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diff --git a/old/22477-h.htm.2021-01-25 b/old/22477-h.htm.2021-01-25 new file mode 100644 index 0000000..eab1bfc --- /dev/null +++ b/old/22477-h.htm.2021-01-25 @@ -0,0 +1,1367 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Wintry Peacock, by D. H. Lawrence + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Wintry Peacock, by D. H. Lawrence + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Wintry Peacock + From "The New Decameron", Volume III. + +Author: D. H. Lawrence + +Release Date: August 31, 2007 [EBook #22477] +Last Updated: March 6, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WINTRY PEACOCK *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h1> + WINTRY PEACOCK + </h1> + <h3> + From “The New Decameron”—Volume III. + </h3> + <h2> + By D. H. Lawrence + </h2> + <p> + There was thin, crisp snow on the ground, the sky was blue, the wind very + cold, the air clear. Farmers were just turning out the cows for an hour or + so in the midday, and the smell of cow-sheds was unendurable as I entered + Tible. I noticed the ash-twigs up in the sky were pale and luminous, + passing into the blue. And then I saw the peacocks. There they were in the + road before me, three of them, and tailless, brown, speckled birds, with + dark-blue necks and ragged crests. They stepped archly over the filigree + snow, and their bodies moved with slow motion, like small, light, + flat-bottomed boats. I admired them, they were curious. Then a gust of + wind caught them, heeled them over as if they were three frail boats, + opening their feathers like ragged sails. They hopped and skipped with + discomfort, to get out of the draught of the wind. And then, in the lee of + the walls, they resumed their arch, wintry motion, light and unballasted + now their tails were gone, indifferent. They were indifferent to my + presence. I might have touched them. They turned off to the shelter of an + open shed. + </p> + <p> + As I passed the end of the upper house, I saw a young woman just coming + out of the back door. I had spoken to her in the summer. She recognised me + at once, and waved to me. She was carrying a pail, wearing a white apron + that was longer than her preposterously short skirt, and she had on the + cotton bonnet. I took off my hat to her and was going on. But she put down + her pail and darted with a swift, furtive movement after me. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mind waiting a minute?” she said. “I'll be out in a minute.” + </p> + <p> + She gave me a slight, odd smile, and ran back. Her face was long and + sallow and her nose rather red. But her gloomy black eyes softened + caressively to me for a moment, with that momentary humility which makes a + man lord of the earth. + </p> + <p> + I stood in the road, looking at the fluffy, dark-red young cattle that + mooed and seemed to bark at me. They seemed happy, frisky cattle, a little + impudent, and either determined to go back into the warm shed, or + determined not to go back. I could not decide which. + </p> + <p> + Presently the woman came forward again, her head rather ducked. But she + looked up at me and smiled, with that odd, immediate intimacy, something + witch-like and impossible. + </p> + <p> + “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said. “Shall we stand in this cart-shed—it + will be more out of the wind.” + </p> + <p> + So we stood among the shafts of the open cart-shed, that faced the road. + Then she looked down at the ground, a little sideways, and I noticed a + small black frown on her brows. She seemed to brood for a moment. Then she + looked straight into my eyes, so that I blinked and wanted to turn my face + aside. She was searching me for something and her look was too near. The + frown was still on her keen, sallow brow. + </p> + <p> + “Can you speak French?” she asked me abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “More or less,” I replied. + </p> + <p> + “I was supposed to learn it at school,” she said. “But I don't know a + word.” She ducked her head and laughed, with a slightly ugly grimace and a + rolling of her black eyes. + </p> + <p> + “No good keeping your mind full of scraps,” I answered. + </p> + <p> + But she had turned aside her sallow, long face, and did not hear what I + said. Suddenly again she looked at me. She was searching. And at the same + time she smiled at me, and her eyes looked softly, darkly, with infinite + trustful humility into mine. I was being cajoled. + </p> + <p> + “Would you mind reading a letter for me, in French?” she said, her