The White Peacock (13 page)

"They'll 'appen 'a done before we get up ter th' top," added the elder
boy— "an' they'll none venture down th' shaft."

"If they did," put in the other, "You'd ha'e ter bath 'em after. I'd
gi'e 'em a bit o' my pasty."

"Come on," said the elder sulkily.

They tramped off, slurring their heavy boots.

"Merry Christmas!" I called after them.

"In th' mornin'," replied the elder.

"Same to you," said the younger, and he began to sing with a tinge of
bravado.

"In the fields with their flocks abiding.
They lay on the dewy
ground——"

"Fancy," said Lettie, "those boys are working for me!"

We were all going to the party at Highclose. I happened to go into the
kitchen about half past seven. The lamp was turned low, and Rebecca sat
in the shadows. On the table, in the light of the lamp, I saw a glass
vase with five or six very beautiful Christmas roses.

"Hullo, Becka, who's sent you these?" said I.

"They're not sent," replied Rebecca from the depth of the shadow, with
suspicion of tears in her voice.

"Why! I never saw them in the garden."

"Perhaps not. But I've watched them these three weeks, and kept them
under glass."

"For Christmas? They are beauties. I thought some one must have sent
them to you."

"It's little as 'as ever been sent me," replied Rebecca, "an' less as
will be."

"Why—what's the matter?"

"Nothing. Who'm I, to have anything the matter! Nobody—nor ever was,
nor ever will be. And I'm getting old as well."

"Something's upset you, Becky."

"What does it matter if it has? What are my feelings? A bunch o'
fal–de–rol flowers as a gardener clips off wi' never a thought is
preferred before mine as I've fettled after this three–week. I can sit
at home to keep my flowers company—nobody wants 'em."

I remembered that Lettie was wearing hot–house flowers; she was excited
and full of the idea of the party at Highclose; I could imagine her
quick "Oh no thank you, Rebecca. I have had a spray sent to me——"

"Never mind, Becky," said I, "she is excited to–night."

"An' I'm easy forgotten."

"So are we all, Becky—tant mieux."

At Highclose Lettie made a stir. Among the little belles of the
countryside, she was decidedly the most distinguished. She was
brilliant, moving as if in a drama. Leslie was enraptured, ostentatious
in his admiration, proud of being so well infatuated. They looked into
each other's eyes when they met, both triumphant, excited, blazing arch
looks at one another. Lettie was enjoying her public demonstration
immensely; it exhilarated her into quite a vivid love for him. He was
magnificent in response. Meanwhile, the honoured lady of the house,
pompous and ample, sat aside with my mother conferring her patronage on
the latter amiable little woman, who smiled sardonically and watched
Lettie. It was a splendid party; it was brilliant, it was dazzling.

I danced with several ladies, and honourably kissed each under the
mistletoe—except that two of them kissed me first, it was all done in a
most correct manner.

"You wolf," said Miss Wookey archly. "I believe you are a wolf—a
veritable rôdeur des femmes—and you look such a lamb too—such a dear."

"Even my bleat reminds you of Mary's pet."

"But you are not my pet—at least—it is well that my Golaud doesn't
hear you——"

"If he is so very big——" said I.

"He is really; he's beefy. I've engaged myself to him, somehow or other.
One never knows how one does those things, do they?"

"I couldn't speak from experience," said I.

"Cruel man! I suppose I felt Christmasy, and I'd just been reading
Maeterlinck—and he really is big."

"Who?" I asked.

"Oh—He, of course. My Golaud. I can't help admiring men who are a bit
avoirdupoisy. It is unfortunate they can't dance."

"Perhaps fortunate," said I.

"I can see you hate him. Pity I didn't think to ask him if he
danced—before——"

"Would it have influenced you very much?"

"Well—of course—one can be free to dance all the more with the really
nice men whom one never marries."

"Why not?"

"Oh—you can only marry one——"

"Of course."

"There he is—he's coming for me! Oh, Frank, you leave me to the tender
mercies of the world at large. I thought you'd forgotten me, Dear."

"I thought the same," replied her Golaud, a great fat fellow with a
childish bare face. He smiled awesomely, and one never knew what he
meant to say.

