Sleep in Peace (16 page)

“It's no use, Edward,” said Mr. Hinchliffe with some irritation. “I can't afford to send Frederick to the University, and I see no necessity for me to attempt to try. You've both had ten years' good schooling, not without sacrifice on the part of your mother and myself. That should content you.”

“It contents
me
, Father,” said Edward, “because I shall learn my profession in Blackshaw Mills. But Frederick—”

“Frederick has not given me proofs of his ability sufficient to convince me that a sojourn at a University would be desirable for him,” said Mr. Hinchliffe, rustling his newspaper angrily. “His character is not sufficiently steady to warrant so great an expense; he is careless and idle.”

“He's not idle, Father,” said Edward, pronouncing his words with a meticulous precision which to those who knew him was a sign of anger: “He reads rather too widely, that's all.”

Mr. Hinchliffe, repulsed by this unfamiliar phrase, made an outflanking movement. “Look at his reports!” he said. “In half a dozen subjects they say he lacks application.”

“That's because the education at school is unspecialised,” said Edward. “At the University he would study his own subject— he would devote himself entirely to Literature.”

“Literature! And what would be the use of that?” demanded Mr. Hinchliffe. “If he meant to be a minister, now!” He paused, and looked sideways at his son, with the air of one willing to be hopeful.

“I'm afraid Frederick has no call to the ministry,” said Edward drily.

Mr. Hinchliffe raised his newspaper. “Then the subject is closed,” he said.

“Frederick might become a poet,” suggested Edward thoughtfully.

Mr. Hinchliffe snorted behind his newspaper.

“The first poet of the West Riding,” persisted Edward.

“He can be a poet in his spare time,” said Mr. Hinchliffe without emerging.

“I think you'll regret this decision, Father,” said Edward.

Mr. Hinchliffe threw down his paper, seriously annoyed. “That's enough, Edward,” he said in a tone of authority. “The subject is closed.” He seemed unable to close it, however, as long as his son stood silently beside him; and presently he went on in a different tone: “If it were you, my boy, it would be a different matter. You have real talent.”

“Frederick might have genius,” suggested Edward.

“Rubbish!” said his father emphatically. “And pray where
is
Frederick?” he went on with an air of challenge. “Hasn't he even the courage to come and ask me himself?”

“I dissuaded him, Father,” said Edward. “I thought it would only lead to a row.”

“A row!” cried Mr. Hinchliffe, starting up in his chair. “A row, Edward! What do you mean? I hope we never have anything that could be described as a row in this God-fearing household.”

Edward tightened his lips.

“If Frederick wants to go to a University,” pursued Mr. Hinchliffe, “let him win a scholarship to one.”

“There's only one scholarship from the Hudley Grammar School,” explained Edward patiently—he had explained this three time before—“and it is a classical exhibition.”

“Universities offer scholarships,” persisted Mr. Hinchliffe.

“But if you won't let Frederick have the necessary tuition, Father!” objected Edward.

“Now that's enough, Edward,” said his father. “Frederick will leave school at the end of this term and go into the mill. He is idle and careless, and regular routine will have a salutary effect upon him. That is my last word on the subject. Let me hear no more of it from either of you.”

“Very well, Father,” said Edward, and, palely raging, he turned away.

“Have you two finished, Henry?” enquired Mrs. Hinchliffe in an artificially bright tone, coming in. “The girl is waiting to bring dinner—the potatoes are ready.”

“Yes, my dear,” said Mr. Hinchliffe comfortably.

In a few moments the gong sounded from the bamboo stand in the hall, and the family gathered about the table.

“Bless this food, O Lord, and give us thankful hearts, for Christ's sake, Amen,” said Mr. Hinchliffe.

The Hinchliffes seated themselves.

“So I'm not to go to the University,” remarked Frederick in a jaunty tone, having read this message in his brother's face. “Well! in that case I shall study for a London degree, by a correspondence course.”

“And how, may I enquire, do you propose to pay the fees for the course?” demanded Mr. Hinchliffe, lowering.

Frederick hesitated. “I shall sell my bicycle,” he announced.

“I think you will not, sir!” thundered Mr. Hinchliffe. “The bicycle is your father's property.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon!” said Frederick flippantly. “I thought it was a birthday present to me.”

