Sleep in Peace (54 page)

“It's quite like Madeline,” said Gwen in a tone of pleased surprise.

The drawing was despatched, suitably lettered below.

After a few days of eager hope and throbbing suspense, during which Laura scarcely ate or slept, it was returned.
We enclose the drawing you sent us
, wrote the firm:
you have done a very nice drawing but it is not quite the kind of drawing we want
.

The parcel was brought to Laura, by Mildred, upstairs; to be
obliged to descend shortly afterwards to a meal, to announce her failure in a dry calm tone, to observe the I-told-you-so looks on the faces of Papa and Gwen, the reproachful gloom on Ludo's, to continue to eat and sit erect beneath the children's curious stares: this was an ordeal which Laura found it difficult to survive with decent composure.

It was as she left the room with a stiff wan smile which did not deceive that suddenly out of the long-ago past there sprang a daydream. Laura had not used this means of escape for many years, she had indeed forgotten its existence, but now suddenly this dream-world drew near rand stood, tempting, alluring. To comfort herself, and she was sorely in need of comfort, she decided to allow herself to enter it for a moment. And there, at once, she was: out of the dark grim world of Hudley, so vulgar, so cruel, so ignoble, into that rich, exciting, splendid world where Laura's prototype, still recognisably Laura but with every feature heightened into beauty, after experiencing terrible persecutions was rescued and enthroned. Yes, a tall, fine, splendid man, whom everybody feared and respected, fell in love with Laura and rescued her. She was rescued.…The relief! The relief! She leaned against the banisters, every muscle relaxed, and dreamed.

But presently she shook her shoulders angrily and returned to the real world, ashamed. Her disappointment should not defeat her thus. She was a Yorkshirewoman, after all, Laura told herself fiercely; she would not be so easily defeated. She was not a creative artist—at least, the world thought her not a creative artist; very well, then, she would become an art teacher. The prospect of a new plan revived her courage; that very afternoon she wrote off to the London teaching agency through which Grace had secured her posts.

In a few days forms came from the agency to be completed, and Laura with eager zeal filled them in at once; presently—oh, joy!—a fat envelope arrived, full of slips of paper, each slip containing the details of an art post at some school. Laura applied for
them all. Most required the applicant to be able to teach additional subjects; Laura cheerfully put herself down as competent to instruct in games and maths, botany and drill—anything they asked.

None of her applications received a reply.

Then indeed Laura's courage failed her, and she had recourse increasingly to the world of dreams. Why not, she asked herself sadly, since there seemed no place for her in the real world? Could it really be true—put all question of her artistic abilities aside; perhaps they were not as great as Laura had thought them, so put them aside; but even so, could it be true that Laura Armistead, quite an intelligent girl, filled with a burning eagerness to work, Laura Armistead who had earned two pounds ten a week during the War, Laura Armistead who had been the reliable head of an efficient little section, who had indexed Hansard, whose work had come under the notice of the Minister himself—could it be true that Laura Armistead was now quite useless, quite unwanted? That there was nothing in the world for her to do? Could that really be true? Each day that passed seemed to make the matter more certain. She allowed herself to dream more and more frequently, to take shelter in a world whose consolations grew more and more necessary; her persecutions there became more and more severe, her lover more and more mighty, her rescue, her justification, more and more emphatic. She was always rescued.… Out of habit she continued to draw for a time, but even to her own eyes her work became progressively weaker, and after a time she discontinued it altogether. The attempt was too agonising, for she could not persuade herself to leave uncorrected a single stroke from her nerveless hand.

Then her health began to suffer; her appetite departed and she grew pale, listless, thin.

It chanced one day that, the time of spring-cleaning being at hand, Laura was turning out the drawers and cupboards of her bedroom. A fire had been lighted so that she might not be cold
during this process, and Geoffrey and Madeline ran between her and their mother, who was busy downstairs with the same task. Laura from time to time, to keep the children amused, handed them articles to tear up, burn, or drop in the wastepaper basket, which they enjoyed. Madeline presently held up a sheet of paper.

