Sleep in Peace (37 page)

Laura ran to the station, and arrived there, hot and breathless, a full hour before the soldiers. That the news was true was shown, however, by the gradually increasing crowd; and at last the khaki lines came down the hill through the blazing sunshine, and Ludo appeared. He looked well in his 2nd lieutenant's uniform, except that his cap seemed a little large for him, and he was plainly very happy; he held himself very erect and gave and fulfilled orders with a precision almost too emphatic, like an over-eager child. Watching him, Laura felt a deep burning pain assail her heart; Ludo was going away with all those rough tramping men, to fight, suffer, perhaps die; Ludo! It was not wounds or death she feared most for him; for Ludo would bear pain splendidly, with mild assurance, and die like a martyr. It was living, action, that she feared on his behalf. Ludo would need to hold his own with officers and men, decide, command, sternly resist the enemy, bear himself always with confidence and courage. Could he? Oh, Ludo! The men disappeared into the station, and the crowd moved to follow; there was some delay and argument at the entrance, but presently they all surged through. Laura found herself at the far end of the platform, with Ludo in sight; he seemed very busy, rather hot and fussed and cross, supervising the transference of some large khaki bags into the luggage van. Laura hung back, afraid to be a nuisance; but suddenly the soldiers were all packed tight in the train, and Ludo hung out of the window, and she was in his arms and receiving his warm wet kiss on her cheek.

Now Mr. Armistead appeared suddenly, and he kissed Ludo, too, with tears in his eyes, and said: “We're proud of you, my boy,” and patted Ludo's sleeve. Then Ludo was pushed aside from the open window by another officer—which was just like Ludo, thought Laura with anguish; and then there were shouts and cheers, and
God Save the King
, and the train moved very slowly out of the station.

“There's no need to cry, Laura,” said Mr. Armistead with an impatient laugh, as they climbed the stairs: “He'll never get out to France, you know—it will all be over before Christmas.”

On Thursday Lord Kitchener became War Minister, Parliament voted a hundred million pounds and five hundred thousand men, the Mayor of Hudley appealed to all citizens not to buy stores in excess, there was hot fighting round Liège, and all the newspapers bore the advertisement: YOUR KING AND COUNTRY NEED YOU: A CALL TO ARMS. Ludo had already answered the call, thought Laura proudly; answered it before it was made—that was just like Ludo. Nothing could take that away from him, after all, thought Laura; but she sighed.

On Friday bank-notes were issued for one pound and ten shillings, and the newspapers spoke of Britain's strong financial position; the German advance was said to be checked, and Laura lay awake all night listening for news of a naval battle, which did not arrive. On Sunday Mr. Armistead, who was upset by Ludo's departure and inclined to be peevish, grumbled fiercely to Laura, looking at her sideways over his pince-nez:

“It's no use that fellow coming to dinner—I don't want him in the house.”

“You forget, Papa,” said Laura, rightly judging him to refer to Frederick: “Gwen isn't up yet, you know; she couldn't come.”

“Well, I don't want him in the house,” said Mr. Armistead, returning to his yellow War Special.

Accordingly, when Laura heard the bell ring after dinner, while
Mr. Armistead was still asleep, she tiptoed out into the hall in some alarm. She found Frederick, looking small, pink and fierce, planted with an air of defiance on the porch mat, with Mildred hovering uncertainly.

“I just came round to give you the news,” began Frederick as soon as she appeared, throwing his words vehemently down the hall to her as though he were making a public speech. “Gwen is well; the baby is well and we think of having the christening on Friday and calling her Madeline; Edward has gone off to London to get a commission in the Regular Army.”

“Really!” said Laura. “But will they have him?”

“Edward seems to think so,” said Frederick. “I expect your father disapproves of my action in joining the Neutrality League? So does my father.”

“But that's all over now, Frederick,” urged Laura kindly.

“I'm afraid it's not over as far as I'm concerned,” said Frederick.

