Sleep in Peace (30 page)

“But what's the matter with her?” cried Laura.

“You'd better go and see her this afternoon,” advised Papa.

It was all very mysterious and distressing, and Laura did not know what to think. The moment Papa had returned to the mill, she rushed off to Prince's Road Terrace. Gwen opened the door to her. She did not look at all ill, but, on the contrary, very serene and well; it was quite preposterous to ask such a smiling, happy person how she felt.

“You aren't going to London,” faltered Laura, not knowing how to begin.

“I'm not well enough to go,” said Gwen in a mysterious tone.

She sounded positively pleased about it, thought the perplexed Laura, pleased and important, as though she had done something clever.

“But you can go alone—there's Grace,” began Gwen; and broke off to exclaim: “Why, child! you've put your hair up!” She turned Laura about as Papa had done, and crying: “It's charming, really charming!” kissed her. “Certainly you must go to London!” said Gwen, laughing in a flattering way.

Laura was completely happy, and pushed the matter of her sister's illness to the back of her mind. It was all the easier to do this, because it was never mentioned again in Blackshaw House. Gwen persuaded Papa to take Laura to London alone, and supervised the reconstruction of her bridesmaid's blue into a low evening gown—the first which Laura ever owned.

“Now be sure you wear it when you go to dine with Grace,” said Gwen. “They'll all be in low dresses there, you'll see.”

“But, Gwen,” objected Laura fearfully, “does Mr. Hinchliffe allow Grace to wear low evening dresses?”

“What the eye doesn't see the heart doesn't grieve at,” replied Gwen cynically, and the sisters laughed together.

Accordingly there came a night when Laura, in the renovated blue—it now had an overdress of softly flowered ninon, very bright and pretty—proudly conscious of her thin bare arms and circle of exposed throat, drove off in a cab to dine at Grace's college. She was ecstatically happy, full of an intense joyous expectation. Now at last she would meet her intellectual equals! Now at last she would find a society where she could feel at home!

Grace met her on the doorstep, just as they had arranged. That was one of the splendid things about Grace, reflected Laura—and about Laura, reflected Grace: she kept her appointments, was always completely punctual and reliable. Grace looked handsome in a dark blue dress, of much more sophisticated (and much lower) cut than Laura's; she grinned and bounded forward and
seized Laura joyously by the hand, but did not kiss her, and seemed a trifle surprised when Laura offered her cheek. When she had guided Laura along a maze of polished wooden corridors and staircases to her room, however, she kissed her heartily.

“Too public down there,” she said.

“Yes,” agreed Laura, learning.

The room was simply lovely, thought Laura; small, of course, but containing everything that one needed and nothing that one did not. It had a polished floor, with a bright thick rug; a divan, with a brightly coloured counterpane and cheerful cushions, which, Grace informed Laura, became a bed at night. The wash-stand folded itself into the wall on hinges; further hinges unfolded to reveal a desk. There were low bookshelves full of books, there were flowers; there were photographs of Edward, Frederick and Laura, there was a lecture time-table. There was a fire, which Grace had to light and tend herself; there was a cupboard full of crockery for cocoa parties. The room was all Grace's own; nobody shared it; she slept there, worked there, lived there; she could retire there and be alone whenever she chose. Laura, looking about her in admiring wonder, felt a deep, strong yearning fill her heart. Oh, if she could only have come to this college, worked for her degree, had a room, and books, and a career, like Grace! After all she was quite as clever as Grace; they had tied neck and neck in every school examination. As she stood there gazing, Grace watching with a smile from the divan, a drifting mournful cadence pierced Laura's ears; it was the opening phrase of that Brahms intermezzo Edward had played, the first time he came to Blackshaw House.

“Oh, how
wish
were at this college, Grace,” said Laura wistfully.

“Yes. It's grand, of course,” said Grace. There was a reserve in I her tone, however, and Laura looked at her in surprise. “They won't let me do what I want,” burst out Grace. “I want to change to Law. Laura, I
know
I should do good work in Law. But they
won't allow it—there isn't a course, and women never have done Law; and I took my scholarship on History. The P. was very dry about
that
. I want to be a barrister—I want to be a Judge.”

