in summertime.”
“Oh ay! That’s no loss to you, is it? Me an’ you’s partners. More
cumbers I sell, more graft for you, ’cordin’ to that. What’s wrong
then. _Cum-bers! Fine fresh Cum-berrrs! All fresh and juisty, all cheap
and tasty—!_” yelled the man.
“I am a doctor not only to cure illness, but to prevent it where I can.
And cucumbers are poison to everybody.”
“_Cum-bers! Cum-bers! Fresh cumbers!_” yelled the man,
Dr. Mitchell started his car.
“When will they learn intelligence?” he said to Alvina, smiling and
showing his white, even teeth.
“I don’t care, you know, myself,” she said. “I should always let people
do what they wanted—”
“Even if you knew it would do them harm?” he queried, smiling with
amiable condescension.
“Yes, why not! It’s their own affair. And they’ll do themselves harm
one way or another.”
“And you wouldn’t try to prevent it?”
“You might as well try to stop the sea with your fingers.”
“You think so?” smiled the doctor. “I see, you are a pessimist. You are
a pessimist with regard to human nature.”
“Am I?” smiled Alvina, thinking the rose would smell as sweet. It
seemed to please the doctor to find that Alvina was a pessimist with
regard to human nature. It seemed to give her an air of distinction. In
his eyes, she _seemed_ distinguished. He was in a fair way to dote on
her.
She, of course, when he began to admire her, liked him much better, and
even saw graceful, boyish attractions in him. There was really
something childish about him. And this something childish, since it
looked up to her as if she were the saving grace, naturally flattered
her and made her feel gentler towards him.
He got in the habit of picking her up in his car, when he could. And he
would tap at the matron’s door, smiling and showing all his beautiful
teeth, just about tea-time.
“May I come in?” His voice sounded almost flirty.
“Certainly.”
“I see you’re having tea! Very nice, a cup of tea at this hour!”
“Have one too, doctor.”
“I will with pleasure.” And he sat down wreathed with smiles. Alvina
rose to get a cup. “I didn’t intend to disturb you, nurse,” he said.
“Men are always intruders,” he smiled to the matron.
“Sometimes,” said the matron, “women are charmed to be intruded upon.”
“Oh really!” his eyes sparkled. “Perhaps _you_ wouldn’t say so, nurse?”
he said, turning to Alvina. Alvina was just reaching at the cupboard.
Very charming she looked, in her fresh dress and cap and soft brown
hair, very attractive her figure, with its full, soft loins. She turned
round to him.
“Oh yes,” she said. “I quite agree with the matron.”
“Oh, you do!” He did not quite know how to take it. “But you mind being
disturbed at your tea, I am sure.”
“No,” said Alvina. “We are so used to being disturbed.”
“Rather weak, doctor?” said the matron, pouring the tea.
“Very weak, please.”
The doctor was a little laboured in his gallantry, but unmistakably
gallant. When he was gone, the matron looked demure, and Alvina
confused. Each waited for the other to speak.
“Don’t you think Dr. Mitchell is quite coming out?” said Alvina.
“Quite! _Quite_ the ladies’ man! I wonder who it is can be _bringing_
him out. A very praiseworthy work, I am sure.” She looked wickedly at
Alvina.
“No, don’t look at me,” laughed Alvina, “_I_ know nothing about it.”
“Do you think it may be _me_!” said the matron, mischievous.
“I’m sure of it, matron! He begins to show some taste at last.”
“There now!” said the matron. “I shall put my cap straight.” And she
went to the mirror, fluffing her hair and settling her cap.
“There!” she said, bobbing a little curtsey to Alvina.
They both laughed, and went off to work.
But there was no mistake, Dr. Mitchell was beginning to expand. With
Alvina he quite unbent, and seemed even to sun himself when she was
near, to attract her attention. He smiled and smirked and became oddly
self-conscious: rather uncomfortable. He liked to hang over her chair,
and he made a great event of offering her a cigarette whenever they
met, although he himself never smoked. He had a gold cigarette case.
One day he asked her in to see his garden. He had a pleasant old square
house with a big walled garden. He showed her his flowers and his
wall-fruit, and asked her to eat his strawberries. He bade her admire
his asparagus. And then he gave her tea in the drawing-room, with
strawberries and cream and cakes, of all of which he ate nothing. But
he smiled expansively all the time. He was a made man: and now he was
really letting himself go, luxuriating in everything; above all, in
Alvina, who poured tea gracefully from the old Georgian tea-pot, and
smiled so pleasantly above the Queen Anne tea-cups.
