The White Peacock (31 page)

"I haven't a farthing of money," she said.

"I've plenty!" he laughed. "Oh, an' let's try this on."

They were merry together as he tried on her wedding ring, and they
talked softly, he gentle and coaxing, she rather plaintive. The mare
took her own way, and Meg's hat was disarranged once more by the
sweeping elm–boughs. The yellow corn was dipping and flowing in the
fields, like a cloth of gold pegged down at the corners under which the
wind was heaving. Sometimes we passed cottages where the scarlet lilies
rose like bonfires, and the tall larkspur like bright blue leaping
smoke. Sometimes we smelled the sunshine on the browning corn, sometimes
the fragrance of the shadow of leaves. Occasionally it was the dizzy
scent of new haystacks. Then we rocked and jolted over the rough
cobblestones of Cinderhill, and bounded forward again at the foot of the
enormous pit hill, smelling of sulphur, inflamed with slow red fires in
the daylight, and crusted with ashes. We reached the top of the rise and
saw the city before us, heaped high and dim upon the broad range of the
hill. I looked for the square tower of my old school, and the sharp
proud spire of St. Andrews. Over the city hung a dullness, a thin dirty
canopy against the blue sky.

We turned and swung down the slope between the last sullied cornfields
towards Basford, where the swollen gasometers stood like toadstools. As
we neared the mouth of the street, Meg rose excitedly, pulling George's
arm, crying:

"Oh, look, the poor little thing!"

On the causeway stood two small boys lifting their faces and weeping to
the heedless heavens, while before them, upside down, lay a baby
strapped to a shut–up baby–chair. The gim–crack carpet–seated thing had
collapsed as the boys were dismounting the curb–stone with it. It had
fallen backwards, and they were unable to right it. There lay the infant
strapped head downwards to its silly cart, in imminent danger of
suffocation. Meg leaped out, and dragged the child from the wretched
chair. The two boys, drenched with tears, howled on. Meg crouched on the
road, the baby on her knee, its tiny feet dangling against her skirt.
She soothed the pitiful tear–wet mite. She hugged it to her, and kissed
it, and hugged it, and rocked it in an abandonment of pity. When at last
the childish trio were silent, the boys shaken only by the last ebbing
sobs, Meg calmed also from her frenzy of pity for the little thing. She
murmured to it tenderly, and wiped its wet little cheeks with her
handkerchief, soothing, kissing, fondling the bewildered mite, smoothing
the wet strands of brown hair under the scrap of cotton bonnet,
twitching the inevitable baby cape into order. It was a pretty baby,
with wisps of brown–gold silken hair and large blue eyes.

"Is it a girl?" I asked one of the boys—"How old is she?"

"I don't know," he answered awkwardly, "We 've 'ad 'er about a three
week."

"Why, isn't she your sister?"

"No—my mother keeps 'er,"—they were very reluctant to tell us
anything.

"Poor little lamb!" cried Meg, in another access of pity, clasping the
baby to her bosom with one hand, holding its winsome slippered feet in
the other. She remained thus, stung through with acute pity, crouching,
folding herself over the mite. At last she raised her head, and said, in
a voice difficult with emotion:

"But you love her—don't you?"

"Yes—she's—she's all right. But we 'ave to mind 'er," replied the boy
in great confusion.

"Surely," said Meg, "Surely you don't begrudge that. Poor little
thing—so little, she is—surely you don't grumble at minding her a
bit——?"

The boys would not answer.

"Oh, poor little lamb, poor little lamb!" murmured Meg over the child,
condemning with bitterness the boys and the whole world of men.

I taught one of the lads how to fold and unfold the wretched chair. Meg
very reluctantly seated the unfortunate baby therein, gently fastening
her with the strap.

"Wheer's 'er dummy?" asked one of the boys in muffled, self–conscious
tones. The infant began to cry thinly. Meg crouched over it. The 'dummy'
was found in the gutter and wiped on the boy's coat, then plugged into
the baby's mouth. Meg released the tiny clasping hand from over her
finger, and mounted the dog cart, saying sternly to the boys:

"Mind you look after her well, poor little baby with no mother. God's
watching to see what you do to her—so you be careful, mind."

They stood very shamefaced. George clicked to the mare, and as we
started threw coppers to the boys. While we drove away I watched the
little group diminish down the road.

