Sleep in Peace (28 page)

“I'm sorry I bring bad news, Gwen,” she began at once.

“What's the matter?” cried Gwen.

“Father,” stated Grace, pronouncing each word with careful precision, “will not allow me to appear in public in yellow.”

“Why not?” cried Gwen in a fury.

“I believe he considers it immoral,” explained Grace. “Needless to say, I don't agree with him. But there it is. I greatly fear the colour must be changed.”

Gwen raged, wept, cried out that she didn't want a wedding at all if she couldn't have it as she wanted, but presently yielded. (Since the marriage was impossible without Mr. Hinchliffe's financial help, there was nothing else to be done.) The bridesmaids' frocks as eventually chosen were of pale blue ninon with a deep band of pale blue satin at the hem of the long skirt and pale blue velvet buttons. The high necks, tight and boned, and the yokes, were of cream silk lace edged with blue. At the throat they each wore a brooch of gold and opals, the gift of Frederick. They had large Leghorn hats trimmed with pink roses and pale blue velvet, blue kid shoes, blue openwork stockings and long blue kid gloves, and they were to carry large bouquets of pink carnations, with dangling trails of smilax. The general effect was decidedly impressive,
especially on the tall, lanky Grace, who tried on the complete outfit before she returned, to London.

Presently the invitations, in white and silver, were sent out, and the banns were put up. Presents arrived: silver vases and photograph frames and salt-cellars and jam-dishes, beautifully worked table-cloths and bed-spreads, from Gwen's friends; big presents like canteens of knives and forks, and dinner services, from Papa's friends and Mr. Hinchliffe's; a bureau from Edward and Grace, a tea service from Laura and Ludo. Mildred came out handsomely with a glass waterjug, and Grandmamma Armistead sent some old silver spoons. Gwen in her neat script wrote out cards:
Bridegroom to Bride gold bracelet, Bride to Bridegroom diamond tiepin, Mr. Alfred Armistead cheque, Mr. and Mrs. Henry Hinchliffe cheque
, to be laid on a satin ribbon at one end of the nursery table, where all the presents were displayed. At Blackshaw House everyone was very busy and very happy; positively the only quarrel of the period occurred over Grandfather Thwaite's dessert service, which Gwen packed to go to Prince's Road Terrace —since, as she said, she alone of the family had the initial T. Ludo objected to this transfer, and said that the service belonged to all three of Grandfather Thwaite's grandchildren—Gwen could have one-third of it if she wished. Gwen stormed, Ludo turned sullen, Laura dithered between their two points of view; finally Papa intervened, and with a flash in his eye commanded that the service should stay where it was till he had finished with it.

“I'm not dead yet,” he remarked caustically, “though some of you seem inclined to think so. And I should like to have a little peace before I go back to the mill, please.”

He stalked from the room; his three children, in horrified remorse, kept their voices to a whisper till he had left the house.

It was natural that poor Papa should be rather cross just now, for a protracted coal strike was in progress, and he and Ludo had the utmost difficulty in getting hold of coal on which to run the mill. Ludo harried their coal merchant day and night, and sometimes
suddenly rushed off to old coal workings in the hillsides, which had been reopened; the coal extracted thence was, however, the merest sludge, and Tom Byram complained constantly, bursting into the office with his shovel in his hand, that on such stuff he could not possibly keep up the necessary pressure. The Hinchliffes, who used a great deal of steam in their processes, likewise grumbled constantly, and one day Mr. Armistead and Mr. Hinchliffe had an explosive row in the yard, with Ludo and Frederick hovering round deprecating their fathers' violence. The quarrel was not serious, however, and its chief result, Laura shrewdly suspected, was to bring Edward back from Germany. He arrived on the same train as Grace, on the night before the wedding, for which it was alleged that he had returned, but Laura thought the coal strike a much more probable motive.

And here it was at last, the day they had waited and prepared for so long. Blackshaw House was astir very early, and was soon invaded by caterers; Gwen's clear, high tones could be heard in every room, briskly directing every operation. She looked pale and pinched and was decidedly cross; she burst into the bathroom, where Laura was washing before putting on her bridesmaid's dress, screwed up the corner of a towel and bored it into Laura's ears with a ferocity quite unnerving. She had already laid out the new morning suits, the grey ties and top hats and white gloves to be worn by Papa and Ludo; she now harried them while dressing, subjecting their very collars to a severe scrutiny, then turning on Laura, brushed her hair so hard that Laura's head was almost jerked from her spine. Suddenly Gwen withdrew to her own room; the caterers left, and a hush of suspense fell over the house. Laura dressed peacefully alone, admired herself in the glass, and came out on the landing to find Ludo, in wedding attire even to his button-hole, running wildly down the stairs.

