Sleep in Peace (7 page)

Presently Papa and Gwen, and often Ludo, went off to evening service, and Grandmamma retired to her own room, where indeed she now spent most of her life. Laura was supposed to go to bed at this point, and Ada and she—Mildred was often out on Sunday evenings—retired to her bedroom for that purpose. But
often the process of undressing occupied as much as an hour on Sundays. Ada let down, by request, her long black hair with the mahogany glints, and Laura as a treat was allowed to brush its coils. She loved the slow rhythmic movement, the crackle and curl of the living strands. After this Laura sat on Ada's knee with her head on Ada's breast, while Ada told her stories and recited poetry. There was one poem particularly which Laura loved, a poem Ada had learned from Ludo. When Ada said this piece the evening was somehow always sombre, lurid, exciting in a frightening way, with dark clouds looming in a livid sky, and thunder in the air.

“On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay th'untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.”

Laura shuddered with rapture as the Iser rolled.

In spite of these delights, it was always a relief when Sunday was over; one began Monday morning in a cheerful, industrious frame of mind. Mildred, who was really a very superior girl, Gwen said, taught one to read and write and do sums, and Gwen taught one to sew. The week went on pretty well, usually, until Thursday morning. On Thursdays there was nearly always unpleasantness with Mildred and Gwen over the long black ribbed stockings which Ludo wore to his sailor suits, for by Thursday noon he had usually contrived to make some sort of hole in them. A hole in the knee was very bad, because it was so obvious and so ugly, but a hole in the heel was worse, because it looked as if you were trying to pretend it wasn't there. No lady or gentleman ever went out of the house with holes in their stockings, said Mildred and Gwen. But since the duty of mending the stockings fell upon Mildred, she was always very cross when holes were revealed in the current hose. And so Ludo concealed his holes and hoped to
get safely off to school without their being observed. But they always were observed—by Gwen. Then all the authorities were cross—Mildred because of the hole, Gwen because Ludo had meant to humble the family by going out in disreputable stockings, Papa because Ludo had meant to deceive, which was very ungentlemanly. And Ludo was wretched, and Laura was wretched on account of Ludo. Yes, Thursday was a bad day. On Thursday afternoon Ludo had a gymnastic lesson, after which it was almost legitimate to have a hole. But before Thursday it was very extravagant, and poor Papa's business was going so badly, because of those American tariffs, that one simply must not be extravagant. But Ludo did not
mean
to be extravagant; it was not
Ludo's
fault, thought Laura.

One morning, when Gwen was dressing but Laura still lay in bed, Ludo suddenly rushed into their room.

“Go away, Ludo!” cried Gwen. “Who said you could come in here?”

But for once Ludo was not daunted; his brown eyes sparkled with excitement as he told his news. “Queen Victoria's dead!” he cried.

“Don't make silly jokes, Ludo,” Gwen rebuked him.

But it was true. Papa himself came in next minute to confirm it. He was very much upset. Everybody was very much upset. In fact, the household was completely disorganised. Gwen ran off as soon as she was dressed to talk over the fearful news with Mildred and Ada, and forgot to come back. Laura, thus left to struggle alone with her tapes and buttons, forgot which garment came next and wept, distraught. As usual Ludo came to her rescue; hearing her sobs, he poked his head round the door, ventured in, and with kind though unaccustomed fingers buttoned her into her clothes. As soon as she entered the nursery, it was discovered by the authorities that she was wearing her dress back to front; but oddly enough nobody was cross, they merely gave a sad smile and put the matter right without more ado. Breakfast was late
and the bacon was burned, but Papa made no complaint; he read the newspaper all through the meal, and nobody spoke a word, for his handsome face was set in lines of worry.

A few days later there came the Queen's funeral—an occasion which Laura was never to forget. Some of the schools had holiday, and the three children were sent to the memorial service at the Hudley Parish Church. Ludo had a black band stitched round his arm, and Gwen and Laura mourned in black silk ties, knotted round their throats in big floppy bows. Laura was proudly wearing for the first time her new blue reefer coat and cloth cap (to which the skunk tail had been transferred); and the scarf, the reefer, the bells tolling and the keen nipping frost of the air all served to excite her; she skipped merrily along between Gwen and Ludo, chattering at the top of her voice and feeling that the day was happy and she herself very dashing and successful.

