The White Peacock (22 page)

She ran and brought him a jacket, and put the cushions round, and made
him lie on the couch. Then she took off his boots and put slippers on
his feet. He lay watching her all the time; he was white with fatigue
and excitement.

"I wonder if I shall be had up for scorching—I can feel the road coming
at me yet," he said.

"Why were you so headlong?"

"I felt as if I should go wild if I didn't come—if I didn't rush. I
didn't know how you might have taken me, Lettie when I said—what I
did."

She smiled gently at him, and he lay resting, recovering, looking at
her.

"It's a wonder I haven't done something desperate—I've been half mad
since I said—Oh, Lettie, I was a damned fool and a wretch—I could have
torn myself in two. I've done nothing but curse and rage at myself ever
since. I feel as if I'd just come up out of hell. You don't know how
thankful I am, Lettie, that you've not—oh—turned against me for what I
said."

She went to him and sat down by him, smoothing his hair from his
forehead, kissing him, her attitude tender, suggesting tears, her
movements impulsive, as if with a self–reproach she would not
acknowledge, but which she must silence with lavish tenderness. He drew
her to him, and they remained quiet for some time, till it grew dark.

The noise of my mother stirring in the next room disturbed them. Lettie
rose, and he also got up from the couch.

"I suppose," he said, "I shall have to go home and get bathed and
dressed—though," he added in tones which made it clear he did not want
to go, "I shall have to get back in the morning—I don't know what
they'll say."

"At any rate," she said, "You could wash here——"

"But I must get out of these clothes—and I want a bath."

"You could—you might have some of Cyril's clothes—and the water's hot.
I know. At all events, you can stay to supper——"

"If I'm going I shall have to go soon—or they'd not like it, if I go in
late;—they have no idea I've come;—they don't expect me till next
Monday or Tuesday——"

"Perhaps you could stay here—and they needn't know."

They looked at each other with wide, smiling eyes—like children on the
brink of a stolen pleasure.

"Oh, but what would your mother think!—no, I'll go."

"She won't mind a bit."

"Oh, but——"

"I'll ask her."

He wanted to stay far more than she wished it, so it was she who put
down his opposition and triumphed.

My mother lifted her eyebrows, and said very quietly:

"He'd better go home—and be straight."

"But look how he'd feel—he'd have to tell them … and how would he
feel! It's really my fault, in the end. Don't be piggling and mean and
Grundyish, Matouchka."

"It is neither meanness nor grundyishness——"

"Oh, Ydgrun, Ydgrun——!" exclaimed Lettie, ironically.

"He may certainly stay if he likes," said mother, slightly nettled at
Lettie's gibe.

"All right, Mutterchen—and be a sweetling, do!"

Lettie went out a little impatient at my mother's unwillingness, but
Leslie stayed, nevertheless.

In a few moments Lettie was up in the spare bedroom, arranging and
adorning, and Rebecca was running with hot–water bottles, and hurrying
down with clean bed–clothes. Lettie hastily appropriated my best
brushes—which she had given me—and took the suit of pajamas of the
thinnest, finest flannel—and discovered a new tooth–brush—and made
selections from my shirts and handkerchiefs and underclothing—and
directed me which suit to lend him. Altogether I was astonished, and
perhaps a trifle annoyed, at her extraordinary thoughtfulness and
solicitude.

He came down to supper, bathed, brushed, and radiant. He ate heartily
and seemed to emanate a warmth of physical comfort and pleasure. The
colour was flushed again into his face, and he carried his body with the
old independent, assertive air. I have never known the time when he
looked handsomer, when he was more attractive. There was a certain
warmth about him, a certain glow that enhanced his words, his laughter,
his movements; he was the predominant person, and we felt a pleasure in
his mere proximity. My mother, however, could not quite get rid of her
stiffness, and soon after supper she rose, saying she would finish her
letter in the next room, bidding him good–night, as she would probably
not see him again. The cloud of this little coolness was the thinnest
and most transitory. He talked and laughed more gaily than ever, and was
ostentatious in his movements, throwing back his head, taking little
attitudes which displayed the broad firmness of his breast, the grace of
his well–trained physique. I left them at the piano; he was sitting
pretending to play, and looking up all the while at her, who stood with
her hand on his shoulder.

