The White Peacock (14 page)

I ventured something about the snow.

"She'll come," he said, "if it's up to the neck. Her mother saw me go
past."

He proceeded with his toilet. I told him that Leslie had sent the
carriage for Alice and Madie. He slapped his fat legs, and exclaimed:

"Miss Gall—I smell sulphur! Beardsall, old boy, there's fun in the
wind. Madie, and the coy little Tempest, and——" he hissed a line of a
music–hall song through his teeth.

During all this he had straightened his cream and lavender waistcoat:

"Little pink of a girl worked it for me—a real juicy little
peach—chipped somehow or other"—he had arranged his white bow—he had
drawn forth two rings, one a great signet, the other gorgeous with
diamonds, and had adjusted them on his fat white fingers; he had run his
fingers delicately, through his hair, which rippled backwards a trifle
tawdrily—being fine and somewhat sapless; he had produced a box,
containing a cream carnation with suitable greenery; he had flicked
himself with a silk handkerchief, and had dusted his patent–leather
shoes; lastly, he had pursed up his lips and surveyed himself with great
satisfaction in the mirror. Then he was ready to be presented.

"Couldn't forget to–day, Lettie. Wouldn't have let old Pluto and all the
bunch of 'em keep me away. I skimmed here like a 'Brra–ave' on my
snow–shoes, like Hiawatha coming to Minnehaha."

"Ah—that was famine," said Marie softly. "And this is a feast, a
gorgeous feast, Miss Tempest," he said, bowing to Marie, who laughed.

"You have brought some music?" asked mother.

"Wish I was Orpheus," he said, uttering his words with exaggerated
enunciation, a trick he had caught from his singing I suppose.

"I see you're in full feather, Tempest. Is she kind as she is fair?'"

"Who?"

Will pursed up his smooth sensuous face that looked as if it had never
needed shaving. Lettie went out with Marie, hearing the bell ring.

"She's an houri!" exclaimed William. "Gad, I'm almost done for! She's a
lotus–blossom!—But is that your ring she's wearing, Tempest?"

"Keep off," said Leslie.

"And don't be a fool," said I.

"Oh, O–O–Oh!" drawled Will, "so we must look the other way! 'Le bel
homme sans merci!'"

He sighed profoundly, and ran his fingers through his hair, keeping one
eye on himself in the mirror as he did so. Then he adjusted his rings
and went to the piano. At first he only splashed about brilliantly. Then
he sorted the music, and took a volume of Tchaikowsky's songs. He began
the long opening of one song, was unsatisfied, and found another, a
serenade of Don Juan. Then at last he began to sing.

His voice is a beautiful tenor, softer, more mellow, less strong and
brassy than Leslie's. Now it was raised that it might be heard upstairs.
As the melting gush poured forth, the door opened. William softened his
tones, and sang 'dolce,' but he did not glance round.

"Rapture!—Choir of Angels," exclaimed Alice, clasping her hands and
gazing up at the lintel of the door like a sainted virgin.

"Persephone—Europa——" murmured Madie, at her side, getting tangled in
her mythology.

Alice pressed her clasped hands against her bosom in ecstasy as the
notes rose higher.

"Hold me, Madie, or I shall rush to extinction in the arms of this
siren." She clung to Madie. The song finished, and Will turned round.

"Take it calmly, Miss Gall," he said. "I hope you're not hit too badly."

"Oh—how can you say 'take it calmly'—how can the savage beast be
calm!"

"I'm sorry for you," said Will.

"You are the cause of my trouble, dear boy," replied Alice.

"I never thought you'd come," said Madie.

"Skimmed here like an Indian 'brra–ave,'" said Will. "Like Hiawatha
towards Minnehaha. I knew you were coming."

"You know," simpered Madie, "It gave me quite a flutter when I heard the
piano. It is a year since I saw you. How did you get here?"

"I came on snow–shoes," said he. "Real Indian,—came from
Canada—they're just ripping."

"Oh—Aw–w
do
go and put them on and show us—
do!—do
perform for us,
Billy dear!" cried Alice.

"Out in the cold and driving sleet—no fear," said he, and he turned to
talk to Madie. Alice sat chatting with mother. Soon Tom Smith came, and
took a seat next to Marie; and sat quietly looking over his spectacles
with his sharp brown eyes, full of scorn for William, full of misgiving
for Leslie and Lettie.