“You mustn't laugh, Laura,” commanded Gwen in an exasperated voice, tugging at her hand. “People are all looking at you—you don't laugh at funerals.”

Confronted by a disillusionment so bitter and so abrupt, Laura burst into tears.

“Leave her
alone,”
mouthed Ludo in a furious whisper.

“What did you say, Ludo?” demanded Gwen, flushing. “What did you say?” Ludo was silent, afraid. Gwen bent and dried Laura's tears efficiently with her own handkerchief, exclaiming at the damp mess which resulted. “What did you say, Ludo?” she repeated sharply. “Can't you answer a civil question?”

Ludo did not speak. Laura, resignedly blowing her nose, now expected the way to Church to be filled with a monologue such as they had often heard before—really the manners of you two children, other children haven't manners like yours, I don't know what's to become of you, I'm sure. But Gwen closed her lips tightly and said nothing. Such a silence was unnatural and therefore ominous; with a little sigh Laura began to try to coax Gwen out of it. In a properly subdued but ingratiating tone she proffered
suitable comments to her sister on the crowds proceeding to the church, the half-masted flags, other people's mourning, the doleful bells. Gwen answered nothing. Laura glanced in alarm at Ludo, who seconded her efforts. But they were useless; Gwen's thin face remained aloof, brooding, closed. The row was only too evidently not finished with, there was more to come. From previous experience Laura judged that Gwen was reserving the scene she meant to make until they should be at home, out of the public eye. The long suspense was sickening; her heart began to pound, her throat to tighten. She looked so extremely serious and grief-stricken during the service that several people, friends of Mr. Armistead, glanced at her with a kindly smile, touched and amused by the little girl's devotion to the great Queen.

Never had the long hill back to Blackshaw House seemed longer; Laura hung more and more heavily on her brother's and sister's hands. This was apt to call forth sharp remonstrances from Gwen, and brotherly urgings even from Ludo; to-day they were both silent. Laura's heart grew so heavy, she could hardly drag it along. What would happen when they reached Blackshaw House? Oh, what would happen? How pale Ludo looked! How angry, Gwen!

Gwen was as miserable as Ludo and Laura, though from a different cause. Gwen was Papa's eldest daughter, his right hand, his stay and strength, and she passionately desired that his house, his meals, his children should be all that they ought to be, all that he could wish, (Then there would be no need for him to marry again, as Grandmamma sometimes hinted that he might.) And here were Ludo and Laura, poor little things, growing up so badly; they were always so dirty, so untidy, so lacking in breeding, delicacy, style. Really their manners made one positively squirm! One sometimes almost feared they Were slipping back to the level of Grandmamma! Ludo's school reports grew worse instead of better, and he seemed ruder every day; Laura when spoken to in company gaped like a fish. Her stitches were huge,
ugly, vulgar, her hair a bush; she could not be trusted to keep her gloves on out of doors. Really Ludo and Laura were not like other children at all. There were times when they almost seemed common! They misbehaved in the street, and people laughed at them. Laughed at Papa's children, laughed at the Armisteads! And there was nobody to put it right, nobody to look after them save Gwen—who after all, thought Gwen pityingly, was only fifteen years old. Everything fell on Gwen. Well, she accepted the task, however great the sacrifice; she braced herself to do her duty, at whatever personal cost. She would protect them, she would teach them, she would cherish them; her affection for them would be equal to all demands. How warmly grateful they would be, in later life!

When they reached the house: “Go into the dining-room,” commanded Gwen. “I want to speak to you.”

Ludo and Laura silently herded in. The table was already laid for the midday meal; they wandered past it and stood stiffly on the hearthrug.

“Why are they so
spiritless?”
thought Gwen with an exasperated sigh.

