She wondered if she ought to appear before the board in uniform. Her nurse’s dresses were packed in her trunk at Mrs. Slaney’s, in Woodhouse. It was now May. The whole business at Woodhouse was finished. Manchester House and all the furniture was sold to some boot-and-shoe people: at least the boot-and-shoe people had the house. They had given four thousand pounds for it—which was above the lawyer’s estimate. On the other hand, the theatre was sold for almost nothing. It all worked out that some thirty-three pounds, which the creditors made up to fifty pounds, remained for Alvina. She insisted on Miss Pinnegar’s having half of this. And so that was all over. Miss Pinnegar was already in Tamworth, and her little shop would be opened next week. She wrote happily and excitedly about it.
Sometimes fate acts swiftly and without a hitch. On Thursday Alvina received her notice that she was to appear before the Board on the following Monday. And yet she could not bring herself to speak of it to Madame till the Saturday evening. When they were all at supper, she said:
“Madame, I applied for a post of maternity nurse, to the Borough of Lancaster.”
Madame raised her eyebrows. Ciccio had said nothing.
“Oh really! You never told me.”
“I thought it would be no use if it all came to nothing. They want me to go and see them on Monday, and then they will decide—”
“Really! Do they! On Monday? And then if you get this work you will stay here? Yes?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Of course! Of course! Yes! H’m! And if not?”
The two women looked at each other.
“What?” said Alvina.
“If you don’t get it—! You are not sure?”
“No,” said Alvina. “I am not a bit sure.”
“Well then—! Now! And if you don’t get it—?”
“What shall I do, you mean?”
“Yes, what shall you do?”
“I don’t know.”
“How! you don’t know! Shall you come back to us, then?”
“I will if you like—”
“If I like! If I like! Come, it is not a question of if I like. It is what do you want to do yourself.”
“I feel you don’t want me very badly,” said Alvina.
“Why? Why do you feel? Who makes you? Which of us makes you feel so? Tell me.”
“Nobody in particular. But I feel it.”
“Oh we‑ell! If nobody makes you, and yet you feel it, it must be in yourself, don’t you see? Eh? Isn’t it so?”
“Perhaps it is,” admitted Alvina.
“We‑ell then! We‑ell—” So Madame gave her her congé. “But if you like to come back—if you laike—then—” Madame shrugged her shoulders—“you must come, I suppose.”
“Thank you,” said Alvina.
The young men were watching. They seemed indifferent. Ciccio turned aside, with his faint, stupid smile.
In the morning Madame gave Alvina all her belongings, from the little safe she called her bank.
“There is the money—so—and so—and so—that is correct. Please count it once more!—” Alvina counted it and kept it clutched in her hand. “And there are your rings, and your chain, and your locket—see—all—everything—! But not the brooch. Where is the brooch? Here! Shall I give it back, hein?”
“I gave it to you,” said Alvina, offended. She looked into Madame’s black eyes. Madame dropped her eyes.
“Yes, you gave it. But I thought, you see, as you have now not much mo‑oney, perhaps you would like to take it again—”
“No, thank you,” said Alvina, and she went away, leaving Madame with the red brooch in her plump hand.
“Thank goodness I’ve given her something valuable,” thought Alvina to herself, as she went trembling to her room.
She had packed her bag. She had to find new rooms. She bade goodbye to the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras. Her face was cold and distant, but she smiled slightly as she bade them goodbye.
“And perhaps,” said Madame, “per‑haps you will come to Wigan tomorrow afternoon—or evening? Yes?”
“Thank you,” said Alvina.
She went out and found a little hotel, where she took her room for the night, explaining the cause of her visit to Lancaster. Her heart was hard and burning. A deep, burning, silent anger against everything possessed her, and a profound indifference to mankind.
And therefore, the next day, everything went as if by magic. She had decided that at the least sign of indifference from the medical board people she would walk away, take her bag, and go to Windermere. She had never been to the Lakes. And Windermere was not far off. She would not endure one single hint of contumely from anyone else. She would go straight to Windermere, to see the big lake. Why not do as she wished! She could be quite happy by herself among the lakes. And she would be absolutely free, absolutely free. She rather looked forward to leaving the Town Hall, hurrying to take her bag and off to the station and freedom. Hadn’t she still got about a hundred pounds? Why bother for one moment? To be quite alone in the whole world—and quite, quite free, with her hundred pounds—the prospect attracted her sincerely.
And therefore, everything went charmingly at the Town Hall. The medical board were charming to her—charming. There was no hesitation at all. From the first moment she was engaged. And she was given a pleasant room in a hospital in a garden, and the matron was charming to her, and the doctors most courteous.
When could she undertake to commence her duties? When did they want her? The very moment she could come. She could begin tomorrow—but she had no uniform. Oh, the matron would lend her uniform and aprons, till her box arrived.
So there she was—by afternoon installed in her pleasant little room looking on the garden, and dressed in a nurse’s uniform. It was all sudden like magic. She had wired to Madame, she had wired for her box. She was another person.
Needless to say, she was
