The White Peacock

by D. H. Lawrence

  "When the Prinny was such an old buck, flattering you," continued Will. "And that night Wishaw took you to the station--sent old Gettim for a cab and saw you in, large as life--never was such a thing before. Old Wishaw won you with that cab, didn't he?"

  "Oh, how I swelled!" cried Lettie. "There were you all at the top of the steps gazing with admiration! But Frank Wishaw was not a nice fellow, though he played the violin beautifully. I never liked his eyes--"

  "No," added Will. "He didn't last long, did he?--though long enough to oust me. We had a giddy ripping time in Coll., didn't we?"

  "It was not bad," said Lettie. "Rather foolish. I'm afraid I wasted my three years."

  "I think," said Leslie, smiling, "you improved the shining hours to great purpose."

  It pleased him to think what a flirt she had been, since the flirting had been harmless, and only added to the glory of his final conquest. George felt very much left out during these reminiscences.

  When we had finished tea, we adjourned to the drawing-room. It was in darkness, save for the fire-light. The mistletoe had been discovered, and was being appreciated.

  "Georgie, Sybil, Sybil, Georgie, come and kiss me," cried Alice.

  Will went forward to do her the honour. She ran to me, saying, "Get away, you fat fool--keep on your own preserves. Now, Georgie dear, come and kiss me, 'cause you haven't got nobody else but me, no y' 'aven't. Do you want to run away, like Georgy-Porgy apple-pie? Shan't cry, sure I shan't, if you are ugly."

  She took him and kissed him on either cheek, saying softly, "You shan't be so serious, old boy--buck up, there's a good fellow."

  We lighted the lamp, and charades were proposed, Leslie and Lettie, Will and Madie and Alice went out to play. The first scene was an elopement to Gretna Green--with Alice a maidservant, a part that she played wonderfully well as a caricature. It was very noisy, and extremely funny. Leslie was in high spirits. It was remarkable to observe that, as he became more animated, more abundantly energetic, Lettie became quieter. The second scene, which they were playing as excited melodrama, she turned into small tragedy with her bitterness. They went out, and Lettie blew us kisses from the doorway.

  "Doesn't she act well?" exclaimed Marie, speaking to Tom.

  "Quite realistic," said he.

  "She could always play a part well," said Mother.

  "I should think," said Emily, "she could take a role in life and play up to it."

  "I believe she could," Mother answered. "There would only be intervals when she would see herself in a mirror acting."

  "And what then?" said Marie.

  "She would feel desperate, and wait till the fit passed off," replied my mother, smiling significantly.

  The players came in again. Lettie kept her part subordinate. Leslie played with brilliance; it was rather startling how he excelled. The applause was loud--but we could not guess the word. Then they laughed, and told us. We clamoured for more.

  "Do go, dear," said Lettie to Leslie, "and I will be helping to arrange the room for the dances. I want to watch you--I am rather tired--it is so exciting--Emily will take my place."

  They went. Marie and Tom, and Mother and I played bridge in one corner. Lettie said she wanted to show George some new pictures, and they bent over a portfolio for some time. Then she bade him help her to clear the room for the dances.

  "Well, you have had time to think," she said to him.

  "A short time," he replied. "What shall I say?"

  "Tell me what you've been thinking."

  "Well--about you--" he answered, smiling foolishly. "What about me?" she asked, venturesome.

  "About you, how you were at college," he replied.

  "Oh! I had a good time. I had plenty of boys. I liked them all, till I found there was nothing in them; then they tired me."

  "Poor boys!" he said, laughing. "Were they all alike?"

  "All alike," she replied, "and they are still."

  "Pity," he said, smiling. "It's hard lines on you."

  "Why?" she said.

  "It leaves you nobody to care for--" he replied. "How very sarcastic you are. You make one reservation."

  "Do I?" he answered, smiling. "But you fire sharp into the air, and then say we're all blank cartridges--except one, of course."

  "You?" she queried ironically--"Oh, you would for ever hang fire."

  "'Cold dinners!'" he quoted in bitterness. "But you knew I loved you. You knew well enough."

  "Past tense," she replied, "thanks--make it perfect next time."

  "It's you who hang fire--it's you who make me," he said.