And she, wicked that she was, admired every detail of his drawing-room.
It was a pleasant room indeed, with roses outside the French door, and
a lawn in sunshine beyond, with bright red flowers in beds. But
indoors, it was insistently antique. Alvina admired the Jacobean
sideboard and the Jacobean arm-chairs and the Hepplewhite wall-chairs
and the Sheraton settee and the Chippendale stands and the Axminster
carpet and the bronze clock with Shakespeare and Ariosto reclining on
it—yes, she even admired Shakespeare on the clock—and the ormolu
cabinet and the bead-work foot-stools and the dreadful Sèvres dish with
a cherub in it and—but why enumerate. She admired _everything_! And Dr.
Mitchell’s heart expanded in his bosom till he felt it would burst,
unless he either fell at her feet or did something extraordinary. He
had never even imagined what it was to be so expanded: what a delicious
feeling. He could have kissed her feet in an ecstasy of wild expansion.
But habit, so far, prevented his doing more than beam.
Another day he said to her, when they were talking of age:
“You are as young as you feel. Why, when I was twenty I felt I had all
the cares and responsibility of the world on my shoulders. And now I am
middle-aged more or less, I feel as light as if I were just beginning
life.” He beamed down at her.
“Perhaps you _are_ only just beginning your _own_ life,” she said. “You
have lived for your work till now.”
“It may be that,” he said. “It may be that up till now I have lived for
others, for my patients. And now perhaps I may be allowed to live a
little more for myself.” He beamed with real luxury, saw the real
luxury of life begin.
“Why shouldn’t you?” said Alvina.
“Oh yes, I intend to,” he said, with confidence.
He really, by degrees, made up his mind to marry now, and to retire in
part from his work. That is, he would hire another assistant, and give
himself a fair amount of leisure. He was inordinately proud of his
house. And now he looked forward to the treat of his life: hanging
round the woman he had made his wife, following her about, feeling
proud of her and his house, talking to her from morning till night,
really finding himself in her. When he had to go his rounds she would
go with him in the car: he made up his mind she would be willing to
accompany him. He would teach her to drive, and they would sit side by
side, she driving him and waiting for him. And he would run out of the
houses of his patients, and find her sitting there, and he would get in
beside her and feel so snug and so sure and so happy as she drove him
off to the next case, he informing her about his work.
And if ever she did not go out with him, she would be there on the
doorstep waiting for him the moment she heard the car. And they would
have long, cosy evenings together in the drawing-room, as he luxuriated
in her very presence. She would sit on his knees and they would be snug
for hours, before they went warmly and deliciously to bed. And in the
morning he need not rush off. He would loiter about with her, they
would loiter down the garden looking at every new flower and every new
fruit, she would wear fresh flowery dresses and no cap on her hair, he
would never be able to tear himself away from her. Every morning it
would be unbearable to have to tear himself away from her, and every
hour he would be rushing back to her. They would be simply everything
to one another. And how he would enjoy it! Ah!
He pondered as to whether he would have children. A child would take
her away from him. That was his first thought. But then—! Ah well, he
would have to leave it till the time. Love’s young dream is never so
delicious as at the virgin age of fifty-three.
But he was quite cautious. He made no definite advances till he had put
a plain question. It was August Bank Holiday, that for ever black day
of the declaration of war, when his question was put. For this year of
our story is the fatal year 1914.
There was quite a stir in the town over the declaration of war. But
most people felt that the news was only intended to give an extra
thrill to the all-important event of Bank Holiday. Half the world had
gone to Blackpool or Southport, the other half had gone to the Lakes or
into the country. Lancaster was busy with a sort of fête,
notwithstanding. And as the weather was decent, everybody was in a real
holiday mood.
So that Dr. Mitchell, who had contrived to pick up Alvina at the
Hospital, contrived to bring her to his house at half-past three, for
tea.
“What do you think of this new war?” said Alvina.
“Oh, it will be over in six weeks,” said the doctor easily. And there
they left it. Only, with a fleeting thought, Alvina wondered if it
would affect the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras. She had never heard any more of
them.