“But are women allowed to be barristers and Judges?” queried Laura, alarmed.

“Not
yet”
said Grace impatiently. She gave a restless movement, sighed, and seemed to make an effort to dismiss the subject.

“So Gwen hasn't come to London,” she said.

“No—she wasn't well enough to come,” Laura repeated glibly.

Grace looked at her.

“You know
why
Gwen couldn't come, don't you, Laura?” she said.

Laura blushed painfully. She perceived that she knew, and had known since Gwen's indisposition was first mentioned at the Blackshaw dinner table, what was the matter with her sister. The nauseating words
she's expecting
, which she had overheard Gwen use of her friends, rang in her ears; a dark look of distaste and repulsion came over her face; she turned away.

“Yes,” she said.

Grace studied her profile sadly, and was silent.

“What sort of a life do Frederick and Gwen make of it, together?” she said after a while.

“It's difficult to tell. They
bicker
a good deal,” said Laura distastefully, “but whether that means anything or not, I really couldn't say.”

“Well, it's time to go down—we're meeting in the Common Room before Hall,” said Grace, rising with a sigh.

Laura's face cleared, and she followed Grace in excited expectation.

Grace had indeed done her best for her friend; about the large round table there presently gathered a dozen of the most distinguished students of her year. Laura, sitting in the place of honour beside Grace, looking down the long hall towards the High, as it appeared one called the table on the dais, felt as though she were
looking into a picture, a picture composed, fixed and framed, of which her mental eye registered certain vivid actualities. In the background, amber-coloured wood in receding perspectives; nobly panelled; sometimes golden, sometimes shadowed, but never sombre; not ancient, but firm and clear and new. A high golden gallery; clusters of brilliant lights. Rows of girls in bright formal dresses at long tables, quiet, decorous, urbane. The Principal—grey hair, grey drooping dress, a purple jewel, pince-nez with black ribbon—completely erect in her tall carved chair. A gleaming polished wooden floor, focussing all the light upon the centre of the picture, their own round table; the faces turning towards their focus, Grace. An impression of space and chill and clarity, of austere dignity, the high resolve of a new enterprise, thought Laura—and also that impression, always particularly fascinating to her, of an enclosed and separate unit of life, with a language, a set of manners and customs, completely and peculiarly its own. Grace, for instance, addressing the girl on Laura's right, called her by her surname, Duchay; that was exciting to Laura, because it was evidently characteristic of, belonged to, this University life and this alone. Oh, she would never forget this night, never, thought Laura, ecstatically. And the talks she would enjoy!

It was time she began to talk. She came, to earth, and turned to her neighbour, the darkly handsome, slightly lisping Margherita Duchay, with a receptive look and a friendly smile.

“And what is
your
view of the Ulster situation, Miss Armistead?” at once lisped Duchay, apparently continuing a conversation begun while Laura dreamed.

Laura had no opinion, because no knowledge, of the Ulster situation. She hastily tried to remember Ludo's.

“And of Carson?” continued Duchay.

“My brother is a strong supporter of Sir Edward Carson,” hurried Laura, grateful for the clue.

“Really!” said Duchay with interest. “And you yourself? Do you like or loathe him?”

“I don't know,” muttered the wretched Laura honestly. She turned away, pretending an intense interest in what Grace was saying to the girl on her left. What a horrid beginning to an evening when she had hoped to feel so completely at ease!

