The White Peacock (12 page)

"The swine," she said, as if she only understood his first reference to
the Prodigal Son. He put the apple on the table.

"Don't you want it?" she said.

"Mother," he said comically, as if jesting. "She is offering me the
apple like Eve."

Like a flash, she snatched the apple from him, hid it in her skirts a
moment, looking at him with dilated eyes, and then she flung it at the
fire. She missed, and the father leaned forward and picked it off the
hob, saying:

"The pigs may as well have it. You were slow, George—when a lady offers
you a thing you don't have to make mouths."

"A ce qu'il parait," she cried, laughing now at her ease, boisterously:

"Is she making love, Emily?" asked the father, laughing suggestively.

"She says it too fast for me," said Emily.

George was leaning back in his chair, his hands in his breeches pockets.

"We shall have to finish his raisins after all, Emily," said Lettie
brightly. "Look what a lazy animal he is."

"He likes his comfort," said Emily, with irony.

"The picture of content—solid, healthy, easy–moving content——"
continued Lettie. As he sat thus, with his head thrown back against the
end of the ingle–seat, coatless, his red neck seen in repose, he did
indeed look remarkably comfortable.

"I shall never fret my fat away," he said stolidly.

"No—you and I—we are not like Cyril. We do not burn our bodies in our
heads—or our hearts, do we?"

"We have it in common," said he, looking at her indifferently beneath
his lashes, as his head was tilted back.

Lettie went on with the paring and coring of her apples—then she took
the raisins. Meanwhile, Emily was making the house ring as she chopped
the suet in a wooden bowl. The children were ready for bed. They kissed
us all "Good–night"—save George. At last they were gone, accompanied by
their mother. Emily put down her chopper, and sighed that her arm was
aching, so I relieved her. The chopping went on for a long time, while
the father read, Lettie worked, and George sat tilted back looking on.
When at length the mincemeat was finished we were all out of work.
Lettie helped to clear away—sat down—talked a little with
effort—jumped up and said:

"Oh, I'm too excited to sit still—it's so near Christmas—let us play
at something."

"A dance?" said Emily.

"A dance—a dance!"

He suddenly sat straight and got up:

"Come on!" he said.

He kicked off his slippers, regardless of the holes in his stocking
feet, and put away the chairs. He held out his arm to her—she came with
a laugh, and away they went, dancing over the great flagged kitchen at
an incredible speed. Her light flying steps followed his leaps; you
could hear the quick light tap of her toes more plainly than the thud of
his stockinged feet. Emily and I joined in. Emily's movements are
naturally slow, but we danced at great speed. I was hot and perspiring,
and she was panting, when I put her in a chair. But they whirled on in
the dance, on and on till I was giddy, till the father laughing, cried
that they should stop. But George continued the dance; her hair was
shaken loose, and fell in a great coil down her back; her feet began to
drag; you could hear a light slur on the floor; she was panting—I could
see her lips murmur to him, begging him to stop; he was laughing with
open mouth, holding her tight; at last her feet trailed; he lifted her,
clasping her tightly, and danced twice round the room with her thus.
Then he fell with a crash on the sofa, pulling her beside him. His eyes
glowed like coals; he was panting in sobs, and his hair was wet and
glistening. She lay back on the sofa, with his arm still around her, not
moving; she was quite overcome. Her hair was wild about her face. Emily
was anxious; the father said, with a shade of inquietude:

"You've overdone it—it is very foolish."

When at last she recovered her breath and her life, she got up, and
laughing in a queer way, began to put up her hair. She went into the
scullery where were the brush and combs, and Emily followed with a
candle. When she returned, ordered once more, with a little pallor
succeeding the flush, and with a great black stain of sweat on her
leathern belt where his hand had held her, he looked up at her from his
position on the sofa, with a peculiar glance of triumph, smiling.

"You great brute," she said, but her voice was not as harsh as her
words. He gave a deep sigh, sat up, and laughed quietly.

"Another?" he said.

"Will you dance with
me
?"

"At your pleasure."

