The White Peacock (20 page)

There the daffodils were lifting their heads and throwing back their
yellow curls. At the foot of each sloping, grey old tree stood a family
of flowers, some bursten with golden fulness, some lifting their heads
slightly, to show a modest, sweet countenance, others still hiding their
faces, leaning forward pensively from the jaunty grey–green spears; I
wished I had their language, to talk to them distinctly.

Overhead, the trees, with lifted fingers shook out their hair to the
sun, decking themselves with buds as white and cool as a water–nymphs
breasts.

I began to be very glad. The colts–foot discs glowed and laughed in a
merry company down the path; I stroked the velvet faces, and laughed
also, and I smelled the scent of black–currant leaves, which is full of
childish memories.

The house was quiet and complacent; it was peopled with ghosts again;
but the ghosts had only come to enjoy the warm place once more, carrying
sunshine in their arms and scattering it through the dusk of gloomy
rooms.

It happened, the next day after the funeral, I came upon reproductions
of Aubrey Beardsley's "Atalanta," and of the tail–piece "Salome," and
others. I sat and looked and my soul leaped out upon the new thing. I
was bewildered, wondering, grudging, fascinated. I looked a long time,
but my mind, or my soul, would come to no state of coherence. I was
fascinated and overcome, but yet full of stubbornness and resistance.

Lettie was out, so, although it was dinner–time, even because it was
dinner–time, I took the book and went down to the mill.

The dinner was over; there was the fragrance of cooked rhubarb in the
room. I went straight to Emily, who was leaning back in her chair, and
put the Salome before her.

"Look," said I, "look here!"

She looked; she was short–sighted, and peered close. I was impatient for
her to speak. She turned slowly at last and looked at me, shrinking,
with questioning.

"Well?" I said.

"Isn't it—fearful!" she replied softly.

"No!—why is it?"

"It makes you feel—Why have you brought it?"

"I wanted you to see it."

Already I felt relieved, seeing that she too was caught in the spell.

George came and bent over my shoulder. I could feel the heavy warmth of
him.

"Good Lord!" he drawled, half amused. The children came crowding to see,
and Emily closed the book.

"I shall be late—Hurry up, Dave!" and she went to wash her hands before
going to school.

"Give it me, will you!" George asked, putting out his hand for the book.
I gave it him, and he sat down to look at the drawings. When Mollie
crept near to look, he angrily shouted to her to get away. She pulled a
mouth, and got her hat over her wild brown curls. Emily came in ready
for school.

"I'm going—good–bye," she said, and she waited hesitatingly. I moved to
get my cap. He looked up with a new expression in his eyes, and said:

"Are you going?—wait a bit—I'm coming."

I waited.

"Oh, very well—good–bye," said Emily bitterly, and she departed.

When he had looked long enough he got up and we went out. He kept his
finger between the pages of the book as he carried it. We went towards
the fallow land without speaking. There he sat down on a bank, leaning
his back against a holly–tree, and saying, very calmly:

"There's no need to be in any hurry now——" whereupon he proceeded to
study the illustrations.

"You know," he said at last, "I do want her."

I started at the irrelevance of this remark, and said, "Who?"

"Lettie. We've got notice, did you know?"

I started to my feet this time with amazement.

"Notice to leave?—what for?"

"Rabbits I expect. I wish she'd have me, Cyril."

"To leave Strelley Mill!" I repeated.

"That's it—and I'm rather glad. But do you think she might have me,
Cyril?"

"What a shame! Where will you go? And you lie there joking——!"

"I don't. Never mind about the damned notice. I want her more than
anything.—And the more I look at these naked lines, the more I want
her. It's a sort of fine sharp feeling, like these curved lines. I don't
know what I'm saying—but do you think she'd have me? Has she seen these
pictures?"

"No."

"If she did perhaps she'd want me—I mean she'd feel it clear and sharp
coming through her."

"I'll show her and see."

"I'd been sort of thinking about it—since father had that notice. It
seemed as if the ground was pulled from under our feet. I never felt so
lost. Then I began to think of her, if she'd have me—but not clear,
till you showed me those pictures. I must have her if I can—and I must
have something. It's rather ghostish to have the road suddenly smudged
out, and all the world anywhere, nowhere for you to go. I must get
something sure soon, or else I feel as if I should fall from somewhere
and hurt myself. I'll ask her."