face + immediately black and bitter-looking. She glanced at me, frowning. + </p> + <p> + “Not at all,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “It's a letter to my husband,” she said, still scrutinising. + </p> + <p> + I looked at her, and didn't quite realise. She looked too far into me, my + wits were gone. She glanced round. Then she looked at me shrewdly. She + drew a letter from her pocket, and handed it to me. It was addressed from + France to M. Alfred Goyte, at Tible. I took out the letter and began to + read it, as mere words. “Mon cher Alfred”—it might have been a bit + of a torn newspaper. So I followed the script: the trite phrases of a + letter from a French-speaking girl to an Englishman. “I think of you + always, always. Do you think sometimes of me?” And then I vaguely realised + that I was reading a man's private correspondence. And yet, how could one + consider these trivial, facile French phrases private? Nothing more trite + and vulgar in the world than such a love-letter—no newspaper more + obvious. + </p> + <p> + Therefore I read with a callous heart the effusions of the Belgian damsel. + But then I gathered my attention. For the letter went on, “Notre cher + petit bébé—our dear little baby was born a week ago. Almost I died, + knowing you were far away, and perhaps forgetting the fruit of our perfect + love. But the child comforted me. He has the smiling eyes and virile air + of his English father. I pray to the Mother of Jesus to send me the dear + father of my child, that I may see him with my child in his arms, and that + we may be united in holy family love. Ah, my Alfred, can I tell you how I + miss you, how I weep for you? My thoughts are with you always, I think of + nothing but you, I live for nothing but you and our dear baby. If you do + not come back to me soon, I shall die, and our child will die. But no, you + cannot come back to me. But I can come to you. I can come to England with + our child. If you do not wish to present me to your good mother and father + you can meet me in some town, some city, for I shall be so frightened to + be alone in England with my child, and no one to take care of us. Yet I + must come to you, I must bring my child, my little Alfred, to his father, + the big, beautiful Alfred that I love so much. Oh, write and tell me where + I shall come. I have some money. I am not a penniless creature. I have + money for myself and my dear baby——” + </p> + <p> + I read to the end. It was signed: “Your very happy and still more unhappy + Elise.” I suppose I must have been smiling. + </p> + <p> + “I can see it makes you laugh,” said Mrs. Goyte, sardonically. I looked up + at her. + </p> + <p> + “It's a love-letter, I know that,” she said. “There's too many 'Alfreds' + in it.” + </p> + <p> + “One too many,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes.—And what does she say—Eliza? We know her name's + Eliza, that's another thing.” She grimaced a little, looking up at me with + a mocking laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Where did you get this letter?” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Postman gave it me last week.” + </p> + <p> + “And is your husband at home?” + </p> + <p> + “I expect him home to-night. He had an accident and hurt his leg. He's + been abroad most of his time for this last four years. He's chauffeur to a + gentleman who travels about in one country and another, on some sort of + business. Married? We married? Why, six years. And I tell you I've seen + little enough of him for four of them. But he always was a rake. He went + through the South African War, and stopped out there for five years. I'm + living with his father and mother. I've no home of my own now. My people + had a big farm—over a thousand acres—in Oxfordshire. Not like + here—no. Oh, they're very good to me, his father and mother. Oh yes, + they couldn't be better. They think more of me than of their own + daughters.—But it's not like being in a place of your own, is it? + You can't <i>really</i> do as you like. No, there's only me and his father + and mother at home. Always a chauffeur? No, he's been all sorts of things: + was to be a farm-bailiff by rights. He's had a good education—but he + liked the motors better.—Then he was five years in the Cape Mounted + Police. I met him when he came back from there, and married him—more + fool me——” + </p> + <p> + At this point the peacocks came round the corner on a puff of wind. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Joey!” she called, and one of the birds came forward, on delicate + legs. Its grey spreckled back was very elegant, it rolled its full, + dark-blue neck as it moved to her. She crouched down. “Joey dear,” she + said, in an odd, saturnine caressive voice: “you're bound to find me, + aren't you?” She put her face downward, and the bird rolled his neck, + almost touching her face with his beak, as if kissing her. + </p> + <p> + “He loves you,” I said. + </p> + <p> + She twisted her face up at me with a laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said, “he loves me, Joey does”—then, to the bird—“and + I love Joey, don't I? I <i>do</i> love Joey.” And she smoothed his + feathers for a moment. Then she rose, saying: “He's an affectionate bird.” + </p> + <p> + I smiled at the roll of her “bir-rrd.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, he is,” she protested. “He came with me from my home seven years + ago. Those others are his descendants—but they're not like Joey—<i>are + they, dee-urr?</i>” Her voice rose at the end with a witch-like cry. + </p> + <p> + Then she forgot the birds in the cart-shed, and turned to business again. + </p> + <p> + “Won't you read that letter?” she said. “Read it, so that I know what it + says.” + </p> + <p> + “It's rather behind his back,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, never mind him,” she cried, “He's been behind my back long enough. If + he never did no worse things behind my back than I do behind his, he + wouldn't have cause to grumble. You read me what it says.” + </p> + <p> + Now I felt a distinct reluctance to do as she bid, and yet I began—“'My + dear Alfred.'” + </p> + <p> + “I guessed that much,” she said. “Eliza's dear Alfred.” She laughed. “How + do you say it in French? <i>Eliza?</i>” + </p> + <p> + I told her, and she repeated the name with great contempt—<i>Elise</i>. + </p> + <p> + “Go on,” she said. “You're not reading.” + </p> + <p> + So I began—“'I have been thinking of you sometimes—have you + been thinking of me?'” + </p> + <p> + “Of several others as well, beside her, I'll wager,” said Mrs. Goyte. + </p> + <p> + “Probably not,” said I, and continued. “'A dear little baby was born here + a week ago. Ah, can I tell you my feelings when I take my darling little + brother into my arms——'” + </p> + <p> + “I'll bet it's <i>his</i>,” cried Mrs. Goyte. + </p> + <p> + “No,” I said. “It's her mother's.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't you believe it,” she cried. “It's a blind. You mark, it's her own + right enough—and his.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” I said. “It's her mother's. 'He has sweet smiling eyes, but not like + your beautiful English eyes——'” + </p> + <p> + She suddenly struck her hand on her skirt with a wild motion, and bent + down, doubled with laughter. Then she rose and covered her face with her + hand. + </p> + <p> + “I'm forced to laugh at the beautiful English eyes,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Aren't his eyes beautiful?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes—<i>very!</i> Go on!—<i>Joey dear, dee-urr Joey!</i>”—this + to the peacock. + </p> + <p> + “—Er—'We miss you very much. We all miss you. We wish you were + here to see the darling baby. Ah, Alfred, how happy we were when you + stayed with us. We all loved you so much. My mother will call the baby + Alfred so that we shall never forget you——'” + </p> + <p> + “Of course it's his right enough,” cried Mrs. Goyte. + </p> + <p> + “No,” I said. “It's the mother's. Er—'My mother is very well. My + father came home yesterday—from Lille. He is delighted with his son, + my little brother, and wishes to have him named after you, because you + were so good to us all in that terrible time, which I shall never forget. + I must weep now when I think of it. Well, you are far away in England, and + perhaps I shall never see you again. How did you find your dear mother and + father? I am so happy that your leg is better, and that you can nearly + walk——'” + </p> + <p> + “How did he find his dear <i>wife!</i>” cried Mrs. Goyte. “He never told + her that he had one. Think of taking the poor girl in like that!” + </p> + <p> + “'We are so pleased when you write to us. Yet now you are in England you + will forget the family you served so well——'” + </p> + <p> + “A bit too well—<i>eh, Joey!</i>” cried the wife. + </p> + <p> + “'If it had not been for you we should not be alive now, to grieve and to + rejoice in this life, that is so hard for us. But we have recovered some + of our losses, and no longer feel the burden of poverty. The little Alfred + is a great comforter to me. I hold him to my breast and think of the big, + good Alfred, and I weep to think that those times of suffering were + perhaps the times of a great happiness that is gone for ever.'” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but isn't it a shame to take a poor girl in like that!” cried Mrs. + Goyte. “Never to let on that he was married, and raise her hopes—I + call it beastly, I do.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't know,” I said. “You know how anxious women are to fall in love, + wife or no wife. How could he help it, if she was determined to fall in + love with him?” + </p> + <p> + “He could have helped it if he'd wanted to.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” I said. “We aren't all heroes.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but that's different!—The big, good Alfred!—did you ever + hear such Tommy-rot in your life?—Go on—what does she say at + the end?” + </p> + <p> + “Er—' We shall be pleased to hear of your life in England. We all + send many kind regards to your good parents. I wish you all happiness for + your future days. Your very affectionate and ever-grateful Elise.'” + </p> + <p> + There was silence for a moment, during which Mrs. Goyte remained with her + head dropped, sinister and abstracted. Suddenly she lifted her face, and + her eyes flashed. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but I call it beastly, I call it mean, to take a girl in like that.” + </p> + <p> + “Nay,” I said. “Probably he hasn't taken her in at all. Do you think those + French girls are such poor innocent things? I guess she's a great deal + more downy than he.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he's one of the biggest fools that ever walked,” she cried. + </p> + <p> + “There you are!” said I. + </p> + <p> + “But it's his child right enough,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I don't think so,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sure of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh well,” I said—“if you prefer to think that way.” + </p> + <p> + “What other reason has she for writing like that——?” + </p> + <p> + I went out into the road and looked at the cattle. + </p> + <p> + “Who is this driving the cows?” I said. She too came out. + </p> + <p> + “It's the boy from the next farm,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Oh well,” said I, “those Belgian girls! You never know where their + letters will end.—And after all, it's his affair—you needn't + bother.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh——!” she cried, with rough scorn—“it's not <i>me</i> + that bothers. But it's the nasty meanness of it. Me writing him such + loving letters”—she put her hands before her face and laughed + malevolently—“and sending him nice little cakes and bits I thought + he'd fancy all the time. You bet he fed that gurrl on my things—I + know he did. It's just like him.—I'll bet they laughed together over + my letters. I'll bet anything they did——” + </p> + <p> + “Nay,” said I. “He'd burn your letters for fear they'd give him away.” + </p> + <p> + There was a black look on her yellow face. Suddenly a voice was heard + calling. She poked her head out of the shed, and answered coolly: + </p> + <p> + “All right!” Then, turning to me: “That's his mother looking after me.” + </p> + <p> + She laughed into my face, witch-like, and we turned down the road. + </p> + <p> + When I awoke, the morning after this episode, I found the house darkened + with deep, soft snow, which had blown against the large west windows, + covering them with a screen. I went outside, and saw the valley all white + and ghastly below me, the trees beneath black and thin looking like wire, + the rock-faces dark between the glistening shroud, and the sky above + sombre, heavy, yellowish-dark, much too heavy for the world below of + hollow bluey whiteness figured with black. I felt I was in a valley of the + dead. And I sensed I was a prisoner, for the snow was everywhere deep, and + drifted in places. So all the morning I remained indoors, looking up the + drive at the shrubs so heavily plumed with snow, at the gateposts raised + high with a foot or more of extra whiteness. Or I looked down into the + white-and-black valley, that was utterly motionless and beyond life, a + hollow sarcophagus. + </p> + <p> + Nothing stirred the whole day—no plume fell off the shrubs, the + valley was as abstracted as a grove of death. I looked over at the tiny, + half-buried farms away on the bare uplands beyond the valley hollow, and I + thought of Tible in the snow, of the black, witch-like