The White Peacock (24 page)

When she came down there was a softness about her.

"Now," said I to myself, "if George asks her again he is wise."

"He is asleep," she said quietly.

"I'm thinking we might as well let him stop while we're here, should we,
George?" said the father. "Eh?"

"We'll keep him here while we
are
here——"

"Oh—the lad! I should. Yes—he'd be better here than up yonder."

"Ah, yes—ever so much. It is good of you," said Lettie.

"Oh, he'll make no difference," said the father.

"Not a bit," added George.

"What about his mother!" asked Lettie.

"I'll call and tell her in the morning," said George.

"Yes," she said, "call and tell her."

Then she put on her things to go. He also put on his cap.

"Are you coming a little way, Emily?" I asked.

She ran, laughing, with bright eyes as we went out into the darkness.

We waited for them at the wood gate. We all lingered, not knowing what
to say. Lettie said finally:

"Well—it's no good—the grass is wet—Good–night—Good–night, Emily."

"Good–night," he said, with regret and hesitation, and a trifle of
impatience in his voice and his manner. He lingered still a moment; she
hesitated—then she struck off sharply.

"He has not asked her, the idiot!" I said to myself.

"Really," she said bitterly, when we were going up the garden path, "You
think rather quiet folks have a lot in them, but it's only
stupidity—they are mostly fools."

On an afternoon three or four days after the recovery of Sam, matters
became complicated. George, as usual, discovered that he had been
dawdling in the portals of his desires, when the doors came to with a
bang. Then he hastened to knock.

"Tell her," he said, "I will come up tomorrow after milking—tell her
I'm coming to see her."

On the evening of that morrow, the first person to put in an appearance
was a garrulous spinster who had called ostensibly to inquire into the
absence of the family from church: "I said to Elizabeth, 'Now what a
thing
if anything happens to them just now, and the wedding is put
off.' I felt I
must
come and make myself sure—that nothing had
happened. We all feel
so
interested in Lettie just now. I'm sure
everybody is talking of her, she seems in the air.—I really think we
shall have thunder: I
hope
we shan't.—Yes, we are all so glad that
Mr. Tempest is content with a wife from at home—the others, his father
and Mr. Robert and the rest—they were none of them to be suited at
home, though to be sure the wives they brought were nothing—indeed they
were not—as many a one said—Mrs. Robert was a paltry choice—neither
in looks or manner had she anything to boast of—if her family was older
than mine. Family wasn't much to make up for what she lacked in other
things, that I could easily have supplied her with; and, oh, dear, what
an object she is now, with her wisp of hair and her spectacles! She for
one hasn't kept much of her youth. But when
is
the exact date,
dear?—Some say this and some that, but as I always say, I never trust a
'they say.' It is so nice that you have that cousin a canon to come down
for the service, Mrs. Beardsall, and Sir Walter Houghton for the groom's
man! What?—You don't think so—oh, but I know, dear, I know; you do
like to treasure up these secrets, don't you; you are greedy for all the
good things just now."

She shook her head at Lettie, and the jet ornaments on her bonnet
twittered like a thousand wagging little tongues. Then she sighed, and
was about to recommence her song, when she happened to turn her head and
to espy a telegraph boy coming up the path.

"Oh, I hope nothing is wrong, dear—I hope nothing is wrong! I always
feel so terrified of a telegram. You'd better not open it yourself,
dear—don't now—let your brother go."

Lettie, who had turned pale, hurried to the door. The sky was very
dark—there was a mutter of thunder.

"It's all right," said Lettie, trembling, "it's only to say he's coming
to–night."

"I'm very thankful, very thankful," cried the spinster. "It might have
been so much worse. I'm sure I never open a telegram without feeling as
if I was opening a death–blow. I'm so glad, dear; it must have upset
you. What news to take back to the village, supposing something had
happened!" she sighed again, and the jet drops twinkled ominously in the
thunder light, as if declaring they would make something of it yet.

It was six o'clock. The air relaxed a little, and the thunder was
silent. George would be coming about seven; and the spinster showed no
signs of departure; and Leslie might arrive at any moment. Lettie
fretted and fidgeted, and the old woman gabbled on. I looked out of the
window at the water and the sky.

The day had been uncertain. In the morning it was warm, and the sunshine
had played and raced among the cloud–shadows on the hills. Later, great
cloud masses had stalked up from the northwest and crowded thick across
the sky; in this little night, sleet and wind, and rain whirled
furiously. Then the sky had laughed at us again. In the sunshine came
the spinster. But as she talked, over the hilltop rose the wide forehead
of the cloud, rearing slowly, ominously higher. A first messenger of
storm passed darkly over the sky, leaving the way clear again.

