Sleep in Peace (26 page)

For on the subject of the Germans Frederick and Ludo were opposed to the point of madness. Frederick, who professed to love Schiller and Goethe—“but they're dead,” argued Ludo contemptuously—took the view that the Germans were a great and peaceful nation with a natural and proper desire for colonial expansion. Ludo, on the other hand, who was reading a serial called
The Invasion of igio
, appearing in daily instalments in the pages of a popular newspaper with a huge circulation, believed that a German invasion was imminent. (Indeed he believed it so fervently that his conviction spread to Laura, and sometimes on quiet nights as they walked home from the Hinchliffes' she listened apprehensively for the sudden sound of guns.) The hero of the hour for Ludo was Lord Roberts; and he spoke with warm admiration of him now.

“If the Government would only listen to Bobs,” he concluded, “you wouldn't need to worry about a German invasion.”

“Oh! Bobs!
Ancestral voices prophesying war,”
said Frederick.

“You'll find he's right, one of these days,” spluttered Ludo.

“I daresay. Don't you see, Spencer,” argued Frederick—nowadays Frederick always called Ludo by this name, Laura could not imagine why—“Don't you see, prophecies tend to fulfil themselves.”

“That's all words,” said Ludo crossly: “Nothing but words. I never saw such a chap as you, Frederick, for wrapping things up in words. A bit of gold paper and a bit of silver paper and then a bit of plain paper, but it's the same chocolate cream inside all the time.”

“There's something in what you say,” admitted Frederick thoughtfully, considering which of two cards to play and selecting the wrong one.

“What do you think of the Germans' intentions, Gwen?” said Edward.

“I don't understand them, any more than I understand this Insurance Act,” said Gwen, with her usual skill.

“Lloyd George!” exclaimed Ludo with ferocity. “Ninepence for fourpence! Rare refreshing fruit!”

“Lloyd George is a great man,” pronounced Frederick with fervour.

“No, Frederick, you're wrong there,” said Mr. Hinchliffe from the hearth, lowering his newspaper. “He's a great deal of a charlatan.”

“I don't see that, Father,” argued Edward in his calm, respectful tone. “His scheme is far-reaching, certainly, but it's by no means untried, and it seems actuarially sound. If a floating surplus of labour is necessary to industry, industry ought to support it.”

“My God!” said Ludo with pity. “Heaven help England if people with your views ever rule her, Edward.”

“Heaven help her if they don't,” said the irrepressible Frederick.

“Should you like to go into Parliament, Edward?” said Gwen suddenly, turning to him.

“What shall we play now?” said Edward without replying.
“Cheating
, perhaps?”

“If only Frederick would learn Bridge,” said Ludo wistfully, “we could play something really worth while.”

“Yes, why don't you try, Frederick?” said Gwen, turning to him with a kindly air.

“To give you pleasure, Gwen, I would learn to play Taro,” said Frederick.

“Let's play Taro, then,” said Grace suddenly.

There was a pause.

“You two girls come over here and sew, with me,” said Mrs. Hinchliffe in a reproving maternal tone, “and let the others play Bridge.”

“Laura hasn't any sewing, Mother,” said Grace coldly.

“We can easily find some for her,” said Mrs. Hinchliffe, pulling
out a chair. “Come, Laura. You must practise the womanly arts, you know.”

Her tone was kind, but Laura's face darkened; here it was again, this suggestion that she was not an ornament, scarcely even a part, of her sex.

“My embroidery is upstairs, Mother,” said Grace.

“Very well, dear, fetch it,” persisted Mrs. Hinchliffe.

Grace and Laura sped from the room, and contrived to waste a good deal of time upstairs. Grace did not dislike sewing as Laura did, but she hated the idea of forcing a guest to do something she disliked.

“I suppose Gwen's happy now,” said Grace sardonically, as they came down the stairs with their arms round each other's waists.

Laura looked interrogative.

“Now that she has all three men to herself,” explained Grace.

Laura winced.

When they returned to the room, Bridge had been given up, no doubt owing to Frederick's incapacity, and Gwen was singing a sentimental song which Laura particularly disliked. Its title was
Rose in the Bud
, and its theme was that roses, and by implication hearts, should open at the right moment, when June was warm and tender, and not wait till they were shattered by the autumn blasts,
“hove comes but once,”
sang Gwen,
“and then, perchance, too late.”

