The White Peacock (11 page)

Armies of cloud marched in rank across the sky, heavily laden, almost
brushing the gorse on the common. The wind was cold and disheartening.
The ground sobbed at every step. The brook was full, swirling along,
hurrying, talking to itself, in absorbed intent tones. The clouds
darkened; I felt the rain. Careless of the mud, I ran, and burst into
the farm kitchen.

The children were painting, and they immediately claimed my help.

"Emily—and George—are in the front room," said the mother quietly, for
it was Sunday afternoon. I satisfied the little ones; I said a few words
to the mother, and sat down to take off my clogs.

In the parlour, the father, big and comfortable, was sleeping in an
arm–chair. Emily was writing at the table—she hurriedly hid her papers
when I entered. George was sitting by the fire, reading. He looked up as
I entered, and I loved him when he looked up at me, and as he lingered
on his quiet "Hullo!" His eyes were beautifully eloquent—as eloquent as
a kiss.

We talked in subdued murmurs, because the father was asleep, opulently
asleep, his tanned face as still as a brown pear against the wall. The
clock itself went slowly, with languid throbs. We gathered round the
fire, and talked quietly, about nothing—blissful merely in the sound of
our voices, a murmured, soothing sound—a grateful, dispassionate love
trio.

At last George rose, put down his book—looked at his father—and went
out.

In the barn there was a sound of the pulper crunching the turnips. The
crisp strips of turnip sprinkled quietly down onto a heap of gold which
grew beneath the pulper. The smell of pulped turnips, keen and sweet,
brings back to me the feeling of many winter nights, when frozen
hoof–prints crunch in the yard, and Orion is in the south; when a
friendship was at its mystical best.

"Pulping on Sunday!" I exclaimed.

"Father didn't do it yesterday; it's his work; and I didn't notice it.
You know—Father often forgets—he doesn't like to have to work in the
afternoon, now."

The cattle stirred in their stalls; the chains rattled round the posts;
a cow coughed noisily. When George had finished pulping, and it was
quiet enough for talk, just as he was spreading the first layers of chop
and turnip and meal—in ran Emily, with her hair in silken, twining
confusion, her eyes glowing—to bid us go in to tea before the milking
was begun. It was the custom to milk before tea on Sunday—but George
abandoned it without demur—his father willed it so, and his father was
master, not to be questioned on farm matters, however one disagreed.

The last day in October had been dreary enough; the night could not come
too early. We had tea by lamplight, merrily, with the father radiating
comfort as the lamp shone yellow light. Sunday tea was imperfect without
a visitor; with me, they always declared, it was perfect. I loved to
hear them say so. I smiled, rejoicing quietly into my teacup when the
Father said:

"It seems proper to have Cyril here at Sunday tea, it seems natural."

He was most loath to break the delightful bond of the lamp–lit
tea–table; he looked up with a half–appealing glance when George at last
pushed back his chair and said he supposed he'd better make a start.

"Ay," said the father in a mild, conciliatory tone, "I'll be out in a
minute."

The lamp hung against the barn–wall, softly illuminating the lower part
of the building, where bits of hay and white dust lay in the hollows
between the bricks, where the curled chips of turnip scattered orange
gleams over the earthen floor; the lofty roof, with its swallows' nests
under the tiles, was deep in shadow, and the corners were full of
darkness, hiding, half hiding, the hay, the chopper, the bins. The light
shone along the passages before the stalls, glistening on the moist
noses of the cattle, and on the whitewash of the walls.

George was very cheerful; but I wanted to tell him my message. When he
had finished the feeding, and had at last sat down to milk, I said:

"I told you Leslie Tempest was at our house when I came away."

He sat with the bucket between his knees, his hands at the cow's udder,
about to begin to milk. He looked up a question at me.

"They are practically engaged now," I said.

He did not turn his eyes away, but he ceased to look at me. As one who
is listening for a far–off noise, he sat with his eyes fixed. Then he
bent his head, and leaned it against the side of the cow, as if he would
begin to milk. But he did not. The cow looked round and stirred
uneasily. He began to draw the milk, and then to milk mechanically. I
watched the movement of his hands, listening to the rhythmic clang of
the jets of milk on the bucket, as a relief. After a while the movement
of his hands became slower, thoughtful—then stopped.