We drove home in the early Christmas morning. Lettie, warmly wrapped in
her cloak, had had a little stroll with her lover in the shrubbery. She
was still brilliant, flashing in her movements. He, as he bade her
good–bye, was almost beautiful in his grace and his low musical tone. I
nearly loved him myself. She was very fond towards him. As we came to
the gate where the private road branched from the highway, we heard John
say "Thank you"—and looking out, saw our two boys returning from the
pit. They were very grotesque in the dark night as the lamplight fell on
them, showing them grimy, flecked with bits of snow. They shouted
merrily, their good wishes. Lettie leaned out and waved to them, and
they cried "'ooray!" Christmas came in with their acclamations.

Lettie was twenty–one on the day after Christmas. She woke me in the
morning with cries of dismay. There was a great fall of snow,
multiplying the cold morning light, startling the slow–footed twilight.
The lake was black like the open eyes of a corpse; the woods were black
like the beard on the face of a corpse. A rabbit bobbed out, and
floundered in much consternation; little birds settled into the depth,
and rose in a dusty whirr, much terrified at the universal treachery of
the earth. The snow was eighteen inches deep, and drifted in places.

"They will never come!" lamented Lettie, for it was the day of her
party.

"At any rate—Leslie will," said I.

"One!" she exclaimed.

"That one is all, isn't it?" said I. "And for sure George will come,
though I've not seen him this fortnight. He's not been in one night,
they say, for a fortnight."

"Why not?"

"I cannot say."

Lettie went away to ask Rebecca for the fiftieth time if she thought
they would come. At any rate the extra woman–help came.

It was not more than ten o'clock when Leslie arrived, ruddy, with
shining eyes, laughing like a boy. There was much stamping in the porch,
and knocking of leggings with his stick, and crying of Lettie from the
kitchen to know who had come, and loud, cheery answers from the porch
bidding her come and see. She came, and greeted him with effusion.

"Ha, my little woman!" he said kissing her. "I declare you are a woman.
Look at yourself in the glass now——" She did so—"What do you see?" he
asked laughing.

"You—mighty gay, looking at me."

"Ah, but look at yourself. There! I declare you're more afraid of your
own eyes than of mine, aren't you?"

"I am," she said, and he kissed her with rapture.

"It's your birthday," he said.

"I know," she replied.

"So do I. You promised me something."

"What?" she asked.

"Here—see if you like it,"—he gave her a little case. She opened it,
and instinctively slipped the ring on her finger. He made a movement of
pleasure. She looked up, laughing breathlessly at him.

"Now!" said he, in tones of finality.

"Ah!" she exclaimed in a strange, thrilled voice.

He caught her in his arms.

After a while, when they could talk rationally again, she said:

"Do you think they will come to my party?"

"I hope not—By Heaven!"

"But—oh, yes! We have made all preparations."

"What does that matter! Ten thousand folks here to–day——!"

"Not ten thousand—only five or six. I shall be wild if they can't
come."

"You want them?"

"We have asked them—and everything is ready—and I do want us to have a
party one day."

"But to–day—damn it all, Lettie!"

"But I did want my party to–day. Don't you think they'll come?"

"They won't if they've any sense!"

"You might help me——" she pouted.

"Well I'll be—! and you've set your mind on having a houseful of people
to–day?"

"You know how we look forward to it—my party. At any rate—I know Tom
Smith will come—and I'm almost sure Emily Saxton will."

He bit his moustache angrily, and said at last:

"Then I suppose I'd better send John round for the lot."

"It wouldn't be much trouble, would it?"

"No
trouble
at all."

"Do you know," she said, twisting the ring on her finger. "It makes me
feel as if I tied something round my finger to remember by. It somehow
remains in my consciousness all the time."

"At any rate," said he, "I have got you."

After dinner, when we were alone, Lettie sat at the table, nervously
fingering her ring.

"It is pretty, mother, isn't it?" she said a trifle pathetically.

"Yes, very pretty. I have always liked Leslie," replied my mother.

"But it feels so heavy—it fidgets me. I should like to take it off."

"You are like me, I never could wear rings. I hated my wedding ring for
months."

"Did you, mother?"

"I longed to take it off and put it away. But after a while I got used
to it."

"I'm glad this isn't a wedding ring."

"Leslie says it is as good," said I.

"Ah well, yes! But still it is different—" She put the jewels round
under her finger, and looked at the plain gold band—then she twisted it
back quickly, saying:

"I'm glad it's not—not yet. I begin to feel a woman, little mother—I
feel grown up to–day."