“What do you think of this song, Laura?” asked Edward, making room for her on the sofa.

“I thing it's silly,” said Laura briefly.

Mrs. Hinchliffe looked shocked.

“There's many a true word spoken in a silly song,” said Edward, as Gwen came to the song's falling close. “A word to the wise, Laura. Or,” he added with an ironic inflexion as he glanced at his brother, whose wide fixed eyes revealed that he had gone off into a dream,
“verb, sap
., as Frederick would say.”

Laura tossed her head angrily. “Love, whether perchance or not, doesn't interest me,” she said rudely.

“What
does
interest you?” asked Edward with some emphasis.

“The Oxford Senior,” barked Laura.

“My God!” said Edward.

“Edward, I don't like to hear you take your Maker's name in vain,” said Mrs. Hinchliffe.

“Sorry, Mother,” said Edward.

“Well, we must be going now,” said Gwen brightly, standing up and collecting her music in a business-like way. “I have a late night to-morrow too—it's my hen-party. It's right down in Carr Vale this week—such a long way home.”

Her voice invited, almost demanded, further questions about the party.

There was a long pause. Grace and Laura remained determinedly silent; Laura's cheeks burned, and she kept her eyes on the ground, for the manoeuvre seemed to her almost shamelessly obvious. Ludo and Edward were also silent; Ludo fidgeted with his cuff, Edward looked over everybody's head with a sardonic smile.

At length Frederick cleared his throat.

“Where is the party, Gwen?” he said.

Gwen told him.

Frederick sat on his bed, lacing his best boots.

“But, Frederick, can't, you see,” said Edward, pacing up and down—“I don't know how to put it to you; you're so simple, so ignorant of life, you know absolutely nothing, I really don't know how to put it to you—but can't you
see
that Gwen doesn't care a brass farthing for you?”,

“I never expected that she would,” said Frederick with a kind of noble simplicity, “but that doesn't prevent me from loving her.”

“Look here, Freddie,” said Edward, stopping in front of his brother and speaking very earnestly: “Can't you see that Gwen is, to speak frankly, a bloody little bitch?”

“You cad!” shouted Frederick, bounding up and striking his brother a confused but stinging blow on the cheek. “You unspeakable cad, Edward! To use that vile word of any woman! Especially of such a beautiful, generous, loving creature as Gwen. Look at her tender care for Spencer and Laura,” he continued fervently, “she's sacrificed her whole life for them! A devoted daughter, a self-sacrificing sister—”

“And a loving wife, I suppose you think,” said Edward. “Well, she might be, but never to you.”

“Why not?” panted Frederick. “I suppose you think she prefers you, do you? Do you?”

The words: “I know she prefers me,” rose to Edward's lips, but he could not bring himself to utter them. “Don't you see how opposed all your ideas are?” he urged instead.

“I can see you always trying to show that they are,” said Frederick.

“She's no mind, she's no heart, she doesn't care for anybody but herself,” said Edward, speaking rapidly. “There's something fundamentally wrong with her; I don't know what it is, but there is some deep antagonism in her to life.”

“Take care, Edward,” said Frederick in a low tone, clenching his fists by his sides and standing very close to his brother: “I bear a great deal from you, out of respect for your great abilities, but I can't stand much more of this.”

“My
great abilities!” said Edward in a tone of scorn. “What about your own? Do you ever think you'll ever become anything if Gwen marries you? You'll be too busy earning money to pay her dressmaker's bill.”

“Edward!” cried Frederick menacingly.

“I seem to remember you once saying that the Armisteads and the Hinchliffes would always prove uneasy yokefellows,” said Edward
in a calmer tone; Frederick was silent. “However,” continued. Edward with dry sarcasm, “if you
must
marry an Armistead and re-unite Blackshaw Mills—a course which certainly has its advantages—why not wait and see if Laura gets over her predilection for virginity? She's a more suitable age.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” said Frederick. “I love Gwen with all my heart and soul.
And while with me doth dwell this wearied ghost, My word, nor I, shall not be variable, But always one; her own both firm and stable.”

