The White Peacock (21 page)

"I cannot go into the wood," she said.

"Come to the top of the riding"—and we went round the dark bushes.

George was waiting. I saw at once he was half distrustful of himself
now. Lettie dropped her skirts and trailed towards him. He stood
awkwardly awaiting her, conscious of the clownishness of his appearance.
She held out her hand with something of a grand air:

"See," she said, "I have come."

"Yes—I thought you wouldn't—perhaps"—he looked at her, and suddenly
gained courage: "You have been putting white on—you, you do look
nice—though not like——"

"What?—Who else?"

"Nobody else—only I—well I'd—I'd thought about it different—like
some pictures."

She smiled with a gentle radiance, and asked indulgently, "And how was I
different?"

"Not all that soft stuff—plainer."

"But don't I look very nice with all this soft stuff, as you call
it?"—and she shook the silk away from her smiles.

"Oh, yes—better than those naked lines."

"You are quaint to–night—what did you want me for—to say good–bye?"

"Good–bye?"

"Yes—you're going away, Cyril tells me. I'm very sorry—fancy horrid
strangers at the Mill! But then I shall be gone away soon, too. We are
all going you see, now we've grown up,"—she kept hold of my arm. "Yes."

"And where will you go—Canada? You'll settle there and be quite a
patriarch, won't you?"

"I don't know."

"You are not really sorry to go, are you?"

"No, I'm glad."

"Glad to go away from us all."

"I suppose so—since I must."

"Ah, Fate—Fate! It separates you whether you want it or not."

"What?"

"Why, you see, you have to leave. I mustn't stay out here—it is growing
chilly. How soon are you going?"

"I don't know."

"Not soon then?"

"I don't know."

"Then I may see you again?"

"I don't know."

"Oh, yes, I shall. Well, I must go. Shall I say good–bye now?—that was
what you wanted, was it not?"

"To say good–bye?"

"Yes."

"No—it wasn't—I wanted, I wanted to ask you——"

"What?" she cried.

"You don't know, Lettie, now the old life's gone, everything—how I want
you—to set out with—it's like beginning life, and I want you."

"But what could I do—I could only hinder—what help should I be?"

"I should feel as if my mind was made up—as if I could do something
clearly. Now it's all hazy—not knowing what to do next."

"And if—if you had—what then?"

"If I had you I could go straight on."

"Where?"

"Oh—I should take a farm in Canada——"

"Well, wouldn't it be better to get it first and make sure——?"

"I have no money."

"Oh!—so you wanted me——?"

"I only wanted you, I only wanted you. I would have given you——"

"What?"

"You'd have me—you'd have all me, and everything you wanted."

"That I paid for—a good bargain! No, oh no, George, I beg your pardon.
This is one of my flippant nights. I don't mean it like that. But you
know it's impossible—look how I'm fixed—it
is
impossible, isn't it
now."

"I suppose it is."

"You know it is—Look at me now, and say if it's not impossible—a
farmer's wife—with you in Canada."

"Yes—I didn't expect you like that. Yes, I see it is impossible. But
I'd thought about it, and felt as if I must have you. Should have you .
. . Yes, it doesn't do to go on dreaming. I think it's the first time,
and it'll be the last. Yes, it is impossible. Now I have made up my
mind."

"And what will you do?"

"I shall not go to Canada."

"Oh, you must not—you must not do anything rash."

"No—I shall get married."

"You will? Oh, I am glad. I thought—you—you were too fond—. But
you're not—of yourself I meant. I am so glad. Yes—do marry!"

"Well, I shall—since you are——"

"Yes," said Lettie. "It is best. But I thought that you——" she smiled
at him in sad reproach.

"Did you think so?" he replied, smiling gravely.

"Yes," she whispered. They stood looking at one another.

He made an impulsive movement towards her. She, however, drew back
slightly, checking him.

"Well—I shall see you again sometime—so good–bye," he said, putting
out his hand.

