The White Peacock

by D. H. Lawrence

  He reared up, and walked to her side. She put him through the steps, even dragging him round the waltz. It was very ridiculous. When it was finished she bowed him to his seat, and, wiping her hands on her handkerchief, because his shirt where her hand had rested on his shoulders was moist, she thanked him.

  "I hope you enjoyed it," he said.

  "Ever so much," she replied.

  "You made me look a fool--so no doubt you did."

  "Do you think you could look a fool? Why, you are ironical! Ca marche! In other words, you have come on. But it is a sweet dance."

  He looked at her, lowered his eyelids, and said nothing. "Ah, well," she laughed, "some are bred for the minuet, and some for--"

  "--Less tomfoolery," he answered.

  "Ah--you call it tomfoolery because you cannot do it. Myself, I like it--so--"

  "And I can't do it?"

  "Could you? Did you? You are not built that way."

  "Sort of Clarence MacFadden," he said, lighting a pipe as if the conversation did not interest him.

  "Yes--what ages since we sang that!"

  'Clarence MacFadden he wanted to dance But his feet were not gaited that way...'

  "I remember we sang it after one corn harvest--we had a fine time. I never thought of you before as Clarence. It is very funny. By the way--will you come to our party at Christmas?"

  "When? Who's coming?"

  "The twenty-sixth--Oh!--only the old people--Alice--Tom Smith--Fanny--those from Highclose."

  "And what will you do?"

  "Sing--charades---dance a little--anything you like."

  "Polka?"

  "And minuets--and valetas. Come and dance a valeta, Cyril."

  She made me take her through a valeta, a minuet, a mazurka, and she danced elegantly, but with a little of Carmen's ostentation--her dash and devilry. When we had finished, the father said:

  "Very pretty--very pretty, indeed! They do look nice, don't they, George? I wish I was young."

  "As I am--" said George, laughing bitterly.

  "Show me how to do them--some time, Cyril," said Emily, in her pleading way, which displeased Lettie so much. "Why don't you ask me?" said the latter quickly. "Well--but you are not often here."

  "I am here now. Come--" and she waved Emily imperiously to the attempt.

  Lettie, as I have said, is tall, approaching six feet; she is lissome. but firmly moulded, by nature graceful; in her poise and harmonious movement are revealed the subtle sympathies of her artist's soul. The other is shorter, much heavier. In her every motion you can see the extravagance of her emotional nature. She quivers with feeling; emotion conquers and carries havoc through her, for she had not a strong intellect, nor a heart of light humour; her nature is brooding and defenceless; she knows herself powerless in the tumult of her feelings, and adds to her misfortunes a profound mistrust of herself.

  As they danced together, Lettie and Emily, they showed in striking contrast. My sister's ease and beautiful poetic movement were exquisite; the other could not control her movements, but repeated the same error again and again. She gripped Lettie's hand fiercely, and glanced up with eyes full of humiliation and terror of her continued failure, and passionate, trembling, hopeless desire to succeed. To show her, to explain, made matters worse. As soon as she trembled on the brink of an action, the terror of not being able to perform it properly blinded her, and she was conscious of nothing but that she must do something--in a turmoil. At last Lettie ceased to talk, and merely swung her through the dances haphazard. This way succeeded better. So long as Emily need not think about her actions, she had a large, free grace; and the swing and rhythm and time were imparted through her senses rather than through her intelligence.

  It was time for supper. The mother came down for a while, and we talked quietly, at random. Lettie did not utter a word about her engagement, not a suggestion. She made it seem as if things were just as before, although I am sure she had discovered that I had told George. She intended that we should play as if ignorant of her bond.

  After supper, when we were ready to go home, Lettie said to him:

  "By the way--you must send us some mistletoe for the party--with plenty of berries, you know. Are there many berries on your mistletoe this year?"

  "I do not know--I have never looked. We will go and see--if you like," George answered.

  "But will you come out into the cold?"

