“Yes,” I answered, “yes — but not so bad. You never gave yourself away so much — you were most cautious: but just as defenceless.”
“And am I altered?” he asked, with quiet irony, as if he knew I was not interested in him.
“Yes, more cautious. You keep in the shadow. But Emily has clothed herself, and can now walk among the crowd at her own gait.”
It was with an effort I refrained from putting my lips to kiss her at that moment as she looked at me with womanly dignity and tenderness. Then I remembered, and said:
“But you are taking me to the stable, George! Come and see the horses too, Emily.”
“I will. I admire them so much,” she replied, and thus we both indulged him.
He talked to his horses and of them, laying his hand upon them, running over their limbs. The glossy, restless animals interested him more than anything. He broke into a little flush of enthusiasm over them. They were his new interest. They were quiet and yet responsive; he was their master and owner. This gave him real pleasure.
But the baby became displeased again. Emily looked at me for sympathy with him.
“He is a little wanderer,” she said, “he likes to be always moving. Perhaps he objects to the ammonia of stables too,” she added, frowning and laughing slightly; “It is not very agreeable, is it?”
“Not particularly,” I agreed, and as she moved off I went with her, leaving him in the stables. When Emily and I were alone we sauntered aimlessly back to the garden. She persisted in talking to the baby, and in talking to me about the baby, till I wished the child in Jericho. This made her laugh, and she continued to tantalise me. The hollyhock flowers of the second whorl were flushing to the top of the spires. The bees, covered with pale crumbs of pollen, were swaying a moment outside the wide gates of the florets, then they swung in with excited hum, and clung madly to the furry white capitols, and worked riotously round the waxy bases. Emily held out the baby to watch, talking all the time in low, fond tones. The child stretched towards the bright flowers. The sun glistened on his smooth hair as on bronze dust, and the wondering blue eyes of the baby followed the bees. Then he made small sounds, and suddenly waved his hands, like rumpled pink hollyhock buds.
“Look,” said Emily, “look at the little bees! Ah, but you mustn’t touch them, they bite. They’re coming” she cried, with sudden laughing apprehension, drawing the child away. He made noises of remonstrance. She put him near to the flowers again till he knocked the spire with his hand and two indignant bees came sailing out. Emily drew back quickly crying in alarm, then laughing with excited eyes at me, as if she had just escaped a peril in my presence. Thus she teased me by flinging me all kinds of bright gages of love while she kept me aloof because of the child. She laughed with pure pleasure at this state of affairs, and delighted the more when I frowned, till at last I swallowed my resentment and laughed too, playing with the hands of the baby, and watching his blue eyes change slowly like a softly sailing sky.
Presently Meg called us in to tea. She wore a dress of fine blue stuff with cream silk embroidery, and she looked handsome, for her hair was very hastily dressed.
“What, have you had that child all this time?” she exclaimed, on seeing Emily. “Where is his father?”
“I don’t know — we left him in the stable, didn’t we, Cyril? But I like nursing him, Meg. I like it ever so much,” replied Emily.
“Oh yes, you may be sure George would get off it if he could. He’s always in the stable. As I tell him, he fair stinks of horses. He’s not that fond of the children, I can tell you. Come on, my pet — why, come to its mammy.”
She took the baby and kissed it passionately, and made extravagant love to it. A clean-shaven young man with thick bare arms went across the yard.
“Here, just look and tell George as tea is ready,” said Meg.
“Where is he?” asked Oswald, the sturdy youth who attended to the farm business.
“You know where to find him,” replied Meg, with that careless freedom which was so subtly derogatory to her husband. George came hurrying from the out-building. “What, is it tea already?” he said.
“It’s a wonder you haven’t been crying out for it this last hour,” said Meg.
“It’s a marvel you’ve got dressed so quick,” he replied.
“Oh, is it?” she answered —“well, it’s not with any of your help that I’ve done it, that is a fact. Where’s Teenie?” The maid, short, stiffly built, very dark and sullen-looking, came forward from the gate.
“Can you take Alfy as well, just while we have tea?” she asked. Teenie replied that she should think she could, whereupon she was given the ruddy-haired baby, as well as the dark one. She sat with them on a seat at the end of the yard. We proceeded to tea.
It was a very great spread. There were hot cakes, three or four kinds of cold cakes, tinned apricots, jellies, tinned lobster, and trifles in the way of jam, cream, and rum.
“I don’t know what those cakes are like,” said Meg. “I made them in such a fluster. Really, you have to do things as best you can when you’ve got children — especially when there’s two. I never seem to have time to do my hair up even — look at it now.”
She put up her hands to her head, and I could not help noticing how grimy and rough were her nails.
The tea was going on pleasantly when one of the babies began to cry. Teenie bent over it crooning gruffly. I leaned back and looked out of the door to watch her. I thought of the girl in Tchekoff’s story, who smothered her charge, and I hoped the grim Teenie would not be driven to such desperation. The other child joined in this chorus. Teenie rose from her seat and walked about the yard, gruffly trying to soothe the twins.
“It’s a funny thing, but whenever anybody comes they’re sure to be cross,” said Meg, beginning to simmer.
“They’re no different from ordinary,” said George, “it’s only that you’re forced to notice it then.”
“No, it is not,” cried Meg in a sudden passion:
“Is it now, Emily? Of course, he has to say something! Weren’t they as good as gold this morning, Emily? — and yesterday! — Why, they never murmured, as good as gold they were. But he wants them to be as dumb as fishes: he’d like them shutting up in a box as soon as they make a bit of noise.”
“I was not saying anything about it,” he replied.
“Yes, you were,” she retorted. “I don’t know what you call it then —”
The babies outside continued to cry.
“Bring Alfy to me,” called Meg, yielding to the mother feeling.
“Oh no, damn it” said George, “let Oswald take him.”
“Yes,” replied Meg bitterly, “let anybody take him so long as he’s out of your sight. You never ought to have children, you didn’t —”
George murmured something about “today”.
“Come then,” said Meg, with a whole passion of tenderness, as she took the red-haired baby and held it to her bosom. “Why, what is it then, what is it, my precious? Hush then, pet, hush then.”
The baby did not hush. Meg rose from her chair and stood rocking the baby in her arms, swaying from one foot to the other.
“He’s got a bit of wind,” she said.
We tried to continue the meal, but everything was awkward and difficult.
“I wonder if he’s hungry,” said Meg, “let’s try him.”
She turned