“Oh, Alvina, you will never bring out the cards tonight!” expostulated poor Miss Pinnegar.
“But, Miss Pinnegar, it can’t possibly hurt anybody.”
“You know what I think — and what your father thought — and your mother and Miss Frost — ”
“You see I think it’s only prejudice,” said Alvina.
“Oh very well!” said Miss Pinnegar angrily.
And closing her book, she rose and went to the other room.
Alvina brought out the cards, and a little box of pence which remained from Endeavour harvests. At that moment there was a knock. It was Mr. May. Miss Pinnegar brought him in, in triumph.
“Oh!” he said. “Company! I heard you’d come, Miss Houghton, so I hastened to pay my compliments. I didn’t know you had company. How do you do, Francesco! How do you do, Geoffrey. Comment allez-vous, alors?”
“Bien!” said Geoffrey. “You are going to take a hand?”
“Cards on Sunday evening! Dear me, what a revolution! Of course, I’m not bigoted. If Miss Houghton asks me — ”
Miss Pinnegar looked solemnly at Alvina.
“Yes, do take a hand, Mr. May,” said Alvina.
“Thank you, I will then, if I may. Especially as I see those tempting piles of pennies and ha’pennies. Who is bank, may I ask? Is Miss Pinnegar going to play too?”
But Miss Pinnegar had turned her poor, bowed back, and departed. “I’m afraid she’s offended,” said Alvina.
“But why? We don’t put her soul in danger, do we now? I’m a good Catholic, you know, I _can’t_ do with these provincial little creeds. Who deals? Do you, Miss Houghton? But I’m afraid we shall have a rather dry game? What? Isn’t that your opinion?”
The other men laughed.
“If Miss Houghton would just allow me to run round and bring something in. Yes? May I? That would be so much more cheerful. What is your choice, gentlemen?”
“Beer,” said Ciccio, and Geoffrey nodded.
“Beer! Oh really! Extraor’nary! I always take a little whiskey myself. What kind of beer? Ale? — or bitter? I’m afraid I’d better bring bottles. Now how can I secrete them? You haven’t a small travelling case, Miss Houghton? Then I shall look as if I’d just been taking a journey. Which I have — to the Sun and back: and if that isn’t far enough, even for Miss Pinnegar and John Wesley, why, I’m sorry.”
Alvina produced the travelling case.
“Excellent!” he said. “Excellent! It will hold half-a-dozen beautifully. Now — ” he fell into a whisper — ”hadn’t I better sneak out at the front door, and so escape the clutches of the watch-dog?”
Out he went, on tip-toe, the other two men grinning at him. Fortunately there were glasses, the best old glasses, in the side cupboard in the drawing room. But unfortunately, when Mr. May returned, a corkscrew was in request. So Alvina stole to the kitchen. Miss Pinnegar sat dumped by the fire, with her spectacles and her book. She watched like a lynx as Alvina returned. And she saw the tell-tale corkscrew. So she dumped a little deeper in her chair.
“There was a sound of revelry by night!” For Mr. May, after a long depression, was in high feather. They shouted, positively shouted over their cards, they roared with excitement, expostulation, and laughter. Miss Pinnegar sat through it all. But at one point she could bear it no longer.
The drawing-room door opened, and the dumpy, hulked, faded woman in a black serge dress stood like a rather squat avenging angel in the doorway.
“What would your father say to this?” she said sternly.
The company suspended their laughter and their cards, and looked around. Miss Pinnegar wilted and felt strange under so many eyes. “Father!” said Alvina. “But why father?”
“You lost girl!” said Miss Pinnegar, backing out and closing the door. Mr. May laughed so much that he knocked his whiskey over. “There,” he cried, helpless, “look what she’s cost me!” And he went off into another paroxysm, swelling like a turkey.
Ciccio opened his mouth, laughing silently.
“Lost girl! Lost girl! How lost, when you are at home?” said Geoffrey, making large eyes and looking hither and thither as if he had lost something.
They all went off again in a muffled burst.
“No but, really,” said Mr. May, “drinking and card-playing with strange men in the drawing-room on Sunday evening, of cauce it’s scandalous. It’s _terrible!_ I don’t know how ever you’ll be saved, after such a sin. And in Manchester House, too — !” He went off into another silent, turkey-scarlet burst of mirth, wriggling in his chair and squealing faintly: “Oh, I love it, I love it! You lost girl! Why of cauce she’s lost! And Miss Pinnegar has only just found it out Who _wouldn’t_ be lost? Why even Miss Pinnegar would be lost if she could. Of cauce she would! Quite natch’ral!”