In the morning he was up early, by six o'clock downstairs and attending
to the car. When I got down I found him very busy, and very quiet.

"I know I'm a beastly nuisance," he said, "but I must get off early."

Rebecca came and prepared breakfast, which we two ate alone. He was
remarkably dull and wordless.

"It's a wonder Lettie hasn't got up to have breakfast with you—she's
such a one for raving about the perfection of the early morning—it's
purity and promises and so forth," I said.

He broke his bread nervously, and drank some coffee as if he were
agitated, making noises in his throat as he swallowed.

"It's too early for her, I should think," he replied, wiping his
moustache hurriedly. Yet he seemed to listen for her. Lettie's bedroom
was over the study, where Rebecca had laid breakfast, and he listened
now and again, holding his knife and fork suspended in their action.
Then he went on with his meal again.

When he was laying down his serviette, the door opened. He pulled
himself together, and turned round sharply. It was mother. When she
spoke to him, his face twitched with a little frown, half of relief,
half of disappointment.

"I must be going now," he said—"thank you very much—Mother."

"You are a harum–scarum boy. I wonder why Lettie doesn't come down. I
know she is up."

"Yes," he replied. "Yes, I've heard her. Perhaps she is dressing. I must
get off."

"I'll call her."

"No—don't bother her—she'd come if she wanted——"

But mother had called from the foot of the stairs.

"Lettie, Lettie—he's going."

"All right," said Lettie, and in another minute she came downstairs. She
was dressed in dark, severe stuff, and she was somewhat pale. She did
not look at any of us, but turned her eyes aside.

"Good–bye," she said to him, offering him her cheek. He kissed her,
murmuring: "Good–bye—my love."

He stood in the doorway a moment, looking at her with beseeching eyes.
She kept her face half averted, and would not look at him, but stood
pale and cold, biting her underlip. He turned sharply away with a motion
of keen disappointment, set the engines of the car into action, mounted,
and drove quickly away.

Lettie stood pale and inscrutable for some moments.

Then she went in to breakfast and sat toying with her food, keeping her
head bent down, her face hidden.

In less than an hour he was back again, saying he had left something
behind. He ran upstairs, and then, hesitating, went into the room where
Lettie was still sitting at table.

"I had to come back," he said.

She lifted her face towards him, but kept her eyes averted, looking out
of the window. She was flushed.

"What had you forgotten?" she asked.

"I'd left my cigarette case," he replied.

There was an awkward silence.

"But I shall have to be getting off," he added.

"Yes, I suppose you will," she replied.

After another pause, he asked:

"Won't you just walk down the path with me?"

She rose without answering. He took a shawl and put it round her
carefully. She merely allowed him. They walked in silence down the
garden.

"You—are you—are you angry with me?" he faltered.

Tears suddenly came to her eyes.

"What did you come back for?" she said, averting her face from him. He
looked at her.

"I knew you were angry—and——," he hesitated.

"Why didn't you go away?" she said impulsively. He hung his head and was
silent.

"I don't see why—why it should make trouble between us, Lettie," he
faltered. She made a swift gesture of repulsion, whereupon, catching
sight of her hand, she hid it swiftly against her skirt again.

"You make my hands—my very hands disclaim me," she struggled to say.

He looked at her clenched fist pressed against the folds of her dress.

"But—," he began, much troubled.

"I tell you, I can't bear the sight of my own hands," she said in low,
passionate tones.

"But surely, Lettie, there's no need—if you love me——"

She seemed to wince. He waited, puzzled and miserable.

"And we're going to be married, aren't we?" he resumed, looking
pleadingly at her.

She stirred, and exclaimed:

"Oh, why don't you go away? What did you come back for?"

"You'll kiss me before I go?" he asked.

She stood with averted face, and did not reply. His forehead was
twitching in a puzzled frown.

"Lettie!" he said.

She did not move or answer, but remained with her face turned full away,
so that he could see only the contour of her cheek. After waiting
awhile, he flushed, turned swiftly and set his machine rattling. In a
moment he was racing between the trees.

It was the Sunday after Leslie's visit. We had had a wretched week, with
everybody mute and unhappy.