We heard a foot crunching on the gravel. Leslie halted at the top of the
riding. Lettie, hearing him, relaxed into a kind of feline graciousness,
and said to George:

"I am so sorry you are going to leave—it breaks the old life up. You
said I would see you again——" She left her hand in his a moment or
two.

"Yes," George replied. "Good–night"—and he turned away. She stood for a
moment in the same drooping, graceful attitude watching him, then she
turned round slowly. She seemed hardly to notice Leslie.

"Who was that you were talking to?" he asked.

"He has gone now," she replied irrelevantly, as if even then she seemed
hardly to realise it.

"It appears to upset you—his going—who is it?"

"He!—Oh,—why, it's George Saxton."

"Oh, him!"

"Yes."

"What did he want?"

"Eh? What did he want? Oh, nothing."

"A mere trysting—in the interim, eh!"—he said this laughing,
generously passing off his annoyance in a jest.

"I feel so sorry," she said.

"What for?"

"Oh—don't let us talk about him—talk about something else. I can't
bear to talk about—him."

"All right," he replied—and after an awkward little pause. "What sort
of a time had you in Nottingham?"

"Oh, a fine time."

"You'll enjoy yourself in the shops between now and—July. Some time
I'll go with you and see them."

"Very well."

"That sounds as if you don't want me to go. Am I already in the way on a
shopping expedition, like an old husband?"

"I should think you would be."

"That's nice of you! Why?"

"Oh, I don't know."

"Yes you do."

"Oh, I suppose you'd hang about."

"I'm much too well brought up."

"Rebecca has lighted the hall lamp."

"Yes, it's grown quite dark. I was here early. You never gave me a good
word for it."

"I didn't notice. There's a light in the dining–room, we'll go there."

They went into the dining–room. She stood by the piano and carefully
took off the wrap. Then she wandered listlessly about the room for a
minute.

"Aren't you coming to sit down?" he said, pointing to the seat on the
couch beside him.

"Not just now," she said, trailing aimlessly to the piano. She sat down
and began to play at random, from memory. Then she did that most
irritating thing—played accompaniments to songs, with snatches of the
air where the voice should have predominated.

"I say Lettie, … " he interrupted after a time.

"Yes," she replied, continuing to play.

"It's not very interesting…."

"No?"—she continued to play.

"Nor very amusing…."

She did not answer. He bore it for a little time longer, then he said:

"How much longer is it going to last, Lettie?"

"What?"

"That sort of business…."

"The piano?—I'll stop playing if you don't like it."

She did not, however, cease.

"Yes—and all this dry business."

"I don't understand."

"Don't you?—you make
me.
'"

There she went on, tinkling away at "If I built a world for you, dear."

"I say, stop it, do!" he cried.

She tinkled to the end of the verse, and very slowly closed the piano.

"Come on—come and sit down," he said.

"No, I don't want to.—I'd rather have gone on playing."

"Go on with your damned playing then, and I'll go where there's more
interest."

"You ought to like it."

He did not answer, so she turned slowly round on the stool, opened the
piano, and laid her fingers on the keys. At the sound of the chord he
started up, saying: "Then I'm going."

"It's very early—why?" she said, through the calm jingle of "Meine Ruh
is hin——"

He stood biting his lips. Then he made one more appeal.

"Lettie!"

"Yes?"

"Aren't you going to leave off—and be—amiable?"

"Amiable?"

"You are a jolly torment. What's upset you now?"

"Nay, it's not I who am upset."

"I'm glad to hear it—what do you call yourself?"

"I?—nothing."

"Oh, well, I'm going then."

"Must you?—so early to–night?"

He did not go, and she played more and more softly, languidly,
aimlessly. Once she lifted her head to speak, but did not say anything.

"Look here!" he ejaculated all at once, so that she started, and jarred
the piano, "What do you mean by it?"

She jingled leisurely a few seconds before answering, then she replied:

"What a worry you are!"

"I suppose you want me out of the way while you sentimentalise over that
milkman. You needn't bother. You can do it while I'm here. Or I'll go
and leave you in peace. I'll go and call him back for you, if you
like—if that's what you want——"

She turned on the piano stool slowly and looked at him, smiling faintly.

