The White Peacock (28 page)

Meg had to go at half–past seven. She was so disappointed that I said:

"Come and have a look at him—I'll tell him you did."

He had thrown off the sacks and spread out his limbs. As he lay on his
back, flung out on the hay, he looked big again, and manly. His mouth
had relaxed, and taken its old, easy lines. One felt for him now the
warmth one feels for anyone who sleeps in an attitude of abandon. She
leaned over him, and looked at him with a little rapture of love and
tenderness; she longed to caress him. Then he stretched himself, and his
eyes opened. Their sudden unclosing gave her a thrill. He smiled
sleepily, and murmured, "Allo, Meg!" Then I saw him awake. As he
remembered, he turned with a great sighing yawn, hid his face again, and
lay still.

"Come along, Meg," I whispered, "he'll be best asleep."

"I'd better cover him up," she said, taking the sack and laying it very
gently over his shoulders. He kept perfectly still while I drew her
away.

The magnificent promise of spring was broken before the May–blossom was
fully out. All through the beloved month the wind rushed in upon us from
the north and north–east, bringing the rain fierce and heavy. The
tender–budded trees shuddered and moaned; when the wind was dry, the
young leaves flapped limp. The grass and corn grew lush, but the light
of the dandelions was quite extinguished, and it seemed that only a long
time back had we made merry before the broad glare of these flowers. The
bluebells lingered and lingered; they fringed the fields for weeks like
purple fringe of mourning. The pink campions came out only to hang heavy
with rain; hawthorn buds remained tight and hard as pearls, shrinking
into the brilliant green foliage; the forget–me–nots, the poor pleiades
of the wood, were ragged weeds. Often at the end of the day the sky
opened, and stately clouds hung over the horizon infinitely far away,
glowing, through the yellow distance, with an amber lustre. They never
came any nearer, always they remained far off, looking calmly and
majestically over the shivering earth, then saddened, fearing their
radiance might be dimmed, they drew away, and sank out of sight.
Sometimes, towards sunset, a great shield stretched dark from the west
to the zenith, tangling the light along its edges. As the canopy rose
higher, it broke, dispersed, and the sky was primrose coloured, high and
pale above the crystal moon. Then the cattle crouched among the gorse,
distressed by the cold, while the long–billed snipe flickered round high
overhead, round and round in great circles, seeming to carry a serpent
from its throat, and crying a tragedy, more painful than the poignant
lamentations and protests of the peewits. Following these evenings came
mornings cold and grey.

Such a morning I went up to George, on the top fallow. His father was
out with the milk—he was alone; as I came up the hill I could see him
standing in the cart, scattering manure over the bare red fields; I
could hear his voice calling now and then to the mare, and the creak and
clank of the cart as it moved on. Starlings and smart wagtails were
running briskly over the clods, and many little birds flashed,
fluttered, hopped here and there. The lapwings wheeled and cried as ever
between the low clouds and the earth, and some ran beautifully among the
furrows, too graceful and glistening for the rough field.

I took a fork and scattered the manure along the hollows, and thus we
worked, with a wide field between us, yet very near in the sense of
intimacy. I watched him through the wheeling peewits, as the low clouds
went stealthily overhead. Beneath us, the spires of the poplars in the
spinney were warm gold, as if the blood shone through. Further gleamed
the grey water, and below it the red roofs. Nethermere was half hidden
and far away. There was nothing in this grey, lonely world but the
peewits swinging and crying, and George swinging silently at his work.
The movement of active life held all my attention, and when I looked up,
it was to see the motion of his limbs and his head, the rise and fall of
his rhythmic body, and the rise and fall of the slow waving peewits.
After a while, when the cart was empty, he took a fork and came towards
me, working at my task.

It began to rain, so he brought a sack from the cart, and we crushed
ourselves under the thick hedge. We sat close together and watched the
rain fall like a grey striped curtain before us, hiding the valley; we
watched it trickle in dark streams off the mare's back, as she stood
dejectedly; we listened to the swish of the drops falling all about; we
felt the chill of the rain, and drew ourselves together in silence. He
smoked his pipe, and I lit a cigarette. The rain continued; all the
little pebbles and the red earth glistened in the grey gloom. We sat
together, speaking occasionally. It was at these times we formed the
almost passionate attachment which later years slowly wore away.