little Mrs. Goyte. + And the snow seemed to lay me bare to influences I wanted to escape. + </p> + <p> + In the faint glow of half-clear light that came about four o'clock in the + afternoon, I was roused to see a motion in the snow away below, near where + the thorn-trees stood very black and dwarfed, like a little savage group, + in the dismal white. I watched closely. Yes, there was a flapping and a + struggle—a big bird, it must be, labouring in the snow. I wondered. + Our biggest birds, in the valley, were the large hawks that often hung + flickering opposite my windows, level with me, but high above some prey on + the steep valley-side. This was much too big for a hawk—too big for + any known bird. I searched in my mind for the largest English wild birds—geese, + buzzards. + </p> + <p> + Still it laboured and strove, then was still, a dark spot, then struggled + again. I went out of the house and down the steep slope, at risk of + breaking my leg between the rocks. I knew the ground so well—and yet + I got well shaken before I drew near the thorn-trees. + </p> + <p> + Yes, it was a bird. It was Joey. It was the grey-brown peacock with a blue + neck. He was snow-wet and spent. + </p> + <p> + “Joey—Joey de-urr!” I said, staggering unevenly towards him. He + looked so pathetic, rowing and struggling in the snow, too spent to rise, + his blue neck stretching out and lying sometimes on the snow, his eyes + closing and opening quickly, his crest all battered. + </p> + <p> + “Joey dee-urr! Dee-urr!” I said caressingly to him. And at last he lay + still, blinking, in the surged and furrowed snow, whilst I came near and + touched him, stroked him, gathered him under my arm. He stretched his + long, wetted neck away from me as I held him, none the less he was quiet + in my arm, too tired, perhaps, to struggle. Still he held his poor, + crested head away from me, and seemed sometimes to droop, to wilt, as if + he might suddenly die. + </p> + <p> + He was not so heavy as I expected, yet it was a struggle to get up to the + house with him again. We set him down, not too near the fire, and gently + wiped him with cloths. He submitted, only now and then stretched his soft + neck away from us, avoiding us helplessly. Then we set warm food by him. I + put it to his beak, tried to make him eat. But he ignored it. He seemed to + be ignorant of what we were doing, recoiled inside himself inexplicably. + So we put him in a basket with cloths, and left him crouching oblivious. + His food we put near him. The blinds were drawn, the house was warm, it + was night. Sometimes he stirred, but mostly he huddled still, leaning his + queer crested head on one side. He touched no food, and took no heed of + sounds or movements. We talked of brandy or stimulants. But I realised we + had best leave him alone. + </p> + <p> + In the night, however, we heard him thumping about. I got up anxiously + with a candle. He had eaten some food, and scattered more, making a mess. + And he was perched on the back of a heavy arm-chair. So I concluded he was + recovered, or recovering. + </p> + <p> + The next day was clear, and the snow had frozen, so I decided to carry him + back to Tible. He consented, after various flappings, to sit in a big + fish-bag with his battered head peeping out with wild uneasiness. And so I + set off with him, slithering down into the valley, making good progress + down in the pale shadows beside the rushing waters, then climbing + painfully up the arrested white valley-side, plumed with clusters of young + pine-trees, into the paler white radiance of the snowy upper regions, + where the wind cut fine. Joey seemed to watch all the time with wide, + anxious, unseeing eyes, brilliant and inscrutable. As I drew near to Tible + township, he stirred violently in the bag, though I do not know if he had + recognised the place. Then, as I came to the sheds, he looked sharply from + side to side, and stretched his neck out long. I was a little afraid of + him. He gave a loud, vehement yell, opening his sinister beak, and I stood + still, looking at him as he struggled in the bag, shaken myself by his + struggles, yet not thinking to release him. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Goyte came darting past the end of the house, her head sticking + forward in sharp scrutiny. She saw me, and came forward. + </p> + <p> + “Have you got Joey?” she cried sharply, as if I were a thief. + </p> + <p> + I opened the bag, and he flopped out, flapping as if he hated the touch of + the snow, now. She gathered him up and put her lips to his beak. She was + flushed and handsome, her eyes bright, her hair slack, thick, but more + witch-like than ever. She did not speak. + </p> + <p> + She had been followed by a grey-haired woman with a round, rather sallow + face and a slightly hostile bearing. + </p> + <p> + “Did you bring him with you, then?” she asked sharply. I answered that I + had rescued him the previous evening. + </p> + <p> + From the background slowly approached a slender man with a grey moustache + and large patches on his trousers. + </p> + <p> + “You've got 'im back 'gain, Ah see,” he said to his daughter-in-law. His + wife explained how I had found Joey. + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” went on the grey man. “It wor our Alfred scarred him off, back your + life. He must 'a' flyed ower t' valley. Tha ma' thank thy stars as 'e wor + fun, Maggie. 'E'd a bin froze. They a bit nesh, you know,” he concluded to + me. + </p> + <p> + “They are,” I answered. “This isn't their country.” + </p> + <p> + “No, it isna,” replied Mr. Goyte. He spoke very slowly and deliberately, + quietly, as if the soft pedal were always down in his voice. He looked at + his daughter-in-law as she crouched, flushed and dark, before the peacock, + which would lay its long blue neck for a moment along her lap. In spite of + his grey moustache and thin grey hair, the elderly man had a face young + and almost delicate, like a young man's. His blue eyes twinkled with some + inscrutable source of pleasure, his skin was fine and tender, his nose + delicately arched. His grey hair being slightly ruffled, he had a + debonnair look, as of a youth who is in love. + </p> + <p> + “We mun tell 'im it's come,” he said slowly, and turning he called: + </p> + <p> + “Alfred—Alfred! Wheer's ter gotten to?” + </p> + <p> + Then he turned again to the group. + </p> + <p> + “Get up, then, Maggie, lass, get up wi' thee. Tha ma'es too much o' th' + bod.” + </p> + <p> + A young man approached, limping, wearing a thick short coat and + knee-breeches. He was Danish-looking, broad at the loins. + </p> + <p> + “I's come back, then,” said the father to the son—“leastwise, he's + bin browt back, flyed ower the Griff Low.” + </p> + <p> + The son looked at me. He had a devil-may-care bearing, his cap on one + side, his hands stuck in the front pockets of his breeches. But he said + nothing. + </p> + <p> + “Shall you come in a minute, Master?” said the elderly woman, to me. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, come in an' ha'e a cup o' tea or summat. You'll do wi' summat, + carryin' that bod. Come on, Maggie wench, let's go in.” + </p> + <p> + So we went indoors, into the rather stuffy, overcrowded living-room, that + was too cosy and too warm. The son followed last, standing in the doorway. + The father talked to me. Maggie put out the tea-cups. The mother went into + the dairy again. + </p> + <p> + “Tha'lt rouse thysen up a bit again now, Maggie,” the father-in-law said—and + then to me: “'Er's not bin very bright sin' Alfred come whoam, an' the bod + flyed awee. 'E come whoam a Wednesday night, Alfred did. But ay, you + knowed, didna yer. Ay, 'e comed 'a Wednesday—an' I reckon there wor + a bit of a to-do between 'em, worn't there, Maggie?” + </p> + <p> + He twinkled maliciously to his daughter-in-law, who was flushed brilliant + and handsome. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, be quiet, father. You're wound up, by the sound of you,” she said to + him, as if crossly. But she could never be cross with him. + </p> + <p> + “'Er's got 'er colour back this mornin',” continued the father-in-law + slowly. “It's bin heavy weather wi' 'er this last two days. Ay—'er's + bin north-east sin 'er seed you a Wednesday.” + </p> + <p> + “Father, do stop talking. You'd wear the leg off an iron pot. I can't + think where you've found your tongue, all of a sudden,” said Maggie, with + caressive sharpness. + </p> + <p> + “Ah've found it wheer I lost it. Aren't goin' ter come in an' sit thee + down, Alfred?” + </p> + <p> + But Alfred turned and disappeared. + </p> + <p> + “'E's got th' monkey on 'is back, ower this letter job,” said the father + secretly to me. “Mother 'er knows nowt about it. Lot o' tomfoolery, isn't + it? Ay! What's good o' makin' a peck o' trouble ower what's far enough + off, an' ned niver come no nigher. No—not a smite o' use. That's + what I tell 'er. 