Shortly after, George and Emily came in. They were rather nervous. When
they had changed their clogs, and Emily had taken off her brown–paper
leggings, and he his leather ones, they were not anxious to go into the
drawing room. I was surprised—and so was Emily—to see that he had put
on dancing shoes.

Emily, ruddy from the cold air, was wearing a wine coloured dress, which
suited her luxurious beauty. George's clothes were well made—it was a
point on which he was particular, being somewhat self–conscious. He wore
a jacket and a dark bow. The other men were in evening dress.

We took them into the drawing–room, where the lamp was not lighted, and
the glow of the fire was becoming evident in the dusk. We had taken up
the carpet—the floor was all polished—and some of the furniture was
taken away—so that the room looked large and ample.

There was general hand shaking, and the newcomers were seated near the
fire. First mother talked to them—then the candles were lighted at the
piano, and Will played to us. He is an exquisite pianist, full of
refinement and poetry. It is astonishing, and it is a fact. Mother went
out to attend to the tea, and after a while, Lettie crossed over to
Emily and George, and, drawing up a low chair, sat down to talk to them.
Leslie stood in the window bay, looking out on the lawn where the snow
grew bluer and bluer and the sky almost purple.

Lettie put her hands on Emily's lap, and said softly, "Look—do you like
it?"

"What! engaged? exclaimed Emily.

"I am of age, you see," said Lettie.

"It is a beauty, isn't it. Let me try it on, will you? Yes, I've never
had a ring. There, it won't go over my knuckle—no—I thought not.
Aren't my hands red?—it's the cold—yes, it's too small for me. I do
like it."

George sat watching the play of the four hands in his sister's lap, two
hands moving so white and fascinating in the twilight, the other two
rather red, with rather large bones, looking so nervous, almost
hysterical. The ring played between the four hands, giving an occasional
flash from the twilight or candlelight.

"You must congratulate me," she said, in a very low voice, and two of us
knew she spoke to him.

"As, yes," said Emily, "I do."

"And you?" she said, turning to him who was silent.

"What do you want me to say?" he asked.

"Say what you like."

"Sometime, when I've thought about it."

"Cold dinners!" laughed Lettie, awaking Alice's old sarcasm at his
slowness.

"What?" he exclaimed, looking up suddenly at her taunt. She knew she was
playing false; she put the ring on her finger and went across the room
to Leslie, laying her arm over his shoulder, and leaning her head
against him, murmuring softly to him. He, poor fellow, was delighted
with her, for she did not display her fondness often.

We went in to tea. The yellow shaded lamp shone softly over the table,
where Christmas roses spread wide open among some dark–coloured leaves;
where the china and silver and the coloured dishes shone delightfully.
We were all very gay and bright; who could be otherwise, seated round a
well–laid table, with young company, and the snow outside. George felt
awkward when he noticed his hands over the table, but for the rest, we
enjoyed ourselves exceedingly.

The conversation veered inevitably to marriage.

"But what have you to say about it, Mr. Smith?" asked little Marie.

"Nothing yet," replied he in his peculiar grating voice. "My marriage is
in the unanalysed solution of the future—when I've done the analysis
I'll tell you."

"But what do you think about it—?"

"Do you remember Lettie," said Will Bancroft, "that little red–haired
girl who was in our year at college? She has just married old Craven out
of Physic's department."

"I wish her joy of it!" said Lettie; "wasn't she an old flame of yours?"

"Among the rest," he replied smiling. "Don't you remember you were one
of them; you had your day."

"What a joke that was!" exclaimed Lettie, "we used to go in the
arboretum at dinner–time. You lasted half one autumn. Do you remember
when we gave a concert, you and I, and Frank Wishaw, in the small
lecture theatre?"

"When the Prinny was such an old buck, flattering you," continued Will.
"And that night Wishaw took you to the station—sent old Gettim for a
cab and saw you in, large as life—never was such a thing before. Old
Wishaw won you with that cab, didn't he?"

