Sleep in Peace (2 page)

“Now, Miss Gwen,” Mildred reproved her, “don't be unkind to your brother. Come along now and take off your things.”

Don't be unkind—then if it was unkind to say you wouldn't be the youngest, it must be something horrid, argued Ludo. He fell silent, saying nothing but what was conventionally necessary for good manners until, while the two children were seated at the dinner table in the nursery, their father came in. Ludo was holding a spoon full of treacle poised over his rice pudding at the time, and watching the thin golden stream trace lovely delicate patterns on the sticky creamy mound. Mildred had already objected to this proceeding as unmannerly, but she would not, he thought, rebuke him for it while Papa was in the room. While
the treacle gently and slowly and silently curled through the air, then, Ludo suddenly spoke.

“I shan't be the youngest any more,” he said: “Shall I?”

He put it in this way, as a statement not a question, very characteristically, in order to assure everybody that he knew already and did not mind and they were not to mind. Mr. Armistead, dark, dapper, in his own estimation handsome, with abundant pointed moustaches and a fashionable touch of neat side whisker on his cheek-bones, smartly dressed in a suit of fine cloth made by himself and London tailored, leaning against the mantelpiece jingling the coins in his pocket, worried about his wife, worried about the new gas-engines at Blackshaw Mills, replied rather inattentively in his light, facile tones:

“What's that? No. Baby will be the youngest.”

“I shall be the eldest and Baby will be the youngest,” chanted Gwen. “Ludo will just be in the middle, won't he?”

Her tone disparaged the middle so profoundly that Ludo's heart quite failed him. He put his spoon down quietly, without making any more patterns, and began to eat. Somehow the pudding had no taste, but there would be too much fuss if he didn't eat it, so he slowly and solemnly shovelled it in.

Later, in the afternoon, after his rest, when Papa had gone back to the mill and Gwen and he were doing lessons with Mildred in the nursery—Gwen reading aloud, Ludo gravely drawing pothooks—suddenly Ludo began to cry again. It was clear to him from Gwen's air and tone that when one was not the youngest any more one was no longer important. He was not allowed to see his mother. She held another child on her knee, thought Ludo, its head rested against her breast, her arms surrounded it, her soft, delicate, gentle hands warmed its little fingers. The sky was black, the wind howled and roared, the smoke was beaten down from the chimney out into the room, the rain hissed, the windows rattled; the whole world seemed dissolving, cracking, shaken. Afternoon was a sad, desolate, tearful time in any case.
Ludo wept. He wept so steadily, so un-childishly, that Mildred was alarmed and even Gwen was rather impressed. A gush of pity rose in her heart; she impulsively offered him half a cherished red india-rubber. Ludo accepted the rubber without enthusiasm, feeling sure that she would take it back again, as she had often done before. His indifference to a gift which had demanded real sacrifice on her part angered Gwen.

“Poor Ludo,” she said sharply: “He's crying because he won't be the youngest any more.”

Ludo drooped his head in anguish, ashamed that the cause of his tears should be known. Ada, coming into the nursery to fetch the brass coal-scuttle, tossed her head and implied in a mutter that some folk didn't know how to treat children, they were that hard. There was a brief clash between Mildred and Ada; Ada won, and Ludo gratefully trotted away at her side, down to the kitchen once more. The kitchen seemed so safe; the black cloth rug with its red patterns, the high steel fender, the tea-caddy on the mantelpiece with the picture of the Golden Jubilee, the silvery dish-covers hanging on the wall in a row of decreasing ovals, the old brown flour bin, the yellow bowls, Ada in her afternoon black, Cook in her neat striped print—they were all as usual; the world seemed firm and solid here. Even when Mildred came down to prepare nursery tea, and the nurse (a fearsome person, old and very starched) hurried through to the wash-kitchen with a pile of soiled linen in her hands, and a little chilly air from the harsh outer world shook life again, it settled after a moment into stability. The wind could not be heard down here. There was the huge red fire, the warm breath of the ovens, his sailor suit with the white cord and the whistle, the teacake snug in his hand, Cook's black cat purring a his feet. Mamma would be better to-morrow—better perhaps than she had been for a long time, Ada seemed to think, and Ludo was glad, for of late she had been looking very ugly, and it distressed him deeply, though of course he did not mention it to anybody. But she would be better tomorrow
and the new baby would probably not be at all like Gwen. Pity, mused Ludo, biting comfortably, that she was not a boy; a boy would have been real fun.