Mrs. Hinchliffe's eyes were wide with apprehension, and Edward's
sandy eyebrows flickered warningly. In an eager effort to turn the conversation Grace blurted the first thing that came into her head.

“Father, why did they put the letter A on Hester's forehead? In
The Scarlet Letter
, I mean? Why an A?”

Mr. Hinchliffe looked down his nose. “Who recommended you to read
The Scarlet Letter
, Grace?” he demanded sternly.

The question was purely a rhetorical one, thought Edward, since in that household one person alone “recommended” fiction.

“Hawthorne,” began Frederick accordingly.

“Why an A, Father?” interrupted Grace, strenuously tactful.

There was an awful pause. The Hinchliffes gazed into their plates, and Edward felt a savage delight in his father's embarrassment. Then Mr. Hinchliffe firmly cleared his throat.

“Perhaps because it was the first letter of the alphabet,” he said. “Mother, more meat?”

The tension relaxed. Edward smiled sardonically. “I suppose he calls that not a lie,” he thought.

“Alice,” said Mr. Hinchliffe as husband and wife sat together after the meal, “I think it's time you spoke to Grace.”

“Very well, Henry,” agreed Mrs. Hinchliffe dutifully.

That evening, Edward being at the Technical College and Frederick at the school debating society's monthly meeting, Mrs. Hinchliffe drew Grace aside and gave her a little talk. Grace at first blushed, then, really interested, raised, her candid eyes and began to ask questions—which, however, Mrs. Hinchliffe frowned down.

“You must never speak of these matters to
anyone
, Grace,” she said, very earnestly. “It's in the Bible, you know; let it not be so much as spoken of amongst you.”

“Really,” said Grace. She spoke non-committally, and mentally reserved the matter for further consideration.

It was Edward's twenty-first birthday.

Mr. and Mrs. Hinchliffe gave him a gold watch and chain; Frederick and Grace, Band I of Beethoven's sonatas in the Peters edition. It was against the Hinchliffes' principles to “observe days”, so very little fuss was made of this day, save that Mrs. Hinchliffe provided a somewhat more lavish tea than usual and had an extra fire lighted in the drawing-room in the evening. Edward arranged the watch and chain across his waistcoat with some pride, and flushed with pleasure when Frederick with a neat speech handed him the pale green volume, Grace standing by grinning widely. But he seemed quiet and preoccupied all day.

That evening Edward sat at the piano for a long time, turning over the pages of his new possession, trying passages. He was still distrait and moody; and presently his thin hands dropped to his bony knees, and he sat hunched and silent on the uncomfortable circular music stool, brooding. Of course, thought Grace, to attain legal manhood was undoubtedly a serious matter.

“Very nice, my boy,” said Mr. Hinchliffe in a benevolent tone, resuming his newspaper with relief as the “strumming” ceased.

Edward made no reply.

Presently he roused himself; he closed the score carefully, laid it on the piano top and left the room. There seemed an increasing tension in his manner. Grace and Frederick exchanged grimaces of enquiry, with no result. Time passed; Mr. Hinchliffe turned
his paper, his wife shook her darning egg (of wood from the Mount of Olives) from a completed stocking. At length the door opened quietly and Edward returned. His face was pale, his blue eyes very wide and bright. He held a scroll in one hand.

“Father,” he said, “this is my Pledge, in which I promised never to take alcohol as a beverage. I've kept it faithfully.”

“Well, my boy?” said Mr. Hinchliffe kindly.

“When I first signed the Pledge, at your command, I didn't even know what a beverage was,” went on his son.

“Well?” said Mr. Hinchliffe in a rather less comfortable tone.

“I'm a man now, responsible for my own actions,” continued Edward steadily, “and I don't choose to be bound in this way any longer.”

He arranged the edges of the scroll neatly together, and with strong firm gestures tore it to bits.

Grace gasped; Frederick frowned at her warningly. Mr. and Mrs. Hinchliffe sat staring at their son as if turned to stone.

Edward stepped across to the hearth and threw the scraps of paper in the fire; then turned and walked soberly from the room.

There was an awful silence.

“The twentieth century,” burst out Frederick irrepressibly, “casting the shackles of the nineteenth!”