“Where would you have liked to go today?” said the doctor, turning to
smile at her as he drove the car.
“I think to Windermere—into the Lakes,” she said.
“We might make a tour of the Lakes before long,” he said. She was not
thinking, so she took no particular notice of the speech.
“How nice!” she said vaguely.
“We could go in the car, and take them as we chose,” said the doctor.
“Yes,” she said, wondering at him now.
When they had had tea, quietly and gallantly tête-à-tête in his
drawing-room, he asked her if she would like to see the other rooms of
the house. She thanked him, and he showed her the substantial oak
dining-room, and the little room with medical works and a revolving
chair, which he called his study: then the kitchen and the pantry, the
housekeeper looking askance; then upstairs to his bedroom, which was
very fine with old mahogany tall-boys and silver candle-sticks on the
dressing-table, and brushes with green ivory backs, and a hygienic
white bed and straw mats: then the visitors’ bedroom corresponding,
with its old satin-wood furniture and cream-coloured chairs with large,
pale-blue cushions, and a pale carpet with reddish wreaths. Very nice,
lovely, awfully nice, I do like that, isn’t that beautiful, I’ve never
seen anything like that! came the gratifying fireworks of admiration
from Alvina. And he smiled and gloated. But in her mind she was
thinking of Manchester House, and how dark and horrible it was, how she
hated it, but how it had impressed Ciccio and Geoffrey, how they would
have loved to feel themselves masters of it, and how done in the eye
they were. She smiled to herself rather grimly. For this afternoon she
was feeling unaccountably uneasy and wistful, yearning into the
distance again: a trick she thought she had happily lost.
The doctor dragged her up even to the slanting attics. He was a big
man, and he always wore navy blue suits, well-tailored and immaculate.
Unconsciously she felt that big men in good navy-blue suits, especially
if they had reddish faces and rather big feet and if their hair was
wearing thin, were a special type all to themselves, solid and rather
namby-pamby and tiresome.
“What very nice attics! I think the many angles which the roof makes,
the different slants, you know, are so attractive. Oh, and the
fascinating little window!” She crouched in the hollow of the small
dormer window. “Fascinating! See the town and the hills! I know I
should want this room for my own.”
“Then have it,” he said. “Have it for _one_ of your own.”
She crept out of the window recess and looked up at him. He was leaning
forward to her, smiling, self-conscious, tentative, and eager. She
thought it best to laugh it off.
“I was only talking like a child, from the imagination,” she said.
“I quite understand that,” he replied deliberately. “But I am speaking
what I _mean_—”
She did not answer, but looked at him reproachfully. He was smiling and
smirking broadly at her.
“Won’t you marry me, and come and have this garret for your own?” He
spoke as if he were offering her a chocolate. He smiled with curious
uncertainty.
“I don’t know,” she said vaguely.
His smile broadened.
“Well now,” he said, “make up your mind. I’m not good at _talking_
about love, you know. But I think I’m pretty good at _feeling_ it, you
know. I want you to come here and be happy: with me.” He added the two
last words as a sort of sly post-scriptum, and as if to commit himself
finally.
“But I’ve never thought about it,” she said, rapidly cogitating.
“I know you haven’t. But think about it now—” He began to be hugely
pleased with himself. “Think about it now. And tell me if you could put
up with _me_, as well as the garret.” He beamed and put his head a
little on one side—rather like Mr. May, for one second. But he was much
more dangerous than Mr. May. He was overbearing, and had the devil’s
own temper if he was thwarted. This she knew. He was a big man in a
navy blue suit, with very white teeth.
Again she thought she had better laugh it off.
“It’s you I _am_ thinking about,” she laughed, flirting still. “It’s
you I _am_ wondering about.”
“Well,” he said, rather pleased with himself, “you wonder about me till
you’ve made up your mind—”
“I will—” she said, seizing the opportunity. “I’ll wonder about you
till I’ve made up my mind—shall I?”
“Yes,” he said. “That’s what I wish you to do. And the next time I ask
you, you’ll let me know. That’s it, isn’t it?” He smiled indulgently
down on her: thought her face young and charming, charming.
“Yes,” she said. “But don’t ask me too soon, will you?”
“How, too soon—?” He smiled delightedly.
