“Why should things always go up? Why should life always go up?” said Alvina.
“I don’t know,” said Madame, cutting her meat quickly. There was a pause.
“And what about other names,” interrupted Miss Pinnegar, a little lofty. “What about Houghton, for example?”
Madame put down her fork, but kept her knife in her hand. She looked across the room, not at Miss Pinnegar.
“Houghton — ! Huff-ton!” she said. “When it is said, it has a sound _against:_ that is, against the neighbour, against humanity. But when it is written _Hough-ton_! then it is different, it is for.”
“It is always pronounced _Huff-ton_,” said Miss Pinnegar.
“By us,” said Alvina.
“We ought to know,” said Miss Pinnegar.
Madame turned to look at the unhappy, elderly woman. “You are a relative of the family?” she said.
“No, not a relative. But I’ve been here many years,” said Miss Pinnegar.
“Oh, yes!” said Madame. Miss Pinnegar was frightfully affronted. The meal, with the three women at table, passed painfully.
Miss Pinnegar rose to go upstairs and weep. She felt very forlorn. Alvina rose to wipe the dishes, hastily, because the funeral guests would all be coming. Madame went into the drawing-room to smoke her sly cigarette.
Mr. May was the first to turn up for the lugubrious affair: very tight and tailored, but a little extinguished, all in black. He never wore black, and was very unhappy in it, being almost morbidly sensitive to the impression the colour made on him. He was set to entertain Madame.
She did not pretend distress, but sat black-eyed and watchful, very much her business self.
“What about the theatre? — will it go on?” she asked.
“Well I don’t know. I don’t know Miss Houghton’s intentions,” said Mr. May. He was a little stilted today.
“It’s hers?” said Madame.
“Why, as far as I understand — ”
“And if she wants to sell out — ?”
Mr. May spread his hands, and looked dismal, but distant. “You should form a company, and carry on — ” said Madame.
Mr. May looked even more distant, drawing himself up in an odd fashion, so that he looked as if he were trussed. But Madame’s shrewd black eyes and busy mind did not let him off.
“Buy Miss Houghton out — ” said Madame shrewdly.
“Of cauce,” said Mr. May. “Miss Houghton herself must decide.”
“Oh sure — ! You — are you married?”
“Yes.”
“Your wife here?”
“My wife is in London.”
“And children — ?”
“A daughter.”
Madame slowly nodded her head up and down, as if she put thousands of two-and-two’s together.
“You think there will be much to come to Miss Houghton?” she said. “Do you mean property? I really can’t say. I haven’t enquired.”
“No, but you have a good idea, eh?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t.”
“No! Well! It won’t be much, then?”
“Really, I don’t know. I should say, not a large fortune — !”
“No — eh?” Madame kept him fixed with her black eyes. “Do you think the other one will get anything?”
“The other one — ?” queried Mr. May, with an uprising cadence. Madame nodded slightly towards the kitchen.
“The old one — the Miss — Miss Pin — Pinny — what you call her.”
“Miss Pinnegar! The manageress of the work-girls? Really, I don’t know at all — ” Mr. May was most freezing.
“Ha — ha! Ha — ha!” mused Madame quietly. Then she asked: “Which work-girls do you say?”
And she listened astutely to Mr. May’s forced account of the workroom upstairs, extorting all the details she desired to gather. Then there was a pause. Madame glanced round the room.
“Nice house!” she said. “Is it their own?”
“So I believe — ”
Again Madame nodded sagely. “Debts perhaps — eh? Mortgage — ” and she looked slyly sardonic.
“Really!” said Mr. May, bouncing to his feet. “Do you mind if I go to speak to Mrs. Rollings — ”
“Oh no — go along,” said Madame, and Mr. May skipped out in a temper.
Madame was left alone in her comfortable chair, studying details of the room and making accounts in her own mind, until the actual funeral guests began to arrive. And then she had the satisfaction of sizing them up. Several arrived with wreaths. The coffin had been carried down and laid in the small sitting-room — Mrs. Houghton’s sitting-room. It was covered with white wreaths and streamers of purple ribbon. There was a crush and a confusion.