“What's the matter?” she whispered, horrified.

The white satin ribbon for Gwen's bouquet had been forgotten, and Ludo was rushing off to town to fetch it. Laura went
into her sister's room to console her, and found her dressed, standing very still on a clean white sheet, spread to protect her rich satin folds from the carpet. She looked extremely pretty, modish and elegant, but rather daunted and young; Mildred was urging her to sit down. Gwen declined, and continued to wait for Ludo's return standing, but she spoke so sweetly and waited so quietly that Laura was touched and alarmed—such patience was unlike her sister.

Now Grandmamma arrived, in her sealskin cape and the same bonnet, with long black satin strings and a short curly ostrich feather, which she used to wear when Laura was a child, clutching the same black leather bag with the chain handle. With her was Auntie Mary, looking quite dreadful in a purple costume with silver buttons like shields. Grandmamma, who as far as looks went seemed very little older than before, held her heart and panted, and Ludo took her into the dining-room and gave her a drop of brandy. Gwen, hearing of her arrival, sternly did her duty and came downstairs to speak to her; as soon as she entered the room Grandmamma threw up her hands, and cried: “Eh! Well!” It was plain she had never seen such a vision of beauty before, and Gwen smiled, well pleased. Now the cabs were at the door, with Grace in one of them; Grace was extremely handsome in her filmy blue and her sweeping Leghorn, but cold and still like marble; her arm was icy to Laura's touch. Laura climbed in and they drove off together. Laura spoke to Grace eagerly; Grace opened her lips to reply, but no sound came, she took Laura's hand and squeezed it, looking into her eyes with a grave and terrible look. Laura's heart beat fast, and she felt as though her head would burst beneath the oppressive sense of things fateful and awful actually happening close about her.

There was a crowd at the church gates, and murmurs of admiration followed Grace and herself up the red carpet to the porch. They had to wait there for a long long time, so long that Laura felt almost choked with apprehension; surely there was
something wrong! Ludo came out and had a word with them, but none of them knew what they were saying. Then all of a sudden up came the cab, and Papa and Gwen descended, all serene as Ludo would say, and Gwen shook out her train and took Papa's arm, and Grace and Laura formed up behind her, and the wedding march sounded, and all the guests rose, and the wedding procession swept down the aisle, just as it ought to do. Papa looked particularly handsome and debonair, his moustaches were very beautifully waxed, he held his head high and smiled and swung his shoulders and was plainly enjoying the ceremony. Gwen of course looked lovely and walked like a queen. Frederick crept out from the side, looking small and crumpled in a frock coat, with his collar up round his ears; an obscure friend of his whom Laura had never seen before crept out behind him as his best man. (A pity Edward had declined that office!) The guests looked splendid; Mrs. Hinchliffe was weeping, in brown velvet with a white bouquet. Mr. Hinchliffe thunderously cleared his throat. Gwen's responses could not be heard at all, so that Laura felt she was overdoing the maidenly modesty; Frederick's could have been heard a mile away. Laura's teeth chattered with excitement, Grace beside her stood unnaturally rigid, like a statue; they both performed with perfect exactitude what they were required to do. The ceremony proceeded, and Frederick Foster and Gwendolen Thwaite were pronounced man and wife.

In the vestry there was a tremendous crush, and Laura could scarcely reach Gwen to kiss her; there was a pale air of triumph in Gwen's eye, she was perfectly composed and made suitably pretty speeches in reply to the congratulations offered her; Frederick on the contrary was crimson and dishevelled and seemed about to weep. There was the other wedding march, confetti, red carpet, and Ludo packing Gwen's train into a cab; Frederick and Gwen drove away alone, Grace and Laura found themselves in another cab with Papa and the best man, who proved to be some kind of journalist on the
Hudley News
.