Mr. May wiped his eyes, with his handkerchief which had unfortunately mopped up his whiskey.
So they played on, till Mr. May and Geoffrey had won all the pennies, except twopence of Ciccio’s. Alvina was in debt.
“Well I think it’s been a most agreeable game,” said Mr. May. “Most agreeable! Don’t you all?”
The two other men smiled and nodded.
“I’m only sorry to think Miss Houghton has lost so steadily all evening. Really quite remarkable. But then — you see — I comfort myself with the reflection ‘Lucky in cards, unlucky in love.’ I’m certainly hounded with misfortune in love. And I’m sure Miss Houghton would rather be unlucky in cards than in love. What, isn’t it so?”
“Of course,” said Alvina.
“There, you see, of cauce! Well, all we can do after that is to wish her success in love. Isn’t that so, gentlemen? I’m sure we are all quite willing to do our best to contribute to it. Isn’t it so, gentlemen? Aren’t we all ready to do our best to contribute to Miss Houghton’s happiness in love? Well then, let us drink to it.” He lifted his glass, and bowed to Alvina. “With every wish for your success in love, Miss Houghton, and your devoted servant — ” He bowed and drank.
Geoffrey made large eyes at her as he held up his glass.
“I know you’ll come out all right in love, I know,” he said heavily. “And you, Ciccio? Aren’t you drinking?” said Mr. May.
Ciccio held up his glass, looked at Alvina, made a little mouth at her, comical, and drank his beer.
“Well,” said Mr. May, “beer must confirm it, since words won’t.”
“What time is it?” said Alvina. “We must have supper.”
It was past nine o’clock. Alvina rose and went to the kitchen, the men trailing after her. Miss Pinnegar was not there. She was not anywhere.
“Has she gone to bed?” said Mr. May. And he crept stealthily upstairs on tip-toe, a comical, flush-faced, tubby little man. He was familiar with the house. He returned prancing.
“I heard her cough,” he said. “There’s a light under her door. She’s gone to bed. Now haven’t I always said she was a good soul? I shall drink her health. Miss Pinnegar — ” and he bowed stiffly in the direction of the stair — ”your health, and a _good night’s rest_”
After which, giggling gaily, he seated himself at the head of the table and began to carve the cold mutton.
“And where are the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras this week?” he asked. They told him.
“Oh? And you two are cycling back to the camp of Kishwégin tonight? We mustn’t prolong our cheerfulness too far.”
“Ciccio is staying to help me with my bag tomorrow,” said Alvina. “You know I’ve joined the Tawaras permanently — as pianist.”
“No, I didn’t know that! Oh really! Really! Oh! Well! I see! Permanently! Yes, I am surprised! Yes! As pianist? And if I might ask, what is your share of the tribal income?”
“That isn’t met,” said Alvina.
“No! Exactly! Exactly! It _wouldn’t_ be settled yet. And you say it is a permanent engagement? Of cauce, at such a figure.”
“Yes, it is a permanent engagement,” said Alvina.
“Really! What
a blow you give me! You won’t come back to the Endeavour? What? Not at all?”
“No,” said Alvina. “I shall sell out of the Endeavour.”
“Really! You’ve decided, have you? Oh! This is news to me. And is this quite final, too?”
“Quite,” said Alvina.
“I see! Putting two and two together, if I may say so — ” and he glanced from her to the young men — ”I see. Most decidedly, most one-sidedly, if I may use the vulgarism, I _see — e — e_! Oh! but what a blow you give me! What a blow you give me!”
“Why?” said Alvina.
“What’s to become of the Endeavour? and consequently, of poor me?”
“Can’t you keep it going? — form a company?”
“I’m afraid I can’t. I’ve done my best. But I’m afraid, you know, you’ve landed me.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Alvina. “I hope not.”
“Thank you for the hope,” said Mr. May sarcastically.
“They say hope is sweet. I begin to find it a little _bitter!_”
Poor man, he had already gone quite yellow in the face. Ciccio and Geoffrey watched him with dark-seeing eyes.
“And when are you going to let this fatal decision take effect?” asked Mr. May.
“I’m going to see the lawyer tomorrow, and I’m going to tell him to sell everything and clear up as soon as possible,” said Alvina. “Sell everything! This house, and all it contains?”
“Yes,” said Alvina. “Everything.”
