The White Peacock (23 page)

"A fat lot o' good it is—but I'll rip th' neck out of 'im, if ever I
lay 'ands on 'im."

At last I made out that Samuel had stolen a large, lop–eared doe out of
a bunch in the coal–house of the squint–eyed lady, had skinned it,
buried the skin, and offered his booty to his mother as a wild rabbit,
trapped. The doe had been the chief item of the Annables' Sunday
dinner—albeit a portion was unluckily saved till Monday, providing
undeniable proof of the theft. The owner of the rabbit had supposed the
creature to have escaped. This peaceful supposition had been destroyed
by the comb–bearer's seeing her cat, scratching in the Annables garden,
unearth the white and brown doe–skin, after which the trouble had begun.

The squint–eyed woman was not so hard to manage. I talked to her as if
she were some male friend of mine, only appealing to her womanliness
with all the soft sadness I could press into the tones of my voice. In
the end she was mollified, and even tender and motherly in her feelings
toward the unfortunate family. I left on her dresser the half–crown I
shrank from offering her, and, having reduced the comb–wearer also, I
marched off, carrying the stewpot and the fragments of the ill–fated doe
to the cottage of the widow, where George and the girls awaited me.

The house was in a woeful state. In the rocking chair, beside the high
guard that surrounded the hearth, sat the mother, rocking, looking sadly
shaken now her excitement was over. Lettie was nursing the little baby,
and Emily the next child. George was smoking his pipe and trying to look
natural. The little kitchen was crowded—there was no room—there was
not even a place on the table for the stew–jar, so I gathered together
cups and mugs containing tea sops, and set down the vessel of ignominy
on the much slopped tea–cloth. The four little children were striped and
patched with tears—at my entrance one under the table recommenced to
weep, so I gave him my pencil which pushed in and out, but which pushes
in and out no more. The sight of the stewpot affected the mother afresh.
She wept again, crying:

"An' I niver thought as 'ow it were aught but a snared un; as if I
should set 'im on ter thieve their old doe; an' tough it was an' all;
an' 'im a thief, an me called all the names they could lay their tongues
to: an' then in my bit of a pantry, takin' the very pots out: that
stewpot as I brought all the way from Nottingham, an' I've 'ad it afore
our Minnie wor born—"

The baby, the little baby, then began to cry. The mother got up
suddenly, and took it.

"Oh, come then, come then my pet. Why, why cos they shanna, no they
shanna. Yes, he's his mother's least little lad, he is, a little un.
Hush then, there, there—what's a matter, my little?" She hushed the
baby, and herself. At length she asked:

"'As th' p'liceman gone as well?"

"Yes—it's all right," I said.

She sighed deeply, and her look of weariness was painful to see.

"How old is your eldest?" I asked.

"Fanny—she's fourteen. She's out service at Websters. Then Jim, as is
thirteen next month—let's see, yes, it is next month—he's gone to
Flints—farming. They can't do much—an' I shan't let 'em go into th'
pit, if I can help it. My husband always used to say they should never
go in th' pit."

"They can't do much for you."

"They dun what they can. But it's a hard job, it is, ter keep 'em all
goin'. Wi' weshin, an' th' parish pay, an' five shillin' from th'
squire—it's 'ard. It was different when my husband was alive. It ought
ter 'a been me as should 'a died—I don't seem as if I can manage
'em—they get beyond me. I wish I was dead this minnit, an' 'im 'ere. I
can't understand it: 'im as wor so capable, to be took, an' me left. 'E
wor a man in a thousand, 'e wor—full o' management like a gentleman. I
wisht it was me as 'ad a been took. 'An 'e's restless, 'cos 'e knows I
find it 'ard. I stood at th' door last night, when they was all asleep,
looking out over th' pit pond—an' I saw a light, an' I knowed it was
'im—cos it wor our weddin' day yesterday—by the day an' th' date. An'
I said to 'im 'Frank, is it thee, Frank? I'm all right, I'm gettin' on
all right,'—an' then 'e went; seemed to go ower the whimsey an' back
towards th' wood. I know it wor 'im, an' 'e couldna rest, thinkin' I
couldna manage——"

After a while we left, promising to go again, and to see after the
safety of Sam.