“But we're at war, we can't be neutral now,” protested Laura.

“I think force wrong, and no mere external event will make me change my moral categories,” said Frederick firmly. “Spencer, I presume, has been mobilised.”

“Yes; he left Hudley on Wednesday morning,” said Laura, with pride.

“I hope he enjoys it,” said Frederick ironically in his mellifluous tones. “I have often seen Spencer carefully convey a buzzing fly out of the window on a scrap of paper, preferring to deprive himself of ease rather than the fly of life; I can't imagine he will enjoy wielding a bayonet.” (Laura flushed, vexed to find Frederick's observation of Ludo keener than her own.) “Edward,” continued Frederick, his face darkening, “Edward perhaps might.” At this Laura's face darkened in its turn, and Frederick added: “I won't come in, Laura, for I don't think your father will wish to see me.” He turned on his heel in a soldierly manner, and marched away down the path.

Mr. Armistead had been awakened by Frederick's voice, and Laura was obliged to give him some account of the interview. From sheer timidity she slurred over Frederick's unpatriotic objection to force, and stressed instead the commendable promptitude of Edward.

“It's like his impudence,” said Mr. Armistead. “The Regular Army! What next, upon my word!”

But Edward proved to be right, as usual, for the very next day the papers were full of an appeal for two thousand young men of good education, unmarried, between 19 and 30, to take temporary commissions in His Majesty's Army. In a manner obscure to Laura, but evidently characteristically swift and efficient,, Edward secured for himself and for Bernard Duchay two of these commissions, and actually sailed for France with the British Expeditionary Force, on some unspecified day towards the end of the month.

Mr. Armistead was at the bottom of his heart vexed, and Mr. Hinchliffe pleased, by the respective proximities to the battle-front of Edward and Ludo, though in conversation with each other they pretended the reverse. However, Mr. Armistead had a certain superiority in argument because he had foreseen the necessity of Britain's entry into the War earlier than Mr. Hinchliffe, who only after the actual declaration reluctantly admitted it to be inevitable. The two men were closer, friendlier, than they had been for many years; under pretext of discovering what the other's political party thought of the situation in France, each crossed the archway at Blackshaw Mills many times a day, and found comfort in discussing their business perplexities. These were considerable. The Government had proclaimed a moratorium and was substituting notes for gold, and everybody used this as an excuse for non-payment of their debts. This was a boon to Mr. Armistead, who need not therefore pay his spinner on the 25th, but a sore trial to Mr. Hinchliffe, who used little raw material, and had to pay his wages bill without being paid in return. The bank rate had risen to eight per cent. The shops all bore labels saying
Business as Usual
,
but the West Riding's large trade with Austria-Hungary and Germany had vanished in a night, while the war scare had checked the purchase of raw wool in July, so that supplies and prices were chaotic; some mills had closed down already, while others stoutly declared they meant to keep as many combs and looms going as they could. Edward had telegraphed, cryptically but forcibly, from London, that cloth would be needed for the new armies and his father must prepare for expansion.

“What new armies?'! demanded Mr. Armistead irritably—but he went away thoughtful, and withdrew the notices he had given to some of his workpeople; while Mr. Hinchliffe, pushing up his moustache and opining that there was some presumptive evidence in favour of Edward's assumption since Parliament had voted five hundred thousand men, did the same.

Grace came home from the Duchays' with a wall-map of Europe and a supply of small flags on pins with which to indicate the respective positions of the various armies—everyone in London had them, she said.; Mr. Hinchliffe boasted so much about this that Mr. Armistead commanded Laura to buy a similar map, and it was installed in the Blackshaw House hall. Every morning, after reading his newspaper at breakfast, Mr. Armistead jubilantly sallied forth and moved the flags according to the news, Laura standing by admiringly. For the first few days this was great fun, but presently the advance of the black and yellow of the German eagles became alarmingly steady, then menacingly swift, then overwhelming. Brussels became German, and invading armies swooped in a wide curve across France. There came a day when the hated eagles seemed to stretch out their beaks ready to swallow Paris.

