The White Peacock (17 page)

"Pooh!" she said, "that's soon remedied!"—she moved her piece, and said
triumphantly, "Now, Sir!"

He surveyed the game, and, with deliberation moved. Alice pounced on
him; with a leap of her knight she called "check!"

"I didn't see it—you may have the game now," he said.

"Beaten, my boy!—don't crow over a woman any more. Stale–mate—with
flowers in your hair!"

He put his hand to his head, and felt among his hair, and threw the
flowers on the table.

"Would you believe it——!" said the mother, coming into the room from
the dairy.

"What?" we all asked.

"Nickie Ben's been and eaten the sile cloth. Yes! When I went to wash
it, there sat Nickie Ben gulping, and wiping the froth off his
whiskers."

George laughed loudly and heartily. He laughed till he was tired. Lettie
looked and wondered when he would be done.

"I imagined," he gasped, "how he'd feel with half a yard of muslin
creeping down his throttle."

This laughter was most incongruous. He went off into another burst.
Alice laughed too—it was easy to infect her with laughter. Then the
father began—and in walked Nickie Ben, stepping disconsolately—we all
roared again, till the rafters shook. Only Lettie looked impatiently for
the end. George swept his bare arms across the table, and the scattered
little flowers fell broken to the ground.

"Oh—what a shame!" exclaimed Lettie.

"What?" said he, looking round. "Your flowers? Do you feel sorry for
them?—you're too tender hearted; isn't she, Cyril?"

"Always was—for dumb animals, and things," said I.

"Don't you wish you was a little dumb animal, Georgie?" said Alice.

He smiled, putting away the chess–men.

"Shall we go, dear?" said Lettie to Leslie.

"If you are ready," he replied, rising with alacrity.

"I am tired," she said plaintively.

He attended to her with little tender solicitations.

"Have we walked too far?" he asked.

"No, it's not that. No—it's the snowdrops, and the man, and the
children—and everything. I feel just a bit exhausted."

She kissed Alice, and Emily, and the mother.

"Good–night, Alice," she said. "It's not altogether my fault we're
strangers. You know—really—I'm just the same—really. Only you
imagine, and then what can I do?"

She said farewell to George, and looked at him through a quiver of
suppressed tears.

George was somewhat flushed with triumph over Lettie: She had gone home
with tears shaken from her eyes unknown to her lover; at the farm George
laughed with Alice.

We escorted Alice home to Eberwich—"Like a blooming little monkey
dangling from two boughs," as she put it, when we swung her along on our
arms. We laughed and said many preposterous things. George wanted to
kiss her at parting, but she tipped him under the chin and said,
"Sweet!" as one does to a canary. Then she laughed with her tongue
between her teeth, and ran indoors.

"She is a little devil," said he.

We took the long way home by Greymede, and passed the dark schools.

"Come on," said he, "let's go in the 'Ram Inn,' and have a look at my
cousin Meg."

It was half past ten when he marched me across the road and into the
sanded passage of the little inn. The place had been an important farm
in the days of George's grand–uncle, but since his decease it had
declined, under the governance of the widow and a man–of–all–work. The
old grand–aunt was propped and supported by a splendid grand–daughter.
The near kin of Meg were all in California, so she, a bonny delightful
girl of twenty–four, stayed near her grand–ma.

As we tramped grittily down the passage, the red head of Bill poked out
of the bar, and he said as he recognised George:

"Good–ev'nin'—go forward—'er's non abed yit."

We went forward, and unlatched the kitchen door. The great–aunt was
seated in her little, round–backed armchair, sipping her "night–cap."

"Well, George, my lad!" she cried, in her querulous voice. "Tha' niver
says it's thai, does ter? That's com'n for summat, for sure, else what
brings thee ter see me?"

"No," he said. "Ah'n com ter see thee, nowt else. Wheer's Meg?"

"Ah!—Ha—Ha—Ah!—Me, did ter say?—come ter see me?—Ha—wheer's
Meg!—an' who's this young gentleman?"

I was formally introduced, and shook the clammy corded hand of the old
lady.

"Tha' looks delikit," she observed, shaking her cap and its scarlet
geraniums sadly: "Cum now, sit thee down, an' dunna look so long o' th'
leg."

I sat down on the sofa, on the cushions covered with blue and red
checks. The room was very hot, and I stared about uncomfortably. The old
lady sat peering at nothing, in reverie. She was a hard–visaged,
bosomless dame, clad in thick black cloth–like armour, and wearing an
immense twisted gold brooch in the lace at her neck.