  "And so from the retort circumstantial to the retort direct." she replied, smiling.

  "You see--you put me off," he insisted, growing excited. For reply, she held out her hand and showed him the ring. She smiled very quietly. He stared at her with darkening anger.

  "Will you gather the rugs and stools together, and put them in that corner?" she said.

  He turned away to do so, but he looked back again, and said, in low, passionate tones:

  "You never counted me. I was a figure naught in the counting all along."

  "See--there is a chair that will be in the way," she replied calmly; but she flushed, and bowed her head. She turned away, and he dragged an armful of rugs into a corner.

  When the actors came in, Lettie was moving a vase of flowers. While they played, she sat looking on, smiling, clapping her hands. When it was finished Leslie came and whispered to her, whereon she kissed him unobserved, delighting and exhilarating him more than ever. Then they went out to prepare the next act.

  George did not return to her till she called him to help her. Her colour was high in her cheeks.

  "How do you know you did not count?" she said nervously, unable to resist the temptation to play this forbidden game. He laughed, and for a moment could not find any reply.

  "I do!" he said. "You knew you could have me any day, so you didn't care."

  "Then we're behaving in quite the traditional fashion," she answered with irony.

  "But you know," he said, "you began it. You played with me, and showed me heaps of things--and those mornings--when I was binding corn, and when I was gathering the apples, and when I was finishing the straw-stack--you came then--I can never forget those mornings--things will never be the same--You have awakened my life--I imagine things that I couldn't have done."

  "Ah!--I am very sorry, I am so sorry."

  "Don't be!--don't say so. But what of me?"

  "What?" she asked rather startled. He smiled again; he felt the situation, and was a trifle dramatic, though deadly in earnest.

  "Well," said he, "you start me off--then leave me at a loose end. What am I going to do?"

  "You are a man," she replied.

  He laughed. "What does that mean?" he said contemptuously.

  "You can go on--which way you like," she answered. "Oh well," he said, "we'll see."

  "Don't you think so?" she asked, rather anxious.

  "I don't know--we'll see," he replied.

  They went out with some things. In the hall, she turned to him, with a break in her voice, saying, "Oh, I am so sorry--I am so sorry."

  He said, very low and soft, "Never mind--never mind."

  She heard the laughter of those preparing the charade. She drew away and went in the drawing-room, saying aloud:

  "Now I think everything is ready--we can sit down now."

  After the actors had played the last charade, Leslie came and claimed her.

  "Now, Madam--are you glad to have me back?"

  "That I am," she said. "Don't leave me again, will you?"

  "I won't," he replied, drawing her beside him. "I have left my handkerchief in the dining-room," he continued; and they went out together.

  Mother gave me permission for the men to smoke.

  "You know," said Marie to Tom, "I am surprised that a scientist should smoke. Isn't it a waste of time?"

  "Come and light me," he said.

  "Nay," s
he replied, "let science light you."

  "Science does--Ah, but science is nothing without a girl to set it going--Yes--Come on--now, don't burn my precious nose."

  "Poor George!" cried Alice. "Does he want a ministering angel?"

  He was half lying in a big arm-chair.

  "I do," he replied. "Come on, be my box of soothing ointment. My matches are all loose."

  "I'll strike it on my heel, eh? Now, rouse up, or I shall have to sit on your knee to reach you."

  "Poor dear--he shall be luxurious," and the dauntless girl perched on his knee.

  "What if I singe your whiskers--would you send an Armada? Aw--aw--pretty!--You do look sweet--doesn't he suck prettily?"

  "Do you envy me?" he asked, smiling whimsically. "Ra--ther!"

  "Shame to debar you," he said, almost with tenderness. "Smoke with me."

  He offered her the cigarette from his lips. She was surprised, and exceedingly excited by his tender tone. She took the cigarette.

  "I'll make a heifer--like Mrs Daws," she said.

  "Don't call yourself a cow," he said.

  "Nasty thing--let me go," she exclaimed.

  "No--you fit me--don't go," he replied, holding her.

  "Then you must have growed. Oh--what great hands--let go. Lettie, come and pinch him."

  "What's the matter?" asked my sister.

  "He won't let me go."

