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THE WHITE PEACOCK
usual, and the tears had dried on her pale face. She stretched
farther out, clinging to the window-frame and to the gutter
overhead, till I was afraid she would come down with a crash.
The men, squatting on their heels against the wall of the
ash-pit laughed, saying:
“Nab ’im, Poll – can ter see ’im-clawk ’im!” and then the
pitiful voice of the woman was heard crying, “Come thy ways
down, my duckie, come on – on’y come ter thy mother – they
shanna touch thee. Du thy mother’s biddin’ now – Sam –
Sam – Sam!” her voice rose higher and higher.
“Sammy, Sammy, go to thy mammy,” jeered the wits below.
“Shonna ter come, shonna ter come to thy mother, my duckie – come on, come thy ways down.”
Sam looked at the crowd, and at the eaves from under which
rose his mother’s voice. He was going to cry. A big gaunt woman, with the family steel comb stuck in her back hair, shouted,
“Tha’ mun well bend thy face, tha’ needs ter scraight,” and,
aided by the woman with the birthmark and the squint, she
reviled him. The little scoundrel, in a burst of defi ance, picked
a piece of mortar from between the slates, and in a second it
fl ew into fragments against the family steel comb. The wearer
thereof declared her head was laid open and there was general
confusion. The policeman – I don’t know how thin he must
have been when he was taken out of his uniform – lost his
head, and he too began brandishing his fi sts, spitting from under his sweep’s-brush moustache as he commanded in tones of
authority:
“Now then, no more on it – let’s ‘a’e thee down here, an’ no
more messin’ about!”
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DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
The boy tried to creep over the ridge of the roof and escape
down the other side. Immediately the brats rushed round yelling to the other side of the row, and pieces of red-burnt gravel
began to fl y over the roof. Sam crouched against the chimney.
“Got ’im!” yelled one little devil “Got ’im! Hi – go again!”
A shower of stones came down, scattering the women and
the policeman. The mother rushed from the house and made
a wild onslaught on the throwers. She caught one and fl ung
him down. Immediately the rest turned and aimed their missiles at her. Then George and the policeman and I dashed after
the young wretches, and the women ran to see what happened
to their offspring. We caught two lads of fourteen or so, and
made the policeman haul them after us. The rest fl ed.
When we returned to the fi eld of battle, Sam had gone too.
“If ‘e ‘asna slived off!” cried the woman with a squint. “But
I’ll see him locked up for this.”
At this moment a band of missioners from one of the chapels or churches arrived at the end of the row, and the little
harmonium began to bray, and the place vibrated with the
sound of a woman’s powerful voice, propped round by several
others, singing:
“At even ’ere the sun was set –”
Everybody hurried towards the new noise, save the policeman with his captives, the woman with the squint, and the
woman with the family comb. I told the limb of the law he’d
better get rid of the two boys and fi nd out what mischief the
others were after.
Then I enquired of the woman with the squint what was
the matter.
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THE WHITE PEACOCK
“Thirty-seven young ‘uns ‘an we ‘ad from that doe, an’
there’s no knowin’ ‘ow many more, if they ‘adn’t a-gone an’
ate-n ‘er,” she replied, lapsing, now her fury was spent, into
sullen resentment.
“An’ niver a word should we a’ known,” added the familycomb-bearer, “but for that blessed cat of ourn, as scrat it up.”
“Indeed,” said I, “the rabbit?”
“No, there were nöwt left but th’ skin – they’d seen ter
that, a thieving, dirt-eatin’ lot.”
“When was that?” said I.
“This mortal night – an’ there was th’ head an’ th’ back in
th’ dirty stewpot – I can show you this instant – I’ve got ’em in
our pantry for a proof, ‘aven’t I, Martha?”
“A fat lot o’ good it is – but I’ll rip th’ neck out of ’im, if ever
I lay ‘ands on ’im.”
At last I made out that Samuel had stolen a large, lop-eared
doe out of a bunch in the coal-house of the squint-eyed lady,
had skinned it, buried the skin, and offered his booty to his
mother as a wild rabbit, trapped. The doe had been the chief
item of the Annables’ Sunday dinner – albeit a portion was
unluckily saved till Monday, providing undeniable proof of
the theft. The owner of the rabbit had supposed the creature
to have escaped. This peaceful supposition had been destroyed
by the comb-bearer’s seeing her cat, scratching in the Annable
garden, unearth the white and brown doe-skin, after which
the trouble had begun.
The squint-eyed woman was not so hard to manage. I talked to her as if she were some male friend of mine, only appealing to her womanliness with all the soft sadness I could
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DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
press into the tones of my voice. In the end she was mollifi ed,
and even tender and motherly in her feelings towards the unfortunate family. I left on her dresser the half-crown I shrank
from offering her, and, having reduced the comb-wearer also,
I marched off, carrying the stewpot and the fragments of the
ill-fated doe to the cottage of the widow, where George and
the girls awaited me.