“You’ll give me time to wonder about you, won’t you? You won’t ask me
again this month, will you?”
“This month?” His eyes beamed with pleasure. He enjoyed the
procrastination as much as she did. “But the month’s only just begun!
However! Yes, you shall have your way. I won’t ask you again this
month.”
“And I’ll promise to wonder about you all the month,” she laughed.
“That’s a bargain,” he said.
They went downstairs, and Alvina returned to her duties. She was very
much excited, very much excited indeed. A big, well-to-do man in a navy
blue suit, of handsome appearance, aged fifty-three, with white teeth
and a delicate stomach: it _was_ exciting. A sure position, a very nice
home and lovely things in it, once they were dragged about a bit. And
of course he’d adore her. That went without saying. She was as fussy as
if some one had given her a lovely new pair of boots. She was really
fussy and pleased with herself: and _quite_ decided she’d take it all
on. That was how it put itself to her: she would take it all on.
Of course there was the man himself to consider. But he was quite
presentable. There was nothing at all against it: nothing at all. If he
had pressed her during the first half of the month of August, he would
almost certainly have got her. But he only beamed in anticipation.
Meanwhile the stir and restlessness of the war had begun, and was
making itself felt even in Lancaster. And the excitement and the unease
began to wear through Alvina’s rather glamorous fussiness. Some of her
old fretfulness came back on her. Her spirit, which had been as if
asleep these months, now woke rather irritably, and chafed against its
collar. Who was this elderly man, that she should marry him? Who was
he, that she should be kissed by him. Actually kissed and fondled by
him! Repulsive. She avoided him like the plague. Fancy reposing against
his broad, navy blue waistcoat! She started as if she had been stung.
Fancy seeing his red, smiling face just above hers, coming down to
embrace her! She pushed it away with her open hand. And she ran away,
to avoid the thought.
And yet! And yet! She would be so comfortable, she would be so well-off
for the rest of her life. The hateful problem of material circumstance
would be solved for ever. And she knew well how hateful material
circumstances can make life.
Therefore, she could not decide in a hurry. But she bore poor Dr.
Mitchell a deep grudge, that he could not grant her all the advantages
of his offer, and excuse her the acceptance of him himself. She dared
not decide in a hurry. And this very fear, like a yoke on her, made her
resent the man who drove her to decision.
Sometimes she rebelled. Sometimes she laughed unpleasantly in the man’s
face: though she dared not go _too_ far: for she was a little afraid of
him and his rabid temper, also. In her moments of sullen rebellion she
thought of Natcha-Kee-Tawara. She thought of them deeply. She wondered
where they were, what they were doing, how the war had affected them.
Poor Geoffrey was a Frenchman—he would have to go to France to fight.
Max and Louis were Swiss, it would not affect them: nor Ciccio, who was
Italian. She wondered if the troupe was in England: if they would
continue together when Geoffrey was gone. She wondered if they thought
of her. She felt they did. She felt they did not forget her. She felt
there was a connection.
In fact, during the latter part of August she wondered a good deal more
about the Natchas than about Dr. Mitchell. But wondering about the
Natchas would not help her. She felt, if she knew where they were, she
would fly to them. But then she knew she wouldn’t.
When she was at the station she saw crowds and bustle. People were
seeing their young men off. Beer was flowing: sailors on the train were
tipsy: women were holding young men by the lapel of the coat. And when
the train drew away, the young men waving, the women cried aloud and
sobbed after them.
A chill ran down Alvina’s spine. This was another matter, apart from
her Dr. Mitchell. It made him feel very unreal, trivial. She did not
know what she was going to do. She realized she must do something—take
some part in the wild dislocation of life. She knew that she would put
off Dr. Mitchell again.
She talked the matter over with the matron. The matron advised her to
procrastinate. Why not volunteer for war-service? True, she was a
maternity nurse, and this was hardly the qualification needed for the
nursing of soldiers. But still, she _was_ a nurse.
Alvina felt this was the thing to do. Everywhere was a stir and a
seethe of excitement. Men were active, women were needed too. She put
down her name on the list of volunteers for active service. This was on
the last day of August.
On the first of September Dr. Mitchell was round at the hospital early,
when Alvina was just beginning her morning duties there. He went into
the matron’s room, and asked for Nurse Houghton. The matron left them
together.