Though Spring had come, none of us saw it. Afterwards it occurred to me
that I had seen all the ranks of poplars suddenly bursten into a dark
crimson glow, with a flutter of blood–red where the sun came through the
leaves; that I had found high cradles where the swan's eggs lay by the
waterside; that I had seen the daffodils leaning from the moss–grown
wooden walls of the boat–house, and all, moss, daffodils, water,
scattered with the pink scarves from the elm buds; that I had broken the
half–spread fans of the sycamore, and had watched the white cloud of
sloe–blossom go silver grey against the evening sky: but I had not
perceived it, and I had not any vivid spring–pictures left from the
neglected week.

It was Sunday evening, just after tea, when Lettie suddenly said to me:

"Come with me down to Strelley Mill."

I was astonished, but I obeyed unquestioningly. On the threshold we
heard a chattering of girls, and immediately Alice's voice greeted us:

"Hello, Sybil, love! Hello, Lettie! Come on, here's a gathering of the
goddesses. Come on, you just make us right. You're Juno, and here's Meg,
she's Venus, and I'm—here, somebody, who am I, tell us quick—did you
say Minerva, Sybil dear? Well you ought, then! Now Paris, hurry up. He's
putting his Sunday clothes on to take us a walk—Laws, what a time it
takes him! Get your blushes ready, Meg—now, Lettie, look haughty, and
I'll look wise. I wonder if he wants me to go and tie his tie. Oh,
Glory—where on earth did you get that antimacassar?"

"In Nottingham—don't you like it?" said George referring to his tie.
"Hello, Lettie—have you come?"

"Yes, it's a gathering of the goddesses. Have you that apple? If so,
hand it over," said Alice.

"What apple?"

"Oh, Lum, his education! Paris's apple—Can't you see we've come to be
chosen?"

"Oh, well—I haven't got any apple—I've eaten mine."

"Isn't he flat—he's like boiling magnesia that's done boiling for a
week. Are you going to take us all to church then?"

"If you like."

"Come on, then. Where's the Abode of Love? Look at Lettie looking
shocked. Awfully sorry, old girl—thought love agreed with you."

"Did you say
love
?" inquired George.

"Yes, I did; didn't I, Meg? And you say 'Love' as well, don't you?"

"I don't know what it is," laughed Meg, who was very red and rather
bewildered.

"'Amor est titillatio'—'Love is a tickling,'—there—that's it, isn't
it, Sybil?"

"How should I know."

"Of
course
not, old fellow. Leave it to the girls. See how knowing
Lettie looks—and, laws, Lettie, you are solemn."

"It's love," suggested George, over his new neck–tie.

"I'll bet it is 'degustasse sat est'—ain't it, Lettie? 'One lick's
enough'—'and damned be he that first cries: Hold, enough!'—Which one
do you like? But
are
you going to take us to church, Georgie,
darling—one by one, or all at once?"

"What do you want me to do, Meg?" he asked.

"Oh, I don't mind."

"And do you mind, Lettie?"

"I'm not going to church."

"Let's go a walk somewhere—and let us start now," said Emily somewhat
testily. She did not like this nonsense.

"There you are Syb—you've got your orders—don't leave me behind,"
wailed Alice.

Emily frowned and bit her finger.

"Come on, Georgie. You look like the finger of a pair scales—between
two weights. Which'll draw?"

"The heavier," he replied, smiling, and looking neither at Meg or
Lettie.

"Then it's Meg," cried Alice. "Oh, I wish I was fleshy—I've no chance
with Syb against Pem."

Emily flashed looks of rage; Meg blushed and felt ashamed; Lettie began
to recover from her first outraged indignation, and smiled.

Thus we went a walk, in two trios.

Unfortunately, as the evening was so fine, the roads were full of
strollers: groups of three or four men dressed in pale trousers and
shiny black cloth coats, following their suspicious little dogs: gangs
of youths slouching along, occupied with nothing, often silent, talking
now and then in raucous tones on some subject of brief interest: then
the gallant husbands, in their tail coats very husbandly, pushing a
jingling perambulator, admonished by a much dressed spouse round whom
the small members of the family gyrated: occasionally, two lovers
walking with a space between them, disowning each other; occasionally, a
smartly dressed mother with two little girls in white silk frocks and
much expanse of yellow hair, stepping mincingly, and, near by, a father
awkwardly controlling his Sunday suit.