  He pulled on his boots, and his coat, and twisted a scarf round his neck. The young moon had gone. It was very dark--the liquid stars wavered. The great night filled us with awe. Lettie caught hold of my arm, and held it tightly. He passed on in front to open the gates. We went down into the front garden, over the turf bridge where the sluice rushed coldly under, on to the broad slope of the bank. We could just distinguish the gnarled old apple trees leaning about us. We bent our heads to avoid the boughs, and followed George. He hesitated a moment, saying:

  "Let me see--I think they are there--the two trees with mistletoe on."

  We again followed silently.

  "Yes," he said. "Here they are!"

  We went close and peered into the old trees. We could just see the dark bush of the mistletoe between the boughs of the tree. Lettie began to laugh.

  "Have we come to count the berries?" she said. "I can't even see the mistletoe."

  She leaned forward and upwards to pierce the darkness; he, also straining to look, felt her breath on his cheek, and turning, saw the pallor of her face close to his, and felt the dark glow of her eyes. He caught her in his arms, and held her mouth in a kiss. Then, when he released her, he turned away, saying something incoherent about going to fetch the lantern to look. She remained with her back towards me, and pretended to be feeling among the mistletoe for the berries. Soon I saw the swing of the hurricane lamp below.

  "He is bringing the lantern," said I.

  When he came up, he said, and his voice was strange and subdued:

  "Now we can see what it's like."

  He went near, and held up the lamp, so that it illuminated both their faces, and the fantastic boughs of the trees, and the weird bush of mistletoe sparsely pearled with berries. Instead of looking at the berries they looked into each other's eyes; his lids flickered, and he flushed, in the yellow light of the lamp looking warm and handsome; he looked upwards in confusion and said, "There are plenty of berries."

  As a matter of fact, there were very few.

  She too looked up, and murmured her assent. The light seemed to hold them as in a globe, in another world, apart from the night in which I stood. He put up his hand and broke off a sprig of mistletoe, with berries, and offered it to her. They looked into each other's eyes again. She put the mistletoe among her furs, looking down at her bosom. They remained still, in the centre of light, with the lamp uplifted; the red and black scarf wrapped loosely round his neck gave him a luxurious, generous look. He lowered the lamp and said, affecting to speak naturally:

  "Yes--there is plenty this year."

  "You will give me some," she replied, turning away and finally breaking the spell.

  "When shall I cut it?"--He strode beside her, swinging the lamp, as we went down the bank to go home. He came as far as the brooks without saying another word. Then he bade us good night. When he had lighted her over the stepping-stones, she did not take my arm as we walked home.

  During the next two weeks we were busy preparing for Christmas, ranging the woods for the reddest holly, and pulling the gleaming ivy-bunches from the trees. From the farms around came the cruel yelling of pigs, and in the evening later, was a scent of pork-pies. Far off on the high-way could be heard the sharp trot of ponies hastening with Christmas goods.

  There the carts of the hucksters dashed by to the expectant villagers, triumphant with great bunches of light foreign mistletoe, gay with oranges peeping through the boxes, and scarlet intrusion of apples, and wild confusion of cold, dead poultry. The hucksters waved their whips triumphantly, the little ponies rattled bravely under t
he sycamores, towards Christmas.

  In the late afternoon of the 24th, when dust was rising under the hazel brake, I was walking with Lettie. All among the mesh of twigs overhead was tangled a dark red sky. The boles of the trees grew denser--almost blue.

  Tramping down the riding we met two boys, fifteen or sixteen years old. Their clothes were largely patched with tough cotton moleskin; scarves were knotted round their throats, and in their pockets rolled tin bottles full of tea, and the white knobs of their knotted snap-bags.

  "Why!" said Lettie. "Are you going to work on Christmas eve?"

  "It looks like it, don't it?" said the elder.

  "And what time will you be coming back?"

  "About 'alf-past tow."

  "Christmas morning!"

  "You'll be able to look out for the herald Angels and the Star," said I.

  "They'd think we was two dirty little 'uns," said the younger lad, laughing.

  "They'll 'appen 'a done before we get up ter th' top," added the elder boy, "an' they'll none venture down th' shaft."

  "If they did," put in the other, "you'd ha'e ter bath 'em after. I'd gi'e 'em a bit o' my pasty."