“Really!” Mr. May seemed smitten quite dumb. “I feel as if the world had suddenly come to an end,” he said.
“But hasn’t your world often come to an end before?” said Alvina.
“Well — I suppose, once or twice. But never quite on top of me, you see, before — ”
There was a silence.
“And have you told Miss Pinnegar?” said Mr. May.
“Not finally. But she has decided to open a little business in Tam-worth, where she has relations.”
“Has she! And are you really going to tour with these young people — ?” he indicated Ciccio and Gigi. “And at no salary!” His voice rose. “Why! It’s almost _White Slave Traffic_,” on Madame’s part. Upon my word!”
“I don’t think so,” said Alvina. “Don’t you see that’s insulting.”
“Insulting! Well, I don’t know. I think it’s the truth — ”
“Not to be said to me, for all that,” said Alvina, quivering with anger.
“Oh!” perked Mr. May, yellow with strange rage. “Oh! I mustn’t say what I think! Oh!”
“Not if you think those things — ” said Alvina.
“Oh really! The difficulty is, you see, I’m afraid I do think them — ” Alvina watched him with big, heavy eyes.
“Go away,” she said. “Go away! I won’t be insulted by you.”
“No _indeed!_” cried Mr. May, starting to his feet, his eyes almost bolting from his head. “No _indeed!_ I wouldn’t think of insulting you in the presence of these two young gentlemen.”
Ciccio rose slowly, and with a slow, repeated motion of the head, indicated the door.
“Allez!” he said.
“_Certainement!_” cried Mr. May, flying at Ciccio, verbally, like an enraged hen yellow at the gills. “_Certainement!_ Je m’en vais. Cette compagnie n’est pas de ma choix.”
“Allez!” said Ciccio, more loudly.
And Mr. May strutted out of the room like a bird bursting with its own rage. Ciccio stood with his hands on the table, listening. They heard Mr. May slam the front door.
“Gone!” said Geoffrey.
Ciccio smiled sneeringly.
“Voyez, un cochon de lait,” said Gigi amply and calmly.
Ciccio sat down in his chair. Geoffrey poured out some beer for him, saying:
“Drink, my Cic’, the bubble has burst, prfff!” And Gigi knocked in his own puffed cheek with his fist. “Allaye, my dear, your health! We are the Tawaras. We are Allaye! We are Pacohuila! We are Walgatchka! Allons! The milk-pig is stewed and eaten. Voila!” He drank, smiling broadly.
“One by one,” said Geoffrey, who was a little drunk: “One by one we put them out of the field, they are hors de combat. Who remains? Pacohuila, Walgatchka, Allaye — ”
He smiled very broadly. Alvina was sitting sunk in thought and torpor after her sudden anger.
“Allaye, what do you think about? You are the bride of Tawara,” said Geoffrey.
Alvina looked at him, smiling rather wanly.
“And who is Tawara?” she asked.
He raised his shoulders and spread his hands and swayed his head from side to side, for all the world like a comic mandarin.
“There!” he cried. “The question! Who is Tawara? Who? Tell me! Ciccio is he — and I am he — and Max and Louis — ” he spread his hand to the distant members of the tribe.
“I can’t be the bride of all four of you,” said Alvina, laughing.
“No — no! No — no! Such a thing does not come into my mind. But you are the Bride of Tawara. You dwell in the tent of Pacohuila. And comes the day, should it ever be so, there is no room for you in the tent of Pacohuila, then the lodge of Walgatchka the bear is open for you. Open, yes, wide open — ” He spread his arms from his ample chest, at the end of the table. “Open, and when Allaye enters, it is the lodge of Allaye, Walgatchka is the bear that serves Allaye. By the law of the Pale Face, by the law of the Yenghees, by the law of the Fransayes, Walgatchka shall be husband-bear to Allaye, that day she lifts the door-curtain of his tent — ”
He rolled his eyes and looked around. Alvina watched him. “But I might be afraid of a husband-bear,” she said.
Geoffrey got on to his feet.
“By the Manitou,” he said, “the head of the bear Walgatchka is humble — ” here Geoffrey bowed his head — ”his teeth are as soft as lilies — ” here he opened his mouth and put his finger on his small close teeth — ”his hands are as soft as bees that stroke a flower — ” here he spread his hands and went and suddenly flopped on his knees beside Alvina, showing his hands and his teeth still, and rolling his eyes. “Allaye can have no fear at all of the bear Walgatchka,” he said, looking up at her comically.