  "He'll be tired first," Lettie answered.

  Alice was released, but she did not move. She sat with wrinkled forehead trying his cigarette. She blew out little tiny whiffs of smoke, and thought about it; she sent a small puff down her nostrils, and rubbed her nose.

  "It's not as nice as it looks," she said.

  He laughed at her with masculine indulgence.

  "Pretty boy," she said, stroking his chin.

  "Am I?" he murmured languidly.

  "Cheek!" she cried, and she boxed his ears. Then "Oh, pore fing!" she said, and kissed him.

  She turned round to wink at my mother and at Lettie. She found the latter sitting in the old position with Leslie, two in a chair. He was toying with her arm; holding it and stroking it.

  "Isn't it lovely?" he said, kissing the forearm, "so warm and yet so white. Io--it reminds one of Io."

  "Somebody else talking about heifers," murmured Alice to George.

  "Can you remember," said Leslie, speaking low, "that man in Merimée who wanted to bite his wife and taste her blood?"

  "I do," said Lettie. "Have you a strain of wild beast too?"

  "Perhaps," he laughed. "I wish these folks had gone. Your hair is all loose in your neck--it looks lovely like that, though--"

  Alice, the mocker, had unbuttoned the cuff of the thick wrist that lay idly on her knee, and had pushed his sleeve a little way.

  "Ah!" she said. "What a pretty arm, brown as an over-baked loaf!"

  He watched her smiling.

  "Hard as a brick," she added.

  "Do you like it?" he drawled.

  "No," she said emphatically, in a tone that meant "yes". "It makes me feel shivery." He smiled again.

  She superposed her tiny, pale, flower-like hands on his. He lay back looking at them curiously.

  "Do you feel as if your hands were full of silver?" she asked almost wistfully, mocking.

  "Better than that," he replied gently.

  "And your heart full of gold?" she mocked.

  "Of hell!" he replied briefly.

  Alice looked at him searchingly.

  "And am I like a blue-bottle buzzing in your window to keep you company?" she asked.

  He laughed.

  "Good-bye," she said, slipping down and leaving him. "Don't go," he said--but too late.

  The irruption of Alice into the quiet, sentimental party was like taking a bright light into a sleeping hen-roost. Everybody jumped up and wanted to do something. They cried out for a dance.

  "Emily--play a waltz--you won't mind, will you, George? What! You don't dance, Tom? Oh, Marie!"

  "I don't mind, Lettie," protested Marie.

  "Dance with me, Alice," said George, smiling, "and Cyril will take Miss Tempest."

  "Glory!--come on--do or die!" said Alice.

  We began to dance. I saw Lettie watching, and I looked round. George was waltzing with Alice, dancing passably, laughing at her remarks. Lettie was not listening to what her lover was saying to her; she was watching the laughing pair. At the end she went to George.

  "Why!" she said, "you can--

  "Did you think I couldn't?" he said. "You are pledged for a minuet and a valeta with me--you remember?"

  "Yes."

  "You promise?"

  "Yes. But--

  "I went to Nottingham and learned."

  "Why--because?--Very well, Leslie, a mazurka. Will you play it, Emily--Yes, it is quite easy. Tom, you look quite happy talking to the Mater."

  We danced the mazurka with the same partners. He did it better than I expected--without much awkwardness--but stiffly. However, he moved quietly through the dance, laughing and talking abstractedly all the time with Alice.

  Then Lettie cried a change of partners, and they took their valeta. There was a little triumph in his smile.

  "Do you congratulate me?" he said.

  "I am surprised," she answered.

  "So am I. But I congratulate myself."

  "Do you? Well, so do I."

  "Thanks! You're beginning at last."

  "What?" she asked.

  "To believe in me."

  "Don't begin to talk again," she pleaded sadly, "nothing vital."

  "Do you like dancing with me?" he asked

  "Now, be quiet--that's real," she replied.

  "By Heaven, Lettie, you make me laugh!"

  "Do I?" she said--"What if you married Alice--soon."

  "I--Alice!--Lettie!! Besides, I've only a hundred pounds in the world, and no prospects whatever. That's why--well--I shan't marry anybody--unless it's somebody with money."