He meant to mutter, but as usual his vowels rang.

“Frederick, leave the room!” thundered Mr. Hinchliffe.

Frederick sprang up and flew across to the door. His fair hair waved aloft like a banner, his grey eyes sparkled, his cheeks were deeply flushed. The look he threw his parents as he wrestled with the doorknob was one of flaming rebellion; but the training of years held him in its grasp, and he closed the door quietly behind him.

An odd sound struck Grace's ears, and she glanced in surprise at her mother. Tears were rolling slowly down Mrs. Hinchliffe's cheeks. Grace paused a moment to consider, then rose, and tip-toed from the room.

It was Gwen's twenty-first birthday.

Papa gave her a gold watch, which hung from a gold brooch shaped in the form of a ribbon bow. He also gave her a printed pink paper which Ludo explained was a share certificate—five hundred pounds' worth of shares in Messrs. Alfred Armistead and Co., to pay her back for the money spent on the gas engine. Ludo gave her a gold curb bracelet. This bracelet had been a subject for grave anxiety and skilful negotiation on the part of Laura. Gwen liked to receive presents which were useful to eke out her scanty dress allowance; she also liked presents to be presents she liked, and thought it sensible to consult the intended recipient before making a purchase. But Ludo disliked such a proceeding deeply; he took a romantic, chivalrous view of presents, and was apt to buy unnecessarily expensive articles of an unsuitable nature, and conceal them with the utmost secrecy till the day they were to be presented, when it was too late to exercise any diplomacy. Then Gwen was irritated, and Ludo was wounded by her irritation, and Laura agonised for both. For this birthday Gwen wished Ludo to give her an umbrella or some gloves, but Laura knew well that the very usefulness of such presents would repel Ludo, especially on such a ceremonial occasion as his sister's majority. Laura therefore by means of the most delicate tact within her power extricated the secret of his gift from Ludo, and then stimulated in Gwen a desire for a gold curb bracelet. The result surpassed her expectation; Gwen fell on Ludo's neck with tears of joy in her eyes, while Ludo beamed happily above her.

Laura's pocket money could not expand to the purchase of umbrella or gloves, but she bought two very handsome handkerchiefs, and embroidered G.T.A. in their corners. She was a little troubled by this embroidery, fearing it would fall short of Gwen's standard of excellence; and sure enough she observed Gwen
studying the initials with a rather too meticulous attention.

“You can easily pick the stitches out and embroider them again better,” she explained anxiously. “I'll pick it out for you myself, if you like.”

“What an idea! Of course I shan't pick your stitches out!” cried Gwen. Her emphasis rang false, but Laura was content that her sister should wish to retain her embroidery even though considering it faulty.

Mildred, who had recently returned to Blackshaw House, made a handsome birthday cake for Gwen, iced it and furnished it with twenty-one candles in rose and mauve. Gwen cut into it with much ceremony, and her family drank her health in a half-bottle of champagne. Gwen looked charming in her new high-necked blouse of white tucked silk, her ash-blonde hair gathered into a knot on the top of her narrow head, so as to reveal her small well-shaped ears. Everything about Gwen always showed a fastidious taste; she could not endure to wear anything cheap or crude; there was a delicacy, a style, an air of breeding about her whole person—her clear, small profile, her slim hands and feet, her trim waist, her long, slender neck. The family was proud of her, and Papa in particular loved to display her beside him in some public place. That night the Armisteads went joyously to the theatre to see
The Mikado
, which by a fortunate chance was visiting Hudley that week. Mr. Armistead had often talked to his children of the joys of Gilbert and Sullivan, and was excited by the prospect of introducing them to each other. Ludo and Laura were instantly converted; they fell in love with the Gilbertian attitude, on the spot. Gwen, as Laura perceived, thought the piece rather silly, but was happy to see her family happy; she smiled on them indulgently, like a mother on her child. They all returned laughing and jolly, and Mr. Armistead (who had an agreeable tenor voice) and Ludo broke often into Mikadoan duets.

Altogether a good day, thought Laura happily, as she drew the
sheet over her head and embarked on a dream of a poor girl's birthday which began with every possible humiliation but ended in a blaze of glory, owing to the timely appearance of an Earl.