The thought found an echo in the mind of his mother, who, exhausted though deeply satisfied by having given birth, lay drowsing in the twilight, her newborn child beside her, her hazel eyes closed, her long brown hair, still damp with sweat at the roots, descending over her shoulders in neat twin braids. Her arm curved protectively about her little daughter, but she could not help feeling that it would have been good to have another boy like darling little Ludovic—whose high-sounding name, chosen by her and given to the child somewhat against her husband's wish, fed her cravings for romance and her ambition. Dear Alfred! he could deny her nothing, thought his wife fondly, remembering the quizzical but yielding look he had given her across the font at Ludo's baptism. The carved font, the dim old church, the stately sonorous ring of the Prayer Book phrases.
High and mighty, King of kings, Lord of lords
. How splendid it was that Alfred and she belonged now to the Church of England! They had both been brought up to go to Chapel, of course, but one of the things which attracted them to each other was their dislike for Nonconformity. Liberalism, the Nonconformist conscience—they were such old-fashioned ideas, thought Mrs. Armistead, tossing her pretty head scornfully; tedious, prosy, smug, discredited. So loud and commercial, too, so sordidly mercenary, so opposed to all that was noble and splendidly traditional and grand, so ungentlemanly, so lacking in all style and air. It seemed impossible for Liberal Nonconformists, even good ones, like Henry Hinchliffe, to understand the might and majesty of England, the bright clear flame, the silver spear, which it was England's high mission to carry through the world, bringing to dark places the inestimable boon of rule by the Great White Queen.
Behold our most gracious Sovereign Lady, Queen Victoria: Endue her plenteously with heavenly gifts; grant her in
health and wealth long to live; strengthen her that she may vanquish and overcome all her enemies; and finally, after this life
… No Liberal Nonconformist could ever understand how one's blood thrilled all down one's spine at words like those. What a fine thing it was that Disraeli had made the Queen Empress of India. It was because of the Tsar's daughter marrying the Duke of Edinburgh, you know, Ludo; she wanted to take precedence of the Princess of Wales, because her father was an Emperor and the Queen was only a Queen, and of course
that
couldn't be allowed.

A host of bright images winged from Mrs. Armistead's ardent fancy: the Jubilee; horse guards; white gauntlets, glittering breastplates, waving plumes, thick moustaches; flags and cheers and church bells, the hollow sound of horses' hoofs, white ponies, outriders, clicked heels, swords. Sir Ludovic Spencer Armistead, K.C.B. For distinguished services in Kandahar. How Henry Hinchliffe would look down his nose when he heard that they meant to send Ludo into the diplomatic service!

On Henry Hinchliffe's name her thoughts flew to Blackshaw Mills, and she hoped passionately that the new gas-engines would not backfire again as they had done yesterday. Blackshaw House stood halfway down the hill whose summit had been crowned these last ten years by the big new Blackshaw Mills, built by Mrs. Armistead's father, Spencer Thwaite, so that his son-in-law might capture for Hudley some of Annotsfield's fine worsted trade. It was an ill wind which blew nobody any good, reflected Mrs. Armistead. The big strike of the new Union of textile workers, in Annotsfield ten years ago, paralysed all the Annotsfield mills for months, and ruined some of the manufacturers. But it had given her father a good idea; for the Annotsfield mill-owners began to rent mills in Hudley and other neighbouring towns where there were then no Unions, and Spencer Thwaite, shrewd old manufacturer and warm man that he was, thought that Hudley might learn to make the fine expensive worsted cloth
too; why should Annotsfield have the monopoly? So it all turned out most romantically, thought Mrs. Armistead with pleasure. Young Alfred Armistead had been apprenticed to Spencer Thwaite, and become his smartest traveller, and fallen in love with his motherless only daughter, who returned—oh, how she returned!—his love. And they married, and old Spencer built Blackshaw Mills and put dear Alfred into them and looked about for a suitable partner for him—some responsible man, eager to strike out for himself, who had a little money saved and a considerable practical experience of the Annotsfield trade. He had not far to look; the then minister of the chapel Spencer attended (indeed he had contributed most of the fund required to build it) in Cromwell Street, had a brother-in-law, Henry Hinchliffe, who was just the kind of man required. Old Spencer, so formidable and imposing with his fringe of grizzled whisker, fierce little eyes and big nose, had insisted on Alfred's living near the new mill, and Blackshaw House was empty and it all fitted in. And then as soon as it was all settled and the deeds signed, her poor father had a stroke and died, and all his money was tied up in South America and couldn't be got hold of, the Bank of England came into it somehow though Mrs. Armistead never quite understood why; but they were always short of money for running expenses at Blackshaw Mills, as a result. “I must change my will to include Baby,” thought Mrs. Armistead in parenthesis. The house being thus only a couple of hundred yards from the mill, whenever the gas-engines misbehaved, first the explosion terrified Mrs. Armistead's anxious ears, and then a mill-hand, hurrying down the hill, would cause alarm by appearing at the back-door, panting out a request for brandy—somebody had been hurt, and the teetotaller Hinchliffe would not allow brandy to be kept on the mill premises. Every time this happened, Mrs. Armistead, pale with fright, her pretty eyes dilated, gathered her children to her arms and rushed to the door for news of her beloved husband. The men at the mill were now so well aware of this that the
moment they came in sight of the house on this errand they shouted cheerfully: “He's not hurt—she's no call to fret.”

