The White Peacock (16 page)

The keeper looked at them. Then, smiling, he went down the dell with
great strides, and returned, saying, "Well, the lady might as well take
her gloves."

She took them from him, shrinking to Leslie. Then she started, and said:

"Let me fetch my flowers."

She ran for the handful of snowdrops that lay among the roots of the
trees. We all watched her.

"Sorry I made such a mistake—a lady!" said Annable. "But I've nearly
forgot the sight o' one—save the squire's daughters, who are never out
o' nights."

"I should think you never have seen many—unless—! Have you ever been a
groom?"

"No groom but a bridegroom, Sir, and then I think I'd rather groom a
horse than a lady, for I got well bit—if you will excuse me, Sir."

"And you deserved it—no doubt."

"I got it—an' I wish you better luck, Sir. One's more a man here in th'
wood, though, than in my lady's parlour, it strikes me."

"A lady's parlour!" laughed Leslie, indulgent in his amusement at the
facetious keeper.

"Oh, yes! 'Will you walk into my parlour——'"

"You're very smart for a keeper."

"Oh, yes Sir—I was once a lady's man. But I'd rather watch th' rabbits
an' th' birds; an' it's easier breeding brats in th' Kennels than in th'
town."

"They are yours, are they?" said I.

"You know 'em, do you, Sir? Aren't they a lovely little litter?—aren't
they a pretty bag o' ferrets?—natural as weasels—that's what I said
they should be—bred up like a bunch o' young foxes, to run as they
would."

Emily had joined Lettie, and they kept aloof from the man they
instinctively hated.

"They'll get nicely trapped, one of these days," said I.

"They're natural—they can fend for themselves like wild beasts do," he
replied, grinning.

"You are not doing your duty, it strikes me," put in Leslie
sententiously.

The man laughed.

"Duties of parents!—tell me, I've need of it. I've nine—that is eight,
and one not far off. She breeds well, the ow'd lass—one every two
years—nine in fourteen years—done well, hasn't she?"

"You've done pretty badly, I think."

"I—why? It's natural! When a man's more than nature he's a devil. Be a
good animal, says I, whether it's man or woman. You, Sir, a good natural
male animal; the lady there—a female un—that's proper as long as yer
enjoy it."

"And what then?"

"Do as th' animals do. I watch my brats—I let 'em grow. They're
beauties, they are—sound as a young ash pole, every one. They shan't
learn to dirty themselves wi' smirking deviltry—not if I can help it.
They can be like birds, or weasels, or vipers, or squirrels, so long as
they ain't human rot, that's what I say."

"It's one way of looking at things," said Leslie.

"Ay. Look at the women looking at us. I'm something between a bull and a
couple of worms stuck together, I am. See that spink!" he raised his
voice for the girls to hear. "Pretty, isn't he? What for?—And what for
do you wear a fancy vest and twist your moustache, Sir! What for, at the
bottom! Ha—tell a woman not to come in a wood till she can look at
natural things—she might see something—Good night, Sir."

He marched off into the darkness.

"Coarse fellow, that," said Leslie when he had rejoined Lettie, "but
he's a character."

"He makes you shudder," she replied. "But yet you are interested in him.
I believe he has a history."

"He seems to lack something," said Emily.

"I thought him rather a fine fellow," said I.

"Splendidly built fellow, but callous—no soul," remarked Leslie,
dismissing the question.

"No," assented Emily. "No soul—and among the snowdrops."

Lettie was thoughtful, and I smiled.

It was a beautiful evening, still, with red, shaken clouds in the west.
The moon in heaven was turning wistfully back to the east. Dark purple
woods lay around us, painting out the distance. The near, wild, ruined
land looked sad and strange under the pale afterglow. The turf path was
fine and springy.

"Let us run!" said Lettie, and joining hands we raced wildly along, with
a flutter and a breathless laughter, till we were happy and forgetful.
When we stopped we exclaimed at once, "Hark!"

"A child!" said Lettie.

"At the Kennels," said I.

We hurried forward. From the house came the mad yelling and yelping of
children, and the wild hysterical shouting of a woman.

