The man was quite nicely dressed, in the regulation tweed jacket and flannel trousers and brown shoes. He was even rather smart, judging from his yellow socks and yellow-and-brown tie. Miss Pinnegar eyed him with approval when she came in.
“Good evening!” she said, just a trifle condescendingly, as she shook hands. “How do you find Woodhouse, after being away so long?” Her way of speaking was so quiet, as if she hardly spoke aloud.
“Well,” he answered. “I find it the same in many ways.”
“You wouldn’t like to settle here again?”
“I don’t think I should. It feels a little cramped, you know, after a new country. But it has its attractions.” Here he smiled meaningful.
“Yes,” said Miss Pinnegar. “I suppose the old connections count for something.”
“They do. Oh decidedly they do. There’s no associations like the old ones.” He smiled flatly as he looked towards Alvina.
“You find it so, do you!” returned Miss Pinnegar. “You don’t find that the new connections make up for the old?”
“Not altogether, they don’t. There’s something missing—” Again he looked towards Alvina. But she did not answer his look.
“Well,” said Miss Pinnegar. “I’m glad we still count for something, in spite of the greater attractions. How long have you in England?”
“Another year. Just a year. This time next year I expect I shall be sailing back to the Cape.” He smiled as if in anticipation. Yet it was hard to believe that it mattered to him—or that anything mattered.
“And is Oxford agreeable to you?” she asked.
“Oh, yes. I keep myself busy.”
“What are your subjects?” asked James.
“English and History. But I do mental science for my own interest.”
Alvina had taken up a piece of sewing. She sat under the light, brooding a little. What had all this to do with her. The man talked on, and beamed in her direction. And she felt a little important. But moved or touched?—not the least in the world.
She wondered if anyone would ask him to supper—bread and cheese and currant-loaf, and water, was all that was offered. No one asked him, and at last he rose.
“Show Mr. Witham out through the shop, Alvina,” said Miss Pinnegar.
Alvina piloted the man through the long, dark, encumbered way of the shop. At the door he said:
“You’ve never said whether you’re coming to tea on Thursday.”
“I don’t think I can,” said Alvina.
He seemed rather taken aback.
“Why?” he said. “What stops you?”
“I’ve so much to do.”
He smiled slowly and satirically.
“Won’t it keep?” he said.
“No, really. I can’t come on Thursday—thank you so much. Good night!” She gave him her hand and turned quickly into the shop, closing the door. He remained standing in the porch, staring at the closed door. Then, lifting his lip, he turned away.
“Well,” said Miss Pinnegar decidedly, as Alvina reentered. “You can say what you like—but I think he’s very pleasant, very pleasant.”
“Extremely intelligent,” said James Houghton, shifting in his chair.
“I was awfully bored,” said Alvina.
They both looked at her, irritated.
After this she really did what she could to avoid him. When she saw him sauntering down the street in all his leisure, a sort of anger possessed her. On Sunday, she slipped down from the choir into the chapel, and out through the main entrance, whilst he awaited her at the small exit. And by good luck, when he called one evening in the week, she was out. She returned down the yard. And there, through the uncurtained window, she saw him sitting awaiting her. Without a thought, she turned on her heel and fled away. She did not come in till he had gone.
“How late you are!” said Miss Pinnegar. “Mr. Witham was here till ten minutes ago.”
“Yes,” laughed Alvina. “I came down the yard and saw him. So I went back till he’d gone.”
Miss Pinnegar looked at her in displeasure:
“I suppose you know your own mind,” she said.
“How do you explain such behaviour?” said her father pettishly.
“I didn’t want to meet him,” she said.
The next evening was Saturday. Alvina had inherited Miss Frost’s task of attending to the chapel flowers once a quarter. She had been round the gardens of her friends, and gathered the scarlet and hot yellow and purple flowers of August, asters, red stocks, tall Japanese sunflowers, coreopsis, geraniums. With these in her basket she slipped out towards evening, to the chapel. She knew Mr. Calladine, the caretaker would not lock up till she had been.
The moment she got inside the chapel—it was a big, airy, pleasant building—she heard hammering from the organ-loft, and saw the flicker of a candle. Some workman busy before Sunday. She shut the baize door behind her, and hurried across to the vestry, for vases, then out to the tap, for water. All was warm and still.
It was full early evening. The yellow light streamed through the side windows, the big stained-glass window at the end was deep and full of glowing colour, in which the yellows and reds were richest. Above in the organ-loft the hammering continued. She arranged her flowers in many vases, till the communion table was like the window, a tangle of strong yellow, and crimson, and purple, and bronze-green. She tried to keep the effect light and kaleidoscopic, an interplay of tossed pieces of strong, hot colour, vibrating and lightly intermingled. It was very gorgeous, for a communion table. But the day of white lilies was over.
Suddenly there was a terrific crash and bang and tumble, up in the organ-loft, followed by a cursing.
“Are you hurt?” called Alvina, looking up into space. The candle had disappeared.
But there was no reply. Feeling curious, she went out of the chapel to the stairs in the side porch, and ran up to the organ. She went round the side—and there she saw a