Ciccio, who had been watching and slightly grinning, here rose to his feet and took Geoffrey by the shoulder, pulling him up.
“Basta!” he said. “Tu es saoul. You are drunk, my Gigi. Get up. How are you going to ride to Mansfield, hein? — great beast.”
“Ciccio,” said Geoffrey solemnly. “I love thee, I love thee as a brother, and also more. I love thee as a brother, my Ciccio, as thou knowest. But — ” and he puffed fiercely — ”I am the slave of Allaye, I am the tame bear of Allaye.”
“Get up,” said Ciccio, “get up! Per bacco! She doesn’t want a tame bear.” He smiled down on his friend.
Geoffrey rose to his feet and flung his arms round Ciccio.
“Cic’,” he besought him. “Cic’ — I love thee as a brother. But let me be the tame bear of Allaye, let me be the gentle bear of Allaye.”
“All right,” said Ciccio. “Thou art the tame bear of Allaye.” Geoffrey strained Ciccio to his breast.
“Thank you! Thank you! Salute me, my own friend.”
And Ciccio kissed him on either cheek. Whereupon Geoffrey immediately flopped on his knees again before Alvina, and presented her his broad, rich-coloured cheek.
“Salute your bear, Allaye,” he cried. “Salute your slave, the tame bear Walgatchka, who is a wild bear for all except Allaye and his brother Pacohuila the Puma.” Geoffrey growled realistically as a wild bear as he kneeled before Alvina, presenting his cheek.
Alvina looked at Ciccio, who stood above, watching. Then she lightly kissed him on the cheek, and said:
“Won’t you go to bed and sleep?”
Geoffrey staggered to his feet, shaking his head.
“No — no — ” he said. “No — no! Walgatchka must travel to the tent of Kishwégin, to the Camp of the Tawaras.”
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br /> “Not tonight, mon brave,” said Ciccio. “Tonight we stay here, hein. Why separate, hein? — frère?”
Geoffrey again clasped Ciccio in his arms.
“Pacohuila and Walgatchka are blood-brothers, two bodies, one blood. One blood, in two bodies; one stream, in two valleys: one lake, between two mountains.”
Here Geoffrey gazed with large, heavy eyes on Ciccio. Alvina brought a candle and lighted it.
“You will manage in the one room?” she said. “I will give you another pillow.”
She led the way upstairs. Geoffrey followed, heavily. Then Ciccio.
On the landing Alvina gave them the pillow and the candle, smiled, bade them good-night in a whisper, and went downstairs again. She cleared away the supper and carried away all glasses and bottles from the drawing-room. Then she washed up, removing all traces of the feast. The cards she restored to their old mahogany box. Manchester House looked itself again.
She turned off the gas at the meter, and went upstairs to bed. From the far room she could hear the gentle, but profound vibrations of Geoffrey’s snoring. She was tired after her day: too tired to trouble about anything any more.
But in the morning she was first downstairs. She heard Miss Pinnegar, and hurried. Hastily she opened the windows and doors to drive away the smell of beer and smoke. She heard the men rumbling in the bath-room. And quickly she prepared breakfast and made a fire. Mrs. Rollings would not appear till later in the day. At a quarter to seven Miss Pinnegar came down, and went into the scullery to make her tea.
“Did both the men stay?” she asked.
“Yes, they both slept in the end room,” said Alvina.
Miss Pinnegar said no more, but padded with her tea and her boiled egg into the living room. In the morning she was wordless.
Ciccio came down, in his shirt-sleeves as usual, but wearing a collar. He greeted Miss Pinnegar politely.
“Good-morning!” she said, and went on with her tea.
Geoffrey appeared. Miss Pinnegar glanced once at him, sullenly, and briefly answered his good-morning. Then she went on with her egg, slow and persistent in her movements, mum.
The men went out to attend to Geoffrey’s bicycle. The morning was slow and grey, obscure. As they pumped up the tires, they heard some one padding behind. Miss Pinnegar came and unbolted the yard door, but ignored their presence. Then they saw her return and slowly mount the outer stair-ladder, which went up to the top floor. Two minutes afterwards they were startled by the irruption of the work-girls. As for the work-girls, they gave quite loud, startled squeals, suddenly seeing the two men on their right hand, in the obscure morning. And they lingered on the stair-way to gaze in rapt curiosity, poking and whispering, until Miss Pinnegar appeared overhead, and sharply rang a bell which hung beside the entrance door of the workrooms.
Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence Page 253