The White Peacock (9 page)

The laughter faded at once, and her great seriousness looked out again
at me, pleading.

"You are like Burne–Jones' damsels. Troublesome shadows are always
crowding across your eyes, and you cherish them. You think the flesh of
the apple is nothing, nothing. You only care for the eternal pips. Why
don't you snatch your apple and eat it, and throw the core away?"

She looked at me sadly, not understanding, but believing that I in my
wisdom spoke truth, as she always believed when I lost her in a maze of
words. She stooped down, and the chaplet fell from her hair, and only
one bunch of berries remained. The ground around us was strewn with the
four–lipped burrs of beechnuts, and the quaint little nut–pyramids were
scattered among the ruddy fallen leaves. Emily gathered a few nuts.

"I love beechnuts," she said, "but they make me long for my childhood
again till I could almost cry out. To go out for beechnuts before
breakfast; to thread them for necklaces before supper;—to be the envy
of the others at school next day! There was as much pleasure in a beech
necklace then as there is in the whole autumn now—and no sadness. There
are no more unmixed joys after you have grown up." She kept her face to
the ground as she spoke, and she continued to gather the fruits.

"Do you find any with nuts in?" I asked.

"Not many—here—here are two, three. You have them. No—I don't care
about them."

I stripped one of its horny brown coat and gave it to her. She opened
her mouth slightly to take it, looking up into my eyes. Some people,
instead of bringing with them clouds of glory, trail clouds of sorrow;
they are born with "the gift of sorrow"; "sorrows" they proclaim "alone
are real. The veiled grey angels of sorrow work out slowly the beautiful
shapes. Sorrow is beauty, and the supreme blessedness." You read it in
their eyes, and in the tones of their voices. Emily had the gift of
sorrow. It fascinated me, but it drove me to rebellion.

We followed the soft, smooth–bitten turf road under the old beeches. The
hillside fell away, dishevelled with thistles and coarse grass. Soon we
were in sight of the Kennels, the red old Kennels which had been the
scene of so much animation in the time of Lord Byron. They were empty
now, overgrown with weeds. The barred windows of the cottages were grey
with dust; there was no need now to protect the windows from cattle, dog
or man. One of the three houses was inhabited. Clear water trickled
through a wooden runnel into a great stone trough outside near the door.

"Come here," said I to Emily. "Let me fasten the back of your dress."

"Is it undone?" she asked, looking quickly over her shoulder, and
blushing.

As I was engaged in my task, a girl came out of the cottage with a black
kettle and a tea–cup. She was so surprised to see me thus occupied that
she forgot her own duty, and stood open–mouthed.

"S'r Ann! S'r Ann," called a voice from inside. "Are ter goin' ter come
in an' shut that door?"

Sarah Ann hastily poured a few cupfuls of water into the kettle, then
she put down both utensils and stood holding her bare arms to warm them.
Her chief garment consisted of a skirt with grey bodice and red flannel
skirt, very much torn. Her black hair hung in wild tails on to her
shoulders.

"We must go in here," said I, approaching the girl. She, however,
hastily seized the kettle and ran indoors with an "Oh, mother!"

A woman came to the door. One breast was bare, and hung over her blouse,
which, like a dressing–jacket, fell loose over her skirt. Her fading,
red–brown hair was all frowsy from the bed. In the folds of her skirt
clung a swarthy urchin with a shockingly short shirt. He stared at us
with big black eyes, the only portion of his face undecorated with egg
and jam. The woman's blue eyes questioned us languidly. I told her our
errand.

"Come in—come in," she said, "but dunna look at th' 'ouse. Th' childers
not been long up. Go in, Billy, wi' nowt on!"

