The White Peacock (29 page)

We felt the warmth of the sun trickling through the morning's mist of
coolness.

"You see that sycamore," he said, "that bushy one beyond the big willow?
I remember when father broke off the leading shoot because he wanted a
fine straight stick, I can remember I felt sorry. It was running up so
straight, with such a fine balance of leaves—you know how a young
strong sycamore looks about nine feet high—it seemed a cruelty. When
you are gone, and we are left from here, I shall feel like that, as if
my leading shoot were broken off. You see, the tree is spoiled. Yet how
it went on growing. I believe I shall grow faster. I can remember the
bright red stalks of the leaves as he broke them off from the bough."

He smiled at me, half proud of his speech. Then he swung into the seat
of the machine, having attended to the horses' heads. He lifted the
knife.

"Good–bye," he said, smiling whimsically back at me. The machine
started. The bed of the knife fell, and the grass shivered and dropped
over. I watched the heads of the daisies and the splendid lines of the
cocksfool grass quiver, shake against the crimson burnet, and drop–over.
The machine went singing down the field, leaving a track of smooth,
velvet green in the way of the swath–board. The flowers in the wall of
uncut grass waited unmoved, as the days wait for us. The sun caught in
the uplicking scarlet sorrel flames, the butterflies woke, and I could
hear the fine ring of his "Whoa!" from the far corner. Then he turned,
and I could see only the tossing ears of the horses, and the white of
his shoulder as they moved along the wall of high grass on the hill
slope. I sat down under the elm to file the sections of the knife.
Always as he rode he watched the falling swath, only occasionally
calling the horses into line. It was his voice which rang the morning
awake. When we were at work we hardly noticed one another. Yet his
mother had said:

"George is so glad when you're in the field—he doesn't care how long
the day is."

Later, when the morning was hot, and the honeysuckle had ceased to
breathe, and all the other scents were moving in the air about us, when
all the field was down, when I had seen the last trembling ecstasy of
the harebells, trembling to fall; when the thick clump of purple vetch
had sunk; when the green swaths were settling, and the silver swaths
were glistening and glittering as the sun came along them, in the hot
ripe morning we worked together turning the hay, tipping over the
yesterday's swaths with our forks, and bringing yesterday's fresh,
hidden flowers into the death of sunlight.

It was then that we talked of the past, and speculated on the future. As
the day grew older and less wistful, we forgot everything, and worked
on, singing, and sometimes I would recite him verses as we went, and
sometimes I would tell him about books. Life was full of glamour for us
both.

At dinner time the father announced to us the exciting fact that Leslie
had asked if a few of his guests might picnic that afternoon in the
Strelley hayfields. The closes were so beautiful, with the brook under
all its sheltering trees, running into the pond that was set with two
green islets. Moreover, the squire's lady had written a book filling
these meadows and the mill precincts with pot–pourri romance. The
wedding guests at Highclose were anxious to picnic in so choice a spot.

The father, who delighted in a gay throng, beamed at us from over the
table. George asked who were coming.

"Oh, not many—about half a dozen—mostly ladies down for the wedding."

George at first swore warmly; then he began to appreciate the affair as
a joke.

Mrs. Saxton hoped they wouldn't want her to provide them pots, for she
hadn't two cups that matched, nor had any of her spoons the least
pretence to silver. The children were hugely excited, and wanted a
holiday from school, which Emily at once vetoed firmly, thereby causing
family dissension.

As we went round the field in the afternoon turning the hay, we were
thinking apart, and did not talk. Every now and then—and at every
corner—we stopped to look down towards the wood, to see if they were
coming.

"Here they are!" George exclaimed suddenly, having spied the movement of
white in the dark wood. We stood still and watched. Two girls,
heliotrope and white, a man with two girls, pale green and white, and a
man with a girl last.

"Can you tell who they are?" I asked.

"That's Marie Tempest, that first girl in white, and that's him and
Lettie at the back, I don't know any more."

He stood perfectly still until they had gone out of sight behind the
banks down by the brooks, then he stuck his fork in the ground, saying:

"You can easily finish—if you like. I'll go and mow out that bottom
corner."

He glanced at me to see what I was thinking of him. I was thinking that
he was afraid to meet her, and I was smiling to myself. Perhaps he felt
ashamed, for he went silently away to the machine, where he belted his
riding breeches tightly round his waist, and slung the scythe strap on
his hip. I heard the clanging slur of the scythe stone as he whetted the
blade. Then he strode off to mow the far bottom corner, where the ground
was marshy, and the machine might not go, to bring down the lush green
grass and the tall meadow sweet.

