Ciccio, the marasca, the bitter cherry, was standing on the edge of the crowd, looking on. He had no connection whatever with the proceedings—stood outside, self-conscious, uncomfortable, bitten by the wind, and hating the people who stared at him. He saw the trim, plump figure of Madame, like some trim plump partridge among a flock of barnyard fowls. And he depended on her presence. Without her, he would have felt too horribly uncomfortable on that raw hillside. She and he were in some way allied. But these others, how alien and uncouth he felt them. Impressed by their fine clothes, the English working-classes were none the less barbarians to him, uncivilized: just as he was to them an uncivilized animal. Uncouth, they seemed to him, all raw angles and harshness, like their own weather. Not that he thought about them. But he felt it in his flesh, the harshness and discomfort of them. And Alvina was one of them. As she stood there by the grave, pale and pinched and reserved looking, she was of a piece with the hideous cold grey discomfort of the whole scene. Never had anything been more uncongenial to him. He was dying to get away—to clear out. That was all he wanted. Only some southern obstinacy made him watch, from the duskiness of his face, the pale, reserved girl at the grave. Perhaps he even disliked her, at that time. But he watched in his dislike.
When the ceremony was over, and the mourners turned away to go back to the cabs, Madame pressed forward to Alvina.
“I shall say goodbye now, Miss Houghton. We must go to the station for the train. And thank you, thank you. Goodbye.”
“But—” Alvina looked round.
“Ciccio is there. I see him. We must catch the train.”
“Oh but—won’t you drive? Won’t you ask Ciccio to drive with you in the cab? Where is he?”
Madame pointed him out as he hung back among the graves, his black hat cocked a little on one side. He was watching. Alvina broke away from her cousin, and went to him.
“Madame is going to drive to the station,” she said. “She wants you to get in with her.”
He looked round at the cabs.
“All right,” he said, and he picked his way across the graves to Madame, following Alvina.
“So, we go together in the cab,” said Madame to him. Then: “Goodbye, my dear Miss Houghton. Perhaps we shall meet once more. Who knows? My heart is with you, my dear.” She put her arms round Alvina and kissed her, a little theatrically. The cousin looked on, very much aloof. Ciccio stood by.
“Come then, Ciccio,” said Madame.
“Goodbye,” said Alvina to him. “You’ll come again, won’t you?” She looked at him from her strained, pale face.
“All right,” he said, shaking her hand loosely. It sounded hopelessly indefinite.
“You will come, won’t you?” she repeated, staring at him with strained, unseeing blue eyes.
“All right,” he said, ducking and turning away.
She stood quite still for a moment, quite lost. Then she went on with her cousin to her cab, home to the funeral tea.
“Goodbye!” Madame fluttered a black-edged handkerchief. But Ciccio, most uncomfortable in his four-wheeler, kept hidden.
The funeral tea, with its baked meats and sweets, was a terrible affair. But it came to an end, as everything comes to an end, and Miss Pinnegar and Alvina were left alone in the emptiness of Manchester House.
“If you weren’t here, Miss Pinnegar, I should be quite by myself,” said Alvina, blanched and strained.
“Yes. And so should I without you,” said Miss Pinnegar doggedly. They looked at each other. And that night both slept in Miss Pinnegar’s bed, out of sheer terror of the empty house.
During the days following the funeral, no one could have been more tiresome than Alvina. James had left everything to his daughter, excepting some rights in the workshop, which were Miss Pinnegar’s. But the question was, how much did “everything” amount to? There was something less than a hundred pounds in the bank. There was a mortgage on Manchester House. There were substantial bills owing on account of the Endeavour. Alvina had about a hundred pounds left from the insurance money, when all funeral expenses were paid. Of that she was sure, and of nothing else.
For the rest, she was almost driven mad by people coming to talk to her. The lawyer came, the clergyman came, her cousin came, the old, stout, prosperous tradesmen of Woodhouse came, Mr. May came, Miss Pinnegar came. And they all had schemes, and they all had advice. The chief plan was that the theatre should be sold up: and that Manchester House should be sold, reserving a lease on the top floor, where Miss Pinnegar’s workrooms were: that Miss Pinnegar and Alvina should move into a small house, Miss Pinnegar keeping the workroom, Alvina giving music-lessons: that the two women should be partners in the workshop.
There were other plans, of course. There was a faction against the chapel faction, which favoured the plan sketched out above. The theatre faction, including Mr. May and some of the more florid tradesmen, favoured the risking of everything in the Endeavour. Alvina was to be the proprietress of the Endeavour, she was to run it on some sort of successful lines, and abandon all other enterprise. Minor plans included the election of