"Tha' little devil—tha' little devil—tha' shanna—that tha' shanna!"
and this was accompanied by the hollow sound of blows, and a pandemonium
of howling. We rushed in, and found the woman in a tousled frenzy
belabouring a youngster with an enamelled pan. The lad was rolled up
like a young hedgehog—the woman held him by the foot, and like a flail
came the hollow utensil thudding on his shoulders and back. He lay in
the firelight and howled, while scattered in various groups, with the
leaping firelight twinkling over their tears and their open mouths, were
the other children, crying too. The mother was in a state of hysteria;
her hair streamed over her face, and her eyes were fixed in a stare of
overwrought irritation. Up and down went her long arm like a windmill
sail. I ran and held it. When she could hit no more, the woman dropped
the pan from her nerveless hand, and staggered, trembling, to the squab.
She looked desperately weary and fordone—she clasped and unclasped her
hands continually. Emily hushed the children, while Lettie hushed the
mother, holding her hard, cracked hands as she swayed to and fro.
Gradually the mother became still, and sat staring in front of her; then
aimlessly she began to finger the jewels on Lettie's finger.

Emily was bathing the cheek of a little girl, who lifted up her voice
and wept loudly when she saw the speck of blood on the cloth. But
presently she became quiet too, and Emily could empty the water from the
late instrument of castigation, and at last light the lamp.

I found Sam under the table in a little heap. I put out my hand for him,
and he wriggled away, like a lizard, into the passage. After a while I
saw him in a corner, lying whimpering with little savage cries of pain.
I cut off his retreat and captured him, bearing him struggling into the
kitchen. Then, weary with pain, he became passive.

We undressed him, and found his beautiful white body all discoloured
with bruises. The mother began to sob again, with a chorus of babies.
The girls tried to soothe the weeping, while I rubbed butter into the
silent, wincing boy. Then his mother caught him in her arms, and kissed
him passionately, and cried with abandon. The boy let himself be
kissed—then he too began to sob, till his little body was all shaken.
They folded themselves together, the poor dishevelled mother and the
half–naked boy, and wept themselves still. Then she took him to bed, and
the girls helped the other little ones into their nightgowns, and soon
the house was still.

"I canna manage 'em, I canna," said the mother mournfully. "They growin'
beyont me—I dunna know what to do wi' 'em. An' niver a 'and does 'e
lift ter 'elp me—no—'e cares not a thing for me—not a thing—nowt but
makes a mock an' a sludge o' me."

"Ah, baby!" said Lettie, setting the bonny boy on his feet, and holding
up his trailing nightgown behind him, "do you want to walk to your
mother—go then—Ah!"

The child, a handsome little fellow of some sixteen months, toddled
across to his mother, waving his hands as he went, and laughing, while
his large hazel eyes glowed with pleasure. His mother caught him, pushed
the silken brown hair back from his forehead, and laid his cheek against
hers.

"Ah!" she said, "Tha's got a funny Dad, tha' has, not like another man,
no, my duckie. 'E's got no 'art ter care for nobody, 'e 'asna, ma
pigeon—no,—lives like a stranger to his own flesh an' blood."

The girl with the wounded cheek had found comfort in Leslie. She was
seated on his knee, looking at him with solemn blue eyes, her solemnity
increased by the quaint round head, whose black hair was cut short.

"'S my chalk, yes it is, 'n our Sam says as it's 'issen, an' 'e ta'es it
and marks it all gone, so I wouldna gie 't 'im,"—she clutched in her
fat little hand a piece of red chalk. "My Dad gen it me, ter mark my
dolly's face red, what's on'y wood—I'll show yer."

She wriggled down, and holding up her trailing gown with one hand,
trotted to a corner piled with a child's rubbish, and hauled out a
hideous carven caricature of a woman, and brought it to Leslie. The face
of the object was streaked with red.

"'Ere sh' is, my dolly, what my Dad make me—'er name's Lady Mima."

"Is it?" said Lettie, "and are these her cheeks? She's not pretty, is
she?"

"Um—sh' is. My Dad says sh' is—like a lady."

"And he gave you her rouge, did he?"

"Rouge!" she nodded.

"And you wouldn't let Sam have it?"

"No—an' mi mower says, Dun gie 't 'im'—'n 'e bite me."

"What will your father say?"

"Me Dad?"

"'E'd nobbut laugh," put in the mother, "an' say as a bite's bett'r'n a
kiss."

"Brute!" said Leslie feelingly.

"No, but 'e never laid a finger on 'em—nor me neither. But 'e's not
like another man—niver tells yer nowt. He's more a stranger to me this
day than 'e wor th' day I first set eyes on 'im."