I went to the pond to meet the newcomers. I bowed to Louie Denys, a
tall, graceful girl of the drooping type, elaborately gowned in
heliotrope linen; I bowed to Agnes D'Arcy, an erect, intelligent girl
with magnificent auburn hair—she wore no hat and carried a sunshade; I
bowed to Hilda Seconde, a svelte, petite girl, exquisitely and
delicately pretty; I bowed to Maria and to Lettie, and I shook hands
with Leslie and with his friend, Freddy Cresswell. The latter was to be
best man, a broad shouldered, pale–faced fellow, with beautiful soft
hair like red wheat, and laughing eyes, and a whimsical, drawling manner
of speech, like a man who has suffered enough to bring him to manhood
and maturity, but who in spite of all remains a boy, irresponsible,
lovable—a trifle pathetic. As the day was very hot, both men were in
flannels, and wore flannel collars, yet it was evident that they had
dressed with scrupulous care. Instinctively I tried to pull my trousers
into shape within my belt, and I felt the inferiority cast upon the
father, big and fine as he was in his way, for his shoulders were
rounded with work, and his trousers were much distorted.

"What can we do?" said Marie; "you know we don't want to hinder, we want
to help you. It was so good of you to let us come."

The father laughed his fine indulgence, saying to them—they loved him
for the mellow, laughing modulation of his voice:

"Come on, then—I see there's a bit of turning–over to do, as Cyril's
left. Come and pick your forks."

From among a sheaf of hayforks he chose the lightest for them, and they
began anywhere, just tipping at the swaths. He showed them
carefully—Marie and the charming little Hilda—just how to do it, but
they found the right way the hardest way, so they worked in their own
fashion, and laughed heartily with him when he made playful jokes at
them. He was a great lover of girls, and they blossomed from timidity
under his hearty influence.

"Ain' it flippin' 'ot?" drawled Cresswell, who had just taken his M. A.
degree in classics: "This bloomin' stuff's dry enough—come an' flop on
it."

He gathered a cushion of hay, which Louie Denys carefully appropriated,
arranging first her beautiful dress, that fitted close to her shape,
without any belt or interruption, and then laying her arms, that were
netted to the shoulder in open lace, gracefully at rest. Lettie, who was
also in a closefitting white dress which showed her shape down to the
hips, sat where Leslie had prepared for her, and Miss D'Arcy reluctantly
accepted my pile.

Cresswell twisted his clean–cut mouth in a little smile, saying:

"Lord, a giddy little pastoral—fit for old Theocritus, ain't it, Miss
Denys?"

"Why do you talk to me about those classic people—I daren't even say
their names. What would he say about us?"

He laughed, winking his blue eyes:

"He'd make old Daphnis there,"—pointing to Leslie—"sing a match with
me, Damoetas—contesting the merits of our various sheperdesses—begin
Daphnis, sing up for Amaryllis, I mean Nais, damn 'em, they were for
ever getting mixed up with their nymphs."

"I say, Mr. Cresswell, your language! Consider whom you're damning,"
said Miss Denys, leaning over and tapping his head with her silk glove.

"You say any giddy thing in a pastoral," he replied, taking the edge of
her skirt, and lying back on it, looking up at her as she leaned over
him. "Strike up, Daphnis, something about honey or white cheese—or else
the early apples that'll be ripe in a week's time."

"I'm sure the apples you showed me are ever so little and green,"
interrupted Miss Denys; "they will never be ripe in a week—ugh, sour!"

He smiled up at her in his whimsical way:

"Hear that, Tempest—'Ugh, sour!'—not much! Oh, love us, haven't you
got a start yet?—isn't there aught to sing about, you blunt–faced kid?"

"I'll hear you first—I'm no judge of honey and cheese."

"An' darn little apples—takes a woman to judge them; don't it, Miss
Denys?"

"I don't know," she said, stroking his soft hair from his forehead with
her hand whereon rings were sparkling.

"'My love is not white, my hair is not yellow, like honey dropping
through the sunlight—my love is brown, and sweet, and ready for the
lips of love.' Go on, Tempest—strike up, old cowherd. Who's that tuning
his pipe?—oh, that fellow sharpening his scythe! It's enough to make
your backache to look at him working—go an' stop him, somebody."

"Yes, let us go and fetch him," said Miss D'Arcy. "I'm sure he doesn't
know what a happy pastoral state he's in—let us go and fetch him."

"They don't like hindering at their work, Agnes—besides, where
ignorance is bliss——" said Lettie, afraid lest she might bring him.
The other hesitated, then with her eyes she invited me to go with her.

"Oh, dear," she laughed, with a little mowe, "Freddy is such an ass, and
Louie Denys is like a wasp at treacle. I wanted to laugh, yet I felt
just a tiny bit cross. Don't you feel great when you go mowing like
that? Father Timey sort of feeling? Shall we go and look! We'll say we
want those foxgloves he'll be cutting down directly—and those bell
flowers. I suppose you needn't go on with your labours——"

He did not know we were approaching till I called him, then he started
slightly as he saw the tall, proud girl.

"Mr. Saxton—Miss D'Arcy," I said, and he shook hands with her.
Immediately his manner became ironic, for he had seen his hand big and
coarse and inflamed with the snaith clasping the lady's hand.