"Come then—a minuet."

"Don't know it."

"Nevertheless, you must dance it. Come along."

He reared up, and walked to her side. She put him through the steps,
even dragging him round the waltz. It was very ridiculous. When it was
finished she bowed him to his seat, and, wiping her hands on her
handkerchief, because his shirt where her hand had rested on his
shoulders was moist, she thanked him.

"I hope you enjoyed it," he said.

"Ever so much," she replied.

"You made me look a fool—so no doubt you did."

"Do you think you could look a fool? Why you are ironical! Ca marche! In
other words, you have come on. But it is a sweet dance."

He looked at her, lowered his eyelids, and said nothing.

"Ah, well," she laughed, "some are bred for the minuet, and some
for——"

"—Less tomfoolery," he answered.

"Ah—you call it tomfoolery because you cannot do it. Myself, I like
it—so——"

"And I can't do it?"

"Could you? Did you? You are not built that way."

"Sort of Clarence MacFadden," he said, lighting a pipe as if the
conversation did not interest him.

"Yes—what ages since we sang that!

"I remember we sang it after one corn harvest—we had a fine time. I
never thought of you before as Clarence. It is very funny. By the
way—will you come to our party at Christmas?"

"When? Who's coming?"

"The twenty–sixth.—Oh!—only the old people—Alice—Tom
Smith—Fanny—those from Highclose."

"And what will you do?"

"Sing charades—dance a little—anything you like."

"Polka?"

"And minuets—and valetas. Come and dance a valeta, Cyril."

She made me take her through a valeta, a minuet, a mazurka, and she
danced elegantly, but with a little of Carmen's ostentation—her dash
and devilry. When we had finished, the father said:

"Very pretty—very pretty, indeed! They do look nice, don't they,
George? I wish I was young."

"As I am——" said George, laughing bitterly.

"Show me how to do them—some time, Cyril," said Emily, in her pleading
way, which displeased Lettie so much.

"Why don't you ask me?" said the latter quickly.

"Well—but you are not often here."

"I am here now. Come——" and she waved Emily imperiously to the
attempt.

Lettie, as I have said, is tall, approaching six feet; she is lissome,
but firmly moulded, by nature graceful; in her poise and harmonious
movement are revealed the subtle sympathies of her artist's soul. The
other is shorter, much heavier. In her every motion you can see the
extravagance of her emotional nature. She quivers with feeling; emotion
conquers and carries havoc through her, for she has not a strong
intellect, nor a heart of light humour; her nature is brooding and
defenceless; she knows herself powerless in the tumult of her feelings,
and adds to her misfortunes a profound mistrust of herself.

As they danced together, Lettie and Emily, they showed in striking
contrast. My sister's ease and beautiful poetic movement was exquisite;
the other could not control her movements, but repeated the same error
again and again. She gripped Lettie's hand fiercely, and glanced up with
eyes full of humiliation and terror of her continued failure, and
passionate, trembling, hopeless desire to succeed. To show her, to
explain, made matters worse. As soon as she trembled on the brink of an
action, the terror of not being able to perform it properly blinded her,
and she was conscious of nothing but that she must do something—in a
turmoil. At last Lettie ceased to talk, and merely swung her through the
dances haphazard. This way succeeded better. So long as Emily need not
think about her actions, she had a large, free grace; and the swing and
rhythm and time were imparted through her senses rather than through her
intelligence.

It was time for supper. The mother came down for a while, and we talked
quietly, at random. Lettie did not utter a word about her engagement,
not a suggestion. She made it seem as if things were just as before,
although I am sure she had discovered that I had told George. She
intended that we should play as if ignorant of her bond.

After supper, when we were ready to go home, Lettie said to him:

"By the way—you must send us some mistletoe for the party—with plenty
of berries, you know. Are there many berries on your mistletoe this
year?"