It was quite dark, and the lamps were lighted in the houses. We could
hear the throb of the fan–house engines, and the soft whirr of the fan.

"Isn't it cruel?" said Emily plaintively.

"Wasn't the man a wretch to marry the woman like that," added Lettie
with decision.

"Speak of Lady Chrystabel," said I, and then there was silence. "I
suppose he did not know what he was doing, any more than the rest of
us."

"I thought you were going to your aunt's—to the Ram Inn," said Lettie
to George when they came to the cross–roads.

"Not now—it's too late," he answered quietly. "You will come round our
way, won't you?"

"Yes," she said.

We were eating bread and milk at the farm, and the father was talking
with vague sadness and reminiscence, lingering over the thought of their
departure from the old house. He was a pure romanticist, forever seeking
the colour of the past in the present's monotony. He seemed settling
down to an easy contented middle–age, when the unrest on the farm and
development of his children quickened him with fresh activity. He read
books on the land question, and modern novels. In the end he became an
advanced radical, almost a socialist. Occasionally his letters appeared
in the newspapers. He had taken a new hold on life.

Over supper he became enthusiastic about Canada, and to watch him, his
ruddy face lighted up, his burly form straight and nerved with
excitement, was to admire him; to hear him, his words of thoughtful
common–sense all warm with a young man's hopes, was to love him. At
forty–six he was more spontaneous and enthusiastic than George, and far
more happy and hopeful.

Emily would not agree to go away with them—what should she do in
Canada, she said—and she did not want the little ones "to be drudges on
a farm—in the end to be nothing but cattle."

"Nay," said her father gently, "Mollie shall learn the dairying, and
David will just be right to take to the place when I give up. It'll
perhaps be a bit rough and hard at first, but when we've got over it we
shall think it was one of the best times—like you do."

"And you, George?" asked Lettie.

"I'm not going. What should I go for? There's nothing at the end of it
only a long life. It's like a day here in June—a long work day,
pleasant enough, and when it's done you sleep well—but it's work and
sleep and comfort,—half a life. It's not enough. What's the odds?—I
might as well be Flower, the mare."

His father looked at him gravely and thoughtfully.

"Now it seems to me so different," he said sadly, "it seems to me you
can live your own life, and be independent, and think as you like
without being choked with harassments. I feel as if I could keep
on—like that——"

"I'm going to get more out of my life, I hope," laughed George. "No. Do
you know?" and here he turned straight to Lettie. "Do you know, I'm
going to get pretty rich, so that I can do what I want for a bit. I want
to see what it's like, to taste all sides—to taste the towns. I want to
know what I've got in me. I'll get rich—or at least I'll have a good
try."

"And pray how will you manage it?" asked Emily.

"I'll begin by marrying—and then you'll see."

Emily laughed with scorn—"Let us see you begin."

"Ah, you're not wise!" said the father sadly—then, laughing, he said to
Lettie in coaxing, confidential tones, "but he'll come out there to me
in a year or two—you see if he doesn't."

"I wish I could come now," said I.

"If you would," said George, "I'd go with you. But not by myself, to
become a fat stupid fool, like my own cattle."

While he was speaking Gyp burst into a rage of barking. The father got
up to see what it was, and George followed. Trip, the great
bull–terrier, rushed out of the house shaking the buildings with his
roars. We saw the white dog flash down the yard, we heard a rattle from
the hen–house ladder, and in a moment a scream from the orchard side.

We rushed forward, and there on the sharp bank–side lay a little figure,
face down, and Trip standing over it, looking rather puzzled.

I picked up the child—it was Sam. He struggled as soon as he felt my
hands, but I bore him off to the house. He wriggled like a wild hare,
and kicked, but at last he was still. I set him on the hearthrug to
examine him. He was a quaint little figure, dressed in a man's trousers
that had been botched small for him, and a coat hanging in rags.

"Did he get hold of you?" asked the father. "Where was it he got hold of
you?"

But the child stood unanswering, his little pale lips pinched together,
his eyes staring out at nothing. Emily went on her knees before him, and
put her face close to his, saying, with a voice that made one shrink
from its unbridled emotion of caress:

"Did he hurt you, eh?—tell us where he hurt you." She would have put
her arms around him, but he shrank away.