“Poetry!” mocked Edward. “Poetry for Gwendolen Thwaite Armistead! It only wanted that! Well, air right,” he concluded, turning away: “I've done all I could to keep you out of this, Frederick, but if you won't see it, you won't. I shan't say any more. I shall leave you to go to the devil in your own way.”

“I'm going to fetch Gwen home from Carr Vale,” said Frederick, stubbornly.

“That's what I mean, you fool,” said Edward, slamming the door.

Laura snatched Papa's
Yorkshire Post
from the kitchen table, rushed upstairs and shut herself firmly into her room. The pages stuck beneath her trembling fingers; it seemed an age before she found the one she required. Oxford and Cambridge Local Examinations: Yorkshire Results. Senior. First Class. What a mercy one's name began with an A; the suspense was by so much the shorter. Would it be there? If I haven't got a first, thought Laura, her finger shaking over
Ackroyd
arid
Anderson
, I shan't be able to bear it. Oh, there it
is!
Oh, hurrah, hurrah! First class, four distinctions. Now for Grace. Oh,
hurrah!
Grace was in the first class, with exactly four distinctions too. Laura danced about the room, hugging the crumpled paper to her breast. She flung it down on the bed, smoothed it out, kissed ecstatically the magic print which
recorded the public proof of her ability, laid her head on it, stroked it with caressing fingers. At last, feeling she had indulged in this unbridled expression too long, she rose up, folded the paper with loving care, and danced downstairs.

“I've got a first,” she cried, bursting into the dining-room.

“Congratulate your sister, Laura,” said Mr. Armistead from the breakfast-table.

Laura, imagining that her father—as old people will; and he looked old and sallow and tired this morning—had mixed his daughters' names, turned a happy, beaming face towards Gwen, to receive her congratulations. None came; the sisters gazed at each other expectantly; Laura, through her own triumph, perceived that Gwen too had a sparkling and triumphant air. She began to feel puzzled, and gave a quick look towards Ludo, who as usual took pains to supply her with an explanation.

“Gwen is engaged, Laura,” he said. “Papa gave his consent last night.”

“Oh!” said Laura dully. “Engaged! I see.” So after all Edward.… The blood roared in her ears. From a dark tumultuous flood of feelings one surged uppermost: Poor Gwen! “I congratulate you with all my heart, Gwen,” lied Laura, forcing herself to advance and place a kiss on her sister's smooth, delicately tinted cheek. “And Edward too, of course,” she added with the coy titter which she had observed was considered appropriate to such occasions.

The triumph dissolved from Gwen's person as if beneath an acid, and a heavy unbecoming flush mounted her forehead in its place. “Edward!” she cried shrilly. “What do you mean? How dare you, Laura! Edward Hinchliffe is going to Germany.” She stopped abruptly.

“Gwen is engaged to Frederick, Laura,” hurried Ludo.

“Frederick!” exclaimed Laura, stunned.
“Frederick!”

Her glance met Ludo's, but instantly swerved away. It was only too clear that Ludo thought as she did: Gwen had taken Frederick
because she could not secure Edward. Frederick,
faute de mieux
. But a thing so terrible could not be thought about one's own sister. No. No!

“I—I meant Frederick,” stammered Laura faintly.

A dark wind seemed to spin her round. Gwen and Frederick. Not Edward, Frederick. Not poor Gwen, poor Frederick. Poor, poor Frederick! What a shame!

In the twinkling of an eye, it seemed, life was completely changed. Edward, for instance, went off to Germany, to Hamburg. His purpose there was alleged to be the inspection of German factory methods and the study of the German tongue; but his real reason seemed a little mysterious. Laura sometimes wondered whether he could not bear to witness the
fiançailles
of Frederick and Gwen, but she kept this to herself, not liking to hint it even to Grace. Mr. Hinchliffe was at first so much depressed by his son's absence that Laura and his other children felt very kindly to him; he wrote long letters to Edward, and received frequent though brief missives in reply, from which he read extracts to anyone who would listen. But Laura found Edward's letters rather dry and disappointing, and his personality seemed gradually to fade away in her mind. Perhaps this was the case with Mr. Hinchliffe too, for after a time he grew brisk again, and he was certainly nicer to Frederick than he had ever been before.