The White Peacock Part 68

The father laughed his fine indulgence, saying to them-they loved him for the mellow, laughing modulation of his voice:

"Come on, then-I see there's a bit of turning-over to do, as Cyril's left. Come and pick your forks."

From among a sheaf of hayforks he chose the lightest for them, and they began anywhere, just tipping at the swaths. He showed them carefully-Marie and the charming little Hilda-just how to do it, but they found the right way the hardest way, so they worked in their own fas.h.i.+on, and laughed heartily with him when he made playful jokes at them. He was a great lover of girls, and they blossomed from timidity under his hearty influence.

"Ain' it flippin' 'ot?" drawled Cresswell, who had just taken his M. A.

degree in cla.s.sics: "This bloomin' stuff's dry enough-come an' flop on it."

He gathered a cus.h.i.+on of hay, which Louie Denys carefully appropriated, arranging first her beautiful dress, that fitted close to her shape, without any belt or interruption, and then laying her arms, that were netted to the shoulder in open lace, gracefully at rest. Lettie, who was also in a closefitting white dress which showed her shape down to the hips, sat where Leslie had prepared for her, and Miss D'Arcy reluctantly accepted my pile.

Cresswell twisted his clean-cut mouth in a little smile, saying:

"Lord, a giddy little pastoral-fit for old Theocritus, ain't it, Miss Denys?"

"Why do you talk to me about those cla.s.sic people-I daren't even say their names. What would he say about us?"

He laughed, winking his blue eyes:

"He'd make old Daphnis there,"-pointing to Leslie-"sing a match with me, Damoetas-contesting the merits of our various sheperdesses-begin Daphnis, sing up for Amaryllis, I mean Nais, d.a.m.n 'em, they were for ever getting mixed up with their nymphs."

"I say, Mr. Cresswell, your language! Consider whom you're d.a.m.ning,"

said Miss Denys, leaning over and tapping his head with her silk glove.

"You say any giddy thing in a pastoral," he replied, taking the edge of her skirt, and lying back on it, looking up at her as she leaned over him. "Strike up, Daphnis, something about honey or white cheese-or else the early apples that'll be ripe in a week's time."

"I'm sure the apples you showed me are ever so little and green,"

interrupted Miss Denys; "they will never be ripe in a week-ugh, sour!"

He smiled up at her in his whimsical way:

"Hear that, Tempest-'Ugh, sour!'-not much! Oh, love us, haven't you got a start yet?-isn't there aught to sing about, you blunt-faced kid?"

"I'll hear you first-I'm no judge of honey and cheese."

"An' darn little apples-takes a woman to judge them; don't it, Miss Denys?"

"I don't know," she said, stroking his soft hair from his forehead with her hand whereon rings were sparkling.

"'My love is not white, my hair is not yellow, like honey dropping through the sunlight-my love is brown, and sweet, and ready for the lips of love.' Go on, Tempest-strike up, old cowherd. Who's that tuning his pipe?-oh, that fellow sharpening his scythe! It's enough to make your backache to look at him working-go an' stop him, somebody."

"Yes, let us go and fetch him," said Miss D'Arcy. "I'm sure he doesn't know what a happy pastoral state he's in-let us go and fetch him."

"They don't like hindering at their work, Agnes-besides, where ignorance is bliss--" said Lettie, afraid lest she might bring him.

The other hesitated, then with her eyes she invited me to go with her.

"Oh, dear," she laughed, with a little mowe, "Freddy is such an a.s.s, and Louie Denys is like a wasp at treacle. I wanted to laugh, yet I felt just a tiny bit cross. Don't you feel great when you go mowing like that? Father Timey sort of feeling? Shall we go and look! We'll say we want those foxgloves he'll be cutting down directly-and those bell flowers. I suppose you needn't go on with your labours--"

He did not know we were approaching till I called him, then he started slightly as he saw the tall, proud girl.

"Mr. Saxton-Miss D'Arcy," I said, and he shook hands with her.

Immediately his manner became ironic, for he had seen his hand big and coa.r.s.e and inflamed with the snaith clasping the lady's hand.

"We thought you looked so fine," she said to him, "and men are so embarra.s.sing when they make love to somebody else-aren't they? Save us those foxgloves, will you-they are splendid-like savage soldiers drawn up against the hedge-don't cut them down-and those campanulas-bell-flowers, ah, yes! They are spinning idylls up there. I don't care for idylls, do you? Oh, you don't know what a cla.s.sical pastoral person you are-but there, I don't suppose you suffer from idyllic love--" she laughed, "-one doesn't see the silly little G.o.d fluttering about in our hayfields, does one? Do you find much time to sport with Amaryllis in the shade?-I'm sure it's a shame they banished Phyllis from the fields--"

He laughed and went on with his work. She smiled a little, too, thinking she had made a great impression. She put out her hand with a dramatic gesture, and looked at me, when the scythe crunched through the meadow-sweet.

"Crunch! isn't it fine!" she exclaimed, "a kind of inevitable fate-I think it's fine!"

We wandered about picking flowers and talking until teatime. A manservant came with the tea-basket, and the girls spread the cloth under a great willow tree. Lettie took the little silver kettle, and went to fill it at the small spring which trickled into a stone trough all pretty with cranesbill and stellaria hanging over, while long blades of gra.s.s waved in the water. George, who had finished his work, and wanted to go home to tea, walked across to the spring where Lettie sat playing with the water, getting little cupfuls to put into the kettle, watching the quick skating of the water beetles, and the large faint spots of their shadows darting on the silted mud at the bottom of the trough.

She glanced round on hearing him coming, and smiled nervously: they were mutually afraid of meeting each other again.

"It is about teatime," he said.

"Yes-it will be ready in a moment-this is not to make the tea with-it's only to keep a little supply of hot water."

"Oh," he said, "I'll go on home-I'd rather."

"No," she replied, "you can't because we are all having tea together: I had some fruits put up, because I know you don't trifle with tea-and your father's coming."

"But," he replied pettishly, "I can't have my tea with all those folks-I don't want to-look at me!"

He held out his inflamed, barbaric hands.

She winced and said:

"It won't matter-you'll give the realistic touch."

He laughed ironically.

"_No_-you must come," she insisted.

"I'll have a drink then, if you'll let me," he said, yielding.

She got up quickly, blus.h.i.+ng, offering him the tiny, pretty cup.

"I'm awfully sorry," she said.

"Never mind," he muttered, and turning from the proffered cup he lay down flat, put his mouth to the water, and drank deeply. She stood and watched the motion of his drinking, and of his heavy breathing afterwards. He got up, wiping his mouth, not looking at her. Then he washed his hands in the water, and stirred up the mud. He put his hand to the bottom of the trough, bringing out a handful of silt, with the grey shrimps twisting in it. He flung the mud on the floor where the poor grey creatures writhed.

"It wants cleaning out," he said.

"Yes," she replied, shuddering. "You won't be long," she added, taking up the silver kettle.

In a few moments he got up and followed her reluctantly down. He was nervous and irritable.

The girls were seated on tufts of hay, with the men leaning in attendance on them, and the manservant waiting on all. George was placed between Lettie and Hilda. The former handed him his little egg-sh.e.l.l of tea, which, as he was not very thirsty, he put down on the ground beside him. Then she pa.s.sed him the bread and b.u.t.ter, cut for five-o'clock tea, and fruits, grapes and peaches, and strawberries, in a beautifully carved oak tray. She watched for a moment his thick, half-washed fingers fumbling over the fruits, then she turned her head away. All the gay teatime, when the talk bubbled and frothed over all the cups, she avoided him with her eyes. Yet again and again, as someone said: "I'm sorry, Mr. Saxton-will you have some cake?"-or "See, Mr. Saxton-try this peach, I'm sure it will be mellow right to the stone,"-speaking very naturally, but making the distinction between him and the other men by their indulgence towards him, Lettie was forced to glance at him as he sat eating, answering in monosyllables, laughing with constraint and awkwardness, and her irritation flickered between her brows. Although she kept up the gay frivolity of the conversation, still the discord was felt by everybody, and we did not linger as we should have done over the cups. "George," they said afterwards, "was a wet blanket on the party."

Lettie was intensely annoyed with him. His presence was unbearable to her. She wished him a thousand miles away. He sat listening to Cresswell's whimsical affectation of vulgarity which flickered with fantasy, and he laughed in a strained fas.h.i.+on.