“Oh, good evening!” said James, letting Alvina pass, and shutting the door in Albert’s face.
“Who was that?” he asked her sharply.
“Albert Witham,” she replied.
“What has he got to do with you?” said James shrewishly.
“Nothing, I hope.”
She fled into the obscurity of Manchester House, out of the grey summer evening. The Withams threw her off her pivot, and made her feel she was not herself. She felt she didn’t know, she couldn’t feel, she was just scattered and decentralized. And she was rather afraid of the Witham brothers. She might be their victim. She intended to avoid them.
The following days she saw Albert, in his Norfolk jacket and flannel trousers and his straw hat, strolling past several times and looking in through the shop door and up at the upper windows. But she hid herself thoroughly. When she went out, it was by the back way. So she avoided him.
But on Sunday evening, there he sat, rather stiff and brittle in the old Withams’ pew, his head pressed a little back, so that his face and neck seemed slightly flattened. He wore very low, turndown starched collars that showed all his neck. And he kept looking up at her during the service—she sat in the choir-loft—gazing up at her with apparently lovelorn eyes and a faint, intimate smile—the sort of je-sais-tout look of a private swain. Arthur also occasionally cast a judicious eye on her, as if she were a chimney that needed repairing, and he must estimate the cost, and whether it was worth it.
Sure enough, as she came out through the narrow choir gate into Knarborough Road, there was Albert stepping forward like a policeman, and saluting her and smiling down on her.
“I don’t know if I’m presuming—” he said, in a mock deferential way that showed he didn’t imagine he could presume.
“Oh, not at all,” said Alvina airily. He smiled with assurance.
“You haven’t got any engagement, then, for this evening?” he said.
“No,” she replied simply.
“We might take a walk. What do you think?” he said, glancing down the road in either direction.
What, after all, was she to think? All the girls were pairing off with the boys for the after-chapel stroll and spoon.
“I don’t mind,” she said. “But I can’t go far. I’ve got to be in at nine.”
“Which way shall we go?” he said.
He steered off, turned downhill through the common gardens, and proposed to take her the not-very-original walk up Flint’s Lane, and along the railway line—the colliery railway, that is—then back up the Marlpool Road: a sort of circle. She agreed.
They did not find a great deal to talk about. She questioned him about his plans, and about the Cape. But save for bare outlines, which he gave readily enough, he was rather close.
“What do you do on Sunday nights as a rule?” he asked her.
“Oh, I have a walk with Lucy Grainger—or I go down to Hallam’s—or go home,” she answered.
“You don’t go walks with the fellows, then?”
“Father would never have it,” she replied.
“What will he say now?” he asked, with self-satisfaction.
“Goodness knows!” she laughed.
“Goodness usually does,” he answered archly.
When they came to the rather stumbly railway, he said:
“Won’t you take my arm?”—offering her the said member.
“Oh, I’m all right,” she said. “Thanks.”
“Go on,” he said, pressing a little nearer to her, and offering his arm. “There’s nothing against it, is there?”
“Oh, it’s not that,” she said.
And feeling in a false position, she took his arm, rather unwillingly. He drew a little nearer to her, and walked with a slight prance.
“We get on better, don’t we?” he said, giving her hand the tiniest squeeze with his arm against his side.
“Much!” she replied, with a laugh.
Then he lowered his voice oddly.
“It’s many a day since I was on this railroad,” he said.
“Is this one of your old walks?” she asked, malicious.
“Yes, I’ve been it once or twice—with girls that are all married now.”
“Didn’t you want to marry?” she asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. I may have done. But it never came off, somehow. I’ve sometimes thought it never would come off.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, exactly. It didn’t seem to, you know. Perhaps neither of us was properly inclined.”
“I should think so,” she said.
“And yet,” he admitted slyly, “I should like to marry—” To this she did not answer.
“Shouldn’t you?” he continued.
“When I meet the right man,” she laughed.
“That’s it,” he said. “There, that’s just it! And you haven’t met him?” His voice seemed smiling with a sort of triumph, as if he had caught her out.
“Well—once I thought I had—when I was engaged to Alexander.”
“But you found you were mistaken?” he insisted.
“No. Mother was so ill at the time—”
“There’s always something to consider,” he said.
She kept on wondering what she should do if he wanted to kiss her. The mere incongruity of such a desire on his part formed a problem. Luckily, for this evening he formulated no desire, but left her in the shop-door soon after nine, with the request:
“I shall see you in the week, shan’t I?”
“I’m not sure. I can’t promise now,” she said hurriedly. “Good night.”
What she felt chiefly about him was a decentralized perplexity, very much akin to no feeling at all.
“Who do you think took me for a walk, Miss Pinnegar?” she said, laughing, to her confidante.
“I can’t imagine,” replied Miss Pinnegar, eyeing her.
“You never would imagine,” said Alvina. “Albert Witham.”
“Albert Witham!” exclaimed Miss Pinnegar, standing quite motionless.
“It may well take your breath away,” said Alvina.
“No, it’s not that!” hurriedly expostulated Miss Pinnegar. “Well—! Well, I declare!—” and then, on a new note: “Well, he’s very eligible, I think.”
“Most eligible!” replied Alvina.
“Yes, he is,” insisted Miss Pinnegar. “I think it’s very good.”
“What’s very good?” asked Alvina.
Miss Pinnegar hesitated. She looked at Alvina. She reconsidered.
“Of course he’s not the man I should have imagined for you, but—”
“You think he’ll do?” said Alvina.
“Why not?” said Miss Pinnegar. “Why shouldn’t he do—if you like him.”
“Ah—!” cried Alvina, sinking on the