She began a harangue on good manners in the street. Laura stood staring away into a corner, mute and motionless; she was holding her thin little knees tense so that they should not tremble. (“She doesn't understand a word I'm saying,” thought Gwen despairingly. “She doesn't feel anything; she just gapes and wanders.”) Ludo on the other hand stood drooping, his face sullen, his eyes downcast, his long dark lashes very distinct against his pale cheek. “Why can't you stand up properly, Ludo?” said Gwen irritably. (She straightened her own thin shoulders with vigour to show him what she meant.) “Don't droop like that!” (She drooped exaggeratedly.) “You look like an old cabhorse, upon my word you do, giving at the knees like that; nobody would ever take you for the son of a gentleman.”

Ludo and Laura stared at her silently across the forks. Some
quality in their gaze was rather daunting, and Gwen was just going to turn and flounce out of the room when Papa came in from the mill.

“What's the matter?” he asked in his quick light tones, looking from one to the other of his children.

“Ludo and Laura were rather rude to me, Papa,” said Gwen virtuously, casting down her eyes.

“Rude to your sister? Rude to a lady?” exclaimed Papa, his face darkening angrily as he turned on his son. “Ludovic! What is the meaning of this?”

But here Laura broke up the situation, flying from the room in a desperate attempt—unfortunately vain—to reach the bathroom before beginning to be sick.

Everyone was extremely sympathetic, and Laura was put to bed with two hot-water bottles, and kept there snugly all the afternoon. But the child could not get warm. Gwen lent her special eiderdown with the Paisley pattern, tucked Laura in and kissed her tenderly. Ludo brought his animal book with the stand-out pictures for her amusement. But Laura lay and shivered. When Papa returned from the mill in the evening, he was grieved to miss his little daughter from his welcome in the hall, came to her room and felt her ears to test whether she had a temperature. The little lobes were icy cold. Laura's appearance as she lay there stretched out beneath the smooth sheets, pale and shivering, reminded Alfred Armistead disagreeably of his wife in her last illness, and on his way down to the Hudley Club that night he called at the doctor's surgery and requested his attendance. The doctor was attending a confinement and could not come, so sent his son, a young man just returned from three years in Germany. He pronounced that Laura's brain was too active; she was too much alone; she ought to go to school.

It was the Hinchliffes' habit to hear each other's homework, and Edward by a few well directed questions had ascertained that Grace's history lesson for the morrow was properly prepared. Since Mr. Hinchliffe was a governor of the new Hudley Girls' High School, which Grace attended, the family took a special interest in everything connected with the establishment, and Edward was subjecting the history textbook to a critical scrutiny now. He flicked the leaves rapidly with his thin bony fingers. Its brown paper cover was inscribed, in Grace's firm round hand:
Grace Mary Hinchliffe
, II
Cromwell Place, Hudley, West Riding, Yorkshire, England, Europe, The World
. Edward thought this inscription showed a remarkable grasp of categories, for one so young as his sister. He said so, with his usual authoritative calm, and laid down the book in a symmetrical position on the dining-room table; whereupon Frederick pounced on it. Balancing the book, with the firm ease of one performing a highly familiar action, on one hand, and turning the leaves eagerly with the other, Frederick plunged his nose into the pages almost as if to smell their quality. After a moment he opined that there was a certain wild poetry in Grace's description, which was not devoid of generous and lofty feeling; indeed there was something Byronic about it—he believed in point of fact Byron had inscribed something in just that way: a book, a desk, a bench at Eton, something of that kind. It was an interesting point; possibly of some significance; he would look it up, and collect other instances of such inscriptions; several had already occurred to him now.

“Byron was a very wicked man,” said Mrs. Hinchliffe, not, however, troubling to raise her eyes from her mending.

“He was a noble poet!” asserted Frederick in his deep rich tones.

Grace, slightly irritated by his over-emphasis, observed that her inscription was neither categoric nor Byronic, but Grace-Hinchliffean.
“Graceful, in fact,” she concluded with her wide radiant smile.

“A legitimate contention,” approved Edward. “It expresses your personal view of the cosmos, you mean.”

It was one of the Hinchliffe boys' family jokes to talk to each other (as their father sometimes between pride and irritation remarked) as if they were a leader in
The Times;
they collected words for this purpose in genial competition, as other boys collected stamps. Grace grinned delightedly as she perceived that they were off on this tack now.