"It is very good of you!" she said.

He clenched his fists and grinned with rage.

"You tantalising little——" he began, lifting his fists expressively.
She smiled. Then he swung round, knocked several hats flying off the
stand in the hall, slammed the door, and was gone.

Lettie continued to play for some time, after which she went up to her
own room.

Leslie did not return to us the next day, nor the day after. The first
day Marie came and told us he had gone away to Yorkshire to see about
the new mines that were being sunk there, and was likely to be absent
for a week or so. These business visits to the north were rather
frequent. The firm, of which Mr. Tempest was director and chief
shareholder, were opening important new mines in the other county, as
the seams at home were becoming exhausted or unprofitable. It was
proposed that Leslie should live in Yorkshire when he was married, to
superintend the new workings. He at first rejected the idea, but he
seemed later to approve of it more.

During the time he was away Lettie was moody and cross–tempered. She did
not mention George nor the mill; indeed, she preserved her best, most
haughty and ladylike manner.

On the evening of the fourth day of Leslie's absence we were out in the
garden. The trees were "uttering joyous leaves." My mother was in the
midst of her garden, lifting the dusky faces of the auriculas to look at
the velvet lips, or tenderly taking a young weed from the black soil.
The thrushes were calling and clamouring all round. The japonica flamed
on the wall as the light grew thicker; the tassels of white
cherry–blossom swung gently in the breeze.

"What shall I do, mother?" said Lettie, as she wandered across the grass
to pick at the japonica flowers. "What shall I do?—There's nothing to
do."

"Well, my girl—what do you want to do? You have been moping about all
day—go and see somebody."

"It's such a long way to Eberwich."

"Is it? Then go somewhere nearer."

Lettie fretted about with restless, petulant indecision.

"I don't know what to do," she said, "And I feel as if I might just as
well never have lived at all as waste days like this. I wish we weren't
buried in this dead little hole—I wish we were near the town—it's
hateful having to depend on about two or three folk for your—your—your
pleasure in life."

"I can't help it, my dear—you must do something for yourself."

"And what can I do?—I can do nothing."

"Then I'd go to bed."

"That I won't—with the dead weight of a wasted day on me. I feel as if
I'd do something desperate."

"Very well, then," said mother, "do it, and have done."

"Oh, it's no good talking to you—I don't want——" She turned away,
went to the laurestinus, and began pulling off it the long red berries.
I expected she would fret the evening wastefully away. I noticed all at
once that she stood still. It was the noise of a motor–car running
rapidly down the hill towards Nethermere—a light, quick–clicking sound.
I listened also. I could feel the swinging drop of the car as it came
down the leaps of the hill. We could see the dust trail up among the
trees. Lettie raised her head and listened expectantly. The car rushed
along the edge of Nethermere—then there was the jar of brakes, as the
machine slowed down and stopped. In a moment with a quick flutter of
sound, it was passing the lodge–gates and whirling up the drive, through
the wood, to us. Lettie stood with flushed cheeks and brightened eyes.
She went towards the bushes that shut off the lawn from the gravelled
space in front of the house, watching. A car came racing through the
trees. It was the small car Leslie used on the firm's business—now it
was white with dust. Leslie suddenly put on the brakes, and tore to a
standstill in front of the house. He stepped to the ground. There he
staggered a little, being giddy and cramped with the long drive. His
motor–jacket and cap were thick with dust.

Lettie called to him, "Leslie!"—and flew down to him. He took her into
his arms, and clouds of dust rose round her. He kissed her, and they
stood perfectly still for a moment. She looked up into his face—then
she disengaged her arms to take off his disfiguring motor–spectacles.
After she had looked at him a moment, tenderly, she kissed him again. He
loosened his hold of her, and she said, in a voice full of tenderness:

"You are trembling, dear."

"It's the ride. I've never stopped."

Without further words she took him into the house.

"How pale you are—see, lie on the couch—never mind the dust. All
right, I'll find you a coat of Cyril's. O, mother, he's come all those
miles in the car without stopping—make him lie down."