The White Peacock Part 69

He was the first to rise, saying he must get the cows up for milking.

"Oh, let us go-let us go. May we come and see the cows milked?" said Hilda, her delicate, exquisite features flushing, for she was very shy.

"No," drawled Freddy, "the stink o' live beef ain't salubrious. You be warned, and stop here."

"I never could bear cows, except those lovely little highland cattle, all woolly, in pictures," said Louie Denys, smiling archly, with a little irony.

"No," laughed Agnes D'Arcy, "they-they're smelly,"-and she pursed up her mouth, and ended in a little trill of deprecatory laughter, as she often did. Hilda looked from one to the other, blushing.

"Come, Lettie," said Leslie good-naturedly, "I know you have a farmyard fondness-come on," and they followed George down.

As they pa.s.sed along the pond bank a swan and her tawny, fluffy brood sailed with them the length of the water, "tipping on their little toes, the darlings-pitter-patter through the water, tiny little things," as Marie said.

We heard George below calling "Bully-Bully-Bully-Bully!"-and then, a moment or two after, in the bottom garden: "Come out, you little fool-are you coming out of it?" in manifestly angry tones.

"Has it run away?" laughed Hilda, delighted and we hastened out of the lower garden to see.

There in the green shade, between the tall gooseberry bushes, the heavy crimson peonies stood gorgeously along the path. The full red globes, poised and leaning voluptuously, sank their crimson weight on to the seeding gra.s.s of the path, borne down by secret rain, and by their own splendour. The path was poured over with red rich silk of strewn petals.

The great flowers swung their crimson grandly about the walk, like crowds of cardinals in pomp among the green bushes. We burst into the new world of delight. As Lettie stooped, taking between both hands the gorgeous silken fulness of one blossom that was sunk to the earth.

George came down the path, with the brown bull-calf straddling behind him, its neck stuck out, sucking zealously at his middle finger.

The unconscious att.i.tudes of the girls, all bent enraptured over the peonies, touched him with sudden pain. As he came up, with the calf stalking grudgingly behind, he said:

"There's a fine show of pyeenocks this year, isn't there?"

"What do you call them?" cried Hilda, turning to him her sweet, charming face full of interest.

"Pyeenocks," he replied.

Lettie remained crouching with a red flower between her hands, glancing sideways unseen to look at the calf, which with its shiny nose uplifted was mumbling in its sticky gums the seductive finger. It sucked eagerly, but unprofitably, and it appeared to cast a troubled eye inwards to see if it were really receiving any satisfaction,-doubting, but not despairing. Marie, and Hilda, and Leslie laughed, while he, after looking at Lettie as she crouched, wistfully, as he thought, over the flower, led the little brute out of the garden, and sent it running into the yard with a smack on the haunch.

Then he returned, rubbing his sticky finger dry against his breeches. He stood near to Lettie, and she felt rather than saw the extraordinary pale cleanness of the one finger among the others. She rubbed her finger against her dress in painful sympathy.

"But aren't the flowers lovely!" exclaimed Marie again. "I want to hug them."

"Oh, yes!" a.s.sented Hilda.

"They are like a romance-D'Annunzio-a romance in pa.s.sionate sadness,"

said Lettie, in an ironical voice, speaking half out of conventional necessity of saying something, half out of desire to shield herself, and yet in a measure express herself.

"There is a tale about them," I said.

The girls clamoured for the legend.

"Pray, do tell us," pleaded Hilda, the irresistible.

"It was Emily told me-she says it's a legend, but I believe it's only a tale. She says the peonies were brought from the Hall long since by a fellow of this place-when it was a mill. He was brown and strong, and the daughter of the Hall, who was pale and fragile and young, loved him.

When he went up to the Hall gardens to cut the yew hedges, she would hover round him in her white frock, and tell him tales of old days, in little s.n.a.t.c.hes like a wren singing, till he thought she was a fairy who had bewitched him. He would stand and watch her, and one day, when she came near to him telling him a tale that set the tears swimming in her eyes, he took hold of her and kissed her and kept her. They used to tryst in the poplar spinney. She would come with her arms full of flowers, for she always kept to her fairy part. One morning she came early through the mists. He was out shooting. She wanted to take him unawares, like a fairy. Her arms were full of peonies. When she was moving beyond the trees he shot her, not knowing. She stumbled on, and sank down in their tryst place. He found her lying there among the red pyeenocks, white and fallen. He thought she was just lying talking to the red flowers, so he stood waiting. Then he went up, and bent over her, and found the flowers full of blood. It was he set the garden here with these pyeenocks."

The eyes of the girls were round with the pity of the tale and Hilda turned away to hide her tears.

"It is a beautiful ending," said Lettie, in a low tone, looking at the floor.

"It's all a tale," said Leslie, soothing the girls.

George waited till Lettie looked at him. She lifted her eyes to him at last. Then each turned aside, trembling.

Marie asked for some of the peonies.

"Give me just a few-and I can tell the others the story-it is so sad-I feel so sorry for him, it was so cruel for him--! And Lettie says it ends beautifully--!"

George cut the flowers with his great clasp knife, and Marie took them, carefully, treating their romance with great tenderness. Then all went out of the garden and he turned to the cowshed.

"Good-bye for the present," said Lettie, afraid to stay near him.

"Good-bye," he laughed.

"Thank you _so_ much for the flowers-and the story-it was splendid,"

said Marie, "-but so sad!"

Then they went, and we did not see them again.

Later, when all had gone to bed at the mill, George and I sat together on opposite sides of the fire, smoking, saying little. He was casting up the total of discrepancies, and now and again he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed one of his thoughts.

"And all day," he said, "Blench has been ploughing his wheat in, because it was that bitten off by the rabbits it was no manner of use, so he's ploughed it in: an' they say with idylls, eating peaches in our close."

Then there was silence, while the clock throbbed heavily, and outside a wild bird called, and was still; softly the ashes rustled lower in the grate.

"She said it ended well-but what's the good of death-what's the good of that?" He turned his face to the ashes in the grate, and sat brooding.

Outside, among the trees, some wild animal set up a thin, wailing cry.

"d.a.m.n that row!" said I, stirring, looking also into the grey fire.

"It's some stoat or weasel, or something. It's been going on like that for nearly a week. I've shot in the trees ever so many times. There were two-one's gone."

Continuously, through the heavy, chilling silence, came the miserable crying from the darkness among the trees.

"You know," he said, "she hated me this afternoon, and I hated her--"

It was midnight, full of sick thoughts.

"It is no good," said I. "Go to bed-it will be morning in a few hours."

PART III