Sleep in Peace (22 page)

He sighed.
Fairly Good
was a disappointing mark, and it was a long time since he had been able to give himself anything higher. Marking one's own essays was in any case an unsatisfactory business. He had known perfectly well when writing it that the remark about Wyatt and Surrey's retiring from the stage (and why “stage”? An examiner might easily have suspected him of imagining these two poets to be dramatic writers) was all bunkum. Perhaps he had even written it in order to have something to correct, reflected Frederick sadly; it was so difficult to be honest about one's own motives. He sighed again, deeply discouraged. But in six months' time he might perhaps have saved enough from the tiny wage he earned in Messrs. Hinchliffe's to pay for a Correspondence Course; in six months' time he certainly
would
have saved enough, determined Frederick. In a gush of renewed hope he drew out from beneath his pillow the little blue booklet which held his ambition; it was the syllabus for a tutorial correspondence course for the B.A. degree of London University. Frederick pored eagerly over its list of subjects, its specimen examination papers which looked so easy—and, alas, its statement of fees. What must it be like to go to a real University, wondered Frederick, hugging his ankles. Oxford. Heidelberg. The Sorbonne. Pointing spires and eager, intent faces, the feast of reason and the flow of soul. Rows and rows of old books, crabbed old scholars hobbling along.
A Grammarian's Funeral
.

This man decided not to Live but Know—
       Bury this man here?

Here
—
here's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form,
     Lightnings are loosened
,

Stars come and go! let joy break with the storm,
     Peace let the dew send!

Lofty designs must close in like effects:
     Loftily lying
,

Leave him—still loftier than the world suspects,
     Living and dying
.

The alarm clock at Frederick's elbow rang out stridently. Frederick in one movement sprang up and jammed the lever, lest its clamour should waken Edward; for it was his own turn to go early to the mill that morning.

“Of course if we have one we shall want it to be better than anybody else's,” said Gwen.

Laura winced. It was natural to wish one's activities to be distinguished by their excellence, but put thus crudely it sounded horrid. Ludo, she was sure, would hate it, and it was Ludo's twenty-first birthday party which was under discussion. Other members of the tennis club to which the Armisteads belonged entertained their friends by means of “musical evenings”, and the project of celebrating Ludo's birthday thus was now being canvassed by brother and sister. Ludo, that is to say, made various suggestions as to who should be asked to perform, and Gwen rejected them. Those people had played and sung before, and so would be no novelty, or they had not played and sung before, and so were untried, uncertain.

“Don't let's have any music at all, then,” said Ludo at length gruffly.

Gwen gave a gesture of impatience and turned to Laura. “Do any of the Hinchliffes play?” she asked.

“Edward,” said Laura, who had been dying to impart this information for the last ten minutes, “plays
superlatively
well. He belongs to a musical society in Bradford.”

“I don't want any Hinchliffes at my party,” said Ludo.

Laura's face fell.

“Except of course Grace,” added Ludo, observing her.

“You can't ask Grace without her brothers,” said Gwen.

“Why not? She's often been here without them before,” persisted Ludo.

“Not to a grown-up party. My dear Spencer,” said Gwen with a superior smile, “it's quite impossible.”

“Of course if it's only for grown-ups,” conceded Laura mournfully, “we can't ask Grace.”

“We can if we like,” said Ludo.

“Not without her brothers.
I
should not care to take the responsibility of inviting Grace under such circumstances,” said Gwen. “Mrs. Hinchliffe wouldn't like it.”

Laura sighed. She was quite unable to discern whether Gwen meant to invite all of the Hinchliffes, or none—Gwen's intentions were often thus obscure in their early stages—but whichever it was, she knew her sister would infallibly have her way. She made a last effort to support Ludo.

“It's Ludo's party, and he must have whom he likes,” she said.

“It's Gwen's, too, as she didn't have one on her twenty-first,” said Ludo after a pause.

“Nonsense! Don't be so absurd, Ludo!” objected Gwen, colouring.

Her vexation was real, and Ludo and Laura felt it to be generous; the discussion proceeded on more amicable lines.

