The White Peacock (3 page)

"Nobody can touch that piano like you," said Mr. Saxton to Lettie,
beaming upon her with admiration and deference. He was proud of the
stately, mumbling old thing, and used to say that it was full of music
for those that liked to ask for it. Lettie laughed, and said that so few
folks ever tried it, that her honour was not great.

"What do you think of our George's singing?" asked the father proudly,
but with a deprecating laugh at the end.

"I tell him, when he's in love he'll sing quite well," she said.

"When he's in love!" echoed the father, laughing aloud, very pleased.

"Yes," she said, "when he finds out something he wants and can't have."

George thought about it, and he laughed also.

Emily, who was laying the table said, "There is hardly any water in the
pippin, George."

"Oh, dash!" he exclaimed, "I've taken my boots off."

"It's not a very big job to put them on again," said his sister.

"Why couldn't Annie fetch it—what's she here for?" he said angrily.

Emily looked at us, tossed her head, and turned her back on him.

"I'll go, I'll go, after supper," said the father in a comforting tone.

"After supper!" laughed Emily.

George got up and shuffled out. He had to go into the spinney near the
house to a well, and being warm disliked turning out.

We had just sat down to supper when Trip rushed barking to the door. "Be
quiet," ordered the father, thinking of those in bed, and he followed
the dog.

It was Leslie. He wanted Lettie to go home with him at once. This she
refused to do, so he came indoors, and was persuaded to sit down at
table. He swallowed a morsel of bread and cheese, and a cup of coffee,
talking to Lettie of a garden party which was going to be arranged at
Highclose for the following week.

"What is it for then?" interrupted Mr. Saxton.

"For?" echoed Leslie.

"Is it for the missionaries, or the unemployed, or something?" explained
Mr. Saxton.

"It's a garden–party, not a bazaar," said Leslie.

"Oh—a private affair. I thought it would be some church matter of your
mother's. She's very big at the church, isn't she?"

"She is interested in the church—yes!" said Leslie, then proceeding to
explain to Lettie that he was arranging a tennis tournament in which she
was to take part. At this point he became aware that he was monopolising
the conversation, and turned to George, just as the latter was taking a
piece of cheese from his knife with his teeth, asking:

"Do you play tennis, Mr. Saxton?—I know Miss Saxton does not."

"No," said George, working the piece of cheese into his cheek. "I never
learned any ladies' accomplishments."

Leslie turned to Emily, who had nervously been pushing two plates over a
stain in the cloth, and who was very startled when she found herself
addressed.

"My mother would be so glad if you would come to the party, Miss
Saxton."

"I cannot. I shall be at school. Thanks very much."

"Ah—it's very good of you," said the father, beaming. But George smiled
contemptuously.

When supper was over Leslie looked at Lettie to inform her that he was
ready to go. She, however, refused to see his look, but talked brightly
to Mr. Saxton, who was delighted. George, flattered, joined in the talk
with gusto. Then Leslie's angry silence began to tell on us all. After a
dull lapse, George lifted his head and said to his father:

"Oh, I shouldn't be surprised if that little red heifer calved
to–night."

Lettie's eyes flashed with a sparkle of amusement at this thrust.

"No," assented the father, "I thought so myself."

After a moment's silence, George continued deliberately, "I felt her
gristles——"

"George!" said Emily sharply.

"We will go," said Leslie.

George looked up sideways at Lettie and his black eyes were full of
sardonic mischief.

"Lend me a shawl, will you, Emily?" said Lettie. "I brought nothing, and
I think the wind is cold."

Emily, however, regretted that she had no shawl, and so Lettie must
needs wear a black coat over her summer dress. It fitted so absurdly
that we all laughed, but Leslie was very angry that she should appear
ludicrous before them. He showed her all the polite attentions possible,
fastened the neck of her coat with his pearl scarf–pin, refusing the pin
Emily discovered, after some search. Then we sallied forth.

When we were outside, he offered Lettie his arm with an air of injured
dignity. She refused it and he began to remonstrate.

"I consider you ought to have been home as you promised."

"Pardon me," she replied, "but I did not promise."

"But you knew I was coming," said he.

"Well—you found me," she retorted.

"Yes," he assented. "I did find you; flirting with a common fellow," he
sneered.

"Well," she returned. "He did—it is true—call a heifer, a heifer."

"And I should think you liked it," he said.

"I didn't mind," she said, with galling negligence.