The doctor was excited. He smiled broadly, but with a tension of
nervous excitement. Alvina was troubled. Her heart beat fast.
“Now!” said Dr. Mitchell. “What have you to say to me?”
She looked up at him with confused eyes. He smiled excitedly and
meaningful at her, and came a little nearer.
“Today is the day when you answer, isn’t it?” he said. “Now then, let
me hear what you have to say.”
But she only watched him with large, troubled eyes, and did not speak.
He came still nearer to her.
“Well then,” he said, “I am to take it that silence gives consent.” And
he laughed nervously, with nervous anticipation, as he tried to put his
arm round her. But she stepped suddenly back.
“No, not yet,” she said.
“Why?” he asked.
“I haven’t given my answer,” she said.
“Give it then,” he said, testily.
“I’ve volunteered for active service,” she stammered. “I felt I ought
to do something.”
“Why?” he asked. He could put a nasty intonation into that
monosyllable. “I should have thought you would answer _me_ first.”
She did not answer, but watched him. She did not like him.
“I only signed yesterday,” she said.
“Why didn’t you leave it till tomorrow? It would have looked better.”
He was angry. But he saw a half-frightened, half-guilty look on her
face, and during the weeks of anticipation he had worked himself up.
“But put that aside,” he smiled again, a little dangerously. “You have
still to answer my question. Having volunteered for war service doesn’t
prevent your being engaged to me, does it?”
Alvina watched him with large eyes. And again he came very near to her,
so that his blue-serge waistcoat seemed, to impinge on her, and his
purplish red face was above her.
“I’d rather not be engaged, under the circumstances,” she said.
“Why?” came the nasty monosyllable. “What have the circumstances got to
do with it?”
“Everything is so uncertain,” she said. “I’d rather wait.”
“Wait! Haven’t you waited long enough? There’s nothing at all to
prevent your getting engaged to me now. Nothing whatsoever! Come now.
I’m old enough not to be played with. And I’m much too much in love
with you to let you go on indefinitely like this. Come now!” He smiled
imminent, and held out his large hand for her hand. “Let me put the
ring on your finger. It will be the proudest day of my life when I make
you my wife. Give me your hand—”
Alvina was wavering. For one thing, mere curiosity made her want to see
the ring. She half lifted her hand. And but for the knowledge that he
would kiss her, she would have given it. But he would kiss her—and
against that she obstinately set her will. She put her hand behind her
back, and looked obstinately into his eyes.
“Don’t play a game with me,” he said dangerously.
But she only continued to look mockingly and obstinately into his eyes.
“Come,” he said, beckoning for her to give her hand.
With a barely perceptible shake of the head, she refused, staring at
him all the time. His ungovernable temper got the better of him. He saw
red, and without knowing, seized her by the shoulder, swung her back,
and thrust her, pressed her against the wall as if he would push her
through it. His face was blind with anger, like a hot, red sun.
Suddenly, almost instantaneously, he came to himself again and drew
back his hands, shaking his right hand as if some rat had bitten it.
“I’m sorry!” he shouted, beside himself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.
I’m sorry.” He dithered before her.
She recovered her equilibrium, and, pale to the lips, looked at him
with sombre eyes.
“I’m sorry!” he continued loudly, in his strange frenzy like a small
boy. “Don’t remember! Don’t remember! Don’t think I did it.”
His face was a kind of blank, and unconsciously he wrung the hand that
had gripped her, as if it pained him. She watched him, and wondered why
on earth all this frenzy. She was left rather cold, she did not at all
feel the strong feelings he seemed to expect of her. There was nothing
so very unnatural, after all, in being bumped up suddenly against the
wall. Certainly her shoulder hurt where he had gripped it. But there
were plenty of worse hurts in the world. She watched him with wide,
distant eyes.
And he fell on his knees before her, as she backed against the
bookcase, and he caught hold of the edge of her dress-bottom, drawing
it to him. Which made her rather abashed, and much more uncomfortable.
“Forgive me!” he said. “Don’t remember! Forgive me! Love me! Love me!
Forgive me and love me! Forgive me and love me!”
As Alvina was looking down dismayed on the great, red-faced, elderly
man, who in his crying-out showed his white teeth like a child, and as
she was gently trying to draw her skirt from his clutch, the door
opened, and there stood the matron, in her big frilled cap. Alvina
glanced at her, flushed crimson and looked down to the man. She touched
his face with her hand.
