Sleep in Peace (39 page)

“I can't understand it,” he worried to Laura. “I am a man of some experience, I think you will agree; surely the considered opinion of a man of experience would be helpful in forming a judgment!”

It was Laura's part to agree soothingly, pointing out at the same time that there were, in every problem, local difficulties which could only be fully understood by the man on the spot. She cited local topographical instances, hoping to distract his mind from the War and his loss, but local affairs led to Blackshaw Mills, and Blackshaw Mills inevitably to Edward. Then Mr. Hinchliffe fell
silent, making no response to Laura's talk; his hands trembled, he looked away into the fire, sniffed, and slowly pushed up his moustache with an air of pitiful discouragement.

In this gloomy atmosphere the disappointment of Grace's degree results passed almost unnoticed, except by Laura, who could not bear to think that Grace,
Grace
, had only achieved a second-class, would be saddled with mere second-class honours all her life.

In December Ludo came home for a few days' leave. He looked thin and harassed, ate and slept a great deal and would not go near Blackshaw Mills, which vexed Mr. Armistead. Nor would he go about the streets with Gwen and Laura, taking salutes, smacking his leggings with a cane, and telling brisk patriotic anecdotes, as other people's brothers did; instead, he sat about the house, moody and quiet, reading old
Strand Magazines
. Laura was sure that he was very unhappy, but did not like to ask directly why. From obscure hints, half sentences, his intonation on one or two words, she gathered that he found his mess uncongenial and his sergeant a bully—“but it'll be all right when we get out to France,” said Ludo wistfully, whereat Laura sighed, and her heart ached for him. But presently another and more terrible reason was proffered for his wretchedness.

One dark December afternoon Laura came out from her Belgians to find Prince's Road full of the shouts of newsboys, calling specials. There were so many specials, with so little news, nowadays that Laura took little notice of their cries, until she met one of the lads clutching a poster in his hand which announced in red letters: GERMAN ATTACK ON YORKSHIRE. In a frenzy she fumbled for her purse, but found her halfpenny too late—the papers were all sold. Those who had secured them, however, seemed to recognise a public duty of communication; they spread their sheets wide, so that a dozen others could read over their shoulders. The German Navy, it appeared, had emerged out of the mist and fired shells at Whitby and Scarborough. This was
bad enough, but not the invasion of troops which Laura had feared; with a natural instinct to communicate the news, instead of going into town as she had intended she ran off, first to Gwen's home, which she found closed, and then to Blackshaw House. Mildred opened the door to her holding Geoffrey by one hand; she seemed startled by Laura's early return, and without listening to her news told her that Mrs. Frederick was in the dining-room, and Madeline in the kitchen.

“You'd better not go in, Miss Laura,” she added hastily, as Laura's hand sought the knob of the dining-room door.

“Why not?” said Laura, turning. Mildred's face bore an expression, half sorrow, half excitement, which to Laura was detestably familiar, for it was the look which women gossiping together too frequently wore, of gloating enjoyment of other people's troubles, especially troubles which included anything disgraceful. She had seen it often on Grandmamma's face, on Mildred's and on Gwen's. Vexed, she flung open the door with defiant vigour, and strode into the room.

A completely unexpected picture met her eyes. Papa, who at this hour of the afternoon should be at the mill, was striding up and down the hearthrug, perplexity and wretchedness in every step. Gwen occupied a position behind the table, Ludo stood at one end in a stiff attitude of military attention, very erect, gazing in front of him, his fingers pressed against his trouser seams.

On the couch sat Eva, the Byram who was a mender at the Hinchliffes'; she had plainly just come from her work, for she was wearing clogs and a heavy check shawl. Next to Eva, huddled uncomfortably close to her sister, there positively sat Ada, dear Ada who had been Laura's nurse, Ada who had married and gone to live in Leeds and taken that darling Buller away with her, Ada to whom one carefully sent handkerchiefs and a Christmas card, every year. Though Ada now looked shrunken and nervous, and her black hair was dulled and grey beneath a hat with too many blue flowers, she was still Ada; Laura knew her at once, and
smiled with delight at the remembrance of dear Ada and that pet of a Buller. Behind the two women, his huge hands, wide apart, grasping the curved mahogany top of the couch, dwarfing everyone else in the room with his powerful body, towered an elderly man with grizzled close-cut hair and sweeping grey moustaches—their father, the Blackshaw Mills firer, Tom Byram.

“It's too disgraceful, it's abominable, that any son of mine,” Papa was shouting. “I don't believe a word of it! Not a word! What have you to say for yourself, Ludo?”