In the event, all three Hinchliffes were asked, and all accepted. Gwen then wrote a formal note to Edward, asking him if he would be so kind as to play; in a couple of days Edward, writing in a very tiny hand on unstamped paper, replied that he would gladly do so; an exquisitely neat footnote gave the titles of the works he proposed to perform. Ludo snorted at this, and opined that it was “swank”; but the other Armisteads were considerably impressed, and Laura felt excited and proud.

Some thirty members of “the gang”, as Ludo called their tennis
friends, having also accepted Gwen's oral invitation for Saturday fortnight, preparations for their entertainment were conducted on a large scale. The whole house was subjected to a rigorous cleaning. All fabrics, visible and invisible, were examined and mended, clean curtains were put up; the best silver was withdrawn from its green baize bags and polished, the best china unwrapped from its paper swathings and washed, by Gwen's own hand. Cakes were baked and iced, creams and trifles and jellies prepared. In all these preparations Laura took part with eager zest; her mind was full of the party, she saw it all bright and gleaming, with figures celestially beautiful swaying about the room like flowers. The great Saturday itself arrived, and the Armisteads ran about the house all day. Papa renewed those of the gas mantles which were broken or dulled; Ludo moved furniture and improved the position of aspidistras; Mildred cut sandwiches, Laura blanched almonds. Meanwhile Gwen set the table for the buffet supper, spreading the heavy linen tablecloth with absolute symmetry, placing Spencer Thwaite's dessert service so as to display all its charms, ruffling artistically the hand-painted table-centre of yellow silk. She was in a very good temper and wore a happy smile. The Armisteads ate their evening meal in the kitchen; this amused them and Ludo made several excellent puns on the subject.

And now at last the hour was come, and the Armisteads stood in the drawing-room awaiting the arrival of their guests. Lights blazed all over the house—this gave Laura immense pleasure, for Gwen's usual parsimony in the matter of light fretted her soul. The dining-room door was firmly closed on its supper treasures; Mildred, in a resplendent new apron, hovered in the hall. Mr. Armistead and Ludo looked exceedingly spruce in their best Sunday suits. Gwen was wearing a new frock, pale blue with biscuit-coloured yoke and sleeves; she smiled and looked about her with her customary air of elegant
savoir faire
. Laura wore her old green party frock quite happily, since the skirt had the most
lovely accordion pleats. The bell rang, Laura giggled with excitement, female voices drew near and receded as Mildred ushered their owners upstairs; soon the door opened, and guests came streaming in. Laura's heart beat fast, and she pressed forward eagerly at Gwen's side. Papa's hand drew her gently back. Of course, remembered Laura, ashamed, it was really Ludo's party. She hastily retired to an obscure position in the shade of a palm on a tall china stand.

Perhaps it was because of this initial mistake, or perhaps for some other obscure reason, but certainly the party did not seem as enjoyable as Laura had hoped. The guests—most of them members of that lofty and dashing “gang”—were not very exciting, thought Laura; they were not even very beautiful, while their conversation was positively dull. The girls gave Laura chilly and condescending smiles as if they had never heard of her, looked her green dress up and down disparagingly, and resumed their talk of personalities and clothes. The men did not speak to her at all. Laura became acutely conscious that half a dozen of her green pleats lacked the proper crispness; she shrank back behind the palm to keep them from the general view. Suddenly the Hinchliffes stood in the doorway. Oh,
dear
, thought Laura in anguish. They looked so odd, the gang would despise the Armisteads even more than before. Grace was in a terrible pink flannelly dress, with clumsy lace frills at the throat and elbow, her yellow hair, all loose, flowing superabundantly down her back. Frederick, as usual, gave the impression of having rolled in the dust since dressing—he was incorrigibly rumpled in his attire. Edward looked coldly bored, as though he were engaged in despising everybody present. (He was.) There was a pause in the conversation, and everyone looked at these strangers with amused interest as they shook hands with Gwen: Edward reserved, barely extending his bony hand; Frederick effusively, bowing; Grace with her wide, happy smile. (“If she only knew what people were thinking of her!” thought Laura wretchedly.) Laura
gasped, and found herself beside Grace, kissing her with passionate loyalty. “Let's sit here,” she whispered urgently, and drew Grace and Frederick down to an obscure sofa. Edward was at the other side of the room, standing near Gwen and the piano–it seemed the musical programme was about to begin.