"I will go round to Highclose," said Lettie. "I am sure it will be
stormy again. Are you coming down the road, Miss Slaighter, or do you
mind if I leave you?"

"I will go, dear, if you think there is going to be another storm—I
dread it so. Perhaps I had better wait——"

"Oh, it will not come over for an hour, I am sure. We read the weather
well out here, don't we, Cyril? You'll come with me, won't you?"

We three set off, the gossip leaning on her toes, tripping between us.
She was much gratified by Lettie's information concerning the proposals
for the new home. We left her in a glow of congratulatory smiles on the
highway. But the clouds had upreared, and stretched in two great arms,
reaching overhead. The little spinster hurried along, but the black
hands of the clouds kept pace and clutched her. A sudden gust of wind
shuddered in the trees, and rushed upon her cloak, blowing its bugles.

An icy raindrop smote into her cheek. She hurried on, praying fervently
for her bonnet's sake that she might reach Widow Harriman's cottage
before the burst came. But the thunder crashed in her ear, and a host of
hailstones flew at her. In despair and anguish she fled from under the
ash trees; she reached the widow's garden gate, when out leapt the
lightning full at her. "Put me in the stair–hole!" she cried. "Where is
the stair–hole?"

Glancing wildly round, she saw a ghost. It was the reflection of the
sainted spinster, Hilda Slaighter, in the widow's mirror; a reflection
with a bonnet fallen backwards, and to it attached a thick rope of
grey–brown hair. The author of the ghost instinctively twisted to look
at the back of her head. She saw some ends of grey hair, and fled into
the open stair–hole as into a grave.

We had gone back home till the storm was over, and then, restless,
afraid of the arrival of George, we set out again into the wet evening.
It was fine and chilly, and already a mist was rising from Nethermere,
veiling the farther shore, where the trees rose loftily, suggesting
groves beyond the Nile. The birds were singing riotously. The fresh
green hedge glistened vividly and glowed again with intense green.
Looking at the water, I perceived a delicate flush from the west hiding
along it. The mist licked and wreathed up the shores; from the hidden
white distance came the mournful cry of water fowl. We went slowly along
behind a heavy cart, which clanked and rattled under the dripping trees,
with the hoofs of the horse moving with broad thuds in front. We passed
over black patches where the ash flowers were beaten down, and under
great massed clouds of green sycamore. At the sudden curve of the road,
near the foot of the hill, I stopped to break off a spray of larch,
where the soft cones were heavy as raspberries, and gay like flowers
with petals. The shaken bough spattered a heavy shower on my face, of
drops so cold that they seemed to sink into my blood and chill it.

"Hark!" said Lettie, as I was drying my face. There was the quick patter
of a motor–car coming downhill. The heavy cart was drawn across the road
to rest, and the driver hurried to turn the horse back. It moved with
painful slowness, and we stood in the road in suspense. Suddenly, before
we knew it, the car was dropping down on us, coming at us in a curve,
having rounded the horse and cart. Lettie stood faced with terror.
Leslie saw her, and swung round the wheels on the sharp, curving
hill–side; looking only to see that he should miss her. The car slid
sideways; the mud crackled under the wheels, and the machine went
crashing into Nethermere. It caught the edge of the old stone wall with
a smash. Then for a few moments I think I was blind. When I saw again,
Leslie was lying across the broken hedge, his head hanging down the
bank, his face covered with blood; the car rested strangely on the brink
of the water, crumpled as if it had sunk down to rest.

Lettie, with hands shuddering, was wiping the blood from his eyes with a
piece of her underskirt. In a moment she said:

"He is not dead—let us take him home—let us take him quickly."

I ran and took the wicket gate off its hinges and laid him on that. His
legs trailed down, but we carried him thus, she at the feet, I at the
head. She made me stop and put him down. I thought the weight was too
much for her, but it was not that.

"I can't bear to see his hand hanging, knocking against the bushes and
things."

It was not many yards to the house. A maidservant saw us, came running
out, and went running back, like the frightened lapwing from the wounded
cat.

We waited until the doctor came. There was a deep graze down the side of
the head—serious, but not dangerous; there was a cut across the
cheek–bone that would leave a scar; and the collar–bone was broken. I
stayed until he had recovered consciousness. "Lettie," he wanted Lettie,
so she had to remain at Highclose all night. I went home to tell my
mother.