The pictures thus summoned into Mrs. Armistead's mind of the back-door, the mill, the road and the rough field between, had made her heart beat faster, and roused her to be conscious of the stormy outside world, or perhaps it was the increasing storm which brought the pictures. She stirred and opened her eyes. From her pillows she could see in the chilly twilight the black clouds flying unceasingly across the sombre hills, and the slate roofs of the row of cottages at the bottom of the garden, where Ada's family lived, streaming with rain. It seemed to her that the wind had certainly increased while she drowsed; its voice was fiercer, more insistent, as it screamed and whistled round the house. Mrs. Armistead raised herself higher on her pillows and gazed out uneasily. The thin gnarled trees fringing the garden were furiously tossing their bare black gleaming branches, the grimy laurel bushes bent before the storm, their leaves turned up relentlessly over their heads. Great gusts tore the smoke from the cottage chimneys into thin wisps, then a moment later rattled the windows of Blackshaw House in a merciless tattoo. Mrs. Armistead could thus judge the instant when a blast would strike the house, and found herself waiting through the intervals with nervous apprehension. The gusts grew wilder, more clamorous and more frequent; with a loud protesting click the bedroom door flew open, and a cold air edged its way across to the bed. Mrs. Armistead, shivering, drew the coverlet closer about the sleeping infant. Now the wind deepened its voice to a menacing roar; it shouted with rage and buffeted the house so that it shook. The bedroom door banged, and not latching, banged and banged again; cold airs swept viciously about the room. The noise within and without was deafening. Oh, this was terrible! thought Mrs. Armistead, suddenly abandoning all pretence of not being frightened by the wind. Where was the nurseg? She stretched out a weak hand and fumbled for the bell-rope.

All at once the row of cottage roofs crumpled, folded upon themselves and rose into the air.

“Alfred, Alfred!” screamed Mrs. Armistead wildly, starting up.

The next moment the gust struck Blackshaw House; with a roar like thunder the chimney above her head plunged into the room. The fire flew out upon the carpet, followed by a rumbling avalanche of bricks and stones; the flames, driven by the wind above, caught the linen bedsides, scorched the sheets. The room was filled with the acrid stench of soot and smoke.

“Alfred!” screamed Mrs. Armistead again, her face blanched with terror. “Alfred!”

She snatched up her child, flung back the bedclothes, and with a convulsive effort half-threw, half-dragged her fainting body to the ground. Hardly able to stand, she staggered towards the door, stretching towards it a trembling and icy hand. Mercifully it had not latched; she tottered out to the cold bright safety of the landing.

The crash of falling masonry resounded through the house; all in it sprang to their feet in frightened question. The first to move was the monthly nurse, who with a face of concern ran through the kitchen, rolling down her sleeves with her still dripping hands. After a stunned pause Cook and Mildred ran out after her, jostling each other in the doorway. Ludo followed as fast as he could, but his short legs made slow work of the steep stone cellar steps, and by the time he had reached high enough to see the first storey landing through the wooden banisters, the nurse was supporting Mrs. Armistead in her arms, with all the others grouped about her in stricken attitudes. At the sight of his mother, barefoot, with no wrap over her nightdress, her face contorted in the extreme of fright, Ludo felt the blood curdle in his veins. He stood still, three steps below the landing level, and gazed up in silent horror.