“Do you read Edward Carpenter, Laura?” enquired Frederick, looking interestedly about him.

Laura's “No” was repressive, for Frederick's resonant tones had concentrated attention upon them; but a minute later her educational curiosity overpowered her social embarrassment, and she whispered hurriedly: “What does he write?”

“Social philosophy,” announced Frederick clearly. “One of his tenets is,” he continued, “that you should never keep any ornament unless it means so much to you that you are willing to dust it yourself.”

His glance round the innumerable ornaments and photographs of the Blackshaw House drawing-room revealed his thought too clearly, and Laura exclaimed with indignation:

“We
do
dust them.”

“What, yourselves?” said Frederick with surprise. He meant to continue the argument, but found that Edward was glaring at him across the room. Since Gwen was also glaring at Laura, the little group fell silent, subdued.

Gwen now, standing erect by the piano, her hands lightly clasped by her neat waist, announced that Mr. Edward Hinchliffe would play Brahms' Intermezzo in A Major, Opus 118.

“How
mean
of her to make him play first!” thought Laura.

And indeed there was a gleam of pleased malice in Gwen's eyes, a kind of challenge as she raised them to meet Edward's. But she won't get much change out of Edward, thought Laura; and indeed Edward made none of the usual protestations, but turned at once and seated himself on the round green velvet stool. Gwen now fussed over him with false benevolence, asking him whether he would like someone to turn his pages, and whether
he would care to have the piano candles lighted. Laura blenched, apprehensive; she had never seen these fluted yellow candles, which stood on curly brass brackets beneath green shades, in use, and privately doubted whether they had any real wicks. Luckily Edward replied shortly that he meant to play without music. He stretched his hands over the keyboard; there was a sudden silence; without further preliminaries he began to play.

The disdainful expression faded from his face and was replaced by a stern and profound preoccupation; his bony fingers seemed to give the notes a deep and firm caress, so that they willingly yielded their strength and sweetness. A beautiful smooth legato flowed in strong smooth curves through the air, like a gleaming satin ribbon, though to Laura it was quite tuneless, as if the ribbon had no colour. Edward sat rather hunched, completely intent; a strand of his sandy hair sprang out from its fellows at the back of his bent head, but it was not comic, one viewed it rather with respectful sympathy.

The applause which broke out at the close was generous and emphatic, for Hudley, like all West Riding towns, had an inheritance of music in its blood, though the Armisteads themselves did not share it. A discussion of Brahms broke out, animated and not unintelligent.

“What do you think of Edward's playing?” demanded Frederick under cover of the chatter.

Laura considered, searching her mind—she always felt a compulsion to be entirely honest with the Hinchliffes.

“I think,” she said at length, “that Edward really understands music.”

“You mean he understands it but doesn't feel it,” said Frederick, nodding.

Laura hesitated. “I'm not sure,” she said.

Meanwhile Edward was established as the success of the evening. He received compliments with grave reserve, alluding to the difficulties of giving an adequate rendering. Other performers
showed diffidence in coming after him, and a tendency to offer the most serious items in their repertoire, Gwen would not play at all; she laughed lightly when it was proposed, conveying the impression that she regarded her own musical efforts as the merest trifles, not worth consideration. When urged, however, she consented to sing. A suggestion hovered in the air that Edward should play her accompaniments, but Edward without appearing to hear the suggestion twitched his eyebrows and let it pass him by. Gwen sang:
In a Child's small Hand
. Laura was usually moved almost to tears by this song; she found it so touchingly noble. In her cool light soprano Gwen sang:

In a child's small hand
Lies the fate of our land;
There is much, little maid, to do;
For a sweet child sure
Grows a woman pure
To make men brave and good
. …

Frederick's wide grey eyes were wider than ever as he gazed intently at the singer, but Edward sat with bent head, looking moody and withdrawn.