'Er should ta'e no notice on't. Ay, what can y'expect.” + </p> + <p> + The mother came in again, and the talk became general. Maggie flashed her + eyes at me from time to time, complacent and satisfied, moving among the + men. I paid her little compliments, which she did not seem to hear. She + attended to me with a kind of sinister, witch-like gracious-ness, her dark + head ducked between her shoulders, at once humble and powerful. She was + happy as a child attending to her father-in-law and to me. But there was + something ominous between her eyebrows, as if a dark moth were settled + there—and something ominous in her bent, hulking bearing. + </p> + <p> + She sat on a low stool by the fire, near her father-in-law. Her head was + dropped, she seemed in a state of abstraction. From time to time she would + suddenly recover, and look up at us, laughing and chatting. Then she would + forget again. Yet in her hulked black forgetting she seemed very near to + us. + </p> + <p> + The door having been opened, the peacock came slowly in, prancing calmly. + He went near to her, and crouched down, coiling his blue neck. She glanced + at him, but almost as if she did not observe him. The bird sat silent, + seeming to sleep, and the woman also sat huddled and silent, seeming + oblivious. Then once more there was a heavy step, and Alfred entered. He + looked at his wife, and he looked at the peacock crouching by her. He + stood large in the doorway, his hands stuck in front of him, in his + breeches pockets. Nobody spoke. He turned on his heel and went out again. + </p> + <p> + I rose also to go. Maggie started as if coming to herself. + </p> + <p> + “Must you go?” she asked, rising and coming near to me, standing in front + of me, twisting her head sideways and looking up at me. “Can't you stop a + bit longer? We can all be cosy to-day, there's nothing to do outdoors.” + And she laughed, showing her teeth oddly. She had a long chin. + </p> + <p> + I said I must go. The peacock uncoiled and coiled again his long blue neck + as he lay on the hearth. Maggie still stood close in front of me, so that + I was acutely aware of my waistcoat buttons. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well,” she said, “you'll come again, won't you? Do come again.” + </p> + <p> + I promised. + </p> + <p> + “Come to tea one day—yes, do!” + </p> + <p> + I promised—one day. + </p> + <p> + The moment I was out of her presence I ceased utterly to exist for her—as + utterly as I ceased to exist for Joey. With her curious abstractedness she + forgot me again immediately. I knew it as I left her. Yet she seemed + almost in physical contact with me while I was with her. + </p> + <p> + The sky was all pallid again, yellowish. When I went out there was no sun; + the snow was blue and cold. I hurried away down the hill, musing on + Maggie. The road made a loop down the sharp face of the slope. As I went + crunching over the laborious snow I became aware of a figure striding + awkwardly down the steep scarp to intercept me. It was a man with his + hands in front of him, half stuck in his breeches pockets, and his + shoulders square—a real knock-about fellow. Alfred, of course. He + waited for me by the stone fence. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me,” he said as I came up. + </p> + <p> + I came to a halt in front of him and looked into his sullen blue eyes. He + had a certain odd haughtiness on his brows. But his blue eyes stared + insolently at me. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know anything about a letter—in French—that my wife + opened—a letter of mine?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said I. “She asked me to read it to her.” + </p> + <p> + He looked square at me. He did not know exactly how to feel. + </p> + <p> + “What was there in it?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” I said. “Don't you know?” + </p> + <p> + “She makes out she's burnt it,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Without showing it you?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + He nodded slightly. He seemed to be meditating as to what line of action + he should take. He wanted to know the contents of the letter: he must + know: and therefore he must ask me, for evidently his wife had taunted + him. At the same time, no doubt, he would like to wreak untold vengeance + on my unfortunate person. So he eyed me, and I eyed him, and neither of us + spoke. He did not want to repeat his request to me. And yet I only looked + at him, and considered. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly he threw back his head and glanced down the valley. Then he + changed his position and he looked at me more confidentially. + </p> + <p> + “She burnt the blasted thing before I saw it,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” I answered slowly, “she doesn't know herself what was in it.” + </p> + <p> + He continued to watch me narrowly. I grinned to myself. + </p> + <p> + “I didn't like to read her out what there was in it,” I continued. + </p> + <p> + He suddenly flushed out so that the veins in his neck stood out, and he + stirred again uncomfortably. + </p> + <p> + “The Belgian girl said her baby had been born a week ago, and that they + were going to call it Alfred,” I told him. + </p> + <p> + He met my eyes. I was grinning. He began to grin, too. + </p> + <p> + “Good luck to her,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Best of luck,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “And what did you tell <i>her</i>?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “That the baby belonged to the old mother—that it was brother to + your girl, who was writing to you as a friend of the family.” + </p> + <p> + He stood smiling, with the long, subtle malice of a farmer. + </p> + <p> + “And did she take it in?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “As much as she took anything else.” + </p> + <p> + He stood grinning fixedly. Then he broke into a short laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Good for <i>her</i>!” he exclaimed cryptically. + </p> + <p> + And then he laughed aloud once more, evidently feeling he had won a big + move in his contest with his wife. + </p> + <p> + “What about the other woman?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Who?” + </p> + <p> + “Elise.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh”—he shifted uneasily—“she was all right———” + </p> + <p> + “You'll be getting back to her,” I said. + </p> + <p> + He looked at me. Then he made a grimace with his mouth. + </p> + <p> + “Not me,” he said. “Back your life it's a plant.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't think the <i>cher petit bébé</i> is a little Alfred?” + </p> + <p> + “It might be,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Only might?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—an' there's lots of mites in a pound of cheese.” He laughed + boisterously but uneasily. + </p> + <p> + “What did she say, exactly?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + I began to repeat, as well as I could, the phrases of the letter: + </p> + <p> + “Mon cher Alfred,—Figure-toi comme je suis désolée——” + </p> + <p> + He listened with some confusion. When I had finished all I could remember, + he said: + </p> + <p> + “They know how to pitch you out a letter, those Belgian lasses.” + </p> + <p> + “Practice,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “They get plenty,” he said. + </p> + <p> + There was a pause. + </p> + <p> + “Oh well,” he said. “I've never got that letter, anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + The wind blew fine and keen, in the sunshine, across the snow. I blew my + nose and prepared to depart. + </p> + <p> + “And <i>she</i> doesn't know anything?” he continued, jerking his head up + the hill in the direction of Tible. + </p> + <p> + “She knows nothing but what I've said—that is, if she really burnt + the letter.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe she burnt it,” he said, “for spite. She's a little devil, she + is. But I shall have it out with her.” His jaw was stubborn and sullen. + Then suddenly he turned to me with a new note. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” he said. “Why didn't you wring that b—— peacock's neck—that + b——Joey?” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” I said. “What for?” + </p> + <p> + “I hate the brute,” he said. “I let fly at him the night I got back——” + </p> + <p> + I laughed. He stood and mused. + </p> + <p> + “Poor little Elise,” he murmured. + </p> + <p> + “Was she small—petite?” I asked. He jerked up his head. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said. “Rather tall.” + </p> + <p> + “Taller than your wife, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + Again he looked into my eyes. And then once more he went into a loud burst + of laughter that made the still, snow-deserted valley clap again. + </p> + <p> + “God, it's a knockout!” he said, thoroughly amused. Then he stood at ease, + one foot out, his hands in his breeches pocket, in front of him, his head + thrown back, a handsome figure of a man. + </p> + <p> + “But I'll do that blasted Joey in——” he mused, I ran down the + hill, shouting also with laughter. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Wintry Peacock, by D. H. 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