Sleep in Peace (21 page)

They discussed the matter earnestly.

“Well, where exactly shall I meet you to-morrow morning?” enquired Grace as they parted.

“I don't think you need come after all,” said Laura.

“All right,” agreed Grace with her usual calm.

And indeed Grace's company was no longer necessary for the resisting of temptation, for Laura had a talisman against her dreams which deprived them of their malignant efficacy. Whenever one entered her mind, she thought not of it, but of what Grace thought of it, and following that line, her thought plunged straight into interesting realities.

As usual before all social appearances of the Armistead family, there was an agitating scene in Blackshaw House on the evening of Laura's confirmation. The muslin cap, with streamers, which Laura was to wear for the ceremony, had been ordered from an expensive Hudley milliner, but it arrived very late, and when
tried on Laura's wiry curls proved extremely unbecoming. Gwen was furious.

“I could have made a better one myself!” she exclaimed.

“I'm sure you could, Gwen,” agreed Laura.

The cab was already at the door, and Mr. Armistead and Ludo waiting in the hall. Suddenly Gwen snatched up her scissors and ripped the cap apart. Laura watched her in an agony; if she were late at the service, and for such a reason! What shame! At the same time, the cap was really frightful. This division of feeling showed in her face when Ludo, come to seek them, appeared in the doorway.

“What are you doing?” said Ludo in angry disgust.

Laura could not bring herself to reply, and Gwen merely smiled and began to put in a few rapid and skilful stitches.

“We must start at once,” said Ludo.

“Put your coat on, Laura,” said Gwen, continuing to sew.

It was seven minutes later when the Armisteads left Blackshaw House. Ludo smouldered, and even Papa was cross.

“You should have attended to that before, Gwen,” he snapped, looking at his watch.

The cap, however, was now charming.

Laura, trying, as the cab rattled along, to compose her thoughts into the lofty purity necessary for a Confirmation candidate, found the process very difficult as regards Gwen. One was directed to be in charity with all men, and certainly, by any standard, one ought to love one's elder sister. But one could
not
agree with, believe in, admire, a person who risked one's being late at one's Confirmation in order that one's cap should have more
chic
. Laura imagined the involuntary look of scorn with which Grace would receive such a vulgar notion. And suddenly the whole problem of Gwen was solved. Of course! One did not need to try to
admire
Gwen; one was sorry for her—because Gwen had no Grace.

This settled, it was easy to banish all malicious, uncharitable
and worldly thoughts, and lift up one's heart in contemplation of the lofty purity, the unfailing love, the noble justice of Almighty God. The rich gloom of the crowded church, with its dim pillars, its stained glass glowing blue and red, its tattered dusty banners, the fine ceremonial, which excluded all petty strife for precedence and position, the sweet high chant of the choir, the majestic intoning of the clerics, all plucked at Laura's nerves like powerful fingers upon harp strings, and drew out a tune not without nobility. (The Bishop in his lawn sleeves was a little disappointing; in Laura's experience important people were usually disappointing; they never equalled their portrait in one's imagination. But it was wrong to think so; Laura sternly repressed any criticism of her Bishop.) Her lips trembled, her throat swelled with emotion as she made her vows, and prayed that she might increase in God's Holy Spirit until she should come to His everlasting kingdom.