“I'm sure Ludo hasn't done anything wrong. Papa,”, cried Laura, breaking in impulsively.

“Laura! What are you doing here? Go away at once—at once, do you hear?” exclaimed Mr. Armistead in a tone of fury. “Go away at once. Go to your room and stay there. This is nothing to do with you, and you know nothing about it.”

The frightened Laura backed out hastily, but after taking a few steps across the hall she stopped, hesitated, returned, hesitated again, and, equally unable to go in boldly or to desert Ludo, stood on the mat with her ear pressed against the dining-room door.

“You see, Papa,” Gwen was saying, “even Laura agrees with me. The whole thing's quite impossible.”

“Leave Laura out of it,” said Ludo gruffly.

“Yes,” agreed Mr. Armistead, “quite right, Ludo. Your sister has nothing to do with this and must know nothing of it—in any case,” he added unhappily.

“That's all very well,” said Tom Byram in a slow, menacing drawl: “But them as has their fun mun pay for it. I'm not going to have my lass left in t'lurch, Mester Armistead; and if he won't marry her, I shall tek it to t'court. There's such things as bastardy orders, you might remember.”

“I'm ready to marry her,” said Ludo.

To hear, without seeing, such a scene as this was torture; Laura with the utmost caution crept forward so that without being visible she could peer round the door, which she had left standing a
few inches ajar. Could it really be true that Eva, pregnant with an illegitimate child, actually stated its father to be Ludo? Did Papa really believe that Ludo, Ludo so kind, so chivalrous, so incapable of hurting anyone—even a fly, as Frederick had said—that
Ludo
had put a girl, Ada's sister too, in that terrible position? But it was preposterous! And Ludo had said he was ready to marry her! Laura turned her eyes on Ludo. There was an extraordinary expression on his face, which was very pale; for once in her life Laura was entirely unable to read it, for his look seemed compounded of scorn, compassion, and irony, all of which were quite inapplicable to his situation.

“If you make application for any kind of order such as you mention,” said Mr. Armistead, speaking with some dignity but unable to utter the word
bastardy
, “your daughter will have to swear on oath that my son is the father of her child. Is she prepared to do that?”

“Speak up, Eva,” said Tom Byram. “Tell them what you told me. Though I had a job to get it out of her,” he added. “She's kept it from us all, the little hussy, all these months.”

There was a long pause. Laura fixed her gaze on Eva with an anguished interest. The mender had thrown back her shawl, revealing a white side-parting and a head of thick smooth hair, warmly fair (like a field of ripe barley in the Isle of Man, thought Laura), which still lay in a short undressed plait, tied with cotton, between her shoulders, in spite of the afternoon hour. Her face was square, rather florid in colouring, smiling and good-humoured; she had a wide, full mouth and well-opened grey-blue eyes. She sat still and firm and very erect, so that her abundant breast projected; her thick strong hands lay at rest in her lap. Ada seemed to cling to her rather than she to Ada. It was a ripe, robust, richly living personality, thought Laura, surveying her with the impartial eye of the artist, and Laura would like to paint her; but when one considered her as a possible wife for Ludo, one's inside crawled.

At last Eva spoke.

“It were Ludo,” she said.

She's lying, thought Laura instantly. Then her reason corrected her intuition; how can she be lying if Ludo admits it, wondered Laura, puzzled.

Ada burst into tears and buried her face in her hands. “Oh, Master Ludo!” she wailed. “How could you?”

Ludo folded his arms across his chest. “I'm ready to marry her,” he said. His brown eyes were brilliant with the same strange emotions which had already perplexed Laura.

“I don't believe a word of it,” broke in Gwen contemptuously. “It's ridiculous, Papa. Ludo—why, he wouldn't know how!”

There was an awful pause. Ludo's face blotched as if someone had struck him with an open palm. Mr. Armistead and Tom turned to him with an air of mingled distrust and doubt; Ada, raising her head, looked up hopefully. Eva did not stir.

“Well, Ludo, what have you to say to that?” demanded Mr. Armistead, in an anxious but less harsh tone.

There was a silence.

“I'm ready to marry her,” repeated Ludo hoarsely.

But this was not an answer to Mr. Armistead's question.

“Gwen's right,” thought Laura, in a gush of relief.