  "Come on," said the elder sulkily.

  They tramped off, slurring their heavy boots.

  "Merry Christmas!" I called after them.

  "In th' mornin'," replied the elder.

  "Same to you," said the younger, and he began to sing with a tinge of bravado.

  "In the fields with their flocks abiding. They lay on the dewy ground--"

  "Fancy," said Lettie, "those boys are working for me!" We were all going to the party at Highclose. I happened to go into the kitchen about half-past seven. The lamp was turned low, and Rebecca sat in the shadows. On the table, in the light of the lamp, I saw a glass vase with five or six very beautiful Christmas roses.

  "Hullo, Becka, who's sent you these?" said I.

  "They're not sent,". replied Rebecca from the depth of the shadow, with suspicion of tears in her voice.

  "Why! I never saw them in the garden."

  "Perhaps not. But I've watched them these three weeks, and kept them under glass."

  "For Christmas? They are beauties. I thought someone must have sent them to you."

  "It's little as 'as ever been sent me," replied Rebecca, "an' less as will be."

  "Why--what's the matter?"

  "Nothing. Who'm I, to have anything the matter! Nobody--nor ever was, nor ever will be. And I'm getting old as well."

  "Something's upset you, Becky."

  "What does it matter if it has? What are my feelings? A bunch o' fal-de-rol flowers as a gardener clips off wi' never a thought is preferred before mine as I've fettled after this three-week. I can sit at home to keep my flowers company--nobody wants 'em."

  I remembered that Lettie was wearing hot-house flowers; she was excited and full of the idea of the party at Highclose; I could imagine her quick "Oh no, thank you, Rebecca. I have had a spray sent to me--"

  "Never mind, Becky," said I, "she is excited tonight."

  "An' I'm easy forgotten."

  "So are we all, Becky--tant mieux."

  At Highclose Lettie made a stir. Among the little belles of the countryside, she was decidedly the most distinguished. She was brilliant, moving as if in a drama. Leslie was enraptured, ostentatious in his admiration, proud of being so well infatuated. They looked into each other's eyes when they met, both triumphant, excited, blazing arch looks at one another. Lettie was enjoying her public demonstration immensely; it exhilarated her into quite a vivid love for him. He was magnificent in response. Meanwhile, the honoured lady of the house, pompous and ample, sat aside with my mother conferring her patronage on the latter amiable little woman, who smiled sardonically and watched Lettie. It was a splendid party; it was brilliant, it was dazzling.

  I danced with several ladies, and honourably kissed each under the mistletoe--except that two of them kissed me first, it was all done in a most correct manner.

  "You wolf," said Miss Wookey archly. "I believe you are a wolf--a veritable rôdeur des femmes--and you look such a lamb too--such a dear."

  "Even my bleat reminds you of Mary's pet."

  "But you are not my pet--at least--it is well that my Golaud doesn't hear you--"

  "If he is so very big--" said I.

  "He is really; he's beefy. I've engaged myself to him, somehow or other. One never knows how one does those things, do they?"

  "I couldn't speak from experience," said I.

  "Cruel man! I suppose I felt Christmasy, and I'd just been reading Maeterlinck--and he really is big."

  "Who?" I asked.

  "Oh--He, of course. My Golaud. I can't help admiring men who are a bit avoirdupoisy. It is unfortunate they can't dance."

  "Perhaps fortunate," said I.

  "I can see you hate him. Pity I didn't think to ask him if he danced--before--"

  "Would it have influenced you very much?"

  "Well--of course--one can be free to dance all the more with the really nice men whom one never marries."

  "Why not?"

  "Oh--you can only marry one--"

  "Of course."

  "There he is--he's coming for me! Oh, Frank, you leave me to the tender mercies of the world at large. I thought you'd forgotten me, dear."

  "I thought the same," replied her Golaud, a great fat fellow with a childish bare face. He smiled awesomely, and one never knew what he meant to say.