The reception was tedious; Ludo made a facetious speech which did not quite come off, Frederick quoted Walt Whitman alarmingly, Mr. Hinchliffe refused champagne in a very loud voice and spoke very piously and at great length, Grace and Laura were separated during all this and the bones of Laura's collar hurt. When the speeches were over and Gwen had gone upstairs to change, Laura pushed hither and thither through the crowd which surged about the presents, looking for Edward. She found him at last in a corner, talking to Ludo about the advisability of installing electric motors in Blackshaw Mills. Ludo looked vexed, as well he might, thought Laura, by this intrusion of business into what should be a festive hour; he also looked very spruce and handsome beside Edward, who was wearing an ordinary lounge suit and appeared dirty and tired.

“Hullo, Edward!” said Laura brightly.

“Well, Laura,” replied Edward indifferently.

He surveyed her with cool distaste, and it was clear to Laura that he found her hat quite ludicrous. (She was uncertain of its curves herself.) Immensely disconcerted, Laura withdrew, and devoted herself to playing the good granddaughter.

Presently Gwen came downstairs, dressed all in bottle-green, and Frederick appeared in a new suit of indigo. This suit was of Armistead cloth, Hinchliffe finished, and cut by Ludo's Bradford tailor, but nobody would have believed any of these items, for nothing had any style on Frederick. (As Ludo observed bitterly to Laura: “His suits fit where they touch.”) The Armisteads and the Hinchliffes accompanied the young couple to the station. Gwen, serene and smiling, received her friends' good wishes with the pretty dignity of a newly married wife. Frederick wrung all their hands heartily, but for once was inarticulate with emotion; he looked very much younger than Gwen, far younger than the actual two years between them entitled him to do; indeed he appeared a mere hobbledehoy. The train moved; Mr. Armistead cried: “Theyr'e off!” in a voice between terror and elation; Gwen, leaning
from the carriage window, suddenly flung her arms round Laura, kissed her and kissed her as though she would never let her go. Laura's hat fell off, she staggered, felt ridiculous, returned kiss for kiss and wished with all her heart that she loved her sister more.

The train departed; the Armisteads and the Hinchliffes turned away and walked soberly up the stairs. Awe Hill with its forest of black chimneys loomed sombrely above them; Mrs. Hinchliffe wept, and Edward gravely took her arm.

There was peace in Blackshaw House; the days drifted by in a delicious quiescence.

One slept long, and when woken by Mildred's knock lay on drowsy and warm, dreaming, one's whole body remembering with beatific relief that there was no Gwen. Ludo, returning from his early visit to the mill, calling up cheerfully from the hall, startled one into a hurried rising; one threw on one's clothes and rushed downstairs, a couple of minutes after Mildred had rung the bell. Ludo did not mind one's being late, and Papa said nothing, though he minded; he merely looked at his daughter over his crooked pince-nez reproachfully and repressed a sigh. After breakfast one helped Mildred to make the beds, discussing dinner and tea with her meanwhile.

Mildred was deeply depressed at first after Gwen's departure; she had hoped to go with her on her marriage to some large establishment, and felt it a personal affront that Gwen should keep no maid. Joy seemed to have gone out of her life; she did her duty by the Armisteads with melancholy austerity, was very respectful to Mr. Armistead and Ludo, but listened to any remarks from Laura in a mournful silence, her hands hanging limply by her sides, an expression of incredulous scorn on her face, as if Laura were quite mad. Her most frequent remark to Laura was: “You
didn't ought to do”—this, that or the other—“Miss Laura; Mrs. Frederick would never have allowed it.” Or: “I always did it this way when Miss Gwen was here.” After a while, however, finding that she had much greater liberty than formerly, Mildred cheered up. Indeed she cheered up rather too much; she began to entertain her friends in the kitchen rather too often and too noisily. Laura's timid, indirect hints, and a reasoned remonstrance from Ludo, had no effect; at last one night when bursts of laughter floated along the hall into the dining-room, Papa rose up, strode to the kitchen door and threw it open, his newspaper dangling from one hand as usual, and scowling at the assembled company (which included several members of the Byram family) over his crooked pince-nez, demanded fiercely: “What is this?” These three words from the Master were completely effective; the parties died down. But the rebellious interlude seemed to have sweetened Mildred's character, loosened, perhaps, some severe restricting bond; for she became much kindlier in manner than she had ever been before, and treated Laura's attempts to learn to cook with almost genial tolerance.