The White Peacock

"A book of real distinction both of style and thought. Many of the
descriptive passages have an almost lyrical charm and the
characterisation is generally speaking deft and life–like. 'The White
Peacock' is a book not only worth reading but worth reckoning with, for
we are inclined to think the author has come to stay."—
The Morning
Post
.

"That it has elements of greatness few will deny. Mr. Heinemann is, once
again, to be congratulated on a writer of promise."—
The Observer
.

I stood watching the shadowy fish slide through the gloom of the
mill–pond. They were grey, descendants of the silvery things that had
darted away from the monks, in the young days when the valley was lusty.
The whole place was gathered in the musing of old age. The thick–piled
trees on the far shore were too dark and sober to dally with the sun;
the weeds stood crowded and motionless. Not even a little wind flickered
the willows of the islets. The water lay softly, intensely still. Only
the thin stream falling through the mill–race murmured to itself of the
tumult of life which had once quickened the valley.

I was almost startled into the water from my perch on the alder roots by
a voice saying:

"Well, what is there to look at?" My friend was a young farmer, stoutly
built, brown eyed, with a naturally fair skin burned dark and freckled
in patches. He laughed, seeing me start, and looked down at me with lazy
curiosity.

"I was thinking the place seemed old, brooding over its past."

He looked at me with a lazy indulgent smile, and lay down on his back on
the bank, saying: "It's all right for a doss—here."

"Your life is nothing else but a doss. I shall laugh when somebody jerks
you awake," I replied.

He smiled comfortably and put his hands over his eyes because of the
light.

"Why shall you laugh?" he drawled.

"Because you'll be amusing," said I.

We were silent for a long time, when he rolled over and began to poke
with his finger in the bank.

"I thought," he said in his leisurely fashion, "there was some cause for
all this buzzing."

I looked, and saw that he had poked out an old, papery nest of those
pretty field bees which seem to have dipped their tails into bright
amber dust. Some agitated insects ran round the cluster of eggs, most of
which were empty now, the crowns gone; a few young bees staggered about
in uncertain flight before they could gather power to wing away in a
strong course. He watched the little ones that ran in and out among the
shadows of the grass, hither and thither in consternation.

"Come here—come here!" he said, imprisoning one poor little bee under a
grass stalk, while with another stalk he loosened the folded blue wings.

"Don't tease the little beggar," I said.

"It doesn't hurt him—I wanted to see if it was because he couldn't
spread his wings that he couldn't fly. There he goes—no, he doesn't.
Let's try another."

"Leave them alone," said I. "Let them run in the sun. They're only just
out of the shells. Don't torment them into flight."

He persisted, however, and broke the wing of the next.

"Oh, dear—pity!" said he, and he crushed the little thing between his
fingers. Then he examined the eggs, and pulled out some silk from round
the dead larva, and investigated it all in a desultory manner, asking of
me all I knew about the insects. When he had finished he flung the
clustered eggs into the water and rose, pulling out his watch from the
depth of his breeches' pocket.

"I thought it was about dinner–time," said he, smiling at me. "I always
know when it's about twelve. Are you coming in?"

"I'm coming down at any rate," said I as we passed along the pond bank,
and over the plank–bridge that crossed the brow of the falling sluice.
The bankside where the grey orchard twisted its trees, was a steep
declivity, long and sharp, dropping down to the garden.

The stones of the large house were burdened with ivy and honey–suckle,
and the great lilac–bush that had once guarded the porch now almost
blocked the doorway. We passed out of the front garden into the
farm–yard, and walked along the brick path to the back door.

"Shut the gate, will you?" he said to me over his shoulder, as he passed
on first.

We went through the large scullery into the kitchen. The servant–girl
was just hurriedly snatching the table–cloth out of the table drawer,
and his mother, a quaint little woman with big, brown eyes, was hovering
round the wide fireplace with a fork.

"Dinner not ready?" said he with a shade of resentment.

"No, George," replied his mother apologetically, "it isn't. The fire
wouldn't burn a bit. You shall have it in a few minutes, though."

He dropped on the sofa and began to read a novel. I wanted to go, but
his mother insisted on my staying.