"Look here," said Lettie, "it's here—and it's bleeding. Go and get some
water, Emily, and some rags. Come on, Sam, let me look and I'll put some
rags round it. Come along."

She took the child and stripped him of his grotesque garments. Trip had
given him a sharp grab on the thigh before he had realised that he was
dealing with a little boy. It was not much, however, and Lettie soon had
it bathed, and anointed with elder–flower ointment. On the boy's body
were several scars and bruises—evidently he had rough times. Lettie
tended to him and dressed him again. He endured these attentions like a
trapped wild rabbit—never looking at us, never opening his lips—only
shrinking slightly. When Lettie had put on him his torn little shirt,
and had gathered the great breeches about him, Emily went to him to coax
him and make him at home. She kissed him, and talked to him with her
full vibration of emotional caress. It seemed almost to suffocate him.
Then she tried to feed him with bread and milk from a spoon, but he
would not open his mouth, and he turned his head away.

"Leave him alone—take no notice of him," said Lettie, lifting him into
the chimney seat, with the basin of bread and milk beside him. Emily
fetched the two kittens out of their basket and put them too beside him.

"I wonder how many eggs he'd got," said the father, laughing softly.

"Hush!" said Lettie. "When do you think you will go to Canada,
Mr. Saxton?"

"
Next
spring—it's no good going before."

"And then you'll marry?" asked Lettie of George.

"Before then—oh, before then," he said.

"Why—how is it you are suddenly in such a hurry?—when will it be?"

"When are you marrying?" he asked in reply.

"I don't know," she said, coming to a full stop.

"Then I don't know," he said, taking a large wedge of cheese and biting
a piece from it.

"It was fixed for June," she said, recovering herself at his suggestion
of hope.

"July!" said Emily.

"Father!" said he, holding the piece of cheese up before him as he
spoke—he was evidently nervous: "Would you advise me to marry Meg?"

His father started, and said:

"Why, was you thinking of doing?"

"Yes—all things considered."

"Well—if she suits you——"

"We're cousins——"

"If you want her, I suppose you won't let that hinder you. She'll have a
nice bit of money, and if you like her——"

"I like her all right—I shan't go out to Canada with her though. I
shall stay at the Ram—for the sake of the life."

"It's a poor life, that!" said the father, ruminating.

George laughed. "A bit mucky!" he said—"But it'll do. It would need
Cyril or Lettie to keep me alive in Canada."

It was a bold stroke—everybody was embarrassed.

"Well," said the father, "I suppose we can't have everything we want—we
generally have to put up with the next best thing—don't we,
Lettie?"—he laughed. Lettie flushed furiously.

"I don't know," she said. "You can generally get what you want if you
want it badly enough. Of course—if you
don't mind
——"

She rose and went across to Sam.

He was playing with the kittens. One was patting and cuffing his bare
toe, which had poked through his stocking. He pushed and teased the
little scamp with his toe till it rushed at him, clinging, tickling,
biting till he gave little bubbles of laughter, quite forgetful of us.
Then the kitten was tired, and ran off. Lettie shook her skirts, and
directly the two playful mites rushed upon it, darting round her,
rolling head over heels, and swinging from the soft cloth. Suddenly
becoming aware that they felt tired, the young things trotted away and
cuddled together by the fender, where in an instant they were asleep.
Almost as suddenly, Sam sank into drowsiness.

"He'd better go to bed," said the father.

"Put him in my bed," said George. "David would wonder what had
happened."

"Will you go to bed, Sam?" asked Emily, holding out her arms to him, and
immediately startling him by the terrible gentleness of her persuasion.
He retreated behind Lettie.

"Come along," said the latter, and she quickly took him and undressed
him. Then she picked him up, and his bare legs hung down in front of
her. His head drooped drowsily on to her shoulder, against her neck.

She put down her face to touch the loose riot of his ruddy hair. She
stood so, quiet, still and wistful, for a few moments; perhaps she was
vaguely aware that the attitude was beautiful for her, and irresistibly
appealing to George, who loved, above all in her, her delicate dignity
of tenderness. Emily waited with the lighted candle for her some
moments.