When the rain was over, we filled our buckets with potatoes, and went
along the wet furrows, sticking the spritted tubers in the cold ground.
Being sandy, the field dried quickly. About twelve o'clock, when nearly
all the potatoes were set, he left me, and fetching up Bob from the far
hedge–side, harnessed the mare and him to the ridger, to cover the
potatoes. The sharp light plough turned the soil in a fine furrow over
the potatoes; hosts of little birds fluttered, settled, bounded off
again after the plough. He called to the horses, and they came downhill,
the white stars on the two brown noses nodding up and down, George
striding firm and heavy behind. They came down upon me; at a call the
horses turned, shifting awkwardly sideways; he flung himself against the
plough, and leaning well in, brought it round with a sweep: a click, and
they are off uphill again. There is a great rustle as the birds sweep
round after him and follow up the new turned furrow. Untackling the
horses when the rows were all covered, we tramped behind them down the
wet hillside to dinner.

I kicked through the drenched grass, crushing the withered cowslips
under my clogs, avoiding the purple orchids that were stunted with harsh
upbringing, but magnificent in their powerful colouring, crushing the
pallid lady smocks, the washed–out wild gillivers. I became conscious of
something near my feet, something little and dark, moving indefinitely.
I had found again the larkie's nest. I perceived the yellow beaks, the
bulging eyelids of two tiny larks, and the blue lines of their wing
quills. The indefinite movement was the swift rise and fall of the brown
fledged backs, over which waved long strands of fine down. The two
little specks of birds lay side by side, beak to beak, their tiny bodies
rising and falling in quick unison. I gently put down my fingers to
touch them; they were warm; gratifying to find them warm, in the midst
of so much cold and wet. I became curiously absorbed in them, as an eddy
of wind stirred the strands of down. When one fledgling moved uneasily,
shifting his soft ball, I was quite excited; but he nestled down again,
with his head close to his brother's. In my heart of hearts, I longed
for someone to nestle against, someone who would come between me and the
coldness and wetness of the surroundings. I envied the two little
miracles exposed to any tread, yet so serene. It seemed as if I were
always wandering, looking for something which they had found even before
the light broke into their shell. I was cold; the lilacs in the Mill
garden looked blue and perished. I ran with my heavy clogs and my heart
heavy with vague longing, down to the Mill, while the wind blanched the
sycamores, and pushed the sullen pines rudely, for the pines were
sulking because their million creamy sprites could not fly wet–winged.
The horse–chestnuts bravely kept their white candles erect in the socket
of every bough, though no sun came to light them. Drearily a cold swan
swept up the water, trailing its black feet, clacking its great hollow
wings, rocking the frightened water hens, and insulting the staid
black–necked geese. What did I want that I turned thus from one thing to
another?

At the end of June the weather became fine again. Hay harvest was to
begin as soon as it settled. There were only two fields to be mown this
year, to provide just enough stuff to last until the spring. As my
vacation had begun I decided I would help, and that we three, the
father, George and I, would get in the hay without hired assistance.

I rose the first morning very early, before the sun was well up. The
clear sound of challenging cocks could be heard along the valley. In the
bottoms, over the water and over the lush wet grass, the night mist
still stood white and substantial. As I passed along the edge of the
meadow the cow–parsnip was as tall as I, frothing up to the top of the
hedge, putting the faded hawthorn to a wan blush. Little, early birds—I
had not heard the lark—fluttered in and out of the foamy meadow–sea,
plunging under the surf of flowers washed high in one corner, swinging
out again, dashing past the crimson sorrel cresset. Under the froth of
flowers were the purple vetch–clumps, yellow milk vetches, and the
scattered pink of the wood–betony, and the floating stars of
marguerites. There was a weight of honeysuckle on the hedges, where pink
roses were waking up for their broad–spread flight through the day.

Morning silvered the swaths of the far meadow, and swept in smooth,
brilliant curves round the stones of the brook; morning ran in my veins;
morning chased the silver, darting fish out of the depth, and I, who saw
them, snapped my fingers at them, driving them back.

I heard Trip barking, so I ran towards the pond. The punt was at the
island, where from behind the bushes I could hear George whistling. I
called to him, and he came to the water's edge half dressed.

"Fetch a towel," he called, "and come on."