When I went to bed I looked across at the lighted windows of Highclose,
and the lights trailed mistily towards me across the water. The cedar
stood dark guard against the house; bright the windows were, like the
stars, and, like the stars, covering their torment in brightness. The
sky was glittering with sharp lights—they are too far off to take
trouble for us, so little, little almost to nothingness. All the great
hollow vastness roars overhead, and the stars are only sparks that whirl
and spin in the restless space. The earth must listen to us; she covers
her face with a thin veil of mist, and is sad; she soaks up our blood
tenderly, in the darkness, grieving, and in the light she soothes and
reassures us. Here on our earth is sympathy and hope, the heavens have
nothing but distances.

A corn–crake talked to me across the valley, talked and talked
endlessly, asking and answering in hoarse tones from the sleeping,
mist–hidden meadows. The monotonous voice, that on past summer evenings
had had pleasant notes of romance, now was intolerable to me. Its
inflexible harshness and cacophany seemed like the voice of fate
speaking out its tuneless perseverance in the night.

In the morning Lettie came home wan, sad–eyed, and self–reproachful.
After a short time they came for her, as he wanted her again.

When in the evening I went to see George, he too was very despondent.

"It's no good now," said I. "You should have insisted and made your own
destiny."

"Yes—perhaps so," he drawled in his best reflective manner.

"I would have had her—she'd have been glad if you'd done as you wanted
with her. She won't leave him till he's strong, and he'll marry her
before then. You should have had the courage to risk yourself—you're
always too careful of yourself and your own poor feelings—you never
could brace yourself up to a shower–bath of contempt and hard usage, so
you've saved your feelings and lost—not much, I suppose—you couldn't."

"But——" he began, not looking up; and I laughed at him.

"Go on," I said.

"Well—she was engaged to him——"

"Pah—you thought you were too good to be rejected."

He was very pale, and when he was pale, the tan on his skin looked
sickly. He regarded me with his dark eyes, which were now full of misery
and a child's big despair.

"And nothing else," I completed, with which the little, exhausted
gunboat of my anger wrecked and sank utterly. Yet no thoughts would
spread sail on the sea of my pity: I was like water that heaves with
yearning, and is still.

Leslie was very ill for some time. He had a slight brain fever, and was
delirious, insisting that Lettie was leaving him. She stayed most of her
days at Highclose.

One day in June he lay resting on a deck chair in the shade of the
cedar, and she was sitting by him. It was a yellow, sultry day, when all
the atmosphere seemed inert, and all things were languid.

"Don't you think, dear," she said, "it would be better for us not to
marry?"

He lifted his head nervously from the cushions; his face was emblazoned
with a livid red bar on a field of white, and he looked worn, wistful.

"Do you mean not yet?" he asked.

"Yes—and, perhaps,—perhaps never."

"Ha," he laughed, sinking down again. "I must be getting like myself
again, if you begin to tease me."

"But," she said, struggling valiantly, "I'm not sure I ought to marry
you."

He laughed again, though a little apprehensively.

"Are you afraid I shall always be weak in my noddle?" he asked. "But you
wait a month."

"No, that doesn't bother me——"

"Oh, doesn't it!"

"Silly boy—no, it's myself."

"I'm sure I've made no complaint about you."

"Not likely—but I wish you'd let me go."

"I'm a strong man to hold you, aren't I? Look at my muscular paw!"—he
held out his hands, frail and white with sickness.

"You know you hold me—and I want you to let me go. I don't want to——"

"To what?"

"To get married at all—let me be, let me go."

"What for?"

"Oh—for my sake."

"You mean you don't love me?"

"Love—love—I don't know anything about it. But I can't—we can't
be—don't you see—oh, what do they say,—flesh of one flesh."

"Why?" he whispered, like a child that is told some tale of mystery.

She looked at him, as he lay propped upon his elbow, turning towards
hers his white face of fear and perplexity, like a child that cannot
understand, and is afraid, and wants to cry. Then slowly tears gathered
full in her eyes, and she wept from pity and despair.

This excited him terribly. He got up from his chair, and the cushions
fell on to the grass:

"What's the matter, what's the matter!—Oh, Lettie,—is it me?—don't
you want me now?—is that it?—tell me, tell me now, tell me,"—he
grasped her wrists, and tried to pull her hands from her face. The tears
were running down his cheeks. She felt him trembling, and the sound of
his voice alarmed her from herself. She hastily smeared the tears from
her eyes, got up, and put her arms round him. He hid his head on her
shoulder and sobbed, while she bent over him, and so they cried out
their cries, till they were ashamed, looking round to see if anyone were
near. Then she hurried about, picking up the cushions, making him lie
down, and arranging him comfortably, so that she might be busy. He was
querulous, like a sick, indulged child. He would have her arm under his
shoulders, and her face near his.