Whatever else she did, she must go back and pack. She must pack her two boxes, and leave them ready. For she felt that once she had left, she could never come back to Woodhouse again. If England had cliffs all round—why, when there was nowhere else to go and no getting beyond, she could walk over one of the cliffs. Meanwhile, she had her short run before her. She banked hard on her independence.
So she turned back to the town. She would not be able to take the twelve-forty train, for it was already midday. But she was glad. She wanted some time to herself. She would send Ciccio on. Slowly she climbed the familiar hill—slowly—and rather bitterly. She felt her native place insulted her: and she felt the Natchas insulted her. In the midst of the insult she remained isolated upon herself, and she wished to be alone.
She found Ciccio waiting at the end of the yard: eternally waiting, it seemed. He was impatient.
“You’ve been a long time,” he said.
“Yes,” she answered.
“We shall have to make haste to catch the train.”
“I can’t go by this train. I shall have to come on later. You can just eat a mouthful of lunch, and go now.”
They went indoors. Miss Pinnegar had not yet come down. Mrs. Rollings was busily peeling potatoes.
“Mr. Marasca is going by the train, he’ll have to have a little cold meat,” said Alvina. “Would you mind putting it ready while I go upstairs?”
“Sharpses and Fullbankses sent them bills,” said Mrs. Rollings. Alvina opened them, and turned pale. It was thirty pounds, the total funeral expenses. She had completely forgotten them.
“And Mr. Atterwell wants to know what you’d like put on th’ headstone for your father—if you’d write it down.”
“All right.”
Mrs. Rollings popped on the potatoes for Miss Pinnegar’s dinner, and spread the cloth for Ciccio. When he was eating, Miss Pinnegar came in. She inquired for Alvina—and went upstairs.
“Have you had your dinner?” she said. For there was Alvina sitting writing a letter.
“I’m going by a later train,” said Alvina.
“Both of you?”
“No. He’s going now.”
Miss Pinnegar came downstairs again, and went through to the scullery. When Alvina came down, she returned to the living room.
“Give this letter to Madame,” Alvina said to Ciccio. “I shall be at the hall by seven tonight. I shall go straight there.”
“Why can’t you come now?” said Ciccio.
“I can’t possibly,” said Alvina. “The lawyer has just told me father’s debts come to much more than everything is worth. Nothing is ours—not even the plate you’re eating from. Everything is under seal to be sold to pay off what is owing. So I’ve got to get my own clothes and boots together, or they’ll be sold with the rest. Mr. Beeby wants you to go round at seven this evening, Miss Pinnegar—before I forget.”
“Really!” gasped Miss Pinnegar. “Really! The house and the furniture and everything got to be sold up? Then we’re on the streets! I can’t believe it.”
“So he told me,” said Alvina.
“But how positively awful,” said Miss Pinnegar, sinking motionless into a chair.
“It’s not more than I expected,” said Alvina. “I’m putting my things into my two trunks, and I shall just ask Mrs. Slaney to store them for me. Then I’ve the bag I shall travel with.”
“Really!” gasped Miss Pinnegar. “I can’t believe it! And when have we got to get out?”
“Oh, I don’t think there’s a desperate hurry. They’ll take an inventory of all the things, and we can live on here till they’re actually ready for the sale.”
“And when will that be?”
“I don’t know. A week or two.”
“And is the cinematograph to be sold the same?”
“Yes—everything! The piano—even mother’s portrait—”
“It’s impossible to believe it,” said Miss Pinnegar. “It’s impossible. He can never have left things so bad.”
“Ciccio,” said Alvina. “You’ll really have to go if you are to catch the train. You’ll give Madame my letter, won’t you? I should hate you to miss the train. I know she can’t bear me already, for all the fuss and upset I cause.”
Ciccio rose slowly, wiping his mouth.
“You’ll be there at seven o’clock?” he said.
“At the theatre,” she replied.
And without more ado, he left.
Mrs. Rollings came in.
“You’ve heard?” said Miss Pinnegar dramatically.
“I heard somethink,” said Mrs. Rollings.
“Sold up! Everything to be sold up. Every stick and rag! I never thought I should live to see the day,” said Miss Pinnegar.
“You might almost have expected it,” said Mrs. Rollings. “But you’re all right, yourself, Miss Pinnegar. Your money isn’t with his, is it?”
“No,” said Miss Pinnegar. “What little I have put by is safe. But it’s not enough to live on. It’s not enough to keep me, even supposing I only live another ten years. If I only spend a pound a week, it costs fifty-two pounds a year. And for ten years, look at it, it’s five hundred and twenty pounds. And you couldn’t say less. And I haven’t half that amount. I never had more than a wage, you know. Why, Miss Frost earned a good deal more than I do. And she didn’t leave much more than fifty. Where’s the money to come from—?”
“But if you’ve enough to start a little business—” said Alvina.
“Yes, it’s what I shall have to do. It’s what I shall have to do. And then what about you? What about you?”
“Oh, don’t bother about me,” said Alvina.
“Yes, it’s all very well, don’t bother. But when you come to my age, you know you’ve got to bother, and bother a great deal, if you’re not going to find yourself in a position you’d be sorry for. You have to bother. And you’ll have to bother before you’ve done.”
“Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,” said Alvina.
“Ha, sufficient for a good many days, it seems to me.”
Miss Pinnegar was in a real temper. To Alvina this seemed an odd way of taking it.
