would curl with a sneering, slightly triumphant smile, as she heard the
news. And she could hear the bullying tone in which Henry Wagstaff
would dictate the Woodhouse benevolence to her. She wanted to go away
from them all--from them all--for ever.
Even from Ciccio. For she felt he insulted her too. Subtly, they all
did it. They had regard for her possibilities as an heiress. Five
hundred, even two hundred pounds would have made all the difference.
Useless to deny it. Even to Ciccio. Ciccio would have had a lifelong
respect for her, if she had come with even so paltry a sum as two
hundred pounds. Now she had nothing, he would coolly withhold this
respect. She felt he might jeer at her. And she could not get away
from this feeling.
Mercifully she had the bit of ready money. And she had a few
trinkets which might be sold. Nothing else. Mercifully, for the mere
moment, she was independent.
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 mid-day. 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."
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