The service was over, the white-robed candidates streamed out through the ancient porch into the chilly twilight of a Hudley spring. Mr. Armistead, Gwen and Ludo gathered about their darling Laura and kissed her tenderly, and Laura responded from a heart full of love. Suddenly, over Gwen's shoulder, she perceived a moustache remarkably like Mr. Hinchliffe's. She started. Oh, it
was
Mr. Hinchliffe's! He was there, smiling kindly at her, with Mrs. Hinchliffe at his side; behind him stood Frederick, Grace and Edward. Laura's start had directed her family's attention; they all swung round as Mr. and Mrs. Hinchliffe came up and in a few well chosen words congratulated Laura. An involuntary smile of gratification spread over Mr. Armistead's face: “Very kind,” he said, “very kind, I'm sure.” Laura, on the contrary, extremely conscious of tulle head-dress and tear-stained cheeks, felt her bowels crawl with anguish at this mingling of her two lives—she hung her head and blushed as if she had been caught in an obscene action, and bent to receive Mrs. Hinchliffe's kiss like a martyr. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Mr.
Hinchliffe urging, by a gesture, his children to come and offer their congratulations too. That would be the last straw, thought Laura, watching them with a desperate anxiety. But the three young Hinchliffes, each after his own fashion, declined to do anything of the kind. Edward, calm, cool and composed as usual, hat in hand, smiling ironically, looked over his father's head and seemed to see neither him nor Laura; his eyes were fixed on the bleak bare bulk of Awe Hill looming above the railway arches and mill chimneys and grim little huddled streets. Frederick, with his hair disordered and his cheeks very flushed, glanced rapidly about, his eyes actually rolling with embarrassment, and began to harangue Grace about the black old grave-stones on which they were standing, pointing urgently. Grace met Laura's eyes and smiled, then turned away and gave a grave attention to her brother. Ah, Grace! One was always safe with Grace. Laura sighed her grateful relief. Ludo, who held her coat over his arm, helped her into it rather roughly—he looked cross and sullen, and Laura judged his view of the Hinchliffe invasion agreed with her own.

“I take it very kind of Hinchliffe,” said Mr. Armistead with simple sincerity, as the Armisteads moved towards their waiting cab. “Very kind indeed. Kind of them to take so much interest in Laura's welfare.”

“Yes, it shows a very nice spirit,” agreed Gwen, seating herself.

Gwen to speak of the Hinchliffes with approval! Laura was amazed, and Ludo glanced at his elder sister sharply.

A few days later it chanced that the firm of dyers and finishers employed by Mr. Armistead returned him a batch of pieces with two of which he was extremely dissatisfied. He sent an angry postcard demanding the attendance of a member of the firm; the nephew of its founder came to Blackshaw Mills; an argument
began over the responsibility for the damage which presently developed into a loud and protracted wrangle. There was nothing new in all this, indeed it happened almost every week, and Ludo had grown used to the sound of his father's voice raised in shrill contention. Few manufacturers, thought Ludo, were more skilful than his father in detecting a damage, and few less reasonable in allocating the cost of amending it. As a result, his custom never stayed long with any one firm; he often withdrew it in a pet, to restore it six months later. Ludo judged the present occasion to be the preliminary to one of these withdrawals, and he was not surprised when Mr. Armistead stalked into the office with the air of a ruffled hen, and announced that he could not stand the inefficiency and impertinence of that firm of finishers a moment longer.

“Who shall you go to, then?” enquired Ludo drearily.

Mr. Armistead stalked about the office, jingling his keys.

“What do you say if we give the Hinchliffes a trial?” he threw out suddenly.

Ludo said nothing.

Mr. Armistead paused, considered, and stalked out. He returned in a moment with a pattern, which he threw down on the sloping desk where his son was doing accounts.

“Take that across to old Henry H.,” he cried jovially, “and let's see how he frames with it.”

Ludo was spared the necessity of a reply by the foreman of the weaving shed, who came in to urge Mr. Armistead's presence at one of the looms.

When Mr. Armistead returned to the office half an hour later, Ludo was absent. The pattern, however, still lay on the desk where he had thrown it. Mr. Armistead exclaimed irritably, took up the cloth, swung it uncertainly in one hand and threw it down. It was quite beneath his dignity to approach Henry Hinchliffe, Ltd., or indeed any finishing firm, himself; the boot was on the other foot, the difficulty being usually to get rid of the many
travellers who called to solicit his custom. But he had made up his mind to deal with the Hinchliffes, and wanted to carry out the plan at once. He took up the cloth again and stalked out to the mill steps, where he halted irresolutely. Some Hinchliffe workmen were loading a waggon in the yard. Edward sometimes came out and had a look at this operation, but as luck would have it he was not there today. Mr. Armistead clicked his tongue impatiently; the delay in fulfilling his desire made it stronger.

“Where's your Mr. Edward?” he shouted across. “I want to see him here.”

One of the men put up a finger to show that he understood and vanished into the mill.

Edward came hurrying, and stood at the side of the open steps. Mr. Armistead threw down the cloth. His position at the top of the steps, with the sun shining on his cuff-links and Edward below in a shabby coat looking up at him, agreeably titillated his nerves; he felt like a merchant prince helping a deserving apprentice; benevolent patronage beamed from his weak handsome face and warmed his light voice.