"I do not know—I have never looked. We will go and see—if you like,"
George answered. "But will you come out into the cold?" He pulled on his
boots, and his coat, and twisted a scarf round his neck. The young moon
had gone. It was very dark—the liquid stars wavered. The great night
filled us with awe. Lettie caught hold of my arm, and held it tightly.
He passed on in front to open the gates. We went down into the front
garden, over the turf bridge where the sluice rushed coldly under, on to
the broad slope of the bank. We could just distinguish the gnarled old
appletrees leaning about us. We bent our heads to avoid the boughs, and
followed George. He hesitated a moment, saying:

"Let me see—I think they are there—the two trees with mistletoe on."

We again followed silently.

"Yes," he said, "Here they are!"

We went close and peered into the old trees. We could just see the dark
bush of the mistletoe between the boughs of the tree. Lettie began to
laugh.

"Have we come to count the berries?" she said. "I can't even see the
mistletoe."

She leaned forwards and upwards to pierce the darkness; he, also
straining to look, felt her breath on his cheek, and turning, saw the
pallor of her face close to his, and felt the dark glow of her eyes. He
caught her in his arms, and held her mouth in a kiss. Then, when he
released her, he turned away, saying something incoherent about going to
fetch the lantern to look. She remained with her back towards me, and
pretended to be feeling among the mistletoe for the berries. Soon I saw
the swing of the hurricane lamp below.

"He is bringing the lantern," said I.

When he came up, he said, and his voice was strange and subdued:

"Now we can see what it's like."

He went near, and held up the lamp, so that it illuminated both their
faces, and the fantastic boughs of the trees, and the weird bush of
mistletoe sparsely pearled with berries. Instead of looking at the
berries they looked into each other's eyes; his lids flickered, and he
flushed, in the yellow light of the lamp looking warm and handsome; he
looked upwards in confusion and said: "There are plenty of berries."

As a matter of fact there were very few.

She too looked up, and murmured her assent. The light seemed to hold
them as in a globe, in another world, apart from the night in which I
stood. He put up his hand and broke off a sprig of mistletoe, with
berries, and offered it to her. They looked into each other's eyes
again. She put the mistletoe among her furs, looking down at her bosom.
They remained still, in the centre of light, with the lamp uplifted; the
red and black scarf wrapped loosely round his neck gave him a luxurious,
generous look. He lowered the lamp and said, affecting to speak
naturally:

"Yes—there is plenty this year."

"You will give me some," she replied, turning away and finally breaking
the spell.

"When shall I cut it?"—He strode beside her, swinging the lamp, as we
went down the bank to go home. He came as far as the brooks without
saying another word. Then he bade us good–night. When he had lighted her
over the stepping–stones, she did not take my arm as we walked home.

During the next two weeks we were busy preparing for Christmas, ranging
the woods for the reddest holly, and pulling the gleaming ivy–bunches
from the trees. From the farms around came the cruel yelling of pigs,
and in the evening later, was a scent of pork–pies. Far–off on the
high–way could be heard the sharp trot of ponies hastening with
Christmas goods.

There the carts of the hucksters dashed by to the expectant villagers,
triumphant with great bunches of light foreign mistletoe, gay with
oranges peeping through the boxes, and scarlet intrusion of apples, and
wild confusion of cold, dead poultry. The hucksters waved their whips
triumphantly, the little ponies rattled bravely under the sycamores,
towards Christmas.

In the late afternoon of the 24th, when dust was rising under the hazel
brake, I was walking with Lettie. All among the mesh of twigs overhead
was tangled a dark red sky. The boles of the trees grew denser—almost
blue.

Tramping down the riding we met two boys, fifteen or sixteen years old.
Their clothes were largely patched with tough cotton moleskin; scarves
were knotted round their throats, and in their pockets rolled tin
bottles full of tea, and the white knobs of their knotted snap–bags.

"Why!" said Lettie. "Are you going to work on Christmas eve?"

"It looks like it, don't it?" said the elder.

"And what time will you be coming back?"

"About 'alf past töw."

"Christmas morning!"

"You'll be able to look out for the herald Angels and the Star," said I.

"They'd think we was two dirty little uns," said the younger lad,
laughing.