I looked at him as he lay there under the holly–tree, his face all
dreamy and boyish, very unusual.

"You'll ask Lettie?" said I, "When—how?"

"I must ask her quick, while I feel as if everything had gone, and I was
ghostish. I think I must sound rather a lunatic."

He looked at me, and his eyelids hung heavy over his eyes as if he had
been drinking, or as if he were tired.

"Is she at home?" he said.

"No, she's gone to Nottingham. She'll be home before dark."

"I'll see her then. Can you smell violets?"

I replied that I could not. He was sure that he could, and he seemed
uneasy till he had justified the sensation. So he arose, very leisurely,
and went along the bank, looking closely for the flowers.

"I knew I could. White ones!"

He sat down and picked three flowers, and held them to his nostrils, and
inhaled their fragrance. Then he put them to his mouth, and I saw his
strong white teeth crush them. He chewed them for a while without
speaking; then he spat them out and gathered more.

"They remind me of her too," he said, and he twisted a piece of
honeysuckle stem round the bunch and handed it to me.

"A white violet, is she?" I smiled.

"Give them to her, and tell her to come and meet me just when it's
getting dark in the wood."

"But if she won't?"

"She will."

"If she's not at home?"

"Come and tell me."

He lay down again with his head among the green violet leaves, saying:

"I ought to work, because it all counts in the valuation. But I don't
care."

He lay looking at me for some time. Then he said:

"I don't suppose I shall have above twenty pounds left when we've sold
up—but she's got plenty of money to start with—if she has me—in
Canada. I could get well off—and she could have—what she wanted—I'm
sure she'd have what she wanted."

He took it all calmly as if it were realised. I was somewhat amused.

"What frock will she have on when she comes to meet me?" he asked.

"I don't know. The same as she's gone to Nottingham in, I suppose—a
sort of gold–brown costume with a rather tight fitting coat. Why?"

"I was thinking how she'd look."

"What chickens are you counting now?" I asked.

"But what do you think I look best in?" he replied.

"You? Just as you are—no, put that old smooth cloth coat on—that's
all." I smiled as I told him, but he was very serious.

"Shan't I put my new clothes on?"

"No—you want to leave your neck showing."

He put his hand to his throat, and said naïvely:

"Do I?"—and it amused him.

Then he lay looking dreamily up into the tree. I left him, and went
wandering round the fields finding flowers and bird's nests.

When I came back, it was nearly four o'clock. He stood up and stretched
himself. He pulled out his watch.

"Good Lord," he drawled, "I've lain there thinking all afternoon. I
didn't know I could do such a thing. Where have you been? It's with
being all upset you see. You left the violets—here, take them, will
you; and tell her: I'll come when it's getting dark. I feel like
somebody else—or else really like myself. I hope I shan't wake up to
the other things—you know, like I am always—before them."

"Why not?"

"Oh, I don't know—only I feel as if I could talk straight off without
arranging—like birds, without knowing what note is coming next."

When I was going he said:

"Here, leave me that book—it'll keep me like this—I mean I'm not the
same as I was yesterday, and that book'll keep me like it. Perhaps it's
a bilious bout—I do sometimes have one, if something very extraordinary
happens. When it's getting dark then!"

Lettie had not arrived when I went home. I put the violets in a little
vase on the table. I remembered he had wanted her to see the
drawings—it was perhaps as well he had kept them.

She came about six o'clock—in the motor–car with Marie. But the latter
did not descend. I went out to assist with the parcels. Lettie had
already begun to buy things; the wedding was fixed for July.

The room was soon over–covered with stuffs: table linen, underclothing,
pieces of silken stuff and lace stuff, patterns for carpets and
curtains, a whole gleaming glowing array. Lettie was very delighted. She
could hardly wait to take off her hat, but went round cutting the string
of her parcels, opening them, talking all the time to my mother.

"Look, Little Woman. I've got a ready–made underskirt—isn't it lovely.
Listen!" and she ruffled it through her hands. "Shan't I sound splendid!
Frou–Frou! But it is a charming shade, isn't it, and not a bit bulky or
clumsy anywhere?" She put the band of the skirt against her waist, and
put forward her foot, and looked down, saying, "It's just the right
length, isn't it, Little Woman?—and they said I was tall—it was a
wonder. Don't you wish it were yours, Little?—oh, you won't confess it.
Yes you like to be as fine as anybody—that's why I bought you this
piece of silk—isn't it sweet, though?—you needn't say there's too much
lavender in it, there is not. Now!" She pleated it up and held it
against my mother's chin. "It suits you beautifully—doesn't it. Don't
you like it, Sweet? You don't seem to like it a bit, and I'm sure it
suits you—makes you look ever so young. I wish you wouldn't be so old
fashioned in your notions. You do like it, don't you?"