We entered, taking the forgotten kettle lid. The kitchen was large, but
scantily furnished save, indeed, for children. The eldest, a girl of
twelve or so, was standing toasting a piece of bacon with one hand, and
holding back her nightdress in the other. As the toast hand got
scorched, she transferred the bacon to the other, gave the hot fingers a
lick to cool them, and then held back her nightdress again. Her auburn
hair hung in heavy coils down her gown. A boy sat on the steel fender,
catching the dropping fat on a piece of bread. "One, two, three, four,
five, six drops," and he quickly bit off the tasty corner, and resumed
the task with the other hand. When we entered he tried to draw his shirt
over his knees, which caused the fat to fall wasted. A fat baby,
evidently laid down from the breast, lay kicking on the squab, purple in
the face, while another lad was pushing bread and butter into its mouth.
The mother swept to the sofa, poked out the bread and butter, pushed her
finger into the baby's throat, lifted the child up, punched its back,
and was highly relieved when it began to yell. Then she administered a
few sound spanks to the naked buttocks of the crammer. He began to howl,
but stopped suddenly on seeing us laughing. On the sack–cloth which
served as hearth rug sat a beautiful child washing the face of a wooden
doll with tea, and wiping it on her nightgown. At the table, an infant
in a high chair sat sucking a piece of bacon, till the grease ran down
his swarthy arms, oozing through his fingers. An old lad stood in the
big arm–chair, whose back was hung with a calf–skin, and was
industriously pouring the dregs of the teacups into a basin of milk. The
mother whisked away the milk, and made a rush for the urchin, the baby
hanging over her arm the while.

"I could half kill thee," she said, but he had slid under the
table,—and sat serenely unconcerned.

"Could you"—I asked when the mother had put her bonny baby again to her
breast—"could you lend me a knitting needle?"

"Our S'r Ann, wheer's thy knittin' needles?" asked the woman, wincing at
the same time, and putting her hand to the mouth of the sucking child.
Catching my eye, she said:

"You wouldn't credit how he bites. 'E's nobbut two teeth, but they like
six needles." She drew her brows together and pursed her lips, saying to
the child, "Naughty lad, naughty lad! Tha' shanna hae it, no, not if ter
bites thy mother like that."

The family interest was now divided between us and the private concerns
in process when we entered;—save, however, that the bacon sucker had
sucked on stolidly, immovable, all the time.

"Our Sam, wheer's my knittin', tha's 'ad it?" cried S'r Ann after a
little search.

"'A 'e na," replied Sam from under the table.

"Yes, tha' 'as," said the mother, giving a blind prod under the table
with her foot.

"'A 'e na then!" persisted Sam.

The mother suggested various possible places of discovery, and at last
the knitting was found at the back of the table drawer, among forks and
old wooden skewers.

"I 'an ter tell yer wheer ivrythink is," said the mother in mild
reproach. S'r Ann, however, gave no heed to her parent. Her heart was
torn for her knitting, the fruit of her labours; it was a red woollen
cuff for the winter; a corkscrew was bored through the web, and the ball
of red wool was bristling with skewers.

"It's a' thee, our Sam," she wailed. "I know it's a' thee an' thy A. B.
C."

Samuel, under the table, croaked out in a voice of fierce monotony:

"P. is for Porkypine, whose bristles so strong
Kill the bold lion
by pricking 'is tongue."

The mother began to shake with quiet laughter.

"His father learnt him that—made it all up," she whispered proudly to
us—and to him.

"Tell us what 'B' is Sam."

"Shonna," grunted Sam.

"Go on, there's a duckie; an' I'll ma' 'e a treacle puddin'."

"Today?" asked S'r Ann eagerly.

"Go on, Sam, my duck," persisted the mother.

"Tha' 'as na got no treacle," said Sam conclusively.

The needle was in the fire; the children stood about watching.

"Will you do it yourself?" I asked Emily.

"I!" she exclaimed, with wide eyes of astonishment, and she shook her
head emphatically.

"Then I must." I took out the needle, holding it in my handkerchief. I
took her hand and examined the wound. But when she saw the hot glow of
the needle, she snatched away her hand, and looked into my eyes,
laughing in a half–hysterical fear and shame. I was very serious, very
insistent. She yielded me her hand again, biting her lips in imagination
of the pain, and looking at me. While my eyes were looking into hers she
had courage; when I was forced to pay attention to my cauterising, she
glanced down, and with a sharp "Ah!" ending in a little laugh, she put
her hands behind her, and looked again up at me with wide brown eyes,
all quivering with apprehension, and a little shame, and a laughter that
held much pleading.

One of the children began to cry.

"It is no good," said I, throwing the fast cooling needle on to the
hearth.

I gave the girls all the pennies I had—then I offered Sam, who had
crept out of the shelter of the table, a sixpence.

"Shonna a'e that," he said, turning from the small coin.

"Well—I have no more pennies, so nothing will be your share."