The house was in a woeful state. In the rocking-chair, beside the high guard that surrounded the hearth, sat the mother, rocking, looking sadly shaken now her excitement was
over. Lettie was nursing the little baby, and Emily the next
child. George was smoking his pipe and trying to look natural.
The little kitchen was crowded – there was no room – there
was not even a place on the table for the stew-jar, so I gathered
together cups and mugs containing tea sops, and set down the
vessel of ignominy on the much-slopped tea-cloth. The four
little children were striped and patched with tears – at my
entrance one under the table recommenced to weep, so I gave
him my pencil which pushed in and out, but which pushes in
and out no more.
The sight of the stewpot affected the mother afresh. She
wept again, crying:
“An’ I niver thought as ‘ow it were aught but a snared ’un;
as if I should set ’im on ter thieve their old doe; an’ tough it was
an’ all; an’ ’im a thief, an’ me called all the names they could
lay their tongues to; an’ then in my bit of a pantry, takin’ the
very pots out; that stewpot as I brought all the way from Nottingham, an’ I’ve ‘ad it afore our Minnie wor born –”
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THE WHITE PEACOCK
The baby, the little baby, then began to cry. The mother got
up suddenly, and took it.
“Oh, come then, come then, my pet. Why, why cos they
shanna, no they shanna. Yes, he’s his mother’s least little lad,
he is, a little ’un. Hush then, there, there – what’s a matter, my
little?”
She hushed the baby, and herself. At length she asked: “‘As
th’ p’liceman gone as well?”
“Yes – it’s all right,” I said.
She sighed deeply, and her look of weariness was painful
to see.
“How old is your eldest?” I asked.
“Fanny – she’s fourteen. She’s out service at Websters.
Then Jim, as is thirteen next month – let’s see, yes, it is next
month – he’s gone to Flints – farming. They can’t do much –
an’ I shan’t let ’em go into th’ pit, if I can help it. My husband
always used to say they should never go in th’ pit.”
“They can’t do much for you.”
“They dun what they can. But it’s a hard job, it is, ter keep
’em all goin’. Wi’ weshin’, an’ th’ parish pay, an’ fi ve shillin’
from th’ squire – it’s ‘ard. It was diff’rent when my husband
was alive. It ought ter ‘a been me as should ‘a died – I don’t
seem as if I can manage ’em-they get beyond me. I wish I was
dead this minnit, an’ ’im ’ere. I can’t understand it: ’im as wor
so capable, to be took, an’ me left. ‘E wor a man in a thousand,
‘e wor – full o’ management like a gentleman. I wisht it was me
as ‘ad a been took. ‘An ‘e’s restless, ‘cos ‘e knows I fi nd it ‘ard.
I stood at th’ door last night, when they was all asleep, looking
out over th’ pit pond – an’ I saw a light, an’ I knowed it was
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DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
’im-cos it wor our weddin’ day yesterday – by the day an’ th’
date. An’ I said to ’im, ‘Frank, is it thee, Frank? I’m all right, I’m
gettin’ on all right’ – an’ then ‘e went; seemed to go ower the
whimsey an’ back towards th’ wood. I know it wor ’im, an’ ‘e
couldna rest, thinkin’ I couldna manage –”
After a while we left, promising to go again, and to see after
the safety of Sam.
It was quite dark, and the lamps were lighted in the houses.
We could hear the throb of the fan-house engines, and the soft
whirr of the fan.
“Isn’t it cruel?” said Emily plaintively.
“Wasn’t the man a wretch to marry the woman like that,”
added Lettie with decision.
“Speak of Lady Chrystabel,” said I, and then there was silence. “I suppose he did not know what he was doing, any more
than the rest of us.”
“I thought you were going to your aunt’s – to the Ram
Inn,” said Lettie to George when they came to the cross-roads.
“Not now – it’s too late,” he answered quietly. “You will
come round our way, won’t you?”
“Yes,” she said.
We were eating bread and milk at the farm, and the father
was talking with vague sadness and reminiscence, lingering
over the thought of their departure from the old house. He
was a pure romanticist, forever seeking the colour of the past
in the present’s monotony. He seemed settling down to an easy
contented middle age, when the unrest on the farm and development of his children quickened him with fresh activity. He
read books on the land question and modern novels. In the
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THE WHITE PEACOCK
end he became an advanced radical, almost a socialist. Occasionally his letters appeared in the newspapers. He had taken
a new hold on life.
Over supper he became enthusiastic about Canada, and to
watch him, his ruddy face lighted up, his burly form straight
and nerved with excitement, was to admire him; to hear him,
his words of thoughtful common sense all warm with a young
man’s hopes, was to love him. At forty-fi ve he was more spontaneous and enthusiastic than George, and far more happy
and hopeful.
Emily would not agree to go away with them – what should
she do in Canada, she said – and she did not want the little
ones “to be drudges on a farm – in the end to be nothing but
cattle”.