"She has really said yes?"

I nodded.

"And what does your mother say?"

"She is pleased."

He began to milk again. The cow stirred uneasily, shifting her legs. He
looked at her angrily, and went on milking. Then, quite upset, she
shifted again, and swung her tail in his face.

"Stand still!" he shouted, striking her on the haunch. She seemed to
cower like a beaten woman. He swore at her, and continued to milk. She
did not yield much that night; she was very restive; he took the stool
from beneath him and gave her a good blow; I heard the stool knock on
her prominent hip bone. After that she stood still, but her milk soon
ceased to flow.

When he stood up, he paused before he went to the next beast, and I
thought he was going to talk. But just then the father came along with
his bucket. He looked in the shed, and, laughing in his mature, pleasant
way, said:

"So you're an onlooker to–day, Cyril—I thought you'd have milked a cow
or two for me by now."

"Nay," said I, "Sunday is a day of rest—and milking makes your hands
ache."

"You only want a bit more practice," he said, joking in his ripe
fashion. "Why George, is that all you've got from Julia?"

"It is."

"H'm—she's soon going dry. Julia, old lady, don't go and turn skinny."

When he had gone, and the shed was still, the air seemed colder. I heard
his good–humoured "Stand over, old lass," from the other shed, and the
drum–beats of the first jets of milk on the pail.

"He has a comfortable time," said George, looking savage. I laughed. He
still waited.

"You really expected Lettie to have
him,
" I said.

"I suppose so," he replied, "then she'd made up her mind to it. It
didn't matter—what she wanted—at the bottom."

"You?" said I.

"If it hadn't been that he was a prize—with a ticket—she'd have
had——"

"You!" said I.

"She was afraid—look how she turned and kept away——"

"From you?" said I.

"I should like to squeeze her till she screamed."

"You should have gripped her before, and kept her," said I.

"She—she's like a woman, like a cat—running to comforts—she strikes a
bargain. Women are all tradesmen."

"Don't generalise, it's no good."

"She's like a prostitute——"

"It's banal! I believe she loves him."

He started, and looked at me queerly. He looked quite childish in his
doubt and perplexity.

"She, what——?"

"Loves him—honestly."

"She'd 'a loved me better," he muttered, and turned to his milking. I
left him and went to talk to his father. When the latter's four beasts
were finished, George's light still shone in the other shed.

I went and found him at the fifth, the last cow. When at length he had
finished he put down his pail, and going over to poor Julia, stood
scratching her back, and her poll, and her nose, looking into her big,
startled eye and murmuring. She was afraid; she jerked her head, giving
him a good blow on the cheek with her horn.

"You can't understand them," he said sadly, rubbing his face, and
looking at me with his dark, serious eyes.

"I never knew I couldn't understand them. I never thought about
it——till. But you know, Cyril, she led me on."

I laughed at his rueful appearance.

For some weeks, during the latter part of November and the beginning of
December, I was kept indoors by a cold. At last came a frost which
cleared the air and dried the mud. On the second Saturday before
Christmas the world was transformed; tall, silver and pearl–grey trees
rose pale against a dim–blue sky, like trees in some rare, pale
Paradise; the whole woodland was as if petrified in marble and silver
and snow; the holly–leaves and long leaves of the rhododendron were
rimmed and spangled with delicate tracery.

When the night came clear and bright, with a moon among the hoar–frost,
I rebelled against confinement, and the house. No longer the mists and
dank weather made the home dear; tonight even the glare of the distant
little iron works was not visible, for the low clouds were gone, and
pale stars blinked from beyond the moon.

Lettie was staying with me; Leslie was in London again. She tried to
remonstrate in a sisterly fashion when I said I would go out.

"Only down to the Mill," said I. Then she hesitated a while—said she
would come too. I suppose I looked at her curiously, for she said:

"Oh—if you would rather go alone——!"