"It's such a shame," she said, and the tears were in her voice, "—A
sweet little thing like that——"

"Ay," said George softly, "there's all sorts of things in towns."

Meg paid no attention to him, but sat woman–like thinking of the forlorn
baby, and condemning the hard world. He, full of tenderness and
protectiveness towards her, having watched her with softening eyes, felt
a little bit rebuffed that she ignored him, and sat alone in her fierce
womanhood. So he busied himself with the reins, and the two sat each
alone until Meg was roused by the bustle of the town. The mare sidled
past the electric cars nervously, and jumped when a traction engine came
upon us. Meg, rather frightened, clung to George again. She was very
glad when we had passed the cemetery with its white population of
tombstones, and drew up in a quiet street.

But when we had dismounted, and given the horse's head to a loafer, she
became confused and bashful and timid to the last degree. He took her on
his arm; he took the whole charge of her, and laughing, bore her away
towards the steps of the office. She left herself entirely in his hands;
she was all confusion, so he took the charge of her.

When, after a short time, they came out, she began to chatter with
blushful animation. He was very quiet, and seemed to be taking his
breath.

"Wasn't he a funny little man? Did I do it all proper?—I didn't know
what I was doing. I'm sure they were laughing at me—do you think they
were? Oh, just look at my frock—what a sight! What would they
think——!" The baby had slightly soiled the front of her dress.

George drove up the long hill into the town. As we came down between the
shops on Mansfield Road he recovered his spirits.

"Where are we going—where are you taking us?" asked Meg.

"We may as well make a day of it while we are here," he answered,
smiling and flicking the mare. They both felt that they were launched
forth on an adventure. He put up at the "Spread Eagle," and we walked
towards the market–place for Meg's gloves. When he had bought her these
and a large lace scarf to give her a more clothed appearance, he wanted
dinner.

"We'll go," he said, "to an hôtel."

His eyes dilated as he said it, and she shrank away with delighted fear.
Neither of them had ever been to an hôtel. She was really afraid. She
begged him to go to an eating house, to a café. He was obdurate. His one
idea was to do the thing that he was half–afraid to do. His passion—and
it was almost intoxication—was to dare to play with life. He was afraid
of the town. He was afraid to venture into the foreign places of life,
and all was foreign save the valley of Nethermere. So he crossed the
borders flauntingly, and marched towards the heart of the unknown. We
went to the Victoria Hôtel—the most imposing he could think of—and we
had luncheon according to the menu. They were like two children, very
much afraid, yet delighting in the adventure. He dared not, however,
give the orders. He dared not address anybody, waiters or otherwise. I
did that for him, and he watched me, absorbing, learning, wondering that
things were so easy and so delightful. I murmured them injunctions
across the table and they blushed and laughed with each other nervously.
It would be hard to say whether they enjoyed that luncheon. I think Meg
did not—even though she was with him. But of George I am doubtful. He
suffered exquisitely from self consciousness and nervous embarrassment,
but he felt also the intoxication of the adventure, he felt as a man who
has lived in a small island when he first sets foot on a vast continent.
This was the first step into a new life, and he mused delightedly upon
it over his brandy. Yet he was nervous. He could not get over the
feeling that he was trespassing.

"Where shall we go this afternoon?" he asked.

Several things were proposed, but Meg pleaded warmly for Colwick.

"Let's go on a steamer to Colwick Park. There'll be entertainments there
this afternoon. It'll be lovely."

In a few moments we were on the top of the car swinging down to the
Trent Bridges. It was dinner time, and crowds of people from shops and
warehouses were hurrying in the sunshine along the pavements. Sunblinds
cast their shadows on the shop–fronts, and in the shade streamed the
people dressed brightly for summer. As our car stood in the great space
of the market place we could smell the mingled scent of fruit, oranges,
and small apricots, and pears piled in their vividly coloured sections
on the stalls. Then away we sailed through the shadows of the dark
streets, and the open pools of sunshine. The castle on its high rock
stood in the dazzling dry sunlight; the fountain stood shadowy in the
green glimmer of the lime trees that surrounded the alms–houses.

