Sleep in Peace (3 page)

From a frozen stillness the scene suddenly passed into violent action. Mildred and Ada began to rush between bedroom and
bathroom with jugs of water; Cook flew down the stairs, almost knocking Ludo from his feet, in search of brandy. Grandmamma and Gwen retreated into the nursery, towards which the nurse urged Mrs. Armistead with encouraging words. Ludo, hardly able to make his legs obey him, moved slowly into the nursery and crept to his mother's side. She lay back in a chair by the hearth, scarcely breathing; the nurse knelt beside her, chafing her hands. Ludo timidly touched one of the nurse's starched apron strings.

“Go away, child,” she exclaimed impatiently, pushing him away without looking at him. “You mustn't worry your mother now.”

Ludo cleared his throat. “It's upside down,” he whispered, timid but determined, pulling again at her strings. “Nurse! It's upside down.”

“Lord save us!” cried the nurse. “The baby!”

She hastily snatched the newborn infant from Mrs. Armistead's convulsive grasp and reversed it, for Ludo was right, the distracted mother had been carrying it upside down. The child's head was congested, purple; it moved its arms faintly, in obvious distress. The nurse's face expressed a fearful question as she worked over the barely living organism, slapping its tiny back; and Mrs. Armistead, watching, suddenly screamed and tried to spring from her chair.

“She's dying!” she cried. “My baby!”

“Nothing of the kind,” said the nurse, firmly holding her back with one hand. “The child's right enough. Ada!” she called urgently. “Ada! You must fetch the doctor at once. Run! Don't delay!”

At this Mrs. Armistead lost all control. “Alfred!” she screamed wildly. “Alfred!” Her eyes dilated with hysteria, and she threshed her arms through the air.

“Eh, I never!” exclaimed her mother-in-law, throwing her wrinkled old hands above her head in dismay. “Whatever will Alfred think to this? We'd best send for him at once, I reckon.”

“Papa! Papa!” cried the terrified Gwen, jumping about the room in an agony of fright. “Ludo, fetch Papa!”

“Yes, someone had better go for Mr. Armistead at once,” shouted the nurse above Mrs. Armistead's screams, almost beside herself between her two patients.

Ludo turned and ran away down the stairs.

On the hat-stand in the hall hung his sailor cap: he snatched it from its hook and crammed it on, somehow encouraged for his adventure by its
Royal Sovereign
ribbon. The back-door knob was large and slippery, but he had turned it before and knew how to manage it; in a moment he was outside, running along the path between the wind-tormented laurels. He reached the back gate, struggled with its iron latch, had a moment's panic as the wind swung it heavily from his grasp, then miraculously retrieved it and pulled it shut behind him.

It was now quite dark; the wind, at the height of its fury, seemed to come all ways at once; icy rain was sweeping across the hill, coating the pavements with a slippery film. The stinging sleet whipped Ludo's face and hands unmercifully; his bare knees were soon swollen with wet and cold and lost all feeling; his feet, clad only in his thin house shoes, were rapidly soaked, and he had difficulty in raising them from the ground. His sailor collar flapped, his lanyard had climbed up about his ears, he was obliged to clutch his pocket with both hands to keep his precious whistle safe. His plump little body seemed to weigh a ton as he strove to force it through the storm. After a long long time, when he thought he was nearly at the top of the hill, he was suddenly assailed by a fiercer blast, and discovered that he had only just emerged from the shelter of his own garden wall. He felt fearfully discouraged, but struggled manfully on, beginning, however, to draw the deep breaths which with children are the prelude to sobs.

The robust but strident bellow of the mill buzzers now broke
out all over Hudley, and mingled with the deeper roar of the wind; the working day was done. Almost at once Ludo found himself in the midst of a crowd of the Blackshaw Mills hands, all pouring down the hill; he seemed to struggle against them as though against sea waves; clattering clogs threatened his toes, damp shawls, tossed by the wind, smacked his legs and shoulders. A sudden gust snatched at his cap. With a cry of distress Ludo raised his hands to his head, but it was gone. He stood still and tried to peer about him, but the passing crowd buffeted him and the cap had vanished in the dark. “They'll tread on it,” he thought with anguish, and burst into tears. Still sobbing, he remembered his errand and struggled on. Suddenly the workpeople were all past him and the road was empty, and Ludo had reached the brow of the hill. Feeling lonely now they had gone, he began to run, and soon saw the familiar railings, the big archway and the flight of steps. But the office windows were all dark! Surely Papa had not gone! Sobbing bitterly, Ludo in despair turned off beneath the archway into the mill yard. There was always Tom Byram there, stoking the boiler; and Tom was Ada's father; he could ask Tom whether Papa had gone.