"I thought your taste was more refined," he replied sarcastically. "But
I suppose you thought it romantic."

"Very! Ruddy, dark, and really thrilling eyes," said she.

"I hate to hear a girl talk rot," said Leslie. He himself had crisp hair
of the "ginger" class.

"But I mean it," she insisted, aggravating his anger.

Leslie was angry. "I'm glad he amuses you!"

"Of course, I'm not hard to please," she said pointedly. He was stung to
the quick.

"Then there's some comfort in knowing I don't please you," he said
coldly.

"Oh! but you do! You amuse me also," she said.

After that he would not speak, preferring, I suppose,
not
to amuse
her.

Lettie took my arm, and with her disengaged hand held her skirts above
the wet grass. When he had left us at the end of the riding in the wood,
Lettie said:

"What an infant he is!"

"A bit of an ass," I admitted.

"But really!" she said, "he's more agreeable on the whole than—than my
Taurus."

"Your bull!" I repeated laughing.

The Sunday following Lettie's visit to the mill, Leslie came up in the
morning, admirably dressed, and perfected by a grand air. I showed him
into the dark drawing–room, and left him. Ordinarily he would have
wandered to the stairs, and sat there calling to Lettie; to–day he was
silent. I carried the news of his arrival to my sister, who was pinning
on her brooch.

"And how is the dear boy?" she asked. "I have not inquired," said I. She
laughed, and loitered about till it was time to set off for church
before she came downstairs. Then she also assumed the grand air and
bowed to him with a beautiful bow. He was somewhat taken aback and had
nothing to say. She rustled across the room to the window, where the
white geraniums grew magnificently. "I must adorn myself," she said.

It was Leslie's custom to bring her flowers. As he had not done so this
day, she was piqued. He hated the scent and chalky whiteness of the
geraniums. So she smiled at him as she pinned them into the bosom of her
dress, saying: "They are very fine, are they not?" He muttered that they
were. Mother came downstairs, greeted him warmly, and asked him if he
would take her to church.

"If you will allow me," said he.

"You are modest to–day," laughed mother.

"To–day!" he repeated.

"I hate modesty in a young man," said mother—"Come, we shall be late."
Lettie wore the geraniums all day—till evening. She brought Alice Gall
home to tea, and bade me bring up "Mon Taureau," when his farm work was
over.

The day had been hot and close. The sun was reddening in the west as we
leaped across the lesser brook. The evening scents began to awake, and
wander unseen through the still air. An occasional yellow sunbeam would
slant through the thick roof of leaves and cling passionately to the
orange clusters of mountain–ash berries. The trees were silent, drawing
together to sleep. Only a few pink orchids stood palely by the path,
looking wistfully out at the ranks of red–purple bugle, whose last
flowers, glowing from the top of the bronze column, yearned darkly for
the sun.

We sauntered on in silence, not breaking the first hush of the
woodlands. As we drew near home we heard a murmur from among the trees,
from the lover's seat, where a great tree had fallen and remained mossed
and covered with fragile growth. There a crooked bough made a beautiful
seat for two.

"Fancy being in love and making a row in such a twilight," said I as we
continued our way. But when we came opposite the fallen tree, we saw no
lovers there, but a man sleeping, and muttering through his sleep. The
cap had fallen from his grizzled hair, and his head leaned back against
a profusion of the little wild geraniums that decorated the dead bough
so delicately. The man's clothing was good, but slovenly and neglected.
His face was pale and worn with sickness and dissipation. As he slept,
his grey beard wagged, and his loose unlovely mouth moved in indistinct
speech. He was acting over again some part of his life, and his features
twitched during the unnatural sleep. He would give a little groan,
gruesome to hear and then talk to some woman. His features twitched as
if with pain, and he moaned slightly.

The lips opened in a grimace showing the yellow teeth behind the beard.
Then he began again talking in his throat, thickly, so that we could
only tell part of what he said. It was very unpleasant. I wondered how
we should end it. Suddenly through the gloom of the twilight–haunted
woods came the scream of a rabbit caught by a weasel. The man awoke with
a sharp "Ah!"—he looked round in consternation, then sinking down again
wearily, said, "I was dreaming again."

"You don't seem to have nice dreams," said George.

The man winced then looking at us said, almost sneering:

"And who are you?"

We did not answer, but waited for him to move. He sat still, looking at
us.