There were many people at the Trent. We stood awhile on the bridge to
watch the bright river swirling in a silent dance to the sea, while the
light pleasure–boats lay asleep along the banks. We went on board the
little paddle steamer and paid our "sixpence return." After much waiting
we set off, with great excitement, for our mile–long voyage. Two banjos
were tumming somewhere below, and the passengers hummed and sang to
their tunes. A few boats dabbled on the water. Soon the river meadows
with their high thorn hedges lay green on our right, while the scarp of
red rock rose on our left, covered with the dark trees of summer.

We landed at Colwick Park. It was early, and few people were there. Dead
glass fairy–lamps were slung about the trees. The grass in places was
worn threadbare. We walked through the avenues and small glades of the
park till we came to the boundary where the race–course stretched its
level green, its winding white barriers running low into the distance.
They sat in the shade for some time while I wandered about. Then many
people began to arrive. It became noisy, even rowdy. We listened for
some time to an open–air concert, given by the pierrots. It was rather
vulgar, and very tiresome. It took me back to Cowes, to Yarmouth. There
were the same foolish over–eyebrowed faces, the same perpetual jingle
from an out–of–tune piano, the restless jigging to the songs, the same
choruses, the same escapading. Meg was well pleased. The vulgarity
passed by her. She laughed, and sang the choruses half audibly, daring,
but not bold. She was immensely pleased. "Oh, it's Ben's turn now. I
like him, he's got such a wicked twinkle in his eye. Look at Joey trying
to be funny!—he can't to save his life. Doesn't he look soft——!" She
began to giggle in George's shoulder. He saw the funny side of things
for the time and laughed with her.

During tea, which we took on the green verandah of the degraded hall,
she was constantly breaking forth into some chorus, and he would light
up as she looked at him and sing with her,
sotto voce
. He was not
embarrassed at Colwick. There he had on his best careless, superior air.
He moved about with a certain scornfulness, and ordered lobster for tea
off–handedly. This also was a new walk of life. Here he was not
hesitating or tremulously strung; he was patronising. Both Meg and he
thoroughly enjoyed themselves.

When we got back into Nottingham she entreated him not to go to the
hotel as he had proposed, and he readily yielded. Instead they went to
the Castle. We stood on the high rock in the cool of the day, and
watched the sun sloping over the great river–flats where the menial town
spread out, and ended, while the river and the meadows continued into
the distance. In the picture galleries, there was a fine collection of
Arthur Melville's paintings. Meg thought them very ridiculous. I began
to expound them, but she was manifestly bored, and he was half–hearted.
Outside in the grounds was a military band playing. Meg longed to be
there. The townspeople were dancing on the grass. She longed to join
them, but she could not dance. So they sat awhile looking on.

We were to go to the theatre in the evening. The Carl Rosa Company was
giving "Carmen" at the Royal. We went into the dress circle "like giddy
dukes," as I said to him, so that I could see his eyes dilate with
adventure again as he laughed. In the theatre, among the people in
evening dress, he became once more childish and timorous. He had always
the air of one who does something forbidden, and is charmed, yet
fearful, like a trespassing child. He had begun to trespass that day
outside his own estates of Nethermere.

"Carmen" fascinated them both. The gaudy, careless Southern life amazed
them. The bold free way in which Carmen played with life startled them
with hints of freedom. They stared on the stage fascinated. Between the
acts they held each other's hands, and looked full into each other's
wide bright eyes, and, laughing with excitement, talked about the opera.
The theatre surged and roared dimly like a hoarse shell. Then the music
rose like a storm, and swept and rattled at their feet. On the stage the
strange storm of life clashed in music towards tragedy and futile death.
The two were shaken with a tumult of wild feeling. When it was all over
they rose bewildered, stunned, she with tears in her eyes, he with a
strange wild beating of his heart.

They were both in a tumult of confused emotion. Their ears were full of
the roaring passion of life, and their eyes were blinded by a spray of
tears and that strange quivering laughter which burns with real pain.
They hurried along the pavement to the "Spread Eagle," Meg clinging to
him, running, clasping her lace scarf over her white frock, like a
scared white butterfly shaken through the night. We hardly spoke as the
horse was being harnessed and the lamps lighted. In the little smoke
room he drank several whiskies, she sipping out of his glass, standing
all the time ready to go. He pushed into his pocket great pieces of
bread and cheese, to eat on the way home. He seemed now to be thinking
with much acuteness. His few orders were given sharp and terse. He hired
an extra light rug in which to wrap Meg, and then we were ready.