"Of course I do—I was only thinking what an extravagant mortal you are
when you begin to buy. You know you mustn't keep on always——"

"Now—now, Sweet, don't be naughty and preachey. It's such a treat to go
buying: You will come with me next time, won't you? Oh, I have enjoyed
it—but I wished you were there—Marie takes anything, she's so easy to
suit—I like to have a good buy—Oh, it was splendid!—and there's lots
more yet. Oh, did you see this cushion cover—these are the colours I
want for that room—gold and amber——"

This was a bad opening. I watched the shadows darken further and further
along the brightness, hushing the glitter of the water. I watched the
golden ripeness come upon the west, and thought the rencontre was never
to take place. At last, however, Lettie flung herself down with a sigh,
saying she was tired.

"Come into the dining–room and have a cup of tea," said mother. "I told
Rebecca to mash when you came in."

"All right. Leslie's coming up later on, I believe—about half past
eight, he said. Should I show him what I've bought?"

"There's nothing there for a man to see."

"I shall have to change my dress, and I'm sure I don't want the fag.
Rebecca, just go and look at the things I've bought—in the other
room—and, Becky, fold them up for me, will you, and put them on my
bed?"

As soon as she'd gone out, Lettie said: "She'll enjoy doing it, won't
she, mother, they're so nice! Do you think I need dress, mother?"

"Please yourself—do as you wish."

"I suppose I shall have to; he doesn't like blouses and skirts of an
evening he says; he hates the belt. I'll wear that old cream cashmere;
it looks nice now I've put that new lace on it. Don't those violets
smell nice?—who got them?"

"Cyril brought them in."

"George sent them you," said I.

"Well, I'll just run up and take my dress off. Why are we troubled with
men!"

"It's a trouble you like well enough," said mother.

"Oh, do I? such a bother!" and she ran upstairs.

The sun was red behind Highclose. I kneeled in the window seat and
smiled at Fate and at people who imagine that strange states are near to
the inner realities. The sun went straight down behind the cedar trees,
deliberately and, it seemed as I watched, swiftly lowered itself behind
the trees, behind the rim of the hill.

"I must go," I said to myself, "and tell him she will not come."

Yet I fidgeted about the room, loth to depart. Lettie came down, dressed
in white—or cream—cut low round the neck. She looked very delightful
and fresh again, with a sparkle of the afternoon's excitement still.

"I'll put some of these violets on me," she said, glancing at herself in
the mirror, and then taking the flowers from their water, she dried
them, and fastened them among her lace.

"Don't Lettie and I look nice to–night?" she said smiling, glancing from
me to her reflection which was like a light in the dusky room.

"That reminds me," I said, "George Saxton wanted to see you this
evening."

"What ever for?"

"I don't know. They've got notice to leave their farm, and I think he
feels a bit sentimental."

"Oh, well—is he coming here?"

"He said would you go just a little way in the wood to meet him."

"Did he! Oh, indeed! Well, of course I can't."

"Of course not—if you won't. They're his violets you're wearing by the
way."

"Are they—let them stay, it makes no difference. But whatever did he
want to see me for?"

"I couldn't say, I assure you."

She glanced at herself in the mirror, and then at the clock.

"Let's see," she remarked, "it's only a quarter to eight. Three quarters
of an hour—! But what can he want me for?—I never knew anything like
it."

"Startling, isn't it!" I observed satirically.

"Yes," she glanced at herself in the mirror:

"I can't go out like this."

"All right, you can't then."

"Besides—it's nearly dark, it will be too dark to see in the wood,
won't it?"

"It will directly."

"Well, I'll just go to the end of the garden, for one moment—run and
fetch that silk shawl out of my wardrobe—be quick, while it's light."

I ran and brought the wrap. She arranged it carefully over her head.

We went out, down the garden path. Lettie held her skirts carefully
gathered from the ground. A nightingale began to sing in the twilight;
we stepped along in silence as far as the rhododendron bushes, now in
rosy bud.