"So!" he said at last, wearily, "I do dream. I do, I do." He sighed
heavily. Then he added, sarcastically: "Were you interested?"

"No," said I. "But you are out of your way surely. Which road did you
want?"

"You want me to clear out," he said.

"Well," I said laughing in deprecation. "I don't mind your dreaming. But
this is not the way to anywhere."

"Where may you be going then?" he asked.

"I? Home," I replied with dignity.

"You are a Beardsall?" he queried, eyeing me with bloodshot eyes.

"I am!" I replied with more dignity, wondering who the fellow could be.

He sat a few moments looking at me. It was getting dark in the wood.
Then he took up an ebony stick with a gold head, and rose. The stick
seemed to catch at my imagination. I watched it curiously as we walked
with the old man along the path to the gate. We went with him into the
open road. When we reached the clear sky where the light from the west
fell full on our faces, he turned again and looked at us closely. His
mouth opened sharply, as if he would speak, but he stopped himself, and
only said "Good–bye—Good–bye."

"Shall you be all right?" I asked, seeing him totter.

"Yes—all right—good–bye, lad."

He walked away feebly into the darkness. We saw the lights of a vehicle
on the high–road: after a while we heard the bang of a door, and a cab
rattled away.

"Well—whoever's he?" said George laughing.

"Do you know," said I, "it's made me feel a bit rotten."

"Ay?" he laughed, turning up the end of the exclamation with indulgent
surprise.

We went back home, deciding to say nothing to the women. They were
sitting in the window seat watching for us, mother and Alice and Lettie.

"You
have
been a long time!" said Lettie. "We've watched the sun go
down—it set splendidly—look—the rim of the hill is smouldering yet.
What have you been doing?"

"Waiting till your Taurus finished work."

"Now be quiet," she said hastily, and—turning to him, "You have come to
sing hymns?"

"Anything you like," he replied.

"How nice of you, George!" exclaimed Alice, ironically. She was a short,
plump girl, pale, with daring, rebellious eyes. Her mother was a Wyld, a
family famous either for shocking lawlessness, or for extreme
uprightness. Alice, with an admirable father, and a mother who loved her
husband passionately, was wild and lawless on the surface, but at heart
very upright and amenable. My mother and she were fast friends, and
Lettie had a good deal of sympathy with her. But Lettie generally
deplored Alice's outrageous behaviour, though she relished it—if
"superior" friends were not present. Most men enjoyed Alice in company,
but they fought shy of being alone with her.

"Would you say the same to me?" she asked.

"It depends what you'd answer," he said, laughingly.

"Oh, you're so bloomin' cautious. I'd rather have a tack in my shoe than
a cautious man, wouldn't you Lettie?"

"Well—it depends how far I had to walk," was Lettie's reply—"but if I
hadn't to limp too far——"

Alice turned away from Lettie, whom she often found rather irritating.

"You do look glum, Sybil," she said to me, "did somebody want to kiss
you?"

I laughed—on the wrong side, understanding her malicious feminine
reference—and answered:

"If they had, I should have looked happy."

"Dear boy, smile now then,"—and she tipped me under the chin. I drew
away.

"Oh, Gum—we are solemn! What's the matter with you? Georgy—say
something—else I's'll begin to feel nervous."

"What shall I say?" he asked, shifting his feet and resting his elbows
on his knees. "Oh, Lor!" she cried in great impatience. He did not help
her, but sat clasping his hands, smiling on one side of his face. He was
nervous. He looked at the pictures, the ornaments, and everything in the
room; Lettie got up to settle some flowers on the mantel–piece, and he
scrutinised her closely. She was dressed in some blue foulard stuff,
with lace at the throat, and lace cuffs to the elbow. She was tall and
supple; her hair had a curling fluffiness very charming. He was no
taller than she, and looked shorter, being strongly built. He too had a
grace of his own, but not as he sat stiffly on a horse–hair chair. She
was elegant in her movements.

After a little while mother called us in to supper.

"Come," said Lettie to him, "take me in to supper."

He rose, feeling very awkward.

"Give me your arm," said she to tease him. He did so, and flushed under
his tan, afraid of her round arm half hidden by lace, which lay among
his sleeve.

When we were seated she flourished her spoon and asked him what he would
have. He hesitated, looked at the strange dishes and said he would have
some cheese. They insisted on his eating new, complicated meats.

