The White Peacock Read Online Free PDF Page A

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wandered to the stairs, and sat there calling to Lettie; to–day he was
silent. I carried the news of his arrival to my sister, who was pinning
on her brooch.
    "And how is the dear boy?" she asked. "I have not inquired," said I. She
laughed, and loitered about till it was time to set off for church
before she came downstairs. Then she also assumed the grand air and
bowed to him with a beautiful bow. He was somewhat taken aback and had
nothing to say. She rustled across the room to the window, where the
white geraniums grew magnificently. "I must adorn myself," she said.
    It was Leslie's custom to bring her flowers. As he had not done so this
day, she was piqued. He hated the scent and chalky whiteness of the
geraniums. So she smiled at him as she pinned them into the bosom of her
dress, saying: "They are very fine, are they not?" He muttered that they
were. Mother came downstairs, greeted him warmly, and asked him if he
would take her to church.
    "If you will allow me," said he.
    "You are modest to–day," laughed mother.
    "To–day!" he repeated.
    "I hate modesty in a young man," said mother—"Come, we shall be late."
Lettie wore the geraniums all day—till evening. She brought Alice Gall
home to tea, and bade me bring up "Mon Taureau," when his farm work was
over.
    The day had been hot and close. The sun was reddening in the west as we
leaped across the lesser brook. The evening scents began to awake, and
wander unseen through the still air. An occasional yellow sunbeam would
slant through the thick roof of leaves and cling passionately to the
orange clusters of mountain–ash berries. The trees were silent, drawing
together to sleep. Only a few pink orchids stood palely by the path,
looking wistfully out at the ranks of red–purple bugle, whose last
flowers, glowing from the top of the bronze column, yearned darkly for
the sun.
    We sauntered on in silence, not breaking the first hush of the
woodlands. As we drew near home we heard a murmur from among the trees,
from the lover's seat, where a great tree had fallen and remained mossed
and covered with fragile growth. There a crooked bough made a beautiful
seat for two.
    "Fancy being in love and making a row in such a twilight," said I as we
continued our way. But when we came opposite the fallen tree, we saw no
lovers there, but a man sleeping, and muttering through his sleep. The
cap had fallen from his grizzled hair, and his head leaned back against
a profusion of the little wild geraniums that decorated the dead bough
so delicately. The man's clothing was good, but slovenly and neglected.
His face was pale and worn with sickness and dissipation. As he slept,
his grey beard wagged, and his loose unlovely mouth moved in indistinct
speech. He was acting over again some part of his life, and his features
twitched during the unnatural sleep. He would give a little groan,
gruesome to hear and then talk to some woman. His features twitched as
if with pain, and he moaned slightly.
    The lips opened in a grimace showing the yellow teeth behind the beard.
Then he began again talking in his throat, thickly, so that we could
only tell part of what he said. It was very unpleasant. I wondered how
we should end it. Suddenly through the gloom of the twilight–haunted
woods came the scream of a rabbit caught by a weasel. The man awoke with
a sharp "Ah!"—he looked round in consternation, then sinking down again
wearily, said, "I was dreaming again."
    "You don't seem to have nice dreams," said George.
    The man winced then looking at us said, almost sneering:
    "And who are you?"
    We did not answer, but waited for him to move. He sat still, looking at
us.
    "So!" he said at last, wearily, "I do dream. I do, I do." He sighed
heavily. Then he added, sarcastically: "Were you interested?"
    "No," said I. "But you are out of your way surely. Which road did you
want?"
    "You want me to clear out," he said.
    "Well," I said laughing in deprecation. "I don't mind your dreaming. But
this is not