I was back in a few moments, and there stood my Charon fluttering in the
cool air. One good push sent us to the islet I made haste to undress,
for he was ready for the water, Trip dancing round, barking with
excitement at his new appearance.

"He wonders what's happened to me," he said, laughing, pushing the dog
playfully away with his bare foot. Trip bounded back, and came leaping
up, licking him with little caressing licks. He began to play with the
dog, and directly they were rolling on the fine turf, the laughing,
expostulating, naked man, and the excited dog, who thrust his great head
on to the man's face, licking, and, when flung away, rushed forward
again, snapping playfully at the naked arms and breasts. At last George
lay back, laughing and panting, holding Trip by the two fore feet which
were planted on his breast, while the dog, also panting, reached forward
his head for a flickering lick at the throat pressed back on the grass,
and the mouth thrown back out of reach. When the man had thus lain still
for a few moments, and the dog was just laying his head against his
master's neck to rest too, I called, and George jumped up, and plunged
into the pond with me, Trip after us.

The water was icily cold, and for a moment deprived me of my senses.
When I began to swim, soon the water was buoyant, and I was sensible of
nothing but the vigorous poetry of action. I saw George swimming on his
back laughing at me, and in an instant I had flung myself like an
impulse after him. The laughing face vanished as he swung over and fled,
and I pursued the dark head and the ruddy neck. Trip, the wretch, came
paddling towards me, interrupting me; then all bewildered with
excitement, he scudded to the bank. I chuckled to myself as I saw him
run along, then plunge in and go plodding to George. I was gaining. He
tried to drive off the dog, and I gained rapidly. As I came up to him
and caught him, with my hand on his shoulder, there came a laughter from
the bank. It was Emily.

I trod the water, and threw handfuls of spray at her. She laughed and
blushed. Then Trip waded out to her and she fled swiftly from his
shower–bath. George was floating just beside me, looking up and
laughing.

We stood and looked at each other as we rubbed ourselves dry. He was
well proportioned, and naturally of handsome physique, heavily limbed.
He laughed at me, telling me I was like one of Aubrey Beardsley's long,
lean ugly fellows. I referred him to many classic examples of
slenderness, declaring myself more exquisite than his grossness, which
amused him.

But I had to give in, and bow to him, and he took on an indulgent,
gentle manner. I laughed and submitted. For he knew how I admired the
noble, white fruitfulness of his form. As I watched him, he stood in
white relief against the mass of green. He polished his arm, holding it
out straight and solid; he rubbed his hair into curls, while I watched
the deep muscles of his shoulders, and the bands stand out in his neck
as he held it firm; I remembered the story of Annable.

He saw I had forgotten to continue my rubbing, and laughing he took hold
of me and began to rub me briskly, as if I were a child, or rather, a
woman he loved and did not fear. I left myself quite limply in his
hands, and, to get a better grip of me, he put his arm round me and
pressed me against him, and the sweetness of the touch of our naked
bodies one against the other was superb. It satisfied in some measure
the vague, indecipherable yearning of my soul; and it was the same with
him. When he had rubbed me all warm, he let me go, and we looked at each
other with eyes of still laughter, and our love was perfect for a
moment, more perfect than any love I have known since, either for man or
woman.

We went together down to the fields, he to mow the island of grass he
had left standing the previous evening, I to sharpen the machine knife,
to mow out the hedge–bottoms with the scythe, and to rake the swaths
from the way of the machine when the unmown grass was reduced to a
triangle. The cool, moist fragrance of the morning, the intentional
stillness of everything, of the tall bluish trees, of the wet, frank
flowers, of the trustful moths folded and unfolded in the fallen swaths,
was a perfect medium of sympathy. The horses moved with a still dignity,
obeying his commands. When they were harnessed, and the machine oiled,
still he was loth to mar the perfect morning, but stood looking down the
valley.

"I shan't mow these fields any more," he said, and the fallen, silvered
swaths flickered back his regret, and the faint scent of the limes was
wistful. So much of the field was cut, so much remained to cut; then it
was ended. This year the elder flowers were widespread over the corner
bushes, and the pink roses fluttered high above the hedge. There were
the same flowers in the grass as we had known many years; we should not
know them any more.

"But merely to have mown them is worth having lived for," he said,
looking at me.