My mother got up suddenly and went and kissed Lettie fervently.

"Let me kiss my girl good–bye," she said, and her voice was muffled with
tears. Lettie clung to my mother, and sobbed a few quiet sobs, hidden in
her bosom. Then she lifted her face, which was wet with tears, and
kissed my mother, murmuring:

"No, mother—no—o—!"

About three o'clock the carriage came with Leslie and Marie. Both Lettie
and I were upstairs, and I heard Marie come tripping up to my sister.

"Oh, Lettie, he is in such a state of excitement, you never knew. He
took me with him to buy it—let me see it on. I think it's awfully
lovely. Here, let me help you to do your hair—all in those little
rolls—it will look charming. You've really got beautiful hair—there's
so much life in it—it's a pity to twist it into a coil as you do. I
wish my hair were a bit longer—though really, it's all the better for
this fashion—don't you like it?—it's 'so chic'—I think these little
puffs are just fascinating—it is rather long for them—but it will look
ravishing. Really, my eyes, and eyebrows, and eyelashes are my best
features, don't you think?"

Marie, the delightful, charming little creature, twittered on. I went
downstairs.

Leslie started when I entered the room, but seeing only me, he leaned
forward again, resting his arms on his knees, looking in the fire.

"What the Dickens is she doing?" he asked.

"Dressing."

"Then we may keep on waiting. Isn't it a deuced nuisance, these people
coming?"

"Well, we generally have a good time."

"Oh—it's all very well—we're not in the same boat, you and me."

"Fact," said I laughing.

"By Jove, Cyril, you don't know what it is to be in love. I never
thought—I couldn't ha' believed I should be like it. All the time when
it isn't at the top of your blood, it's at the bottom:—'the Girl, the
Girl.'"

He stared into the fire.

"It seems pressing you, pressing you on. Never leaves you alone a
moment."

Again he lapsed into reflection.

"Then, all at once, you remember how she kissed you, and all your blood
jumps afire."

He mused again for awhile—or rather, he seemed fiercely to con over his
sensations.

"You know," he said, "I don't think she feels for me as I do for her."

"Would you want her to?" said I.

"I don't know. Perhaps not—but—still I don't think she feels——"

At this he lighted a cigarette to soothe his excited feelings, and there
was silence for some time. Then the girls came down. We could hear their
light chatter. Lettie entered the room. He jumped up and surveyed her.
She was dressed in soft, creamy, silken stuff; her neck was quite bare;
her hair was, as Marie promised, fascinating; she was laughing
nervously. She grew warm, like a blossom in the sunshine, in the glow of
his admiration. He went forward and kissed her.

"You are splendid!" he said.

She only laughed for answer. He drew her away to the great arm–chair,
and made her sit in it beside him. She was indulgent and he radiant. He
took her hand and looked at it, and at his ring which she wore.

"It looks all right!" he murmured.

"Anything would," she replied.

"What do they mean—sapphires and diamonds—for I don't know?"

"Nor do I. Blue for hope, because Speranza in 'Fairy Queen' had a blue
gown—and diamonds for—the crystalline clearness of my nature."

"Its glitter and hardness, you mean—You are a hard little mistress. But
why Hope?"

"Why?—No reason whatever, like most things. No, that's not right. Hope!
Oh—Blindfolded—hugging a silly harp with no strings. I wonder why she
didn't drop her harp framework over the edge of the globe, and take the
handkerchief off her eyes, and have a look round! But of course she was
a woman—and a man's woman. Do you know I believe most women can sneak a
look down their noses from underneath the handkerchief of hope they've
tied over their eyes. They could take the whole muffler off—but they
don't do it, the dears."

"I don't believe you know what you're talking about, and I'm sure I
don't. Sapphires reminded me of your eyes—and—isn't it 'Blue that kept
the faith?' I remember something about it."

"Here," said she, pulling off the ring, "you ought to wear it yourself,
Faithful One, to keep me in constant mind."

"Keep it on, keep it on. It holds you faster than that fair damsel tied
to a tree in Millais' picture—I believe it's Millais."

She sat shaking with laughter.

"What a comparison! Who'll be the brave knight to rescue
me—discreetly—from behind?"

"Ah," he answered, "it doesn't matter. You don't want rescuing, do you?"

"Not yet," she replied, teasing him.

