The White Peacock Part 84

"What is the matter?" she said, sinking onto the small sofa near to him.

"Nothing!" he replied-"You are looking very beautiful."

"There, I wanted you to say that! You ought to be quite gay, you know, when I am so smart to-night."

"Nay," he said, "I know I ought. But the to-morrow seems to have fallen in love with me. I can't get out of its lean arms."

"Why!" she said. "To-morrow's arms are not lean. They are white, like mine." She lifted her arms and looked at them, smiling.

"How do you know?" he asked, pertinently.

"Oh, of course they are," was her light answer.

He laughed, brief and sceptical.

"No!" he said. "It came when the children kissed us."

"What?" she asked.

"These lean arms of tomorrow's round me, and the white arms round you,"

he replied, smiling whimsically. She reached out and clasped his hand.

"You foolish boy," she said.

He laughed painfully, not able to look at her.

"You know," he said, and his voice was low and difficult "I have needed you for a light. You will soon be the only light again."

"Who is the other?" she asked.

"My little girl!" he answered. Then he continued, "And you know, I couldn't endure complete darkness, I couldn't. It's the solitariness."

"You mustn't talk like this," she said. "You know you mustn't." She put her hand on his head and ran her fingers through the hair he had so ruffled.

"It is as thick as ever, your hair," she said.

He did not answer, but kept his face bent out of sight. She rose from her seat and stood at the back of his low arm-chair. Taking an amber comb from her hair, she bent over him, and with the translucent comb and her white fingers she busied herself with his hair.

"I believe you _would_ have a parting," she said softly.

He laughed shortly at her playfulness. She continued combing, just touching, pressing the strands in place with the tips of her fingers.

"I was only a warmth to you," he said, pursuing the same train of thought. "So you could do without me. But you were like the light to me, and otherwise it was dark and aimless. Aimlessness is horrible."

She had finally smoothed his hair, so she lifted her hands and put back her head.

"There!" she said. "It looks fair fine, as Alice would say. Raven's wings are raggy in comparison."

He did not pay any attention to her.

"Aren't you going to look at yourself?" she said, playfully reproachful.

She put her finger-tips under his chin. He lifted his head and they looked at each other, she smiling, trying to make him play, he smiling with his lips, but not with eyes, dark with pain.

"We can't go on like this, Lettie, can we?" he said softly.

"Yes," she answered him, "Yes; why not?"

"It can't!" he said, "It can't, I couldn't keep it up, Lettie."

"But don't think about it," she answered. "Don't think of it."

"Lettie," he said. "I have to set my teeth with loneliness."

"Hush!" she said. "No! There are the children. Don't say anything-do not be serious, will you?"

"No, there are the children," he replied, smiling dimly.

"Yes! Hush now! Stand up and look what a fine parting I have made in your hair. Stand up, and see if my style becomes you."

"It is no good, Lettie," he said, "we can't go on."

"Oh, but come, come, come!" she exclaimed. "We are not talking about going on; we are considering what a fine parting I have made you down the middle, like two wings of a spread bird--" she looked down, smiling playfully on him, just closing her eyes slightly in pet.i.tion.

He rose and took a deep breath, and set his shoulders.

"No," he said, and at the sound of his voice, Lettie went pale and also stiffened herself.

"No!" he repeated. "It is impossible. I felt as soon as Fred came into the room-it must be one way or another."

"Very well then," said Lettie, coldly. Her voice was "muted" like a violin.

"Yes," he replied, submissive. "The children." He looked at her, contracting his lips in a smile of misery.

"Are you sure it must be so final?" she asked, rebellious, even resentful. She was twisting the azurite jewels on her bosom, and pressing the blunt points into her flesh. He looked up from the fascination of her action when he heard the tone of her last question.

He was angry.

"Quite sure!" he said at last, simply, ironically.

She bowed her head in a.s.sent. His face twitched sharply as he restrained himself from speaking again. Then he turned and quietly left the room.

She did not watch him go, but stood as he had left her. When, after some time, she heard the grating of his dog-cart on the gravel, and then the sharp trot of hoofs down the frozen road, she dropped herself on the settee, and lay with her bosom against the cushions, looking fixedly at the wall.

CHAPTER VI

THE SCARP SLOPE