He drew near and stood on the edge of the boiler pit, which was lighted by a single flaring jet of gas. One of the monster's round red eyes was open, and glowered furiously; the heat scorched Ludo where he stood. The firer and his assistant, both heavy powerful men, grimy and sweat-soaked, were firing up for the night; they attacked the coal heap sloping beneath Ludo's feet with their huge shovels; with easy rhythmic movements they dipped and lifted, paused and threw, pitching heavy loads of coal with absolute precision into the furnace, which leaped and flickered, incandescent. Half in irresolution, half under the spell of the spectacle, Ludo stood silent and motionless. After a while the younger man, a fair lad with a handkerchief round his neck, Tom Byram's eldest son, became aware of the child's presence. He glanced at him curiously once or twice, but said nothing until his
father with a swift stroke of his shovel blade pushed to the furnace door. He was about to strike open the other, when his son caught his eye, and with a backward jerk of the head indicated Ludo.

The firer shaded his eyes and looked up at the child.

“What do
you
want, eh?” he called.

“I want Papa,” wailed the wretched Ludo.

“Who is your feyther, love?” asked the firer in a tone of great kindness.

Ludo was struck dumb, unable to explain an identity so fundamental, but the fair young man muttered from the side of his mouth:

“He's Mester Armistead's.”

“Aye, so he is. I didn't know you, lovey,” said Tom.

And indeed Ludo, his hair plastered down over his eyes, his face pale and tear-stained, his suit soaked, was very unlike the trim young gentleman the firer was used to see holding Mr. Armistead's hand. “You're fair soaked,” he commented kindly. There was a shade of irony in his tone as he added; “Well, your feyther's across yonder.” He jerked his head in the direction of the engine-room, then struck open the boiler's other door and resumed work. The effect was as of a monster benevolently winking, and Ludo felt slightly comforted as he ran off across the yard.

The odd note in Tom Byram's tone was explained to Ludo when he pushed open the engine-room door, for his father, Mr. Hinchliffe and another man were standing by the rail of the furthest gas-engine, in earnest conference. As children do, Ludo understood the essentials of the situation at once; he knew that they were discussing the misbehaviour of the gas-engines, that they often discussed it, that Tom knew they discussed it and had his own (low) opinion of the gas-engines and was sardonically glad when they failed; and this made the child uneasy, inclined to be apologetic about the engines and about his father, who had bought them. His eager rush was checked; he advanced timidly down the
long shed, full of big wheels and broad belts which cast lurid shadows, and pistons whose heads gleamed wickedly at each savage thrust. The men's voices rose and fell and rose again urgently; Mr. Armistead struck the rail with his hand to emphasise his words. He sounded cross and unlike himself, and Ludo's uneasiness grew.

“The drive's never as even as with steam, I don't care what you say,” said Mr. Armistead.