“I don't know what they're about, I'm sure,” said Mr. Armistead testily, turning away and reaching for his coat. This was his nearest approach to criticism of the English High Command, but after that day he moved no more flags. Laura for a while kept them up to date, but somehow the places mentioned in despatches
were rarely to be found on the map, and after the first few weeks the movements recorded appeared so infinitesimal in any case that she lost interest, and viewed both map and despatches as a kind of mystery which only military persons could penetrate.

Laura's views of the War—everyone began now to write and speak of it with a capital letter—were confused and even conflicting. Its essential rightness she never doubted; she believed with all her soul, and without thinking about it, in the honesty and good intentions of her beloved England. But as regards its conduct she was by no means so certain. She had a deep anxiety, a certain pessimism, as to its course, combined with a perfect assurance as to its result. England would win, of
course
, eventually, but the struggle, she felt, might be long and hard. She had a deep fear of Germany's might, its marvellous organisation, its discipline; and while she had complete confidence in the tenacity and courage of her fellow-countrymen, she was rather dubious about their brains. Look at Hudley; how few people there had brains! There was only Edward, among all the people she knew, who seemed to her to be fit to give orders involving the safety of his country. Those of the older generation whom she knew seemed quite preposterously incapable—they never took a clear view of any situation, they never faced facts. It was not in Laura's nature nowadays blithely to assume that the generals in France were of a different race from the inhabitants of Hudley, infallible and wise, for she was a firm and deliberate realist—besides, she thought, laughing at herself the while, Yorkshire people would perhaps have more sense than the rest, so if there were few with brains in Hudley, the proportion was probably not higher elsewhere. When Ludo sent her a fervent post-card:

Cut them in half and they're still there!

Laura gave a rather wan smile, and only hoped that the two generals in question had the necessary adhesiveness for such a feat. Through the terrible retreat at Mons, Laura believed passionately in the courage of the English troops—their “morale”, as the newspapers began to call it—but utterly rejected the alleged angels who encouraged their stand; she also disbelieved the rumour, which Gwen repeated with gusto and even Mr. Hinchliffe did not totally reject, of the Russian troops hastily landed in Scotland and rushed across the country to relieve the pressure on the French. In fact she carried disbelief so far as to refuse credence to the swarm of taxicabs by which the governor of Paris saved the battle of the Marne; the tale seemed a
canard
like the rest. Oddly enough, however, of the Fleet Laura believed everything; she had perfect confidence in the whole personnel of the Navy, from Jellicoe down to the last-joined midshipman, and when she heard any criticism of their apparent inaction, always replied calmly that she thought they knew very well what they were about.

Laura saw little of Grace this September, for Grace was working very hard on revision for her degree examination, which was due in the following month. One morning Mrs. Hinchliffe telephoned Laura, and in a conspiratorial voice urged her to take Grace out for a long walk that afternoon; “She's working too hard,” she said. Laura was amazed. That a grown-up, one of the previous generation, who, it was understood, always put spokes in the wheels of one's plans and kept one from where one wanted to be, should positively urge her to do something she liked so much as taking Grace for a walk, was unprecedented. She agreed with enthusiasm, and called for Grace immediately after the midday meal.

Certainly Grace was working too hard, decided Laura; her appearance was quite shocking, as if someone had thrown dust over her; the clear tan of her cheek was all blotched, and her lips were pale. Urged by Mrs. Hinchliffe, Grace accepted the excursion,
and the two girls set out towards the Ellistone, as usual. Grace was quiet, and Laura respected her silence, hoping that the mild, fresh wind, and the Pennine panorama, would restore her spirits. But after a time she felt some unusual quality in Grace's silence; she glanced at her sideways and was shocked afresh by her forlorn and melancholy air.