“Nay,” said her father gently, “Mollie shall learn the dairying, and David will just be right to take to the place when
I give up. It’ll perhaps be a bit rough and hard at fi rst, but
when we’ve got over it we shall think it was one of the best
times – like you do.”
“And you, George?” asked Lettie.
“I’m not going. What should I go for? There’s nothing at
the end of it only a long life. It’s like a day here in June –
a long work day, pleasant enough, and when it’s done you
sleep well – but it’s work and sleep and comfort – half a life.
It’s not enough. What’s the odds? – I might as well be Flower,
the mare.”
His father looked at him gravely and thoughtfully.
“Now it seems to me so different,” he said sadly, “it seems to
me you can live your own life, and be independent, and think
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DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
as you like without being choked with harassments. I feel as if
I could keep on – like that –”
“I’m going to get more out of my life, I hope,” laughed
George. “No. Do you know?” and here he turned straight to
Lettie. “Do you know, I’m going to get pretty rich, so that I can
do what I want for a bit. I want to see what it’s like, to taste all
sides – to taste the towns. I want to know what I’ve got in me.
I’ll get rich – or at least I’ll have a good try.”
“And pray how will you manage it?” asked Emily.
“I’ll begin by marrying – and then you’ll see.”
Emily laughed with scorn – “Let us see you begin.”
“Ah, you’re not wise!” said the father sadly – then, laughing, he said to Lettie in coaxing, confi dential tones, “But he’ll
come out there to me in a year or two – you see if he doesn’t.”
“I wish I could come now,” said I.
“If you would,” said George, “I’d go with you. But not by
myself, to become a fat stupid fool, like my own cattle.”
While he was speaking Gyp burst into a rage of barking.
The father got up to see what it was, and George followed.
Trip, the great bull-terrier, rushed out of the house shaking
the buildings with his roars. We saw the white dog fl ash down
the yard, we heard a rattle from the hen-house ladder, and in
a moment a scream from the orchard side.
We rushed forward, and there on the sharp bank-side lay
a little fi gure, face down, and Trip standing over it, looking
rather puzzled.
I picked up the child – it was Sam. He struggled as soon as
he felt my hands, but I bore him off to the house. He wriggled
like a wild hare, and kicked, but at last he was still. I set him on
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THE WHITE PEACOCK
the hearth-rug to examine him. He was a quaint little fi gure,
dressed in a man’s trousers that had been botched small for
him, and a coat hanging in rags.
“Did he get hold of you?” asked the father. “Where was it
he got hold of you?”
But the child stood unanswering, his little pale lips pinched
together, his eyes staring out at nothing. Emily went on her
knees before him, and put her face close to his, saying, with
a voice that made one shrink from its unbridled emotion of
caress:
“Did he hurt you, eh? – tell us where he hurt you.” She
would have put her arms around him, but he shrank away.
“Look here,” said Lettie, “it’s here – and it’s bleeding. Go
and get some water, Emily, and some rags. Come on, Sam, let
me look and I’ll put some rags round it. Come along.”
She took the child and stripped him of his grotesque garments. Trip had given him a sharp grab on the thigh before he
had realised that he was dealing with a little boy. It was not
much, however, and Lettie soon had it bathed, and anointed
with elder-fl ower ointment. On the boy’s body were several
scars and bruises – evidently he had rough times. Lettie tended to him and dressed him again. He endured these attentions
like a trapped wild rabbit – never looking at us, never opening
his lips – only shrinking slightly. When Lettie had put on him
his torn little shirt, and had gathered the great breeches about
him, Emily went to him to coax him and make him at home.
She kissed him, and talked to him with her full vibration of
emotional caress. It seemed almost to suffocate him. Then she
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DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
tried to feed him with bread and milk from a spoon, but he
would not open his mouth, and he turned his head away.
“Leave him alone – take no notice of him,” said Lettie, lifting him into the chimney seat, with the basin of bread and
milk beside him. Emily fetched the two kittens out of their basket and put them too beside him.
“I wonder how many eggs he’d got,” said the father, laughing softly.
“Hush!” said Lettie. “When do you think you will go to
Canada, Mr Saxton?”
“Next spring – it’s no good going before.”
“And then you’ll marry?” asked Lettie of George.
“Before then – oh, before then,” he said.
“Why – how is it you are suddenly in such a hurry? –
When will it be?”
“When are you marrying?” he asked in reply.
“I don’t know,” she said, coming to a full stop.
“Then I don’t know,” he said, taking a large wedge of cheese
and biting a piece from it.
“It was fi xed for June,” she said, recovering herself at his
suggestion of hope.
“July!” said Emily.
“Father!” said he, holding the piece of cheese up before him
as he spoke – he was evidently nervous: “Would you advise me
to marry Meg?”
His father started, and said:
“Why, was you thinking of doing?”
“Yes – all things considered.”
“Well – if she suits you –”
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