“Can I tear this?” she called, her eyes beaming in expectation of an affirmative reply.

Laura looked round. The paper was her Art Master's certificate.

“No, no!” she cried in alarm, snatching it from the child's hand.

“Why not?” asked the stolid Madeline.

“Auntie Laura values that more than anything she has,” said Laura in a voice which shook.

Madeline stared at her, wide-eyed; and Geoffrey came across the room. He leaned on Madeline's shoulder and surveyed the certificate.

“Why, what use is it?” he asked in his customary tone of uninterested scorn.

What use was it, indeed, thought Laura bitterly, and covering her face with her hands she burst into tears.

This was duly reported to Gwen by Geoffrey—“Auntie Laura's crying, Mummy,” he explained with disdain—and Gwen, who had for some time been worried by her sister's sad wild air, summoned a doctor. He prescribed massage and raw beef tea. These nauseous and humiliating remedies depressed Laura still further. She felt guiltier than ever, to be so useless and need so much attention, and conscious that they could not cure. For what she ailed was a conviction that there was no place on earth in which she could be at home; art rejected her, while she herself rejected the ignoble society alone accessible. Her friends were far away: Grace in the Midlands, Frederick in London, Edward dead. Even with Ludo there was no true repose, because no true candour; she could not feel truly at case with Ludo as long as the. Eva Byram mystery remained unsolved. What a world! Oh, for some gleam
of light which I could follow, thought Laura, some strong shaft of nobility to which I could cling; oh, for some fair and good Way of life, which would not reject me, which would use my powers.

It had been arranged that Frederick should come to Hudley every six months to see his children, and the time for one of these biennial visits was at hand. One evening when the adults of the household were sitting together, the children being safely in bed, Mr. Armistead cleared his throat, looked sideways over his crooked pince-nez, and observed in a conspiratorial tone:

“Frederick will call to-morrow afternoon, Gwen.”

Gwen tightened her lips and bent silently over her sewing.

“Henry Hinchliffe says he's doing quite well for himself now, Frederick I mean,” pursued Mr. Armistead with an uneasy laugh. “He's got a job with a Correspondence College—for teaching people to pass examinations, you know. And he's writing as well. It seems he had something in the
Manchester Guardian
last week —I don't know just what it was, but a whole column, his father said.”

All three Armisteads waited with interest to hear what Gwen would reply.

“If he's doing so well he might send something for the support of his children, I should think,” said Gwen in a sharp, aggrieved tone, “and not leave it all to you.” She added in a mutter: “And I've a good mind to tell him so.”

By order of the doctor, Laura was taking a sedative each night. That night she drank the stuff down as usual, expecting the usual long, heavy but unrefreshing sleep. But shortly after midnight she suddenly started wide awake, with the conviction clear in her mind that she could not endure her life any more. The prospect of having to be present at, or at least to hear Gwen's account of,
an interview in which
Gwen
informed
Frederick
that he ought to send her money—that was the last straw. It was too base. It was too vile; it was really not to be borne; and what made it worse was that everyone Laura knew in Hudley would regard it as natural and proper behaviour on the part of a wronged wife. She threw back the bedclothes and ran to the window, quite determined to hurl herself down and make an end. But as soon as she swung open the casement she rejected this idea; her fall would be heard, her family would all come rushing out; there would be no privacy, even in her death-scene. But some high place, thought Laura, and at once a picture of the Ellistone flashed into her mind. The dear Ellistone, to which she had so often been with Grace. Quietly and swiftly she began to throw on her clothes, at the same time considering by which door she could escape with the least amount of noise. She decided on the back entrance, which lay farthest from her sister's room, and soon found herself creeping with a morbid craftiness through the kitchen. The large key grated, the bolt shot back with a loud crack, but no sound came from the sleeping household. In a moment Laura was out in the night air, running down Blackshaw Lane.