We heard heavy, quick footsteps above.

"Er's commin'," remarked the old lady, rousing from her apathy. The
footsteps came downstairs—quickly, then cautiously round the bend. Meg
appeared in the doorway. She started with surprise, saying:

"Well, I 'eered sumbody, but I never thought it was you." More colour
still flamed into her glossy cheeks, and she smiled in her fresh, frank
way. I think I have never seen a woman who had more physical charm;
there was a voluptuous fascination in her every outline and movement;
one never listened to the words that came from her lips, one watched the
ripe motion of those red fruits.

"Get 'em a drop o' whiskey, Meg—you'll 'a'e a drop?"

I declined firmly, but did not escape.

"Nay," declared the old dame. "I s'll ha'e none o' thy no's. Should ter
like it 'ot?—Say th' word, an' tha' 'as it."

I did not say the word.

"Then gi'e 'im claret," pronounced my hostess, "though it's thin–bellied
stuff ter go to ter bed on"—and claret it was.

Meg went out again to see about closing. The grand–aunt sighed, and
sighed again, for no perceptible reason but the whiskey.

"It's well you've come ter see me now," she moaned, "for you'll none
'a'e a chance next time you come'n;—No—I'm all gone but my cap——"
She shook that geraniumed erection, and I wondered what sardonic fate
left it behind.

"An' I'm forced ter say it, I s'll be thankful to be gone," she added,
after a few sighs.

This weariness of the flesh was touching. The cruel truth is, however,
that the old lady clung to life like a louse to a pig's back. Dying, she
faintly, but emphatically declared herself, "a bit better—a bit better.
I s'll be up to–morrow."

"I should a gone before now," she continued, "but for that blessed
wench—I canna abear to think o' leavin 'er—come drink up, my lad,
drink up—nay, tha' 'rt nobbut young yet, tha' 'rt none topped up wi' a
thimbleful."

I took whiskey in preference to the acrid stuff.

"Ay," resumed the grand–aunt. "I canna go in peace till 'er's
settled—an' 'er's that tickle o' choosin'. Th' right sort 'asn't th'
gumption ter ax' er."

She sniffed, and turned scornfully to her glass. George grinned and
looked conscious; as he swallowed a gulp of whiskey it crackled in his
throat. The sound annoyed the old lady.

"Tha' might be scar'd at summat," she said. "Tha' niver 'ad six drops o'
spunk in thee."

She turned again with a sniff to her glass. He frowned with irritation,
half filled his glass with liquor, and drank again.

"I dare bet as tha' niver kissed a wench in thy life—not proper"—and
she tossed the last drops of her toddy down her skinny throat.

Here Meg came along the passage.

"Come, gran'ma," she said. "I'm sure it's time as you was in bed—come
on."

"Sit thee down an' drink a drop wi's—it's not ivry night as we 'a'e
cumpny."

"No, let me take you to bed—I'm sure you must be ready."

"Sit thee down 'ere, I say, an' get thee a drop o' port. Come—no
argy–bargyin'."

Meg fetched more glasses and a decanter. I made a place for her between
me and George. We all had port wine. Meg, naïve and unconscious, waited
on us deliciously. Her cheeks gleamed like satin when she laughed, save
when the dimples held the shadow. Her suave, tawny neck was bare and
bewitching. She turned suddenly to George as he asked her a question,
and they found their faces close together. He kissed her, and when she
started back, jumped and kissed her neck with warmth.

"Là—là—dy—dà—là—dy—dà—dy—dà," cried the old woman in delight,
and she clutched her wineglass.

"Come on—chink!" she cried, "all together—chink to him!"

We four chinked and drank. George poured wine in a tumbler, and drank it
off. He was getting excited, and all the energy and passion that
normally were bound down by his caution and self–instinct began to flame
out.

"Here, aunt!" said he, lifting his tumbler, "here's to what you want—you
know!"

"I knowed tha' wor as spunky as ony on'em," she cried. "Tha' nobbut
wanted warmin' up. I'll see as you're all right. It's a bargain. Chink
again, ivrybody."

"A bargain," said he before he put his lips to the glass.

"What bargain's that?" said Meg.

The old lady laughed loudly and winked at George, who, with his lips wet
with wine, got up and kissed Meg soundly, saying:

"There it is—that seals it."

Meg wiped her face with her big pinafore, and seemed uncomfortable.

"Aren't you comin', gran'ma?" she pleaded.