To endure all this it was necessary to chatter unconcernedly. George had
to keep up the conversation behind, and he seemed to do it with ease,
discoursing on the lambs, discussing the breed—when Meg exclaimed:

"Oh, aren't they black! They might ha' crept down th' chimney. I never
saw any like them before." He described how he had reared two on the
bottle, exciting Meg's keen admiration by his mothering of the lambs.
Then he went on to the peewits, harping on the same string: how they
would cry and pretend to be wounded—"Just fancy, though!"—and how he
had moved the eggs of one pair while he was ploughing, and the mother
had followed them, and had even sat watching as he drew near again with
the plough, watching him come and go—"Well, she knew you—but they
do
know those who are kind to them——"

"Yes," he agreed, "her little bright eyes seem to speak as you go by."

"Oh, I do think they're nice little things—don't you, Lettie?" cried
Meg in access of tenderness.

Lettie did—with brevity.

We walked over the hills and down into Greymede. Meg thought she ought
to go home to her grandmother, and George bade her go, saying he would
call and see her in an hour or so.

The dear girl was disappointed, but she went unmurmuring. We left Alice
with a friend, and hurried home through Selsby to escape the
after–church parade.

As you walk home past Selsby, the pit stands up against the west, with
beautiful tapering chimneys marked in black against the swim of sunset,
and the head–stocks etched with tall significance on the brightness.
Then the houses are squat in rows of shadow at the foot of these high
monuments.

"Do you know, Cyril," said Emily, "I
have
meant to go and see
Mrs Annable—the keeper's wife—she's moved into Bonsart's Row, and the
children come to school—Oh, it's awful!—they've never been to school,
and they are unspeakable."

"What's she gone there for?" I asked.

"I suppose the squire wanted the Kennels—and she chose it herself. But
the way they live—it's fearful to think of!"

"And why haven't you been?"

"I don't know—I've meant to—but——" Emily stumbled.

"You didn't want, and you daren't?"

"Perhaps not—would you?"

"Pah—let's go now!—There, you hang back."

"No I don't," she replied sharply.

"Come on then, we'll go through the twitchel. Let me tell Lettie."

Lettie at once declared, "No!"—with some asperity.

"All right," said George. "I'll take you home."

But this suited Lettie still less.

"I don't know what you want to go for, Cyril," she said, "and Sunday
night, and, everybody everywhere. I want to go home."

"Well—you go then—Emily will come with you."

"Ha," cried the latter, "you think I won't go to see her."

I shrugged my shoulders, and George pulled his moustache.

"Well, I don't care," declared Lettie, and we marched down the twitchel,
Indian file.

We came near to the ugly rows of houses that back up against the
pit–hill. Everywhere is black and sooty: the houses are back to back,
having only one entrance, which is from a square garden where
black–speckled weeds grow sulkily, and which looks on to a row of evil
little ash–pit huts. The road everywhere is trodden over with a crust of
soot and coal–dust and cinders.

Between the rows, however, was a crowd of women and children, bare
heads, bare arms, white aprons, and black Sunday frocks bristling with
gimp. One or two men squatted on their heels with their backs against a
wall, laughing. The women were waving their arms and screaming up at the
roof of the end house.

Emily and Lettie drew back.

"Look there—it's that little beggar, Sam!" said George.

There, sure enough, perched on the ridge of the roof against the end
chimney, was the young imp, coatless, his shirt–sleeves torn away from
the cuffs. I knew his bright, reddish young head in a moment. He got up,
his bare toes clinging to the tiles, and spread out his fingers fanwise
from his nose, shouting something, which immediately caused the crowd to
toss with indignation, and the women to shriek again. Sam sat down
suddenly, having almost lost his balance.

The village constable hurried up, his thin neck stretching out of his
tunic, and demanded the cause of the hubbub.

Immediately a woman with bright brown squinting eyes and a birthmark on
her cheek, rushed forward and seized the policeman by the sleeve.

"Ta'e 'im up, ta'e 'im up, an' birch 'im till 'is bloody back's raw,"
she screamed.