"Don't go," she pleaded. "Emily will be so glad if you stay,—and father
will, I'm sure. Sit down, now."

I sat down on a rush chair by the long window that looked out into the
yard. As he was reading, and as it took all his mother's powers to watch
the potatoes boil and the meat roast, I was left to my thoughts. George,
indifferent to all claims, continued to read. It was very annoying to
watch him pulling his brown moustache, and reading indolently while the
dog rubbed against his leggings and against the knee of his old
riding–breeches. He would not even be at the trouble to play with Trip's
ears, he was so content with his novel and his moustache. Round and
round twirled his thick fingers, and the muscles of his bare arm moved
slightly under the red–brown skin. The little square window above him
filtered a green light from the foliage of the great horse–chestnut
outside and the glimmer fell on his dark hair, and trembled across the
plates which Annie was reaching down from the rack, and across the face
of the tall clock. The kitchen was very big; the table looked lonely,
and the chairs mourned darkly for the lost companionship of the sofa;
the chimney was a black cavern away at the back, and the inglenook seats
shut in another little compartment ruddy with fire–light, where the
mother hovered. It was rather a desolate kitchen, such a bare expanse of
uneven grey flagstones, such far–away dark corners and sober furniture.
The only gay things were the chintz coverings of the sofa and the
arm–chair cushions, bright red in the bare sombre room; some might smile
at the old clock, adorned as it was with remarkable and vivid poultry;
in me it only provoked wonder and contemplation.

In a little while we heard the scraping of heavy boots outside, and the
father entered. He was a big burly farmer, with his half–bald head
sprinkled with crisp little curls.

"Hullo, Cyril," he said cheerfully. "You've not forsaken us then," and
turning to his son:

"Have you many more rows in the coppice close?"

"Finished!" replied George, continuing to read.

"That's all right—you've got on with 'em. The rabbits has bitten them
turnips down, mother."

"I expect so," replied his wife, whose soul was in the saucepans. At
last she deemed the potatoes cooked and went out with the steaming pan.

The dinner was set on the table and the father began to carve. George
looked over his book to survey the fare then read until his plate was
handed him. The maid sat at her little table near the window, and we
began the meal. There came the treading of four feet along the brick
path, and a little girl entered, followed by her grown–up sister. The
child's long brown hair was tossed wildly back beneath her sailor hat.
She flung aside this article of her attire and sat down to dinner,
talking endlessly to her mother. The elder sister, a girl of about
twenty–one, gave me a smile and a bright look from her brown eyes, and
went to wash her hands. Then she came and sat down, and looked
disconsolately at the underdone beef on her plate.

"I do hate this raw meat," she said.

"Good for you," replied her brother, who was eating industriously. "Give
you some muscle to wallop the nippers."

She pushed it aside, and began to eat the vegetables. Her brother
re–charged his plate and continued to eat.

"Well, our George, I do think you might pass a body that gravy," said
Mollie, the younger sister, in injured tones.

"Certainly," he replied. "Won't you have the joint as well?"

"No!" retorted the young lady of twelve, "I don't expect you've done
with it yet."

"Clever!" he exclaimed across a mouthful.

"Do you think so?" said the elder sister Emily, sarcastically.

"Yes," he replied complacently, "you've made her as sharp as yourself, I
see, since you've had her in Standard Six. I'll try a potato, mother, if
you can find one that's done."

"Well, George, they seem mixed, I'm sure that was done that I tried.
There—they are mixed—look at this one, it's soft enough. I'm sure they
were boiling long enough."

"Don't explain and apologise to him," said Emily irritably.

"Perhaps the kids were too much for her this morning," he said calmly,
to nobody in particular.

"No," chimed in Mollie, "she knocked a lad across his nose and made it
bleed."

"Little wretch," said Emily, swallowing with difficulty. "I'm glad I
did! Some of my lads belong to—to——"

"To the devil," suggested George, but she would not accept it from him.

Her father sat laughing; her mother with distress in her eyes, looked at
her daughter, who hung her head and made patterns on the table–cloth
with her finger.

"Are they worse than the last lot?" asked the mother, softly, fearfully.

"No—nothing extra," was the curt answer.

