The White Peacock (37 page)

When I came home from France five years after our meeting in London I
found him installed in the "Hollies." He had rented the house from the
Mayhews, and had moved there with his family, leaving Oswald in charge
of the "Ram." I called at the large house one afternoon, but George was
out. His family surprised me. The twins were tall lads of six. There
were two more boys, and Meg was nursing a beautiful baby–girl about a
year old. This child was evidently mistress of the household. Meg, who
was growing stouter, indulged the little creature in every way.

"How is George?" I asked her.

"Oh, he's very well," she replied. "He's always got something on hand.
He hardly seems to have a spare moment; what with his socialism, and one
thing and another."

It was true, the outcome of his visit to London had been a wild devotion
to the cause of the down–trodden. I saw a picture of Watt's "Mammon," on
the walls of the morning–room, and the works of Blatchford, Masterman,
and Chiozza Money on the side table. The socialists of the district used
to meet every other Thursday evening at the "Hollies" to discuss reform.
Meg did not care for these earnest souls.

"They're not my sort," she said, "too jerky and bumptious. They think
everybody's slow–witted but them. There's one thing about them, though,
they don't drink, so that's a blessing."

"Why!" I said, "Have you had much trouble that way?"

She lowered her voice to a pitch which was sufficiently mysterious to
attract the attention of the boys.

"I shouldn't say anything if it wasn't that you were like brothers," she
said. "But he did begin to have dreadful drinking bouts. You know it was
always spirits, and generally brandy:—and that makes such work with
them. You've no idea what he's like when he's evil–drunk. Sometimes he's
all for talk, sometimes he's laughing at everything, and sometimes he's
just snappy. And then——" here her tones grew ominous, "——he'll come
home evil–drunk."

At the memory she grew serious.

"You couldn't imagine what it's like, Cyril," she said. "It's like
having Satan in the house with you, or a black tiger glowering at you.
I'm sure nobody knows what I've suffered with him——"

The children stood with large awful eyes and paling lips, listening.

"But he's better now?" I said.

"Oh, yes—since Gertie came,"—she looked fondly at the baby in her
arms—"He's a lot better now. You see he always wanted a girl, and he's
very fond of her—isn't he, pet?—are you your Dadda's girlie?—and
Mamma's too, aren't you?"

The baby turned with sudden coy shyness, and clung to her mother's neck.
Meg kissed her fondly, then the child laid her cheek against her
mother's. The mother's dark eyes, and the baby's large, hazel eyes
looked at me serenely. The two were very calm, very complete and
triumphant together. In their completeness was a security which made me
feel alone and ineffectual. A woman who has her child in her arms is a
tower of strength, a beautiful, unassailable tower of strength that may
in its turn stand quietly dealing death.

I told Meg I would call again to see George. Two evenings later I asked
Lettie to lend me a dog–cart to drive over to the "Hollies." Leslie was
away on one of his political jaunts, and she was restless. She proposed
to go with me. She had called on Meg twice before in the new large home.

We started about six o'clock. The night was dark and muddy. Lettie
wanted to call in Eberwich village, so she drove the long way round
Selsby. The horse was walking through the gate of the "Hollies" at about
seven o'clock. Meg was upstairs in the nursery, the maid told me, and
George was in the dining–room getting baby to sleep.

"All right!" I said, "we will go in to him. Don't bother to tell him."

As we stood in the gloomy, square hall we heard the rumble of a
rocking–chair, the stroke coming slow and heavy to the tune of "Henry
Martin," one of our Strelley Mill folk songs. Then, through the man's
heavily–accented singing floated the long light crooning of the baby as
she sang, in her quaint little fashion, a mischievous second to her
father's lullaby. He waxed a little louder; and without knowing why, we
found ourselves smiling with piquant amusement. The baby grew louder
too, till there was a shrill ring of laughter and mockery in her music.
He sang louder and louder, the baby shrilled higher and higher, the
chair swung in long, heavy beats. Then suddenly he began to laugh. The
rocking stopped, and he said, still with laughter and enjoyment in his
tones:

"Now that is very wicked! Ah, naughty Girlie—go to boh, go to
bohey!—at once."