And then at last the hearse and the cabs had arrived — the coffin was carried out — Alvina followed, on the arm of her father’s cousin, whom she disliked. Miss Pinnegar marshalled the other mourners. It was a wretched business.
But it was a great funeral. There were nine cabs, besides the hearse — Woodhouse had revived its ancient respect for the house of Houghton. A posse of minor tradesmen followed the cabs — all in black and with black gloves. The richer tradesmen sat in the cabs.
Poor Alvina, this was the only day in all her life when she was the centre of public attention. For once, every eye was upon her, every mind was thinking about her. Poor Alvina! said every member of the Woodhouse “middle class”: Poor Alvina Houghton, said every collier’s wife. Poor thing, left alone — and hardly a penny to bless herself with. Lucky if she’s not left with a pile of debts. James Houghton ran through some money in his day. Ay, if she had her rights she’d be a rich woman. Why, her mother brought three or four thousands with her. Ay, but James sank it all in Throttle-Ha’penny and Klondyke and the Endeavour. Well, he was his own worst enemy. He paid his way. I’m not so sure about that. Look how he served his wife, and now Alvina. I’m not so sure he was his own worst enemy. He was bad enough enemy to his own flesh and blood. Ah well, he’ll spend no more money, anyhow. No, he went sudden, didn’t he? But he was getting very frail, if you noticed. Oh yes, why he fair seemed to totter down to Lumley. Do you reckon as that place pays its way? What, the Endeavour? — they say it does. They say it makes a nice bit. Well, it’s mostly pretty full. Ay, it is. Perhaps it won’t be now Mr. Houghton’s gone. Perhaps not. I wonder if he will leave much. I’m sure he won’t. Everything he’s got’s mortgaged up to the hilt. He’ll leave debts, you see if he doesn’t. What is she going to do then? She’ll have to go out of Manchester House — her and Miss Pinnegar. Wonder what she’ll do. Perhaps she’ll take up that nursing. She never made much of that, did she — and spent a sight of money on her training, they say. She’s a bit like her father in the business line — all flukes. Pity some nice young man doesn’t turn up and marry her. I don’t know, she doesn’t seem to hook on, does she? Why she’s never had a proper boy. They make out she was engaged once. Ay, but nobody ever saw him, and it was off as soon as it was on. Can you remember she went with Albert Witham for a bit. Did she? No, I never knew. When was that? Why, when he was at Oxford, you know, learning for his head master’s place. Why didn’t she marry him then? Perhaps he never asked her. Ay, there’s that to it. She’d have looked down her nose at him, times gone by. Ay, but that’s all over, my boy. She’d snap at anybody now. Look how she carries on with that manager. Why, _that’s_ something awful. Haven’t you ever watched her in the Cinema? She never lets him alone. And it’s anybody alike. Oh, she doesn’t respect herself. I don’t consider. No girl who respected herself would go on as she does, throwing herself at every feller’s head. Does she, though? Ay, any performer or anybody. She’s a tidy age, though. She’s not much chance of getting off. How old do you reckon she is? Must be well over thirty. You never say. Well, she looks it. She does beguy — a dragged old maid. Oh but she sprightles up a bit sometimes. Ay, when she thinks she’s hooked on to somebody. I wonder why she never did take? It’s funny. Oh, she was too high
and mighty before, and now it’s too late. Nobody wants her. And she’s got no relations to go to either, has she? No, that’s her father’s cousin who she’s walking with. Look, they’re coming. He’s a fine-looking man, isn’t he? You’d have thought they’d have buried Miss Frost beside Mrs. Houghton. You would, wouldn’t you? I should think Alvina will lie by Miss Frost. They say the grave was made for both of them. Ay, she was a lot more of a mother to her than her own mother. She was good to them, Miss Frost was. Alvina thought the world of her. That’s her stone — look, down there. Not a very grand one, considering. No, it isn’t. Look, there’s room for Alvina’s name underneath. Sh! —
Alvina had sat back in the cab and watched from her obscurity the many faces on the street: so familiar, so familiar, familiar as her own face. And now she seemed to see them from a great distance, out of her darkness. Her big cousin sat opposite her — how she disliked his presence.