"I'm sure you like tantafflins, don't you Georgie?" said Alice, in her
mocking fashion. He was
not
sure. He could not analyse the flavours,
he felt confused and bewildered even through his sense of taste! Alice
begged him to have salad.

"No, thanks," said he. "I don't like it."

"Oh, George!" she said, "How
can
you say so when I'm
offering
it
you."

"Well—I've only had it once," said he, "and that was when I was working
with Flint, and he gave us fat bacon and bits of lettuce soaked in
vinegar—''Ave a bit more salit,' he kept saying, but I'd had enough."

"But all our lettuce," said Alice with a wink, "is as sweet as a nut, no
vinegar about our lettuce." George laughed in much confusion at her pun
on my sister's name.

"I believe you," he said, with pompous gallantry.

"Think of that!" cried Alice. "Our Georgie believes me. Oh, I am so, so
pleased!"

He smiled painfully. His hand was resting on the table, the thumb tucked
tight under the fingers, his knuckles white as he nervously gripped his
thumb. At last supper was finished, and he picked up his serviette from
the floor and began to fold it. Lettie also seemed ill at ease. She had
teased him till the sense of his awkwardness had become uncomfortable.
Now she felt sorry, and a trifle repentant, so she went to the piano, as
she always did to dispel her moods. When she was angry she played tender
fragments of Tschaïkowsky, when she was miserable, Mozart. Now she
played Handel in a manner that suggested the plains of heaven in the
long notes, and in the little trills as if she were waltzing up the
ladder of Jacob's dream like the damsels in Blake's pictures. I often
told her she flattered herself scandalously through the piano; but
generally she pretended not to understand me, and occasionally she
surprised me by a sudden rush of tears to her eyes. For George's sake,
she played Gounod's "Ave Maria," knowing that the sentiment of the chant
would appeal to him, and make him sad, forgetful of the petty evils of
this life. I smiled as I watched the cheap spell working. When she had
finished, her fingers lay motionless for a minute on the keys, then she
spun round, and looked him straight in the eyes, giving promise of a
smile. But she glanced down at her knee.

"You are tired of music," she said.

"No," he replied, shaking his head.

"Like it better than salad?" she asked with a flash of raillery.

He looked up at her with a sudden smile, but did not reply. He was not
handsome; his features were too often in a heavy repose; but when he
looked up and smiled unexpectedly, he flooded her with an access of
tenderness.

"Then you'll have a little more," said she, and she turned again to the
piano. She played soft, wistful morsels, then suddenly broke off in the
midst of one sentimental plaint, and left the piano, dropping into a low
chair by the fire. There she sat and looked at him. He was conscious
that her eyes were fixed on him, but he dared not look back at her, so
he pulled his moustache.

"You are only a boy, after all," she said to him quietly. Then he turned
and asked her why.

"It is a boy that you are," she repeated, leaning back in her chair, and
smiling lazily at him.

"I never thought so," he replied seriously.

"Really?" she said, chuckling.

"No," said he, trying to recall his previous impressions.

She laughed heartily, saying:

"You're growing up."

"How?" he asked.

"Growing up," she repeated, still laughing.

"But I'm sure I was never boyish," said he.

"I'm teaching you," said she, "and when you're boyish you'll be a very
decent man. A mere man daren't be a boy for fear of tumbling off his
manly dignity, and then he'd be a fool, poor thing."

He laughed, and sat still to think about it, as was his way.

"Do you like pictures?" she asked suddenly, being tired of looking at
him.

"Better than anything," he replied.

"Except dinner, and a warm hearth and a lazy evening," she said.

He looked at her suddenly, hardening at her insult, and biting his lips
at the taste of this humiliation. She repented, and smiled her plaintive
regret to him.

"I'll show you some," she said, rising and going out of the room. He
felt he was nearer her. She returned, carrying a pile of great books.

"Jove—you're pretty strong!" said he.

"You are charming in your compliment," she said.

He glanced at her to see if she were mocking.

"That's the highest you could say of me, isn't it?" she insisted.

"Is it?" he asked, unwilling to compromise himself.

"For sure," she answered—and then, laying the books on the table, "I
know how a man will compliment me by the way he looks at me"—she
kneeled before the fire. "Some look at my hair, some watch the rise and
fall of my breathing, some look at my neck, and a few,—not you among
them,—look me in the eyes for my thoughts. To you, I'm a fine specimen,
strong! Pretty strong! You primitive man!"