"She merely felt like bashing 'em," said George, calling, as he looked
at the sugar bowl and at his pudding:

"Fetch some more sugar, Annie."

The maid rose from her little table in the corner, and the mother also
hurried to the cupboard. Emily trifled with her dinner and said bitterly
to him:

"I only wish you had a taste of teaching, it would cure your
self–satisfaction."

"Pf!" he replied contemptuously, "I could easily bleed the noses of a
handful of kids."

"You wouldn't sit there bleating like a fatted calf," she continued.

This speech so tickled Mollie that she went off into a burst of
laughter, much to the terror of her mother, who stood up in trembling
apprehension lest she should choke.

"You made a joke, Emily," he said, looking at his younger sister's
contortions.

Emily was too impatient to speak to him further, and left the table.
Soon the two men went back to the fallow to the turnips, and I walked
along the path with the girls as they were going to school.

"He irritates me in everything he does and says," burst out Emily with
much heat.

"He's a pig sometimes," said I.

"He is!" she insisted. "He irritates me past bearing, with his grand
know–all way, and his heavy smartness—I can't beat it. And the way
mother humbles herself to him——!"

"It makes you wild," said I.

"Wild!" she echoed, her voice vibrating with nervous passion. We walked
on in silence, till she asked.

"Have you brought me those verses of yours?"

"No—I'm so sorry—I've forgotten them again. As a matter of fact, I've
sent them away."

"But you promised me."

"You know what my promises are. I'm as irresponsible as a puff of wind."

She frowned with impatience and her disappointment was greater than
necessary. When I left her at the corner of the lane I felt a sting of
her deep reproach in my mind. I always felt the reproach when she had
gone.

I ran over the little bright brook that came from the weedy, bottom
pond. The stepping–stones were white in the sun, and the water slid
sleepily among them. One or two butterflies, indistinguishable against
the blue sky, trifled from flower to flower and led me up the hill,
across the field where the hot sunshine stood as in a bowl, and I was
entering the caverns of the wood, where the oaks bowed over and saved us
a grateful shade. Within, everything was so still and cool that my steps
hung heavily along the path. The bracken held out arms to me, and the
bosom of the wood was full of sweetness, but I journeyed on, spurred by
the attacks of an army of flies which kept up a guerrilla warfare round
my head till I had passed the black rhododendron bushes in the garden,
where they left me, scenting no doubt Rebecca's pots of vinegar and
sugar.

The low red house, with its roof discoloured and sunken, dozed in
sunlight, and slept profoundly in the shade thrown by the massive maples
encroaching from the wood.

There was no one in the dining–room, but I could hear the whirr of a
sewing–machine coming from the little study, a sound as of some great,
vindictive insect buzzing about, now louder, now softer, now settling.
Then came a jingling of four or five keys at the bottom of the keyboard
of the drawing–room piano, continuing till the whole range had been
covered in little leaps, as if some very fat frog had jumped from end to
end.

"That must be mother dusting the drawing–room," I thought. The
unaccustomed sound of the old piano startled me. The vocal chords behind
the green silk bosom,—you only discovered it was not a bronze silk
bosom by poking a fold aside,—had become as thin and tuneless as a
dried old woman's. Age had yellowed the teeth of my mother's little
piano, and shrunken its spindle legs. Poor old thing, it could but
screech in answer to Lettie's fingers flying across it in scorn, so the
prim, brown lips were always closed save to admit the duster.

Now, however, the little old maidish piano began to sing a tinkling
Victorian melody, and I fancied it must be some demure little woman with
curls like bunches of hops on either side of her face, who was touching
it. The coy little tune teased me with old sensations, but my memory
would give me no assistance. As I stood trying to fix my vague feelings,
Rebecca came in to remove the cloth from the table.

"Who is playing, Beck?" I asked.

"Your mother, Cyril."

"But she never plays. I thought she couldn't."

"Ah," replied Rebecca, "you forget when you was a little thing sitting
playing against her frock with the prayer–book, and she singing to you.
You
can't remember her when her curls was long like a piece of brown
silk.
You
can't remember her when she used to play and sing, before
Lettie came and your father was——"