  "I've a couple of thousand or so of my own--"

  "Have you? It would have done nicely," he said, smiling. "You are different tonight," she said, leaning on him.

  "Am I?" he replied--"It's because things are altered too. They're settled one way now--for the present at least."

  "Don't forget the two steps this time," said she, smiling, and adding seriously, "You see, I couldn't help it."

  "No, why not?"

  "Things! I have been brought up to expect it--everybody expected it--and you're bound to do what people expect you to do--you can't help it. We can't help ourselves, we're all chess-men," she said.

  "Ay," he agreed, but doubtfully.

  "I wonder where it will end," she said.

  "Lettie!" he cried, and his hand closed in a grip on hers.

  "Don't--don't say anything--it's no good now, it's too late. It's done; and what is done, is done. If you talk any more, I shall say I'm tired and stop the dance. Don't say another word."

  He did not--at least to her. Their dance came to an end. Then he took Marie, who talked winsomely to him. As he waltzed with Marie he regained his animated spirits. He was very lively the rest of the evening, quite astonishing and reckless. At supper he ate everything, and drank much wine.

  "Have some more turkey, Mr Saxton."

  "Thanks--but give me some of that stuff in brown jelly, will you? It's new to me."

  "Have some of this trifle, Georgie?"

  "I will--you are a jewel."

  "So will you be--a yellow topaz tomorrow!"

  "Ah! tomorrow's tomorrow!"

  After supper was over, Alice cried:

  "Georgie, dear--have you finished?--don't die the death of a king--King John--I can't spare you, pet."

  "Are you so fond of me?"

  "I am--Aw! I'd throw my best Sunday hat under a milk-cart for you, I would!"

  "No; throw yourself into the milk-cart--some Sunday, when I'm driving."

  "Yes--come and see us," said Emily.

  "How nice! Tomorrow
you won't want me, Georgie dear, so I'll come. Don't you wish Pa would make Tono-Bungay? Wouldn't you marry me then?"

  "I would," said he.

  When the cart came, and Alice, Madie, Tom and Will departed, Alice bade Lettie a long farewell--blew Georgie many kisses--promised to love him faithful and true--and was gone.

  George and Emily lingered a short time.

  Now the room seemed empty and quiet, and all the laughter seemed to have gone. The conversation dribbled away; there was an awkwardness.

  "Well," said George heavily, at last. "Today is nearly gone--it will soon be tomorrow. I feel a bit drunk! We had a good time tonight."

  "I am glad," said Lettie.

  They put on their clogs and leggings, and wrapped themselves up, and stood in the hall.

  "We must go," said George, "before the clock strikes--like Cinderella--look at my glass slippers--" he pointed to his clogs. "Midnight, and rags, and fleeing. Very appropriate. I shall call myself Cinderella who wouldn't fit. I believe I'm a bit drunk--the world looks funny."

  We looked out at the haunting wanness of the hills beyond Nethermere. "Good-bye, Lettie; good-bye."

  They were out in the snow, which peered pale and eerily from the depths of the black wood.

  "Good-bye," he called out of the darkness. Leslie slammed the door, and drew Lettie away into the drawing-room. The sound of his low, vibrating satisfaction reached us, as he murmured to her, and laughed now. Then he kicked the door of the room shut. Lettie began to laugh and mock and talk in a high strained voice. The sound of their laughter mingled was strange and incongruous. Then her voice died down.

  Marie sat at the little piano--which was put in the dining-room--strumming and tinkling the false, quavering old notes. It was a depressing jingling in the deserted remains of the feast, but she felt sentimental, and enjoyed it.

  This was a gap between today and tomorrow, a dreary gap, where one sat and looked at the dreary comedy of yesterdays, and the grey tragedies of dawning tomorrows, vacantly, missing the poignancy of an actual today.

  The cart returned.

  "Leslie, Leslie, John is here, come along!" called Marie. There was no answer.

  "Leslie--John is waiting in the snow."

  "All right."

  "But you must come at once." She went to the door and spoke to him. Then he came out looking rather sheepish, and rather angry at the interruption. Lettie followed, tidying her hair. She did not laugh and look confused, as most girls do on similar occasions; she seemed very tired.