Unfortunately the dialogue with Duchay was typical of those that followed. The dinner, as a social occasion, an act of honour to a guest, was a complete failure; Laura found herself hopelessly out of her element, hopelessly outclassed. She had not read the books these girls had read, seen the plays they saw, heard the music they heard; since she never looked at the newspapers, and had lacked the Hinchliffes' conversation for a year, she had no idea what was going on in the world, what was Britain's domestic or foreign policy. The students tried her with science, history, literature, mathematics, economics, politics and current events; upon each topic in turn Laura revealed her abysmal ignorance. In deep humiliation, almost stifled by the torturing sense of her own inferiority, with scarlet cheeks and a timid, deprecating smile, Laura strove to stem their friendly enquiries; under the strain her accent grew more and more north-country, and even her manners began to seem unreliable. Meanwhile Grace, with the most perfect ease and naturalness, not only held her own, but started, guided, terminated conversations as she chose. And all this difference, thought Laura savagely, was the result of just one year. Grace had had just one year at College; Laura had had just one year languishing, rusting, wasting time, at home. Where were her brains? Had she ever owned any? If so, what had she done with them? She saw her vaunted knowledge for the little schoolgirl trifle that it was. “And the worst of it all is,” thought Laura wretchedly, “I'm disgracing Grace!” These girls would think the less of Grace for having such a stupid, uninteresting, brainless friend. “I'm on the right side all the same,” thought poor Laura, perspiring: “I'm with these girls, I'm not against them, I believe in the things they believe, I love knowledge, and art, and beauty and truth, just as they do, only I don't know how to say so.” “You
haven't tried,” said her other self. “You've let yourself run to seed, you've done nothing, absolutely nothing at all.” Pictures of her aimless, silly, trifling, childish, idle life at Blackshaw House during the last two years rose before her, and she blushed almost to agony in shame for them. Just at this moment Duchay said in a puzzled tone:

“What
do
you propose, as your life-work, then, Miss Armistead?”

It was clear to Laura that Grace had spoken of her Hudley friend to her fellow-students as a brilliant and interesting person, and the priggish question was put not in curiosity or condescension, but in a quite honest perplexity as to where Laura's interest lay. And suddenly the goaded Laura could bear her humiliation no longer; she lifted her head and spoke.

“Well, first of all,” she said calmly, “I'm taking my Art Master's Certificate, you know. Then we shall see.”

Almost the worst thing of all that dreadful evening, thought Laura, was Grace's delighted smile when she heard this speech; for its joy, its brilliance, its love for Laura, were the measure of Grace's relief. Grace had been worried by Laura's idiotic indolence, Laura saw it now; how could she have been so blind as not to see it before!

“I suppose there's a great deal of untouched artistic material in the industrial north,” said Duchay with a thoughtful air.

“Yes,” said Laura shortly.

“Do you mean to study at the Slade School?” asked Duchay.

“It's not settled yet,” snapped Laura.

Art Master's Certificate! Where had she even heard the words? Some chance phrase caught on a Drawing afternoon at school, years ago, supposed Laura, amazed by the magnitude and the implications of her own lie. But it should not be a lie. The days of sloth were over. Art Master's Certificate! The Slade School! And then perhaps teaching! It was a noble ambition; Laura's spirit soared on its wings.

The day after their return from London, Laura, having provided for Mr. Armistead an admirable evening meal, and allowed him half an hour in which to digest it over his evening paper, broached the subject.

“Papa,” she said, timidly but clearly: “I should like to go to the Slade School to study art.”

Mr. Armistead lowered his paper and took off his pince-nez with an irritable air.

“The Slade School?” he said. “What's that?”

“It's an art school in London,” explained Laura, panting.

“You want to go to London to an art school?” exclaimed Mr. Armistead in an extremity of amazement. “But whatever for?”

“I want to take my Art Master's Certificate,” said Laura, pale and trembling. “I want to be properly qualified.”

“But what
for?”
demanded Mr. Armistead.

Laura moistened her lips. “I want to,” she persisted. “I mean it seriously, Papa.”

“But what does a girl with a nice home like yours want to go filling her head with all that rubbish for?” said Mr. Armistead. “It isn't as if you hadn't a good home. Aren't you happy at home since Gwen married?”

“Oh! Yes!” cried Laura, maddened by this implication.

“Then what do you want to go off to London for?” demanded Mr. Armistead. “What nonsense! A child like you, Laura! Study art! The very idea! The very idea!” he repeated in a tone of affectionate raillery. “I never heard of such a thing.” He shook his paper into position and gave Laura a kindly smile in farewell as he retired behind it. “You be a good girl and do your household duties, and one of these days Mr. Right will come along and you'll get married,” he concluded.