I gave the other boy a rickety knife I had in my pocket. Sam looked
fiercely at me. Eager for revenge, he picked up the "porkypine quill" by
the hot end. He dropped it with a shout of rage, and, seizing a cup off
the table, flung it at the fortunate Jack. It smashed against the
fire–place. The mother grabbed at Sam, but he was gone. A girl, a little
girl, wailed, "Oh, that's my rosey mug—my rosey mug." We fled from the
scene of confusion. Emily had hardly noticed it. Her thoughts were of
herself, and of me.

"I am an awful coward," said she humbly.

"But I can't help it——" she looked beseechingly.

"Never mind," said I.

"All my flesh seems to jump from it. You don't know how I feel."

"Well—never mind."

"I couldn't help it, not for my life."

"I wonder," said I, "if anything could possibly disturb that young
bacon–sucker? He didn't even look round at the smash."

"No," said she, biting the tip of her finger moodily.

Further conversation was interrupted by howls from the rear. Looking
round we saw Sam careering after us over the close–bitten turf, howling
scorn and derision at us. "Rabbit–tail, rabbit–tail," he cried, his bare
little legs twinkling, and his little shirt fluttering in the cold
morning air. Fortunately, at last he trod on a thistle or a thorn, for
when we looked round again to see why he was silent, he was capering on
one leg, holding his wounded foot in his hands.

During the falling of the leaves Lettie was very wilful. She uttered
many banalities concerning men, and love, and marriage; she taunted
Leslie and thwarted his wishes. At last he stayed away from her. She had
been several times down to the mill, but because she fancied they were
very familiar, receiving her on to their rough plane like one of
themselves, she stayed away. Since the death of our father she had been
restless; since inheriting her little fortune she had become proud,
scornful, difficult to please. Difficult to please in every
circumstance; she, who had always been so rippling in thoughtless life,
sat down in the window sill to think, and her strong teeth bit at her
handkerchief till it was torn in holes. She would say nothing to me; she
read all things that dealt with modern women.

One afternoon Lettie walked over to Eberwich. Leslie had not been to see
us for a fortnight. It was a grey, dree afternoon. The wind drifted a
clammy fog across the hills, and the roads were black and deep with mud.
The trees in the wood slouched sulkily. It was a day to be shut out and
ignored if possible. I heaped up the fire, and went to draw the curtains
and make perfect the room. Then I saw Lettie coming along the path
quickly, very erect. When she came in her colour was high.

"Tea not laid?" she said briefly.

"Rebecca has just brought in the lamp," said I.

Lettie took off her coat and furs, and flung them on the couch. She went
to the mirror, lifted her hair, all curled by the fog, and stared
haughtily at herself. Then she swung round, looked at the bare table,
and rang the bell.

It was so rare a thing for us to ring the bell from the dining–room,
that Rebecca went first to the outer door. Then she came in the room
saying:

"Did you ring?"

"I thought tea would have been ready," said Lettie coldly. Rebecca
looked at me, and at her, and replied:

"It is but half–past four. I can bring it in."

Mother came down hearing the clink of the tea–cups.

"Well," she said to Lettie, who was unlacing her boots, "and did you
find it a pleasant walk?"

"Except for the mud," was the reply.

"Ah, I guess you wished you had stayed at home. What a state for your
boots!—and your skirts too, I know. Here, let me take them into the
kitchen."

"Let Rebecca take them," said Lettie—but mother was out of the room.

When mother had poured out the tea, we sat silently at table. It was on
the tip of our tongues to ask Lettie what ailed her, but we were
experienced and we refrained. After a while she said:

"Do you know, I met Leslie Tempest."

"Oh," said mother tentatively, "Did he come along with you?"

"He did not look at me."

"Oh!" exclaimed mother, and it was speaking volumes; then, after a
moment, she resumed:

"Perhaps he did not see you."

"Or was it a stony Britisher?" I asked.

"He saw me," declared Lettie, "or he wouldn't have made such a babyish
show of being delighted with Margaret Raymond."

"It may have been no show—he still may not have seen you."

"I felt at once that he had; I could see his animation was extravagant.
He need not have troubled himself, I was not going to run after him."

"You seem very cross," said I.

"Indeed I am not. But he knew I had to walk all this way home, and he
could take up Margaret, who has only half the distance."

"Was he driving?"

"In the dog–cart." She cut her toast into strips viciously. We waited
patiently.

"It was mean of him, wasn't it mother?"

"Well, my girl, you have treated him badly."