"Oh, how I swelled!" cried Lettie. "There were you all at the top of the
steps gazing with admiration! But Frank Wishaw was not a nice fellow,
though he played the violin beautifully. I never liked his eyes—"

"No," added Will. "He didn't last long, did he?—though long enough to
oust me. We had a giddy ripping time in Coll., didn't we?"

"It was not bad," said Lettie. "Rather foolish. I'm afraid I wasted my
three years."

"I think," said Leslie, smiling, "you improved the shining hours to
great purpose."

It pleased him to think what a flirt she had been, since the flirting
had been harmless, and only added to the glory of his final conquest.
George felt very much left out during these reminiscences.

When we had finished tea, we adjourned to the drawing–room. It was in
darkness, save for the fire light. The mistletoe had been discovered,
and was being appreciated.

"Georgie, Sybil, Sybil, Georgie, come and kiss me," cried Alice.

Will went forward to do her the honour. She ran to me, saying, "Get
away, you fat fool—keep on your own preserves. Now Georgie dear, come
and kiss me, 'cause you haven't got nobody else but me, no y' ave n't.
Do you want to run away, like Georgy–Porgy apple–pie? Shan't cry, sure I
shan't, if you are ugly."

She took him and kissed him on either cheek, saying softly, "You shan't
be so serious, old boy—buck up, there's a good fellow."

We lighted the lamp, and charades were proposed, Leslie and Lettie, Will
and Madie and Alice went out to play. The first scene was an elopement
to Gretna Green—with Alice a maid servant, a part that she played
wonderfully well as a caricature. It was very noisy, and extremely
funny. Leslie was in high spirits. It was remarkable to observe that, as
he became more animated, more abundantly energetic, Lettie became
quieter. The second scene, which they were playing as excited melodrama,
she turned into small tragedy with her bitterness. They went out, and
Lettie blew us kisses from the doorway.

"Doesn't she act well?" exclaimed Marie, speaking to Tom.

"Quite realistic," said he.

"She could always play a part well," said mother.

"I should think," said Emily, "she could take a role in life and play up
to it."

"I believe she could," mother answered, "there would only be intervals
when she would see herself in a mirror acting."

"And what then?" said Marie.

"She would feel desperate, and wait till the fit passed off," replied my
mother, smiling significantly.

The players came in again. Lettie kept her part subordinate. Leslie
played with brilliance; it was rather startling how he excelled. The
applause was loud—but we could not guess the word. Then they laughed,
and told us. We clamoured for more.

"Do go, dear," said Lettie to Leslie, "and I will be helping to arrange
the room for the dances. I want to watch you—I am rather tired—it is
so exciting—Emily will take my place."

They went. Marie and Tom, and Mother and I played bridge in one corner.
Lettie said she wanted to show George some new pictures, and they bent
over a portfolio for some time. Then she bade him help her to clear the
room for the dances.

"Well, you have had time to think," she said to him.

"A short time," he replied. "What shall I say?"

"Tell me what you've been thinking."

"Well—about you——" he answered, smiling foolishly.

"What about me?" she asked, venturesome.

"About you, how you were at college," he replied.

"Oh! I had a good time. I had plenty of boys. I liked them all, till I
found there was nothing in them; then they tired me."

"Poor boys!" he said laughing. "Were they all alike?"

"All alike," she replied, "and they are still."

"Pity," he said, smiling. "It's hard lines on you."

"Why?" she asked.

"It leaves you nobody to care for——" he replied.

"How very sarcastic you are. You make one reservation."

"Do I?" he answered, smiling. "But you fire sharp into the air, and then
say we're all blank cartridges—except one, of course."

"You?" she queried, ironically—"oh, you would forever hang fire."

"'Cold dinners!'" he quoted in bitterness. "But you knew I loved you.
You knew well enough."

"Past tense," she replied, "thanks—make it perfect next time."

"It's you who hang fire—it's you who make me," he said.

"And so from the retort circumstantial to the retort direct,'" she
replied, smiling.

"You see—you put me off," he insisted, growing excited. For reply, she
held out her hand and showed him the ring. She smiled very quietly. He
stared at her with darkening anger.

"Will you gather the rugs and stools together, and put them in that
corner?" she said.

He turned away to do so, but he looked back again, and said, in low,
passionate tones:

"You never counted me. I was a figure naught in the counting all along."