The thin policeman shook her off, and wanted to know what was the
matter.

"I'll smosh 'im like a rotten tater," cried the woman, "if I can lay
'ands on 'im. 'E's not fit ter live nowhere where there's decent
folks—the thievin', brazen little devil——" thus she went on.

"But what's up!" interrupted the thin constable, "what's up wi' 'im?"

"Up—it's 'im as 'is up, an' let 'im wait till I get 'im down. A crafty
little——"

Sam, seeing her look at him, distorted his honest features, and
overheated her wrath, till Lettie and Emily trembled with dismay.

The mother's head appeared at the bedroom window. She slid the sash
back, and craned out, vainly trying to look over the gutter below the
slates. She was even more dishevelled than usual, and the tears had
dried on her pale face. She stretched further out, clinging to the
window frame and to the gutter overhead, till I was afraid she would
come down with a crash.

The men, squatting on their heels against the wall of the ashpit,
laughed, saying:

"Nab 'im, Poll—can ter see 'm—clawk 'im!" and then the pitiful voice
of the woman was heard crying: "Come thy ways down, my duckie, come
on—on'y come ter thy mother—they shanna touch thee. Du thy mother's
biddin', now—Sam—Sam—Sam!" her voice rose higher and higher.

"Sammy, Sammy, go to thy mammy," jeered the wits below.

"Shonna ter come, Shonna ter come to thy mother, my duckie—come on,
come thy ways down."

Sam looked at the crowd, and at the eaves from under which rose his
mother's voice. He was going to cry. A big gaunt woman, with the family
steel comb stuck in her back hair, shouted, "Tha' mun well bend thy
face, tha' needs ter scraight," and aided by the woman with the
birthmark and the squint, she reviled him. The little scoundrel, in a
burst of defiance, picked a piece of mortar from between the slates, and
in a second it flew into fragments against the family steel comb. The
wearer thereof declared her head was laid open and there was general
confusion. The policeman—I don't know how thin he must have been when
he was taken out of his uniform—lost his head, and he too began
brandishing his fists, spitting from under his sweep's–brush moustache
as he commanded in tones of authority:

"Now then, no more on it—let's 'a'e thee down here, an' no more messin'
about!"

The boy tried to creep over the ridge of the roof and escape down the
other side. Immediately the brats rushed round yelling to the other side
of the row, and pieces of red–burnt gravel began to fly over the roof.
Sam crouched against the chimney.

"Got 'im!" yelled one little devil "Got 'im! Hi—go again!"

A shower of stones came down, scattering the women and the policeman.
The mother rushed from the house and made a wild onslaught on the
throwers. She caught one and flung him down. Immediately the rest turned
and aimed their missiles at her. Then George and the policeman and I
dashed after the young wretches, and the women ran to see what happened
to their offspring. We caught two lads of fourteen or so, and made the
policeman haul them after us. The rest fled.

When we returned to the field of battle, Sam had gone too.

"If 'e 'asna slived off!" cried the woman with a squint. "But I'll see
him locked up for this."

At this moment a band of missioners from one of the chapels or churches
arrived at the end of the row, and the little harmonium began to bray,
and the place vibrated with the sound of a woman's powerful voice,
propped round by several others, singing:

"At even 'ere the sun was set——"

Everybody hurried towards the new noise, save the policeman with his
captives, the woman with the squint, and the woman with the family comb.
I told the limb of the law he'd better get rid of the two boys and find
out what mischief the others were after.

Then I enquired of the woman with the squint what was the matter.

"Thirty–seven young uns 'an we 'ad from that doe, an' there's no knowin'
'ow many more, if they 'adn't a–gone an' ate–n 'er," she replied,
lapsing, now her fury was spent, into sullen resentment.

"An' niver a word should we a' known," added the family–comb–bearer,
"but for that blessed cat of ourn, as scrat it up."

"Indeed," said I, "the rabbit?"

"No, there were nowt left but th' skin—they'd seen ter that, a
thieving, dirt–eatin' lot."

"When was that?" said I.

"This mortal night—an' there was th' head an' th' back in th' dirty
stewpot—I can show you this instant—I've got 'em in our pantry for a
proof, 'aven't I, Martha?"