“Never mind,” she said. “It’s nothing. Don’t think about it.”
He caught her hand and clung to it.
“Love me! Love me! Love me!” he cried.
The matron softly closed the door again, withdrawing.
“Love me! Love me!”
Alvina was absolutely dumbfounded by this scene. She had no idea men
did such things. It did not touch her, it dumbfounded her.
The doctor, clinging to her hand, struggled to his feet and flung his
arms round her, clasping her wildly to him.
“You love me! You love me, don’t you?” he said, vibrating and beside
himself as he pressed her to his breast and hid his face against her
hair. At such a moment, what was the good of saying she didn’t? But she
didn’t. Pity for his shame, however, kept her silent, motionless and
silent in his arms, smothered against the blue-serge waistcoat of his
broad breast.
He was beginning to come to himself. He became silent. But he still
strained her fast, he had no idea of letting her go.
“You will take my ring, won’t you?” he said at last, still in the
strange, lamentable voice. “You will take my ring.”
“Yes,” she said coldly. Anything for a quiet emergence from this scene.
He fumbled feverishly in his pocket with one hand, holding her still
fast by the other arm. And with one hand he managed to extract the ring
from its case, letting the case roll away on the floor. It was a
diamond solitaire.
“Which finger? Which finger is it?” he asked, beginning to smile rather
weakly. She extricated her hand, and held out her engagement finger.
Upon it was the mourning-ring Miss Frost had always worn. The doctor
slipped the diamond solitaire above the mourning ring, and folded
Alvina to his breast again.
“Now,” he said, almost in his normal voice. “Now I know you love me.”
The pleased self-satisfaction in his voice made her angry. She managed
to extricate herself.
“You will come along with me now?” he said.
“I can’t,” she answered. “I must get back to my work here.”
“Nurse Allen can do that.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Where are you going today?”
She told him her cases.
“Well, you will come and have tea with me. I shall expect you to have
tea with me every day.”
But Alvina was straightening her crushed cap before the mirror, and did
not answer.
“We can see as much as we like of each other now we’re engaged,” he
said, smiling with satisfaction.
“I wonder where the matron is,” said Alvina, suddenly going into the
cool white corridor. He followed her. And they met the matron just
coming out of the ward.
“Matron!” said Dr. Mitchell, with a return of his old mouthing
importance. “You may congratulate Nurse Houghton and me on our
engagement—” He smiled largely.
“I may congratulate _you_, you mean,” said the matron.
“Yes, of course. And both of us, since we are now one,” he replied.
“Not quite, yet,” said the matron gravely.
And at length she managed to get rid of him.
At once she went to look for Alvina, who had gone to her duties.
“Well, I _suppose_ it is all right,” said the matron gravely.
“No it isn’t,” said Alvina. “I shall _never_ marry him.”
“Ah, never is a long while! Did he hear me come in?”
“No, I’m sure he didn’t.”
“Thank goodness for that.”
“Yes indeed! It was perfectly horrible. Following me round on his knees
and shouting for me to love him! Perfectly horrible!”
“Well,” said the matron. “You never know what men will do till you’ve
known them. And then you need be surprised at nothing, _nothing_. I’m
surprised at nothing they do—”
“I must say,” said Alvina, “I was surprised. Very unpleasantly.”
“But you accepted him—”
“Anything to quieten him—like a hysterical child.”
“Yes, but I’m not sure you haven’t taken a very risky way of quietening
him, giving him what he wanted—”
“I think,” said Alvina, “I can look after myself. I may be moved any
day now.”
“Well—!” said the matron. “He may prevent your getting moved, you know.
He’s on the board. And if he says you are indispensable—”
This was a new idea for Alvina to cogitate. She had counted on a speedy
escape. She put his ring in her apron pocket, and there she forgot it
until he pounced on her in the afternoon, in the house of one of her
patients. He waited for her, to take her off.
“Where is your ring?” he said.
And she realized that it lay in the pocket of a soiled, discarded
apron—perhaps lost for ever.
“I shan’t wear it on duty,” she said. “You know that.”
She had to go to tea with him. She avoided his love-making, by telling
him any sort of spooniness revolted her. And he was too much an old
bachelor to take easily to a fondling habit—before marriage, at least.