"What a baby! What a mean, manly baby! Men are great infants."

"And girls," said mother, "do not know what they want."

"A grown–up quality," I added.

"Nevertheless," said Lettie, "he is a mean fop, and I detest him."

She rose and sorted out some stitchery. Lettie never stitched unless she
were in a bad humour. Mother smiled at me, sighed, and proceeded to
Mr. Gladstone for comfort; her breviary and missal were Morley's Life of
Gladstone.

I had to take a letter to Highclose to Mrs. Tempest—from my mother,
concerning a bazaar in process at the church. "I will bring Leslie back
with me," said I to myself.

The night was black and hateful. The lamps by the road from Eberwich
ended at Nethermere; their yellow blur on the water made the cold, wet
inferno of the night more ugly.

Leslie and Marie were both in the library—half a library, half a
business office; used also as a lounge room, being cosy. Leslie lay in a
great armchair by the fire, immune among clouds of blue smoke. Marie was
perched on the steps, a great volume on her knee. Leslie got up in his
cloud, shook hands, greeted me curtly, and vanished again. Marie smiled
me a quaint, vexed smile, saying:

"Oh, Cyril, I'm so glad you've come. I'm so worried, and Leslie says
he's not a pastry cook, though I'm sure I don't want him to be one, only
he need not be a bear."

"What's the matter?"

She frowned, gave the big volume a little smack and said:

"Why, I do so much want to make some of those Spanish tartlets of your
mother's that are so delicious, and of course Mabel knows nothing of
them, and they're not in my cookery book, and I've looked through page
upon page of the encyclopedia, right through 'Spain,' and there's
nothing yet, and there are fifty pages more, and Leslie won't help me,
though I've got a headache, because he's frabous about something." She
looked at me in comical despair.

"Do you want them for the bazaar?"

"Yes—for to–morrow. Cook has done the rest, but I had fairly set my
heart on these. Don't you think they are lovely?"

"Exquisitely lovely. Suppose I go and ask mother."

"If you would. But no, oh no, you can't make all that journey this
terrible night. We are simply besieged by mud. The men are both
out—William has gone to meet father—and mother has sent George to
carry some things to the vicarage. I can't ask one of the girls on a
night like this. I shall have to let it go—and the cranberry tarts
too—it cannot be helped. I am so miserable."

"Ask Leslie," said I.

"He is too cross," she replied, looking at him.

He did not deign a remark.

"Will you Leslie?"

"What?"

"Go across to Woodside for me?"

"What for?"

"A recipe. Do, there's a dear boy."

"Where are the men?"

"They are both engaged—they are out."

"Send a girl, then."

"At night like this? Who would go?"

"Cissy."

"I shall not ask her. Isn't he mean, Cyril? Men are mean."

"I will come back," said I. "There is nothing at home to do. Mother is
reading, and Lettie is stitching. The weather disagrees with her, as it
does with Leslie."

"But it is not fair——" she said, looking at me softly. Then she put
away the great book and climbed down.

"Won't you go, Leslie?" she said, laying her hand on his shoulder.

"Women!" he said, rising as if reluctantly. "There's no end to their
wants and their caprices."

"I thought he would go," said she warmly. She ran to fetch his overcoat.
He put one arm slowly in the sleeve, and then the other, but he would
not lift the coat on to his shoulders.

"Well!" she said, struggling on tiptoe, "You are a great creature! Can't
you get it on, naughty child?"

"Give her a chair to stand on," he said.

She shook the collar of the coat sharply, but he stood like a sheep,
impassive.

"Leslie, you are too bad. I can't get it on, you stupid boy."

I took the coat and jerked it on.

"There," she said, giving him his cap. "Now don't be long."

"What a damned dirty night!" said he, when we were out.

"It is," said I.

"The town, anywhere's better than this hell of a country."

"Ha! How did you enjoy yourself?"

He began a long history of three days in the metropolis. I listened, and
heard little. I heard more plainly the cry of some night birds over
Nethermere, and the peevish, wailing, yarling cry of some beast in the
wood. I was thankful to slam the door behind me, to stand in the light
of the hall.

"Leslie!" exclaimed mother, "I am glad to see you."

"Thank you," he said, turning to Lettie, who sat with her lap full of
work, her head busily bent.

"You see I can't get up," she said, giving him her hand, adorned as it
was by the thimble. "How nice of you to come! We did not know you were
back."