They continued to talk half nonsense, making themselves eloquent by
quick looks and gestures, and communion of warm closeness. The ironical
tones went out of Lettie's voice, and they made love.

Marie drew me away into the dining room, to leave them alone.

Marie is a charming little maid, whose appearance is neatness, whose
face is confident little goodness. Her hair is dark, and lies low upon
her neck in wavy coils. She does not affect the fashion in coiffure, and
generally is a little behind the fashion in dress. Indeed she is a
half–opened bud of a matron, conservative, full of proprieties, and of
gentle indulgence. She now smiled at me with a warm delight in the
romance upon which she had just shed her grace, but her demureness
allowed nothing to be said. She glanced round the room, and out of the
window, and observed:

"I always love Woodside, it is restful—there is something about
it—oh—assuring—really—it comforts one—I've been reading Maxim
Gorky."

"You shouldn't," said I.

"Dadda reads them—but I don't like them—I shall read no more. I like
Woodside—it makes you feel—really at home—it soothes one like the old
wood does. It seems right—life is proper here—not ulcery——"

"Just healthy living flesh," said I.

"No, I don't mean that, because one feels—oh, as if the world were old
and good, not old and bad."

"Young, and undisciplined, and mad," said I.

"No—but here, you, and Lettie, and Leslie, and me—it is so nice for
us, and it seems so natural and good. Woodside is so old, and so sweet
and serene—it does reassure one."

"Yes," said I, "we just live, nothing abnormal, nothing cruel and
extravagant—just natural—like doves in a dovecote."

"Oh!—doves!—they are so—so mushy."

"They are dear little birds, doves. You look like one yourself, with the
black band round your neck. You a turtle–dove, and Lettie a
wood–pigeon."

"Lettie is splendid, isn't she? What a swing she has—what a mastery! I
wish I had her strength—she just marches straight through in the right
way—I think she's fine."

I laughed to see her so enthusiastic in her admiration of my sister.
Marie is such a gentle, serious little soul. She went to the window. I
kissed her, and pulled two berries off the mistletoe. I made her a nest
in the heavy curtains, and she sat there looking out on the snow.

"It is lovely," she said reflectively. "People must be ill when they
write like Maxim Gorky."

"They live in town," said I.

"Yes—but then look at Hardy—life seems so terrible—it isn't, is it?"

"If you don't feel it, it isn't—if you don't see it. I don't see it for
myself."

"It's lovely enough for heaven."

"Eskimo's heaven perhaps. And we're the angels eh? And I'm an
archangel."

"No, you're a vain, frivolous man. Is that—? What is that moving
through the trees?"

"Somebody coming," said I.

It was a big, burly fellow moving curiously through the bushes.

"Doesn't he walk funnily?" exclaimed Marie. He did. When he came near
enough we saw he was straddled upon Indian snow–shoes. Marie peeped, and
laughed, and peeped, and hid again in the curtains laughing. He was very
red, and looked very hot, as he hauled the great meshes, shuffling over
the snow; his body rolled most comically. I went to the door and
admitted him, while Marie stood stroking her face with her hands to
smooth away the traces of her laughter.

He grasped my hand in a very large and heavy glove, with which he then
wiped his perspiring brow.

"Well, Beardsall, old man," he said, "and how's things? God, I'm not
'alf hot! Fine idea though——" He showed me his snow–shoes.

"Ripping! ain't they? I've come like an Indian brave——" He rolled his
"r's", and lengthened out his "ah's" tremendously—"brra–ave".

"Couldn't resist it though," he continued. "Remember your party last
year—Girls turned up? On the war–path, eh?" He pursed up his childish
lips and rubbed his fat chin.

Having removed his coat, and the white wrap which protected his collar,
not to mention the snowflakes, which Rebecca took almost as an insult to
herself—he seated his fat, hot body on a chair, and proceeded to take
off his gaiters and his boots. Then he donned his dancing pumps, and I
led him upstairs.

"Lord, I skimmed here like a swallow!" he continued—and I looked at his
corpulence.

"Never met a soul, though they've had a snow–plough down the road. I saw
the marks of a cart up the drive, so I guessed the Tempests were here.
So Lettie's put her nose in Tempest's nosebag—leaves nobody a chance,
that—some women have rum taste—only they're like ravens, they go for
the gilding—don't blame 'em—only it leaves nobody a chance. Madie
Howitt's coming, I suppose?"