"We thought you looked so fine," she said to him, "and men are so
embarrassing when they make love to somebody else—aren't they? Save us
those foxgloves, will you—they are splendid—like savage soldiers drawn
up against the hedge—don't cut them down—and those
campanulas—bell–flowers, ah, yes! They are spinning idylls up there. I
don't care for idylls, do you? Oh, you don't know what a classical
pastoral person you are—but there, I don't suppose you suffer from
idyllic love——" she laughed, "—one doesn't see the silly little god
fluttering about in our hayfields, does one? Do you find much time to
sport with Amaryllis in the shade?—I'm sure it's a shame they banished
Phyllis from the fields——"

He laughed and went on with his work. She smiled a little, too, thinking
she had made a great impression. She put out her hand with a dramatic
gesture, and looked at me, when the scythe crunched through the
meadow–sweet.

"Crunch! isn't it fine!" she exclaimed, "a kind of inevitable fate—I
think it's fine!"

We wandered about picking flowers and talking until teatime. A
manservant came with the tea–basket, and the girls spread the cloth
under a great willow tree. Lettie took the little silver kettle, and
went to fill it at the small spring which trickled into a stone trough
all pretty with cranesbill and stellaria hanging over, while long blades
of grass waved in the water. George, who had finished his work, and
wanted to go home to tea, walked across to the spring where Lettie sat
playing with the water, getting little cupfuls to put into the kettle,
watching the quick skating of the water beetles, and the large faint
spots of their shadows darting on the silted mud at the bottom of the
trough.

She glanced round on hearing him coming, and smiled nervously: they were
mutually afraid of meeting each other again.

"It is about teatime," he said.

"Yes—it will be ready in a moment—this is not to make the tea
with—it's only to keep a little supply of hot water."

"Oh," he said, "I'll go on home—I'd rather."

"No," she replied, "you can't because we are all having tea together: I
had some fruits put up, because I know you don't trifle with tea—and
your father's coming."

"But," he replied pettishly, "I can't have my tea with all those
folks—I don't want to—look at me!"

He held out his inflamed, barbaric hands.

She winced and said:

"It won't matter—you'll give the realistic touch."

He laughed ironically.

"
No
—you must come," she insisted.

"I'll have a drink then, if you'll let me," he said, yielding.

She got up quickly, blushing, offering him the tiny, pretty cup.

"I'm awfully sorry," she said.

"Never mind," he muttered, and turning from the proffered cup he lay
down flat, put his mouth to the water, and drank deeply. She stood and
watched the motion of his drinking, and of his heavy breathing
afterwards. He got up, wiping his mouth, not looking at her. Then he
washed his hands in the water, and stirred up the mud. He put his hand
to the bottom of the trough, bringing out a handful of silt, with the
grey shrimps twisting in it. He flung the mud on the floor where the
poor grey creatures writhed.

"It wants cleaning out," he said.

"Yes," she replied, shuddering. "You won't be long," she added, taking
up the silver kettle.

In a few moments he got up and followed her reluctantly down. He was
nervous and irritable.

The girls were seated on tufts of hay, with the men leaning in
attendance on them, and the manservant waiting on all. George was placed
between Lettie and Hilda. The former handed him his little egg–shell of
tea, which, as he was not very thirsty, he put down on the ground beside
him. Then she passed him the bread and butter, cut for five–o'clock tea,
and fruits, grapes and peaches, and strawberries, in a beautifully
carved oak tray. She watched for a moment his thick, half–washed fingers
fumbling over the fruits, then she turned her head away. All the gay
teatime, when the talk bubbled and frothed over all the cups, she
avoided him with her eyes. Yet again and again, as someone said: "I'm
sorry, Mr. Saxton—will you have some cake?"—or "See, Mr. Saxton—try
this peach, I'm sure it will be mellow right to the stone,"—speaking
very naturally, but making the distinction between him and the other men
by their indulgence towards him, Lettie was forced to glance at him as
he sat eating, answering in monosyllables, laughing with constraint and
awkwardness, and her irritation flickered between her brows. Although
she kept up the gay frivolity of the conversation, still the discord was
felt by everybody, and we did not linger as we should have done over the
cups. "George," they said afterwards, "was a wet blanket on the party."
Lettie was intensely annoyed with him. His presence was unbearable to
her. She wished him a thousand miles away. He sat listening to
Cresswell's whimsical affectation of vulgarity which flickered with
fantasy, and he laughed in a strained fashion.

He was the first to rise, saying he must get the cows up for milking.

"Oh, let us go—let us go. May we come and see the cows milked?" said
Hilda, her delicate, exquisite features flushing, for she was very shy.

"No," drawled Freddy, "the stink o' live beef ain't salubrious. You be
warned, and stop here."

"I never could bear cows, except those lovely little highland cattle,
all woolly, in pictures," said Louie Denys, smiling archly, with a
little irony.

"No," laughed Agnes D'Arcy, "they—they're smelly,"—and she pursed up
her mouth, and ended in a little trill of deprecatory laughter, as she
often did. Hilda looked from one to the other, blushing.

"Come, Lettie," said Leslie good–naturedly, "I know you have a farmyard
fondness—come on," and they followed George down.