"But!" he exclaimed, then he stopped.

"I suppose you enjoyed yourself," she went on calmly.

"Immensely, thanks."

Snap, snap, snap went her needle through the new stuff. Then, without
looking up, she said:

"Yes, no doubt. You have the air of a man who has been enjoying
himself."

"How do you mean?"

"A kind of guilty—or shall I say embarrassed—look. Don't you notice it
mother?"

"I do!" said my mother.

"I suppose it means we may not ask him questions," Lettie concluded,
always very busily sewing.

He laughed. She had broken her cotton, and was trying to thread the
needle again.

"What have you been doing this miserable weather?" he enquired
awkwardly.

"Oh, we have sat at home desolate. 'Ever of thee I'm fo–o–ondly
dreeaming'—and so on. Haven't we mother?"

"Well," said mother, "I don't know. We imagined him all sorts of lions
up there."

"What a shame we may not ask him to roar his old roars over for us,"
said Lettie.

"What are they like?" he asked.

"How should I know? Like a sucking dove, to judge from your present
voice. 'A monstrous little voice.'"

He laughed uncomfortably.

She went on sewing, suddenly beginning to sing to herself:

"I suppose," she added, "that may be so. Poor mouse!—but I guess she's
none the worse. You did not see the queen, though?"

"She was not in London," he replied sarcastically.

"You don't——" she said, taking two pins from between her teeth. "I
suppose you don't mean by that, she was in Eberwich—your queen?"

"I don't know where she was," he answered angrily.

"Oh!" she said, very sweetly, "I thought perhaps you had met her in
Eberwich. When did you come back?"

"Last night," he replied.

"Oh—why didn't you come and see us before?"

"I've been at the offices all day."

"I've been up to Eberwich," she said innocently.

"Have you?"

"Yes. And I feel so cross because of it. I thought I might see you. I
felt as if you were at home."

She stitched a little, and glanced up secretly to watch his face redden,
then she continued innocently,

"Yes—I felt you had come back. It is funny how one has a feeling
occasionally that someone is near; when it is someone one has a sympathy
with." She continued to stitch, then she took a pin from her bosom, and
fixed her work, all without the least suspicion of guile.

"I thought I might meet you when I was out——" another pause, another
fixing, a pin to be taken from her lips—"but I didn't."

"I was at the office till rather late," he said quickly.

She stitched away calmly, provokingly.

She took the pin from her mouth again, fixed down a fold of stuff, and
said softly:

"You little liar."

Mother had gone out of the room for her recipe book.

He sat on his chair dumb with mortification. She stitched swiftly and
unerringly. There was silence for some moments. Then he spoke:

"I did not know you wanted me for the pleasure of plucking this crow,"
he said.

"I wanted you!" she exclaimed, looking up for the first time, "Who said
I wanted you?"

"No one. If you didn't want me I may as well go."

The sound of stitching alone broke the silence for some moments, then
she said deliberately:

"What made you think I wanted you?"

"I don't care a damn whether you wanted me or whether you didn't."

"It seems to upset you! And don't use bad language. It is the privilege
of those near and dear to one."

"That's why you begin it, I suppose."

"I cannot remember——" she said loftily.

He laughed sarcastically.

"Well—if you're so beastly cut up about it——"

He put this tentatively, expecting the soft answer. But she refused to
speak, and went on stitching. He fidgeted about, twisted his cap
uncomfortably, and sighed. At last he said:

"Well—you—have we done then?"

She had the vast superiority, in that she was engaged in ostentatious
work. She could fix the cloth, regard it quizzically, rearrange it,
settle down and begin to sew before she replied. This humbled him. At
last she said:

"I thought so this afternoon."

"But, good God, Lettie, can't you drop it?"

"And then?"—the question startled him.

"Why!—forget it," he replied.

"Well?"—she spoke softly, gently. He answered to the call like an eager
hound. He crossed quickly to her side as she sat sewing, and said, in a
low voice:

"You do care something for me, don't you, Lettie?"

"Well,"—it was modulated kindly, a sort of promise of assent.

"You have treated me rottenly, you know, haven't you? You know I—well,
I care a good bit."

"It is a queer way of showing it." Her voice was now a gentle reproof,
the sweetest of surrenders and forgiveness. He leaned forward, took her
face in his hands, and kissed her, murmuring:

"You are a little tease."