  We drove home in the early Christmas morning. Lettie, warmly wrapped in her cloak, had had a little stroll with her lover in the shrubbery. She was still brilliant, flashing in her movements. He, as he bade her good-bye, was almost beautiful in his grace and his low musical tone. I nearly loved him myself. She was very fond towards him. As we came to the gate where the private road branched from the highroad, we heard John say "Thank you"--and looking out, saw our two boys returning from the pit. They were very grotesque in the dark nights as the lamplight fell on them, showing them grimy, flecked with bits of snow. They shouted merrily, their good wishes. Lettie leaned out and waved to them, and they cried "'ooray!" Christmas came in with their acclamations.

  CHAPTER IX - LETTIE COMES OF AGE

  Lettie was twenty-one on the day after Christmas. She woke me in the morning with cries of dismay. There was a great fall of snow, multiplying the cold morning light, startling the slow-footed twilight. The lake was black like the open eyes of a corpse; the woods were black like the beard on the face of a corpse. A rabbit bobbed out, and floundered in much consternation; little birds settled into the depth, and rose in a dusty whirr, much terrified at the universal treachery of the earth. The snow was eighteen inches deep, and drifted in places.

  "They will never come!" lamented Lettie, for it was the day of her party.

  "At any rate--Leslie will," said I.

  "One!" she exclaimed.

  "That one is all, isn't it?" said I. "And for sure George will come, though I've not seen him this fortnight. He's not been in one night, they say, for a fortnight."

  "Why not?"

  "I cannot say."

  Lettie went away to ask Rebecca for the fiftieth time if she thought they would come. At any rate, the extra woman-help came.

  It was not more than ten o'clock when Leslie arrived, ruddy, with shining eyes, laughing like a boy. There was much stamping in the porch, and knocking of leggings with his stick, and crying of Lettie from the kitchen to know who had come, and loud, cheery answers from the porch bidding her come and see. She came, and greeted him with effusion.

  "Ha, my little woman!" he said, kissing her. "I declare you are a woman. Look at yourself in the glass now--"

  She did so--

  "What do you see?" he asked, laughing.

  "You--mighty gay, looking at me."

  "Ah, but look at yourself. There! I declare you're more afraid of your own eyes than of mine, aren't you?"

  "I am," she said, and he kissed her with rapture.

  "It's your birthday,"
he said.

  "I know," she replied.

  "So do I. You promised me something."

  "What?" she asked.

  "Here--see if you like it"--he gave her a little case. She opened it, and instinctively slipped the ring on her finger. He made a movement of pleasure. She looked up, laughing breathlessly at him.

  "Now!" said he, in times of finality.

  "Ah!" she exclaimed in a strange, thrilled voice.

  He caught her in his arms.

  After a while, when they could talk rationally again, she said: "Do you think they will come to my party?"

  "I hope not--By Heaven!"

  "But--oh yes! We have made all preparations."

  "What does that matter! Ten thousand folks here today--!"

  "Not ten thousand--only five or six. I shall be wild if they can't come."

  "You want them?"

  "We have asked them--and everything is ready--and I do want us to have a party one day."

  "But today--damn it all, Lettie!"

  "But I did want my party today. Don't you think they'll come?"

  "They won't if they've any sense!"

  "You might help me--" she pouted.

  "Well, I'll be--! and you've set your mind on having a houseful of people today?"

  "You know how we look forward to it--my party. At any rate--I know Tom Smith will come--and I'm almost sure Emily Saxton will."

  He bit his moustache angrily, and said at last:

  "Then I suppose I'd better send John round for the lot."

  "It wouldn't be much trouble, would it?"

  "No trouble at all."

  "Do you know," she said, twisting the ring on her finger, "it makes me feel as if I tied something round my finger to remember by. It somehow remains in my consciousness all the time."

  "At any rate," said he, "I have got you."

  After dinner, when we were alone, Lettie sat at the table, nervously fingering her ring.

  "It is pretty, Mother, isn't it?" she said a trifle pathetically.

  "Yes, very pretty. I have always liked Leslie," replied my mother.

  "But it feels so heavy--it fidgets me. I should like to take it off."

  "You are like me, I never could wear rings. I hated my wedding ring for months."