“But whatever you do,” pronounced Miss Pinnegar; “whatever you do, and however you strive, in this life, you’re knocked down in the end. You’re always knocked down.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Alvina, “if it’s only in the end. It doesn’t matter if you’ve had your life.”
“You’ve never had your life, till you’re dead,” said Miss Pinnegar. “And if you work and strive, you’ve a right to the fruits of your work.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Alvina laconically, “so long as you’ve enjoyed working and striving.”
But Miss Pinnegar was too angry to be philosophic. Alvina knew it was useless to be either angry or otherwise emotional. None the less, she also felt as if she had been knocked down. And she almost envied poor Miss Pinnegar the prospect of a little, day-by-day haberdashery shop in Tamworth. Her own problem seemed so much more menacing. “Answer or die,” said the sphinx of fate. Miss Pinnegar could answer her own fate according to its question. She could say “haberdashery shop,” and her sphinx would recognize this answer as true to nature, and would be satisfied. But every individual has his own, or her own fate, and her own sphinx. Alvina’s sphinx was an old, deep thoroughbred, she would take no mongrel answers. And her thoroughbred teeth were long and sharp. To Alvina, the last of the fantastic but purebred race of Houghton, the problem of her fate was terribly abstruse.
The only thing to do was not to solve it: to stray on, and answer fate with whatever came into one’s head. No good striving with fate. Trust to a lucky shot, or take the consequences.
“Miss Pinnegar,” said Alvina. “Have we any money in hand?”
“There is about twenty pounds in the bank. It’s all shown in my books,” said Miss Pinnegar.
“We couldn’t take it, could we?”
“Every penny shows in the books.”
Alvina pondered again.
“Are there more bills to come in?” she asked. “I mean my bills. Do I owe anything?”
“I don’t think you do,” said Miss Pinnegar.
“I’m going to keep the insurance money, anyway. They can say what they like. I’ve got it, and I’m going to keep it.”
“Well,” said Miss Pinnegar, “it’s not my business. But there’s Sharps and Fullbanks to pay.”
“I’ll pay those,” said Alvina. “You tell Atterwell what to put on father’s stone. How much does it cost?”
“Five shillings a letter, you remember.”
“Well, we’ll just put the name and the date. How much will that be? James Houghton. Born 17th January—”
“You’ll have to put ‘Also of,’ ” said Miss Pinnegar.
“Also of—” said Alvina. “One—two—three—four—five—six—. Six letters—thirty shillings. Seems an awful lot for Also of—”
“But you can’t leave it out,” said Miss Pinnegar. “You can’t economize over that.”
“I begrudge it,” said Alvina.
XI
Honourable Engagement
For days, after joining the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras, Alvina was very quiet, subdued, and rather remote, sensible of her humiliating position as a hanger-on. They none of them took much notice of her. They drifted on, rather disjointedly. The cordiality, the joie de vivre did not revive. Madame was a little irritable, and very exacting, and inclined to be spiteful. Ciccio went his way with Geoffrey.
In the second week, Madame found out that a man had been surreptitiously inquiring about them at their lodgings, from the landlady and the landlady’s blowsy daughter. It must have been a detective—some shoddy detective. Madame waited. Then she sent Max over to Mansfield, on some fictitious errand. Yes, the lousy-looking dogs of detectives had been there too, making the most minute enquiries as to the behaviour of the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras, what they did, how their sleeping was arranged, how Madame addressed the men, what attitude the men took towards Alvina.
Madame waited again. And again, when they moved to Doncaster, the same two mongrel-looking fellows were lurking in the street, and plying the inmates of their lodging-house with questions. All the Natchas caught sight of the men. And Madame cleverly wormed out of the righteous and respectable landlady what the men had asked. Once more it was about the sleeping accommodation—whether the landlady heard anything in the night—whether she noticed anything in the bedrooms, in the beds.
No doubt about it, the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras were under suspicion. They were being followed, and watched. What for? Madame made a shrewd guess. “They want to say we are immoral foreigners,” she said.
“But what have our personal morals got to do with them?” said Max angrily.
“Yes—but the English! They are so pure,” said Madame.
“You know,” said Louis, “somebody must have put them up to it—”
“Perhaps,” said Madame, “somebody on account of Allaye.”
Alvina went white.
“Yes,” said Geoffrey. “White Slave Traffic! Mr. May said it.”
Madame slowly nodded.
“Mr. May!” she said. “Mr. May! It is he. He knows all about morals—and immorals. Yes, I know. Yes—yes—yes! He suspects all our immoral doings, mes braves.”
“But there aren’t any, except mine,” cried Alvina, pale to the lips.
“You! You! There you are!” Madame smiled archly, and rather mockingly.
“What are we to do?” said Max, pale on the cheekbones.
“Curse them! Curse them!” Louis was muttering, in his rolling accent.
“Wait,” said Madame. “Wait. They will not do anything to us. You are only dirty foreigners, mes braves. At the most they will ask us only to leave their pure country.”
“We don’t interfere with none of them,” cried Max.
“Curse them,” muttered Louis.
“Never mind, mon cher. You are in a pure country. Let us wait.”
“If you think it’s me,” said Alvina, “I can go away.”
“Oh, my dear, you are only the excuse,” said Madame, smiling indulgently at her. “Let us wait, and see.”
She took it smilingly. But her cheeks were white as paper, and her eyes black as drops of ink, with anger.
“Wait and see!” she chanted ironically. “Wait and see! If we must leave the dear country—then adieu!” And she gravely bowed to an imaginary England.
“I feel it’s my fault. I feel I ought to go away,” cried Alvina, who was terribly distressed, seeing Madame’s glitter