“Take this, lad, and see what your father can make of it,” he commanded. He explained the finish he required.

“When do you want it, Mr. Armistead?” said Edward, his blue eyes gleaming.

“Friday,” said Mr. Armistead.

Edward nodded and withdrew.

On Friday morning he brought the pattern. The finish was perfect. Mr. Armistead heartily commended it, and led Edward away into the mill to see the pieces which he now proposed to entrust to Messrs. Hinchliffe. He found it agreeable to talk to Edward, who treated his opinion with respectful deference and had a wide textile knowledge himself, in both of which matters he was very unlike Ludo. While they were standing beside a pile of coatings in friendly converse, Mr. Armistead offering Edward an end of the cloth to feel, Ludo passed by. He raised his eyes and
shot the pair a look so blazing that Mr. Armistead was quite disconcerted; then moved on in silence.

“You might have given young Hinchliffe a civil word this morning,” grumbled Mr. Armistead as father and son walked home to their midday meal.

“Why?” said Ludo. “What was he doing in our part of the mill?”

“I'm going to let him do those greys,” replied Mr. Armistead, feeling for some reason a little uncomfortable.

Ludo exclaimed. “With all the dyeing and finishing firms there are in the West Riding,” he said, “why need we go to the Hinchliffes?”

“Because they're next door,” snapped Mr. Armistead untruthfully. “Really, Ludo,” he went on, “you're very unreasonable. What's the use of grumbling now, when the thing's settled? If you objected, why didn't you say so when I asked you to take them the pattern?”

“I didn't take the pattern,” muttered Ludo.

“And was I supposed to guess from that that you disapproved?” demanded Mr. Armistead irritably. “Really, Ludo, you aren't a bit of help to me. Now Edward Hinchliffe, he practically takes the business off his father's shoulders altogether.”

Ludo was silent.

Frederick sat up in bed, writing an essay on Wyatt and Surrey in an exercise book with a green moiré back.

Quoting from memory the sonnet
Description of Spring
, he scanned it and explained the rhyme form and its relation to that of Petrarch. Edward in the neighbouring bed lay fast asleep; a school inkpot stood on the table between them, into which Frederick made flying and fervent dips; the wan morning light
trickled in beneath the partly-raised blue blind. Frederick, manipulating
ababab
and
aa
, was intensely happy. The sonnet, the most intricate and beautiful verse form yet invented by man. A subtil instrument, capable of no less strength and fervour (see Milton) than linked sweetness (see Keats). Varieties of the rhyme scheme —no, I'm writing too much about later rhyme schemes, Frederick reproved himself, scoring the last sentence out fiercely; I
must
learn to
keep
to the
point
. Tottel's Miscellany. Translation of the Aeneid. Anne Boleyn. Imprisonment in the Tower. Executed on a frivolous charge. The tragic early deaths of these two men, lyric poets of the purest grace and sweetness. Could “grace” be “pure”? Never mind; think of another adjective with the same cadence, later.
The fathers of the English sonnet
, wrote Frederick,
Wyatt and Surrey had barely time to do their work and retire from the stage before the advent of those incomparably greater poets, Spenser and Shakespeare, who found the sonnet form ready to their hands and moulded it to contain some of the finest poetry in English (or any other) literature
.

He blotted the page with a decrepit scrap of blotting-paper which had once been white, smudging his heavy script in the process, and read the essay through with satisfaction.

Then he took from beneath his pillow a large red pencil, and began to correct it.

He put brackets round the allusions to Milton and Keats, and wrote in the margin
hardly relevant here;
he gave “purest” a ring and a large query. On the last sentence he was particularly severe;
a misleading way of writing
, he commented opposite the unfortunate phrase about Wyatt and Surrey's barely having time—as if, he reflected indignantly, people's entrances and exits were arranged beforehand by a benevolent Stage-manager; why, it's the purest Calvinism! He also remarked at the essay's foot:
The Spenserian stanza, though undoubtedly deriving from the sonnet form, had distinctive features which should have been specified
.
He then, flicking his pages back and forth, tried to get a fair idea of the quality of the essay as a whole; took his decision, and wrote F.G. at its close.