The baby chuckled her small, insolent mockery.

"Come, Mamma!" he said, "come and take Girlie to bohey!"

The baby laughed again, but with an uncertain touch of appeal in her
tone. We opened the door and entered. He looked up very much startled to
see us. He was sitting in a tall rocking–chair by the fire, coatless,
with white shirtsleeves. The baby, in her high–waisted, tight little
night–gown, stood on his knee, her wide eyes fixed on us, wild wisps of
her brown hair brushed across her forehead and glinting like puffs of
bronze dust over her ears. Quickly she put her arms round his neck and
tucked her face under his chin, her small feet poised on his thigh, the
night–gown dropping upon them. He shook his head as the puff of soft
brown hair tickled him. He smiled at us, saying:

"You see I'm busy!"

Then he turned again to the little brown head tucked under his chin,
blew away the luminous cloud of hair, and rubbed his lips and his
moustache on the small white neck, so warm and secret. The baby put up
her shoulders, and shrank a little, bubbling in his neck with hidden
laughter. She did not lift her face or loosen her arms.

"She thinks she is shy," he said. "Look up, young hussy, and see the
lady and gentleman. She is a positive owl, she won't go to bed—will
you, young brown–owl?"

He tickled her neck again with his moustache, and the child bubbled over
with naughty, merry laughter.

The room was very warm, with a red bank of fire up the chimney mouth. It
was half lighted from a heavy bronze chandelier, black and gloomy, in
the middle of the room. There was the same sombre, sparse furniture that
the Mayhews had had. George looked large and handsome, the glossy black
silk of his waistcoat fitting close to his sides, the roundness of the
shoulder muscle filling the white linen of his sleeves.

Suddenly the baby lifted her head and stared at us, thrusting into her
mouth the dummy that was pinned to the breast of her night–gown. The
faded pink sleeves of the night–gown were tight on her fat little
wrists. She stood thus sucking her dummy, one arm round her father's
neck, watching us with hazel solemn eyes. Then she pushed her fat little
fist up among the bush of small curls, and began to twist her fingers
about her ear that was white like a camelia flower.

"She is really sleepy," said Lettie.

"Come then!" said he, folding her for sleep against his breast. "Come
and go to boh."

But the young rascal immediately began to cry her remonstrance. She
stiffened herself, freed herself, and stood again on his knee, watching
us solemnly, vibrating the dummy in her mouth as she suddenly sucked at
it, twisting her father's ear in her small fingers till he winced.

"Her nails
are
sharp," he said, smiling.

He began asking and giving the small information that pass between
friends who have not met for a long time. The baby laid her head on his
shoulder, keeping her tired, owl–like eyes fixed darkly on us. Then
gradually the lids fluttered and sank, and she dropped on to his arm.

"She is asleep," whispered Lettie.

Immediately the dark eyes opened again. We looked significantly at one
another, continuing our subdued talk. After a while the baby slept
soundly.

Presently Meg came downstairs. She greeted us in breathless whispers of
surprise, and then turned to her husband.

"Has she gone?" she whispered, bending over the sleeping child in
astonishment. "My, this is wonderful, isn't it!"

She took the sleeping drooping baby from his arms, putting her mouth
close to its forehead, murmuring with soothing, inarticulate sounds.

We stayed talking for some time when Meg had put the baby to bed. George
had a new tone of assurance and authority. In the first place he was an
established man, living in a large house, having altogether three men
working for him. In the second place he had ceased to value the
conventional treasures of social position and ostentatious refinement.
Very, very many things he condemned as flummery and sickly waste of
time. The life of an ordinary well–to–do person he set down as adorned
futility, almost idiocy. He spoke passionately of the monstrous denial
of life to the many by the fortunate few. He talked at Lettie most
flagrantly.

"Of course," she said, "I have read Mr. Wells and Mr. Shaw, and even
Niel Lyons and a Dutchman—what is his name, Querido? But what can I do?
I think the rich have as much misery as the poor, and of quite as deadly
a sort. What can I do? It is a question of life and the development of
the human race. Society and its regulations is not a sort of drill that
endless Napoleons have forced on us: it is the only way we have yet
found of living together."