"Eh, tha' wants ter 'orry me off—what's thai say, George—a deep un,
isna 'er?"

"Dunna go, Aunt, dunna be hustled off."

"Tush—Pish," snorted the old lady. "Yah, tha' 'rt a slow un, an' no
mistakes! Get a candle, Meg, I'm ready."

Meg brought a brass bedroom candlestick. Bill brought in the money in a
tin box, and delivered it into the hands of the old lady.

"Go thy ways to bed now, lad," said she to the ugly, wizened
serving–man. He sat in a corner and pulled off his boots.

"Come an' kiss me good–night, George," said the old woman—and as he did
so she whispered in his ear, whereat he laughed loudly. She poured
whiskey into her glass and called to the serving–man to drink it. Then,
pulling herself up heavily, she leaned on Meg and went upstairs. She had
been a big woman, one could see, but now her shapeless, broken figure
looked pitiful beside Meg's luxuriant form. We heard them slowly,
laboriously climb the stairs. George sat pulling his moustache and
half–smiling; his eyes were alight with that peculiar childish look they
had when he was experiencing new and doubtful sensations. Then he poured
himself more whiskey.

"I say, steady!" I admonished.

"What for!" he replied, indulging himself like a spoiled child and
laughing.

Bill, who had sat for some time looking at the hole in his stocking,
drained his glass, and with a sad "Good–night," creaked off upstairs.

Presently Meg came down, and I rose and said we must be going.

"I'll just come an' lock the door after you," said she, standing
uneasily waiting.

George got up. He gripped the edge of the table to steady himself; then
he got his balance, and, with his eyes on Meg, said:

"'Ere!" he nodded his head to her. "Come here, I want ter ax thee
sumwhat."

She looked at him, half–smiling, half doubtful. He put his arm round her
and looking down into her eyes, with his face very close to hers, said:

"Let's ha'e a kiss."

Quite unresisting she yielded him her mouth, looking at him intently
with her bright brown eyes. He kissed her, and pressed her closely to
him.

"I'm going to marry thee," he said.

"Go on!" she replied, softly, half glad, half doubtful.

"I am an' all," he repeated, pressing her more tightly to him.

I went down the passage, and stood in the open doorway looking out into
the night. It seemed a long time. Then I heard the thin voice of the old
woman at the top of the stairs:

"Meg! Meg! Send 'im off now. Come on!"

In the silence that followed there was a murmur of voices, and then they
came into the passage.

"Good–night, my lad, good luck to thee!" cried the voice like a ghoul
from upper regions.

He kissed his betrothed a rather hurried good–night at the door.

"Good–night," she replied softly, watching him retreat. Then we heard
her shoot the heavy bolts.

"You know," he began, and he tried to clear his throat. His voice was
husky and strangulated with excitement. He tried again:

"You know—she—she's a clinker."

I did not reply, but he took no notice.

"Damn!" he ejaculated. "What did I let her go for!"

We walked along in silence—his excitement abated somewhat.

"It's the way she swings her body—an' the curves as she stands. It's
when you look at her—you feel—you know."

I suppose I knew, but it was unnecessary to say so.

"You know—if ever I dream in the night—of women—you know—it's always
Meg; she seems to look so soft, and to curve her body——"

Gradually his feet began to drag. When we came to the place where the
colliery railway crossed the road, he stumbled, and pitched forward,
only just recovering himself. I took hold of his arm.

"Good Lord, Cyril, am I drunk?" he said.

"Not quite," said I.

"No," he muttered, "couldn't be."

But his feet dragged again, and he began to stagger from side to side. I
took hold of his arm. He murmured angrily—then, subsiding again,
muttered, with slovenly articulation:

"I—I feel fit to drop with sleep."

Along the dead, silent roadway, and through the uneven blackness of the
wood, we lurched and stumbled. He was very heavy and difficult to
direct. When at last we came to the brook we splashed straight through
the water. I urged him to walk steadily and quietly across the yard. He
did his best, and we made a fairly still entry into the farm. He dropped
with all his weight on the sofa, and leaning down, began to unfasten his
leggings. In the midst of his fumblings he fell asleep, and I was afraid
he would pitch forward on to his head. I took off his leggings and his
wet boots and his collar. Then, as I was pushing and shaking him awake
to get off his coat, I heard a creaking on the stairs, and my heart
sank, for I thought it was his mother. But it was Emily, in her long
white nightgown. She looked at us with great dark eyes of terror, and
whispered: "What's the matter?"