So he mercifully left her alone: he was on the whole devoutly thankful
she wanted to be left alone. But he wanted her to be there. That was
his greatest craving. He wanted her to be always there. And so he
craved for marriage: to possess her entirely, and to have her always
there with him, so that he was never alone. Alone and apart from all
the world: but by her side, always by her side.
“Now when shall we fix the marriage?” he said. “It is no good putting
it back. We both know what we are doing. And now the engagement is
announced—”
He looked at her anxiously. She could see the hysterical little boy
under the great, authoritative man.
“Oh, not till after Christmas!” she said.
“After Christmas!” he started as if he had been bitten. “Nonsense! It’s
nonsense to wait so long. Next month, at the latest.”
“Oh no,” she said. “I don’t think so soon.”
“Why not? The sooner the better. You had better send in your
resignation at once, so that you’re free.”
“Oh but is there any need? I may be transferred for war service.”
“That’s not likely. You’re our only maternity nurse—”
And so the days went by. She had tea with him practically every
afternoon, and she got used to him. They discussed the furnishing—she
could not help suggesting a few alterations, a few arrangements
according to _her_ idea. And he drew up a plan of a wedding tour in
Scotland. Yet she was quite certain she would not marry him. The matron
laughed at her certainty. “You will drift into it,” she said. “He is
tying you down by too many little threads.”
“Ah, well, you’ll see!” said Alvina.
“Yes,” said the matron. “I _shall_ see.”
And it was true that Alvina’s will was indeterminate, at this time. She
was _resolved_ not to marry. But her will, like a spring that is
hitched somehow, did not fly direct against the doctor. She had sent in
her resignation, as he suggested. But not that she might be free to
marry him, but that she might be at liberty to flee him. So she told
herself. Yet she worked into his hands.
One day she sat with the doctor in the car near the station—it was
towards the end of September—held up by a squad of soldiers in khaki,
who were marching off with their band wildly playing, to embark on the
special troop train that was coming down from the north. The town was
in great excitement. War-fever was spreading everywhere. Men were
rushing to enlist—and being constantly rejected, for it was still the
days of regular standards.
As the crowds surged on the pavement, as the soldiers tramped to the
station, as the traffic waited, there came a certain flow in the
opposite direction. The 4:15 train had come in. People were struggling
along with luggage, children were running with spades and buckets, cabs
were crawling along with families: it was the seaside people coming
home. Alvina watched the two crowds mingle.
And as she watched she saw two men, one carrying a mandoline case and a
suit-case which she knew. It was Ciccio. She did not know the other
man; some theatrical individual. The two men halted almost near the
car, to watch the band go by. Alvina saw Ciccio quite near to her. She
would have liked to squirt water down his brown, handsome, oblivious
neck. She felt she hated him. He stood there, watching the music, his
lips curling in his faintly-derisive Italian manner, as he talked to
the other man. His eyelashes were as long and dark as ever, his eyes
had still the attractive look of being set in with a smutty finger. He
had got the same brownish suit on, which she disliked, the same black
hat set slightly, jauntily over one eye. He looked common: and yet with
that peculiar southern aloofness which gave him a certain beauty and
distinction in her eyes. She felt she hated him, rather. She felt she
had been let down by him.
The band had passed. A child ran against the wheel of the standing car.
Alvina suddenly reached forward and made a loud, screeching flourish on
the hooter. Every one looked round, including the laden, tramping
soldiers.
“We can’t move yet,” said Dr. Mitchell.
But Alvina was looking at Ciccio at that moment. He had turned with the
rest, looking inquiringly at the car. And his quick eyes, the whites of
which showed so white against his duskiness, the yellow pupils so
non-human, met hers with a quick flash of recognition. His mouth began
to curl in a smile of greeting. But she stared at him without moving a
muscle, just blankly stared, abstracting every scrap of feeling, even
of animosity or coldness, out of her gaze. She saw the smile die on his
lips, his eyes glance sideways, and again sideways, with that curious
animal shyness which characterized him. It was as if he did not want to
see her looking at him, and ran from side to side like a caged weasel,
avoiding her blank, glaucous look.
She turned pleasantly to Dr. Mitchell.
“What did you say?” she asked sweetly.