It was a still November night, with a waning moon hidden behind a dank heavy mist. Accordingly the lower two-thirds of the sphere of Laura's vision appeared a thick dull black, composed of misty invisible hills, while the upper third was a murky grey, composed of drooping layers of fog; and this gave the impression that the sphere was flattened at its zenith, that the sky was, indeed, pressing down upon, wearily sinking with a dead weight into, the earth below. As Laura flew down into the valley and up the stony lanes towards the moor, she panted, felt stifled, beneath this slow, sardonic, clammy pressure. (Never a sky like this when she had gone this way with Grace.) In the valley a train shunted; the rhythmical clashings of the trucks rang with a maddening inevitability in Laura's ear. A distant dog barked, was silent, then barked again in a dismal, hopeless tone. Laura hoped for air when
she reached the Ellistone moor, but did not meet the bracing wind she wanted; instead, a slow chill breeze crept mournfully through, without disturbing, the wreaths of sombre mist. Laura shivered, and quickened her pace, though her feet stumbled in the peaty path, strewn with rough black stones and tufts of heather.

At last the silhouette of the Ellistone loomed, a deeper black, against the grey-black of the sky. Laura, feeling her way with her hands, clambered over its outlying spurs towards the highest shelf of rock. As she climbed her fingers fell into the grooves of carved letters, the names of many a West Riding lad and lass, long since dust; she wished passionately that she had tools with her now, so that she too might leave a memorial, here on this rock, this moor she loved. For she loved it very dearly; these mournful summits, rising about her in the dark, so grim, so harsh—she loved them all. How many times she had stood here, glorying in the wind, the hills, with Grace. She thought of their school days together, their unending happy talk, Grace's bright promise and her own; Grace's hopes so soon blighted, quite false her own. She thought of Edward and of Cromwell Place. There was at least some nobility, some beauty, in her grief for her loss of Edward, her separation from Grace, thought Laura; she could not but feel that this grief shared the common human lot, the inevitable tragic destiny of man. Poised on the brink of the Ellistone, Laura was glad that her last thoughts should be of Edward and of Grace.

Frederick, asleep in his bedroom in Cromwell Place, dreamed heavily.

All evening he had been surrounded by mementoes of his youth. Downstairs, in the drawing-room, there was the piano, with Edward's scores and the
Scottish Students' Song Book
arranged on the lid, and his mother's work-basket, and Grace's photograph in her cap and gown; in the dining-room the table
was still covered with a cloth of crimson chenille; up here in a wardrobe there still hung some of Edward's clothes. Mr. Hinchliffe had treated his son all evening as he used to do when Frederick's reports did not give him satisfaction, or when Frederick had been discovered reading a book of which he did not approve. Accordingly, Frederick dreamed.

He dreamed of his father and mother, Edward, Grace. He was just talking kindly to Grace, who, looking as she had done in her teens, with her glorious hair rolling down her back and her exuberant smile widening her happy mouth, held his hand like a child and wore a smocked silk frock of the kind Gwen made for Madeline, and was assuring her that she need have no fear of the tawny lion who lurked in the Holland castle, when the dream suddenly broke, jarring into a crash of falling colours. Amid this distressing chaos Grace appeared, at her present age, in black, with a look of anguish on her face. Since Grace had declined to wear mourning for either her brother or her mother, this seemed strange, and Frederick said something interrogative to her on the subject.

“It's all over,” said Grace, wringing her hands. “What's over?” demanded Frederick; in the dream it seemed he knew, but could not make himself remember. “It's too late. It wasn't their fault,” said Grace. “Whose fault?” said Frederick, feeling, even in the dream, a superstitious shudder thrill his veins. “Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego,” replied Grace. “You're not talking sense, Grace,” Frederick reproved her in a brotherly tone. “Shadrach and his pals were thrown into a burning fiery furnace; to-night there's a clammy fog which would put out any fire.” As he spoke he saw the fog, blanketing the whole West Riding, pressing on the moors, sweeping in grey ghostly wreaths across the Ellistone. “Yes, it's put out the fire!” cried Grace. She seemed to glide away in a long curve of mist, which at the same time was a wailing moan.

Frederick jumped awake; he found himself bathed in sweat, but icy cold.

“Phew!” said Frederick; and, as his recent habit was, he began to make a Freudian analysis of his dream.