"Where was that?" asked Lettie.

"When I wor a lass at th' 'All—an' 'im a new man come—fair a
gentleman, an' a, an' a! An even now can read an' talk like a
gentleman—but 'e tells me nothing—Oh no—what am I in 'is eyes but a
sludge bump?—'e's above me, 'e is, an' above 'is own childer. God
a–mercy, 'e 'll be in in a minute. Come on 'ere!"

She hustled the children to bed, swept the litter into a corner, and
began to lay the table. The cloth was spotless, and she put him a silver
spoon in the saucer.

We had only just got out of the house when he drew near. I saw his
massive figure in the doorway, and the big, prolific woman moved
subserviently about the room.

"Hullo, Proserpine—had visitors?"

"I never axed 'em—they come in 'earin' th' childer cryin'. I never
encouraged 'em——"

We hurried away into the night. "Ah, it's always the woman bears the
burden," said Lettie bitterly.

"If he'd helped her—wouldn't she have been a fine woman now—splendid?
But she's dragged to bits. Men are brutes—and marriage just gives scope
to them," said Emily.

"Oh, you wouldn't take that as a fair sample of marriage," replied
Leslie. "Think of you and me, Minnehaha."

"Ay."

"Oh—I meant to tell you—what do you think of Greymede old vicarage for
us?"

"It's a lovely old place!" exclaimed Lettie, and we passed out of
hearing.

We stumbled over the rough path. The moon was bright, and we stepped
apprehensively on the shadows thrown from the trees, for they lay so
black and substantial. Occasionally a moonbeam would trace out a suave
white branch that the rabbits had gnawed quite bare in the hard winter.
We came out of the woods into the full heavens. The northern sky was
full of a gush of green light; in front, eclipsed Orion leaned over his
bed, and the moon followed.

"When the northern lights are up," said Emily, "I feel so strange—half
eerie—they do fill you with awe, don't they?"

"Yes," said I, "they make you wonder, and look, and expect something."

"What do you expect?" she said softly, and looked up, and saw me
smiling, and she looked down again, biting her lips.

When we came to the parting of the roads, Emily begged them just to step
into the mill—just for a moment—and Lettie consented.

The kitchen window was uncurtained, and the blind, as usual, was not
drawn. We peeped in through the cords of budding honeysuckle. George and
Alice were sitting at the table playing chess; the mother was mending a
coat, and the father, as usual, was reading. Alice was talking quietly,
and George was bent on the game. His arms lay on the table.

We made a noise at the door, and entered. George rose heavily, shook
hands, and sat down again.

"Hullo, Lettie Beardsall, you are a stranger," said Alice. "Are you
so
much engaged?"

"Ay—we don't see much of her nowadays," added the father in his jovial
way.

"And isn't she a toff, in her fine hat and furs and snowdrops. Look at
her, George, you've never looked to see what a toff she is."

He raised his eyes, and looked at her apparel and at her flowers, but
not at her face:

"Ay, she is fine," he said, and returned to the chess.

"We have been gathering snowdrops," said Lettie, fingering the flowers
in her bosom.

"They are pretty—give me some, will you?" said Alice, holding out her
hand. Lettie gave her the flowers.

"Check!" said George deliberately.

"Get out!" replied his opponent, "I've got some snowdrops—don't they
suit me, an innocent little soul like me? Lettie won't wear them—she's
not meek and mild and innocent like me. Do you want some?"

"If you like—what for?"

"To make you pretty, of course, and to show you an innocent little
meekling."

"You're in check," he said.

"Where can you wear them?—there's only your shirt. Aw!—there!"—she
stuck a few flowers in his ruffled black hair—"Look, Lettie, isn't he
sweet?"

Lettie laughed with a strained little laugh:

"He's like Bottom and the ass's head," she said.

"Then I'm Titania—don't I make a lovely fairy queen, Bully Bottom?—and
who's jealous Oberon?"

"He reminds me of that man in Hedda Gabler—crowned with vine
leaves—oh, yes, vine leaves," said Emily.

"How's your mare's sprain, Mr. Tempest?" George asked, taking no notice
of the flowers in his hair.

"Oh—she'll soon be all right, thanks."

"Ah—George told me about it," put in the father, and he held Leslie in
conversation.

"Am I in check, George?" said Alice, returning to the game. She knitted
her brows and cogitated: