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THE WHITE PEACOCK
“I must be going now,” he said – “thank you very much –
Mother.”
“You are a harum-scarum boy. I wonder why Lettie doesn’t
come down. I know she is up.”
“Yes,” he replied. “Yes, I’ve heard her. Perhaps she is dressing. I must get off.”
“I’ll call her.”
“No – don’t bother her – she’d come if she wanted –”
But Mother had called from the foot of the stairs. “Lettie,
Lettie – he’s going.”
“All right,” said Lettie, and in another minute she came
downstairs. She was dressed in dark, severe stuff, and she was
somewhat pale. She did not look at any of us, but turned her
eyes aside.
“Good-bye,” she said to him, offering him her cheek. He
kissed her, murmuring, “Good-bye – my love.”
He stood in the doorway a moment, looking at her with
beseeching eyes. She kept her face half averted, and would not
look at him, but stood pale and cold, biting her under-lip. He
turned sharply away with a motion of keen disappointment,
set the engines of the car into action, mounted, and drove
quickly away.
Lettie stood pale and inscrutable for some moments. Then
she went in to breakfast and sat toying with her food, keeping
her head bent down, her face hidden.
In less than an hour he was back again, saying he had left
something behind. He ran upstairs, and then, hesitating, went
into the room where Lettie was still sitting at table. “I had to
come back,” he said.
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DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
She lifted her face towards him, but kept her eyes averted,
looking out of the window. She was fl ushed.
“What had you forgotten?” she asked.
“I’d left my cigarette-case,” he replied.
There was an awkward silence.
“But I shall have to be getting off,” he added.
“Yes, I suppose you will,” she replied.
After another pause, he asked:
“Won’t you just walk down the path with me?”
She rose without answering. He took a shawl and put it
round her carefully. She merely allowed him. They walked in
silence down the garden.
“You – are you – are you angry with me?” he faltered.
Tears suddenly came to her eyes.
“What did you come back for?” she said, averting her face
from him. He looked at her.
“I knew you were angry and –” he hesitated.
“Why didn’t you go away?” she said impulsively. He hung
his head and was silent.
“I don’t see why – why it should make trouble between
us, Lettie,” he faltered. She made a swift gesture of repulsion,
whereupon, catching sight of her hand, she hid it swiftly
against her skirt again.
“You make my hands – my very hands disclaim me,” she
struggled to say.
He looked at her clenched fi st pressed against the folds of
her dress.
“But –” he began, much troubled.
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THE WHITE PEACOCK
“I tell you, I can’t bear the sight of my own hands,” she said
in low, passionate tones.
“But surely, Lettie, there’s no need – if you love me –”
She seemed to wince. He waited, puzzled and miserable.
“And we’re going to be married, aren’t we?” he resumed, looking pleadingly at her.
She stirred, and exclaimed:
“Oh, why don’t you go away? What did you come back for?”
“You’ll kiss me before I go?” he asked.
She stood with averted face, and did not reply. His forehead
was twitching in a puzzled frown.
“Lettie!” he said.
She did not move or answer, but remained with her face
turned full away, so that he could see only the contour of her
cheek. After waiting awhile, he fl ushed, turned swiftly and set
his machine rattling. In a moment he was racing between the
trees.
CHAPTER IV
KISS WHEN SHE’S RIPE
FOR TEARS
It was the Sunday after Lettie’s visit. We had had a wretched week, with everybody mute and unhappy.
Though spring had come, none of us saw it. Afterwards it
occurred to me that I had seen all the ranks of poplars suddenly bursten into a dark crimson glow, with a fl utter of bloodred where the sun came through the leaves; that I had found
high cradles where the swan’s eggs lay by the water-side; that
I had seen the daffodils leaning from the moss-grown wooden
walls of the boat-house, and all, moss, daffodils, water, scattered with the pink scarves from the elm buds; that I had broken the half-spread fans of the sycamore, and had watched the
white cloud of sloe-blossom go silver grey against the evening
sky: but I had not perceived it, and I had not any vivid spring
pictures left from the neglected week.
It was Sunday evening, just after tea, when Lettie suddenly
said to me:
“Come with me down to Strelley Mill.”
I was astonished, but I obeyed unquestioningly.
On the threshold we heard a chattering of girls, and immediately Alice’s voice greeted us:
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THE WHITE PEACOCK
“Hello, Sybil, love! Hello, Lettie! Come on, here’s a gathering of the goddesses. Come on, you just make us right. You’re
Juno, and here’s Meg, she’s Venus, and I’m – here, somebody,
who am I, tell us quick – did you say Minerva, Sybil dear? Well,
you ought, then! Now, Paris, hurry up. He’s putting his Sunday
clothes on to take us a walk – Laws, what a time it takes him!
Get your blushes ready, Meg – now, Lettie, look haughty, and
I’ll look wise. I wonder if he wants me to go and tie his tie. Oh,
Glory – where on earth did you get that antimacassar?”
“In Nottingham – don’t you like it?” said George, referring
to his tie. “Hello, Lettie – have you come?”
“Yes, it’s a gathering of the goddesses. Have you that apple?
If so, hand it over,” said Alice.
“What apple?”
“Oh, Lum, his education! Paris’s apple – Can’t you see we’ve
come to be chosen?”
“Oh, well – I haven’t got any apple – I’ve eaten mine.”
“Isn’t he fl at – he’s like boiling magnesia that’s done boiling for a week. Are you going to take us all to church then?”
“If you like.”
“Come on, then. Where’s the Abode of Love? Look at Lettie
looking shocked. Awfully sorry, old girl – thought love agreed
with you.”
“Did you say love?” inquired George.
“Yes, I did; didn’t I, Meg? And you say ‘Love’ as well, don’t
you?”
“I don’t know what it is,” laughed Meg, who was very red
and rather bewildered.
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DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
“‘Amor est titillatio’ – ‘Love is a tickling’ – there – that’s
it, isn’t it, Sybil?”
“How should I know.”
“Of course not, old fellow. Leave it to the girls. See how
knowing Lettie looks – and, laws, Lettie, you are solemn.”
“It’s love,” suggested George, over his new neck-tie.
“I’ll bet it is ‘degustasse sat est’ – ain’t it, Lettie? ‘One lick’s
enough’ – ‘and damned be he that fi rst cries: Hold, enough!’ –
Which one do you like? But are you going to take us to church,
Georgie, darling – one by one, or all at once?”
“What do you want me to do, Meg?” he asked.
“Oh, I don’t mind.”
“And do you mind, Lettie?”
“I’m not going to church.”
“Let’s go a walk somewhere – and let us start now,” said
Emily somewhat testily. She did not like this nonsense. “There
you are, Syb – you’ve got your orders – don’t leave me behind,” wailed Alice.
Emily frowned and bit her fi nger.
“Come on, Georgie. You look like the fi nger of a pair of
scales – between two weights. Which’ll draw?”
“The heavier,” he replied, smiling, and looking neither at
Meg or Lettie.
“Then it’s Meg,” cried Alice. “Oh, I wish I was fl eshy – I’ve
no chance with Syb against Pem.”
Emily fl ashed looks of rage; Meg blushed and felt ashamed;
Lettie began to recover from her fi rst outraged indignation,
and smiled.
Thus we went a walk, in two trios.
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THE WHITE PEACOCK
Unfortunately, as the evening was so fi ne, the roads were
full of strollers: groups of three or four men dressed in pale
trousers and shiny black cloth coats, following their suspicious
little dogs: gangs of youths slouching along, occupied with
nothing, often silent, talking now and then in raucous tones
on some subjects of brief interest: then the gallant husbands,
in their tail coats very husbandly, pushing a jingling perambulator, admonished by a much-dressed spouse round whom
the small members of the family gyrated: occasionally, two lovers walking with a space between them, disowning each other;
occasionally, a smartly dressed mother with two little girls in
white silk frocks and much expanse of yellow hair, stepping
mincingly, and, near by, a father awkwardly controlling his
Sunday suit.
To endure all this it was necessary to chatter unconcernedly. George had to keep up the conversation behind, and he
seemed to do it with ease, discoursing on the lambs, discussing
the breed – when Meg exclaimed:
“Oh, aren’t they black! They might ha’ crept down th’ chimney. I never saw any like them before.” He described how he
had reared two on the bottle, exciting Meg’s keen admiration
by his mothering of the lambs. Then he went on to the peewits, harping on the same string: how they would cry and pretend to be wounded – “Just fancy, though!” – and how he had
moved the eggs of one pair while he was ploughing, and the
mother had followed them, and had even sat watching as he
drew near again with the plough, watching him come and go
– “Well, she knew you – but they do know those who are kind
to them –”
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DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
“Yes,” he agreed, “her little bright eyes seem to speak as
you go by.”
“Oh, I do think they’re nice little things – don’t you, Lettie?” cried Meg in access of tenderness.
Lettie did – with brevity.
We walked over the hills and down into Greymede. Meg
thought she ought to go home to her grandmother, and George
bade her go, saying he would call and see her in an hour or so.
The dear girl was disappointed, but she went unmurmuring. We left Alice with a friend, and hurried home through
Selsby to escape the after-church parade.
As you walk home past Selsby, the pit stands up against
the west, with beautiful tapering chimneys marked in black
against the swim of sunset, and the head-stocks etched with
tall signifi cance on the brightness. Then the houses are squat
in rows of shadow at the foot of these high monuments.
“Do you know, Cyril,” said Emily, “I have meant to go and
see Mrs Annable – the keeper’s wife – she’s moved into Bonsart’s Row, and the children come to school – Oh, it’s awful! –
they’ve never been to school, and they are unspeakable.”
“What’s she gone there for?” I asked.
“I suppose the squire wanted the Kennels – and she chose
it herself. But the way they live – it’s fearful to think of!”
“And why haven’t you been?”
“I don’t know – I’ve meant to – but –” Emily stumbled.
“You didn’t want, and you daren’t?”
“Perhaps not – would you?”
“Pah – let’s go now! – There, you hang back.”
“No, I don’t,” she replied sharply.
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THE WHITE PEACOCK
“Come on then, we’ll go through the twitchel. Let me tell
Lettie.”
Lettie at once declared, “No!” – with some asperity. “All
right,” said George. “I’ll take you home.”
But this suited Lettie still less.
“I don’t know what you want to go for, Cyril,” she said, “and
Sunday night, and, everybody everywhere. I want to go home.”
“Well – you go then – Emily will come with you.”
“Ha,” cried the latter, “you think I won’t go to see her.”
I shrugged my shoulders, and George pulled his moustache.
“Well, I don’t care,” declared Lettie, and we marched down the
twitchel, Indian fi le.
We came near to the ugly rows of houses that back up
against the pit-hill. Everywhere is black and sooty; the houses are back to back, having only one entrance, which is from
a square garden where black-speckled weeds grow sulkily, and
which looks on to a row of evil little ash-pit huts. The road
everywhere is trodden over with a crust of soot and coal-dust
and cinders.
Between the rows, however, was a crowd of women and
children, bare hands, bare arms, white aprons, and black Sunday frocks bristling with gimp. One or two men squatted on
their heels with their backs against a wall, laughing. The women were waving their arms and screaming up at the roof of the
end house.
Emily and Lettie drew back.
“Look there – it’s that little beggar, Sam!” said George.
There, sure enough, perched on the ridge of the roof
against the end chimney, was the young imp, coatless, his
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DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
shirt-sleeves torn away from the cuffs. I knew his bright, reddish young head in a moment. He got up, his bare toes clinging
to the tiles, and spread out his fi ngers fanwise from his nose,
shouting something, which immediately caused the crowd to
toss with indignation, and the women to shriek again. Sam sat
down suddenly, having almost lost his balance.
The village constable hurried up, his thin neck stretching
out of his tunic, and demanded the cause of the hubbub.
Immediately a woman, with bright brown squinting eyes
and a birthmark on her cheek, rushed forward and seized the
policeman by the sleeve.
“Ta’e ’im up, ta’e ’im up, an’ birch ’im till ‘is bloody back’s
raw,” she screamed.
The thin policeman shook her off, and wanted to know
what as the matter.
“I’ll smosh ’im like a rotten tater,” cried the woman, “if
I can lay ‘ands on ’im. ‘E’s not fi t ter live nowhere where there’s
decent folks – the thievin’, brazen little devil –” thus she
went on.
“But what’s up!” interrupted the thin constable, “What’s
up wi’ ’im?”
“Up – it’s ’im as ‘is up, an’ let ’im wait till I get ’im down.
A crafty little –”
Sam, seeing her look at him, distorted his honest features,
and overheated her wrath, till Lettie and Emily trembled with
dismay.
The mother’s head appeared at the bedroom window. She
slid the sash back, and craned out, vainly trying to look over
the gutter below the slates. She was even more dishevelled than
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