“That gives you what for,” he said, as if it were her fault.
“Is the bandage holding?” she said.
“I think so,” he answered churlishly.
“Aren’t you going to make sure?” she said.
“Oh, it’s all right,” he said, turning aside and taking up his tools. “I’ll make my way home.”
“So will I,” she answered.
She took the candle and went a little in front. He hurried into his coat and gathered his tools, anxious to get away. She faced him, holding the candle.
“Look at my hand,” she said, holding it out. It was smeared with blood, as was the cuff of her dress—a black-and-white striped cotton dress.
“Is it hurt?” he said.
“No, but look at it. Look here!” She showed the bloodstains on her dress.
“It’ll wash out,” he said, frightened of her.
“Yes, so it will. But for the present it’s there. Don’t you think you ought to thank me?”
He recoiled a little.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m very much obliged.”
“You ought to be more than that,” she said.
He did not answer, but looked her up and down.
“We’ll be going down,” he said. “We s’ll have folks talking.”
Suddenly she began to laugh. It seemed so comical. What a position! The candle shook as she laughed. What a man, answering her like a little automaton! Seriously, quite seriously he said it to her—“We s’ll have folks talking!” She laughed in a breathless, hurried way, as they tramped downstairs.
At the bottom of the stairs Calladine, the caretaker, met them. He was a tall thin man with a black moustache—about fifty years old.
“Have you done for tonight, all of you?” he said, grinning in echo to Alvina’s still fluttering laughter.
“That’s a nice rotten pair of steps you’ve got up there for a deathtrap,” said Arthur angrily. “Come down on top of me, and I’m lucky I haven’t got my leg broken. It is near enough.”
“Come down with you, did they?” said Calladine good-humouredly. “I never knowed ’em come down wi’ me.”
“You ought to, then. My leg’s as near broke as it can be.”
“What, have you hurt yourself?”
“I should think I have. Look here—” And he began to pull up his trouser leg. But Alvina had given the candle to Calladine, and fled. She had a last view of Arthur stooping over his precious leg, while Calladine stooped his length and held down the candle.
When she got home she took off her dress and washed herself hard and washed the stained sleeve, thoroughly, thoroughly, and threw away the wash water and rinsed the washbowls with fresh water, scrupulously. Then she dressed herself in her black dress once more, did her hair, and went downstairs.
But she could not sew—and she could not settle down. It was Saturday evening, and her father had opened the shop, Miss Pinnegar had gone to Knarborough. She would be back at nine o’clock. Alvina set about to make a mock woodcock, or a mock something or other, with cheese and an egg and bits of toast. Her eyes were dilated and as if amused, mocking, her face quivered a little with irony that was not all enjoyable.
“I’m glad you’ve come,” said Alvina, as Miss Pinnegar entered. “The supper’s just done. I’ll ask father if he’ll close the shop.”
Of course James would not close the shop, though he was merely wasting light. He nipped in to eat his supper, and started out again with a mouthful the moment he heard the ping of the bell. He kept his customers chatting as long as he could. His love for conversation had degenerated into a spasmodic passion for chatter.
Alvina looked across at Miss Pinnegar, as the two sat at the meagre supper-table. Her eyes were dilated and arched with a mocking, almost satanic look.
“I’ve made up my mind about Albert Witham,” said Alvina. Miss Pinnegar looked at her.
“Which way?” she asked, demurely, but a little sharp.
“It’s all off,” said Alvina, breaking into a nervous laugh.
“Why? What has happened?”
“Nothing has happened. I can’t stand him.”
“Why?—suddenly—” said Miss Pinnegar.
“It’s not sudden,” laughed Alvina. “Not at all. I can’t stand him. I never could. And I won’t try. There! Isn’t that plain?” And she went off into her hurried laugh, partly at herself, partly at Arthur, partly at Albert, partly at Miss Pinnegar.
“Oh, well, if you’re so sure—” said Miss Pinnegar rather bitingly.
“I am quite sure—” said Alvina. “I’m quite certain.”
“Cocksure people are often most mistaken,” said Miss Pinnegar.
“I’d rather have my own mistakes than somebody else’s rights,” said Alvina.
“Then don’t expect anybody to pay for your mistakes,” said Miss Pinnegar.
“It would be all the same if I did,” said Alvina.
When she lay in bed, she stared at the light of the streetlamp on the wall. She was thinking busily: but heaven knows what she was thinking. She had sharpened the edge of her temper. She was waiting till tomorrow. She was waiting till she saw Albert Witham. She wanted to finish off with him. She was keen to cut clean through any correspondence with him. She stared for many hours at the light of the streetlamp, and there was a narrowed look in her eyes.
The next day she did not go to Morning Service, but stayed at home to cook the dinner. In the evening she sat in her place in the choir. In the Withams’ pew sat Lottie and Albert—no Arthur. Albert kept glancing up. Alvina could not bear the sight of him—she simply could not bear the sight of him. Yet in her low, sweet voice she sang the alto to the hymns, right to the vesper:
“Lord keep us safe this night
Secure from all our fears,
May angels guard us while we sleep
Till morning light appears—”
As she sang her alto, and as the soft and emotional harmony of the vesper swelled luxuriously through the chapel, she was peeping over her folded hands at Lottie’s hat. She could not bear Lottie’s hats. There was something aggressive and vulgar about them. And she simply detested the look of the back