“Well, Tom,” said Mr. Armistead after a pause: “I don't believe your daughter, and that's flat.” The firer shifted from one foot to the other, and Laura felt deeply sorry for him, for she saw that he now disbelieved Eva too. “There are plenty of other young men beside my son in Hudley, there are plenty of other young men even in Blackshaw Mills. And I've seen your Eva having a word with a good many of them. Oh, I don't mean anything wrong,” he added, as the firer moved restlessly in protest, “but she's a lively, stirring piece and it might have been anyone. You'd better set your wife and Ada on to talk to her.”

“We
have
talked to her, sir,” wept Ada.

“I'm very sorry indeed that it should have happened in such a
respectable family as yours, Tom,” Went on Mr.. Armistead, his heart warming to the troubles of others now that his own were cleared, “and if it turns out to be one of the men at Blackshaw Mills, send him to me and I'll show him his duty. I'm sure Mr. Hinchliffe will do the same if it's one of his men,” he concluded.

“But if it's not Ludo, who is it then?” thundered Tom, bending fiercely over his daughter.

Eva neither spoke nor stirred.

The firer turned to Ludo. “Will you give me your Bible oath you never had her?” he demanded.

At this rough speech the blood rushed to Ludo's face. He hesitated. “I'm ready to marry her,” he repeated obstinately.

“Thank you, thank you, Master Ludo,” wept Ada. She rose, and tottering across the room, threw herself on Ludo's breast.

“That's daft talk,” said the firer, throwing out his hand in contemptuous rejection. “I'm not a fool, Mr. Ludo, if you are. Come on, Ada. We're making fools of ourselves here. But I'll know who it is yet, I will that, or I'll know the reason why.”

“Perhaps it's a soldier,” suggested Gwen brightly as the three Byrams filed past her to the door. ,

“Aye, happen it is!,” growled Tom. “I'll find out, never fear.”

But Laura, stealing a; last hurried glance before she ran into the drawing-room to avoid them, saw the amusement in Eva's steady eyes, the sardonic smile curving her full mouth, and felt convinced the girl would never tell.

The German bombardment was really quite useful; the moment the Byrams had left the house Laura dashed into the dining-room and with an assumed air of breathless excitement gabbled out the news.

“What? What?” exclaimed Mr. Armistead, gratefully seizing on this excuse for leaving the painful subject which had been occupying their attention. “Bombarded Scarborough? What next, upon my word?”

Gwen ably seconded the diversion, and soon the children,
brought in tactfully by Mildred, provided an unfailing topic for easy talk. But presently Gwen must leave to prepare Frederick's tea, and when she wheeled Geoffrey and Madeline away—after a scene from Geoffrey, who greatly disliked to share the pram with his sister—Mr. Armistead, snatching up his hat, accompanied her to the gate, no doubt for the chance of a last word about the Byrams. Ludo and Laura were thus left standing in the hall.

“Ludo,” began Laura. Screwing up her courage, and looking anywhere but at the khaki figure of her brother, she managed to get out: “Would you have
liked
to marry Eva?”

“I was ready to marry her,” muttered Ludo in a sullen, aggrieved tone.

Laura forced herself to look at him, longing to receive his confidence, but Ludo, lowering his eyes, stumbled silently away.

Next day his leave was over, and he returned to Salisbury Plain.

Christmas was wretched. In Cromwell Place all festivities were vetoed by Mr. Hinchliffe in a childish outburst of rage culminating in tears; in Blackshaw House they were marred by the tension between Mr. Armistead and his son-in-law. Frederick's determination not to fight was beginning to be widely known in Hudley, and Mr. Armistead was ashamed of him; he strove to restrain his temper for Gwen's sake, but even when actually carving the turkey he could not refrain from biting remarks about Germany's man-power, aimed at Frederick, and Frederick's literal reception of, and literal replies to, these cannon-fodder statistics were highly embarrassing to Laura. What Gwen thought of all this it was impossible to discover; she looked calm, composed and elegant, and devoted herself to Geoffrey and Madeline, who, in white wool and white silk respectively, looked calm, composed and elegant too. Laura had bought and decorated a Christmas tree for the children, and provided many presents; but it all fell flat—Frederick
discoursed in his too audible tones on the German origin of Christmas trees, and Geoffrey, fingering a clockwork crane with scornful distaste, announced clearly, leaning against Gwen's knee: “I don't want it, Mummy.” Only the flaxen Madeline gave Laura any pleasure; lying at ease on the settee, she grasped firmly in one chubby hand a glossy red remnant of a pulled cracker, resisted all Gwen's attempts to take it from her, and from time to time turned her large grey eyes upon it with a look of deep happiness. Madeline was a placid child, in appearance very like Grace, though Gwen hated to be told so.