"Pah!" said he, "that is rank cowardice. It is feeble and futile to the
last degree."

"We can't grow consumption–proof in a generation, nor can we grow
poverty–proof."

"We can begin to take active measures," he replied contemptuously.

"We can all go into a sanatorium and live miserably and dejectedly
warding off death," she said, "but life is full of goodliness for all
that."

"It is fuller of misery," he said.

Nevertheless, she had shaken him. She still kept her astonishing power
of influencing his opinions. All his passion, and heat, and rude speech,
analysed out, was only his terror at her threatening of his
life–interest.

She was rather piqued by his rough treatment of her, and by his
contemptuous tone. Moreover, she could never quite let him be. She felt
a driving force which impelled her almost against her will to interfere
in his life. She invited him to dine with them at Highclose. He was now
quite possible. He had, in the course of his business, been sufficiently
in the company of gentlemen to be altogether
"comme it faut"
at a
private dinner, and after dinner.

She wrote me concerning him occasionally:

"George Saxton was here to dinner yesterday. He and Leslie had frightful
battles over the nationalisation of industries. George is rather more
than a match for Leslie, which, in his secret heart, makes our friend
gloriously proud. It is very amusing. I, of course, have to preserve the
balance of power, and, of course, to bolster my husband's dignity. At a
crucial dangerous moment, when George is just going to wave his bloody
sword and Leslie lies bleeding with rage, I step in and prick the victor
under the heart with some little satire or some esoteric question, I
raise Leslie and say his blood is luminous for the truth, and vous
voilà! Then I abate for the thousandth time Leslie's conservative crow,
and I appeal once more to George—it is no use my arguing with him, he
gets so angry—I make an abtruse appeal for all the wonderful, sad, and
beautiful expressions on the countenance of life, expressions which he
does not see or which he distorts by his oblique vision of socialism
into grimaces—and there I am! I think I am something of a Machiavelli,
but it is quite true, what I say——"

Again she wrote:

"We happened to be motoring from Derby on Sunday morning, and as we came
to the top of the hill, we had to thread our way through quite a large
crowd. I looked up, and whom should I see but our friend George, holding
forth about the state endowment of mothers. I made Leslie stop while we
listened. The market–place was quite full of people. George saw us, and
became fiery. Leslie then grew excited, and although I clung to the
skirts of his coat with all my strength, he jumped up and began to
question. I must say it with shame and humility—he made an ass of
himself. The men all round were jeering and muttering under their
breath. I think Leslie is not very popular among them, he is such an
advocate of machinery which will do the work of men. So they cheered our
friend George when he thundered forth his replies and his
demonstrations. He pointed his finger at us, and flung his hand at us,
and shouted till I quailed in my seat. I cannot understand why he should
become so frenzied as soon as I am within range. George had a triumph
that morning, but when I saw him a few days later he seemed very uneasy,
rather self–mistrustful——"

Almost a year later I heard from her again on the same subject.

"I have had such a lark. Two or three times I have been to the
'Hollies'; to socialist meetings. Leslie does not know. They are great
fun. Of course, I am in sympathy with the socialists, but I cannot
narrow my eyes till I see one thing only. Life is like a large, rather
beautiful man who is young and full of vigour, but hairy, barbaric, with
hands hard and dirty, the dirt ingrained. I know his hands are very
ugly, I know his mouth is not firmly shapen, I know his limbs are hairy
and brutal: but his eyes are deep and very beautiful. That is what I
tell George.

The people are so earnest, they make me sad. But then, they are so
didactic, they hold forth so much, they are so cock–sure and so
narrow–eyed, they make me laugh. George laughs too. I am sure we made
such fun of a straight–haired goggle of a girl who had suffered in
prison for the cause of women, that I am ashamed when I see my "Woman's
League" badge. At the bottom, you know, Cyril, I don't care for anything
very much, except myself. Things seem so frivolous. I am the only real
thing, I and the children——"