In chapel she cried, thinking of her mother, and Miss Frost, and her father. She felt so desolate — it all seemed so empty. Bitterly she cried, when she bent down during the prayer. And her crying started Miss Pinnegar, who cried almost as bitterly. It was all rather horrible. The afterwards — the horrible afterwards.
There was the slow progress to the cemetery. It was a dull, cold day. Alvina shivered as she stood on the bleak hillside, by the open grave. Her coat did not seem warm enough, her old black seal-skin furs were not much protection. The minister stood on the plank by the grave, and she stood near, watching the white flowers blowing in the cold wind. She had watched them for her mother — and for Miss Frost. She felt a sudden clinging to Miss Pinnegar. Yet they would have to part. Miss Pinnegar had been so fond of her father, in a quaint, reserved way. Poor Miss Pinnegar, that was all life had offered her. Well, after all, it had been a home and a home life. To which home and home life Alvina now clung with a desperate yearning, knowing inevitably she was going to lose it, now her father was gone. Strange, that he was gone. But he was weary, worn very thin and weary. He had lived his day. How different it all was, now, at his death, from the time when Alvina knew him as a little child and thought him such a fine gentleman. You live and learn and lose.
For one moment she looked at Madame, who was shuddering with cold, her face hidden behind her black spotted veil. But Madame seemed immensely remote: so unreal. And Ciccio — what was his name? She could not think of it. What was it? She tried to think of Madame’s slow enunciation. Marasca — maraschino. Marasca! Maraschino! What was maraschino? Where had she heard it. Cudgelling her brains, she remembered the doctors, and the suppers after the theatre. And maraschino — why, that was the favourite white liqueur of the innocent Dr. Young. She could remember even now the way he seemed to smack his lips, saying the word maraschino. Yet she didn’t think much of it. Hot, bitterish stuff — nothing: not like green Chartreuse, which Dr. James gave her. Maraschino! Yes, that was it. Made from cherries. Well, Ciccio’s name was nearly the same. Ridiculous! But she supposed Italian words were a good deal alike.
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 barn-yard 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 good-bye now, Miss Houghton. We must go to the station for the train. And thank you, thank you. Good-bye.”
“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.
“Good-bye,” 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.
“Good-bye!” 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 work-shop, 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 work-rooms 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 work-shop.
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 pro
prietress 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 Alvina to the post of parish nurse, at six pounds a month: a small private school; a small haberdashery shop; and a position in the office of her cousin’s Knarborough business. To one and all Alvina answered with a tantalizing: “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t know. I can’t say yet. I shall see. I shall see.” Till one and all became angry with her. They were all so benevolent, and all so sure that they were proposing the very best thing she could do. And they were all nettled, even indignant that she did not jump at their proposals. She listened to them all. She even invited their advice. Continually she said: “Well, what do you think of it?” And she repeated the chapel plan to the theatre group, the theatre plan to the chapel party, the nursing to the pianoforte proposers, the haberdashery shop to the private school advocates. “Tell me what you think,” she said repeatedly. And they all told her they thought their plan was best. And bit by bit she told every advocate the proposal of every other advocate. “Well, Lawyer Beeby thinks — ” and “Well now, Mr. Clay, the minister, advises — ” and so on and so on, till it was all buzzing through thirty benevolent and officious heads. And thirty benevolently-officious wills were striving to plant each one its own particular scheme of benevolence. And Alvina, naive and pathetic, egged them all on in their strife, without even knowing what she was doing. One thing only was certain. Some obstinate will in her own self absolutely refused to have her mind made up. She would not have her mind made up for her, and she would not make it up for herself. And so everybody began to say “I’m getting tired of her. You talk to her, and you get no forrarder. She slips off to something else. I’m not going to bother with her any more.” In truth, Woodhouse was in a fever, for three weeks or more, arranging Alvina’s unarrangeable future for her. Offers of charity were innumerable — for three weeks.
Meanwhile, the lawyer went on with the proving of the will and the drawing up of a final account of James’s property; Mr. May went on with the Endeavour, though Alvina did not go down to play; Miss Pinnegar went on with the work-girls: and Alvina went on unmaking her mind.
Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence Page 248