The child's steps faltered; he shrank behind one of the flywheels. Now Mr. Hinchliffe's strong resonant voice boomed out; as usual, thought Ludo, it went on and on and
on
. Peering round the big wheel Ludo could see his father's partner clearly in the harsh gaslight; his sturdy figure, so much shorter than Mr. Armistead's, his sandy hair, square benevolent face and drooping bushy moustache. Like Mr. Armistead, he wore cloth of his own making, but it was emphatically not cut in London, for Mr. Hinchliffe would have scorned the employment of a London tailor as altogether excessive and high-flown, indeed hardly decent; his suits were made by a local tailor who attended the same chapel (Cromwell Street) as himself. Nor did he wear a silk cravat. Mr. Hinchliffe was not a favourite with his partner's children, though he was unfailingly kind to them; his Christmas presents to them were books of an uncomfortably pious nature, and he asked them embarrassing questions about their prayers. Mrs. Armistead was apt to toss her head rather often during his monologues, and altogether the atmosphere was uncomfortable while he was in the house. Mr. Armistead, as Ludo perceived, made one or two attempts to interrupt him now, but Mr. Hinchliffe merely raised a protesting hand and continued his speech. The two men were, in fact, altogether alien in temper, and the history of the gas-engines revealed this clearly. Armistead, who had agreed to their purchase with eager enthusiasm, delighted by the dashing notion of owning the first gas-engines in Hudley, had a kind of intuitive sympathy with matter, which enabled him to
understand how things worked without knowing the technical reasons for their behaviour. He thus often took apparently capricious and ill-founded decisions, which later proved quite sound. He was convinced now that these gas-engines were wrong and would never be right; he did not understand what was the matter with them, but merely felt, when he saw their clumsy cranks turn over, that they would never do. Hinchliffe, on the other hand, had given the matter of the purchase of the engines long and careful consideration, entering thoroughly into the cost of their running, saving in wages and so on; and once they were bought, he treated them with the justice he would have awarded a human being, insisting on giving them time to adjust themselves to their new bed and show of what they were capable. Armistead spoke irritably to the engineer but bore him no ill-will; Hinchliffe treated him with deliberate fairness but would be implacable if the engines proved really inefficient. The engineer, a youngish man whose future seemed to depend on the success of these engines, his darling invention, defended them hotly but could not altogether conceal his dismayed conviction that Armistead was right. Presently, pressed by Mr. Hinchliffe, he proposed an overhaul.

Ludo listened to their dispute in growing misery; their grownup voices, so deep and firm, sounded to him much angrier than they really were, and he simply had not the courage to interrupt them. He tried hard to make himself go forward, but his body opposed an invincible repugnance to the action. Once or twice when there came a lull in the talk he nervously moistened his lips, and advanced one foot, but immediately the voices boomed out again, and Ludo shrank.

At long last the men seemed to reach some conclusion, and the conference broke up; the three moved down the shed towards Ludo, hands in pockets, talking more amicably. Ludo braced himself for the encounter, and was just about to step forward when the door behind him swung open and the firer rushed in.

“Why, Tom,” began Mr. Armistead, surprised.

“Your chimney's down, Mester!” shouted the firer at the top of his voice. “And my roof's off! My youngest lad come up to tell me—your chimney's down in your wife's room.”

“What!” shouted Mr. Armistead. Exclaiming “Laura!” he sprang forward, pushed the firer aside and ran out at the top of his speed. The firer followed him.

“I'm afraid this may be very serious—his wife was confined only this morning,” explained Mr. Hinchliffe soberly to the engineer. “I had better follow him and see if I can be of any assistance. Why, Ludovic!” he exclaimed, his glance falling on the shrinking child. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to fetch Papa,” wailed the scared Ludo.

“Come with me, my boy,” said Mr. Hinchliffe paternally, stretching out his hand. “We'll go down home together.”

In a warm gush of relief Ludo gratefully thrust out his cold little paw.

“Of course it isn't
your
fault, Ludo, that Mamma's so ill,” said Gwen with a judicial air, as they ate their bread and milk together. “You couldn't
help
being so long fetching Papa.”

There was an air of calamity about Blackshaw House. Mrs. Armistead had been moved into her mother-in-law's room; she lay stretched out in bed, her face a pale mask of weary disdain, her lips blue; convulsive shudders shook her from head to foot. The doctor was beside her; the nurse ran up and down the stairs with a very grave face. Mr. Armistead was pacing the dining-room from end to end with a feverish tread, his amiable face haggard with anxiety. His mother sat watching him in a gloomy silence; she had urged him to eat from the well-filled table, but he would not. Ada's eyes were red, Cook had sent up some special biscuits for the children's supper; even Mildred seemed subdued
and scared, and had left the nursery to help in the kitchen. Ludo felt disintegrated with suspense; the world no longer existed, he waited in agony till it should again coalesce. The fact that he was wearing his Sunday velvet suit somehow made everything more awful. He therefore made no answer to Gwen's remark, though it pierced him to the heart, but went on stolidly eating his supper.

“I shall go down to say good night to Papa,” announced Gwen with decision when they had come to the bottom of their bowls.