"Come—come—yes, come!" said I, smiling to myself.

Lettie was in her old animated mood. She ran, leaping over rough places,
laughing, talking to herself in French. We came to the Mill. Gyp did not
bark. I opened the outer door and we crept softly into the great dark
scullery, peeping into the kitchen through the crack of the door.

The mother sat by the hearth, where was a big bath half full of soapy
water, and at her feet, warming his bare legs at the fire, was David,
who had just been bathed. The mother was gently rubbing his fine fair
hair into a cloud. Mollie was combing out her brown curls, sitting by
her father, who, in the fire–seat, was reading aloud in a hearty voice,
with quaint precision. At the table sat Emily and George: she was
quickly picking over a pile of little yellow raisins, and he, slowly,
with his head sunk, was stoning the large raisins. David kept reaching
forward to play with the sleepy cat—interrupting his mother's rubbing.
There was no sound but the voice of the father, full of zest; I am
afraid they were not all listening carefully. I clicked the latch and
entered.

"Lettie!" exclaimed George.

"Cyril!" cried Emily.

"Cyril, 'ooray!" shouted David.

"Hullo, Cyril!" said Mollie.

Six large brown eyes, round with surprise, welcomed me. They overwhelmed
me with questions, and made much of us. At length they were settled and
quiet again.

"Yes, I am a stranger," said Lettie, who had taken off her hat and furs
and coat. "But you do not expect me often, do you? I may come at times,
eh?"

"We are only too glad," replied the mother. "Nothing all day long but
the sound of the sluice—and mists, and rotten leaves. I am thankful to
hear a fresh voice."

"Is Cyril really better, Lettie?" asked Emily softly.

"He's a spoiled boy—I believe he keeps a little bit ill so that we can
cade him. Let me help you—let me peel the apples—yes, yes—I will."

She went to the table, and occupied one side with her apple–peeling.
George had not spoken to her. So she said:

"I won't help you—George, because I don't like to feel my fingers so
sticky, and because I love to see you so domesticated."

"You'll enjoy the sight a long time, then, for these things are
numberless."

"You should eat one now and then—I always do."

"If I ate one I should eat the lot."

"Then you may give me your one."

He passed her a handful without speaking.

"That is too many, your mother is looking. Let me just finish this
apple. There, I've not broken the peel!"

She stood up, holding up a long curling strip of peel.

"How many times must I swing it, Mrs. Saxton?"

"Three times—but it's not All Hallows' Eve."

"Never mind! Look!——" she carefully swung the long band of green peel
over her head three times, letting it fall the third. The cat pounced on
it, but Mollie swept him off again.

"What is it?" cried Lettie, blushing.

"G," said the father, winking and laughing—the mother looked daggers at
him.

"It isn't nothink," said David naïvely, forgetting his confusion at
being in the presence of a lady in his shirt. Mollie remarked in her
cool way:

"It might be a 'hess'—if you couldn't write."

"Or an 'L'," I added. Lettie looked over at me imperiously, and I was
angry.

"What do you say, Emily?" she asked.

"Nay," said Emily, "It's only you can see the right letter."

"Tell us what's the right letter," said George to her.

"I!" exclaimed Lettie, "who can look into the seeds of Time?"

"Those who have set 'em and watched 'em sprout," said I.

She flung the peel into the fire, laughing a short laugh, and went on
with her work.

Mrs. Saxton leaned over to her daughter and said softly, so that he
should not hear, that George was pulling the flesh out of the raisins.

"George!" said Emily sharply, "You're leaving nothing but the husks."

He too was angry:

"'And he would fain fill his belly with the husks that the swine did
eat.'" he said quietly, taking a handful of the fruit he had picked and
putting some in his mouth. Emily snatched away the basin:

"It is too bad!" she said.

"Here," said Lettie, handing him an apple she had peeled. "You may have
an apple, greedy boy."

He took it and looked at it. Then a malicious smile twinkled round his
eyes,—as he said:

"If you give me the apple, to whom will you give the peel?"