Sleep in Peace (8 page)

“This book is written in a singularly flat and ugly style,” said Frederick on a note of distress, throwing the book down with his usual vehemence.

“It's totally inadequate on the Industrial Revolution,” supplemented Edward in a corroborating tone.

“It's an approved textbook—one of those recommended by the Board,” put in Mr. Hinchliffe from the hearth, lowering his newspaper and looking at them sideways. As his children said nothing he immediately raised the paper again, imagining that he had closed the discussion.

“Charles's faith in the Board of Education is one to move mountains,” commented Edward in a low tone.

“I don't like to hear you call your father Charles, Edward,” Mrs. Hinchliffe reproved him.

“It's a term of honour—it stands for Councillor Henry Hinchliffe,” argued. Edward mildly.

“Besides conferring great convenience of reference,” added Frederick.

“All the same, I don't like to hear you say it,” objected Mrs. Hinchliffe. She raised her mild blue eyes, then half-closed them, pursing her lips and looking down her nose at her children with some severity.

“Sorry, Mother,” said Edward.

“The name carries no connotation of disrespect,” persisted Frederick.

“I don't like to hear you
say
it,” repeated Mrs. Hinchliffe. A note of obstinacy had entered her voice, and its pitch was raised.

“Shut up, Frederick,” urged Edward.

“Shut up yourself,” replied his brother. The retort was merely one of habit, however; there was no venom in its tone, and no hostilities resulted.

“Well, I must be off,” said Edward, rising.

“Where are you going, Edward?” demanded his father at once, appearing from behind his paper.

“To the Municipal Library, Father,” replied Edward.

“Frederick, you'd better go with him,” said Mr. Hinchliffe, disappearing again.

Frederick and Edward both sighed, but went off together dutifully. They could be heard, presently, in the narrow hall, putting on their coats and their school caps. Frederick opened the front door.

“It's raining,” he observed.

“Order a cab,” said Edward promptly.

Grace gave a shout of laughter, and even Mr. and Mrs. Hinchliffe smiled, for this was a family joke against the Armisteads.

“Passages describing rain are innumerable in English Literature,” began Frederick in a mimic professorial tone.

“But what about cabs?” enquired Edward sardonically.

The front door closed and the boys' footsteps could be heard along Cromwell Place.

Grace, humming slightly to herself, opened an exercise book and began to rule margins with a neatness and precision almost equal to Edward's own. Grace had bright blue eyes and a fine aquiline profile like her elder brother, a very clear skin, almost transparent in its purity and showing every movement of the quick blood beneath, like Frederick's; what was specially her own in her appearance at this stage was a mane of fair hair, secured
on her head by a semi-circular comb and bounding down her back in thick warm waves. She shook this mane back impatiently now; she would prefer to confine it within a ribbon, for at school the headmistress was apt to make caustic remarks about hair which fell over the eyes, looking meanwhile rather markedly in Grace's direction; but Grace's hair was one of Mrs. Hinchliffe's few vanities, and it was therefore allowed to flow free.

Grace mildly regretted that the boys had both gone out, for they were always so amusing when they were at home; but the feeling, slight and ephemeral, did not remain or strike deep roots; for in Grace's opinion one need never be dull in such a very exciting world.

Grace's world was a wide one. It included the Pennine Chain—a ridge of mountains stretching down the centre of England, and forming the backbone of that country from the Lake District to the Peak. (The boys had cycled to the Peak.) Part of this chain, said Edward, was composed of white limestone; on this grew very short very green grass, pasturing large, mild, eatable sheep. Part of the chain, on the other hand, was composed of millstone grit, a dark tough rock, with a peaty soil above it; here there flourished only rough grass and heather, pasturing wiry little wool-bearing sheep, whose fleeces were always dirty from the smoke from the mills. Hudley was built on one of the millstone grit spurs of the Pennine Chain; some people thought that some of the innumerable surrounding valleys had been made by glacial action, and Edward supported this view strongly. Hudley had a population of ninety-five thousand, and its chief manufactures were cloth and machine-tools; Grace's father was a manufacturer. Hudley was ruled by a Town Council composed of Aldermen and Councillors; Grace's father was a Councillor. The name of Hudley could not be found in the Domesday Book, said Frederick, which was a pity; but there was an entry about a place named Olandlei, which was possibly the same. Plainly, the name was of Anglo-Saxon origin, and meant “high land lea”, said Frederick; Edward,
on the other hand, thought that many of these philological derivations were mere bunkum. Hudley was composed of streets, mills with tall chimneys for the emission of smoke, shops, houses, and schools; there was also a park with fine white statues (classical, Frederick said) and a Municipal Library. Grace's father was a governor of the Hudley Girls' High School and of the Hudley Boys' Secondary School; he was also a member of the town's education committee, and of the special commission for the new Technical College. Edward was to go to the Technical College at the end of this year, in order to learn the theory and practice of textile manufacture. Edward was very clever, quite exceptional, everybody said, and would be a great help to Father at the mill; Frederick also, Grace understood, had ability, but was careless. Frederick, however, was more exciting to listen to, and his voice was more agreeable than Edward's, both in conversation and when he read the Bible at prayers.

On weekdays, in Grace's world, one went to school in the mornings, and played “organised games” in the afternoons—these were a new idea, very progressive and advanced, said Father. After tea one did one's homework, practised on the piano, sewed a little, had prayers and went to bed. On Sundays one went to Chapel morning and evening, and in the afternoon to Sunday School; in the hiatus between that and tea the family usually gathered round Father, who told the most interesting Bible stories. This was the only time one saw much of Father, in point of fact; at all other times he was either out at the mill or at a committee meeting, or, if at home, was busy at his desk writing letters or buried behind his newspaper. He did not interfere in family life unless the noise became too great, when he sometimes rushed wrathfully into the study, and smacked anybody whom he happened to get hold of. But that was more frequent in the old days, reflected Grace, when the boys were younger and the study was called the nursery. Both the boys had bicycles, and Grace was to have one very shortly. On Saturdays the boys went out for long
bicycle rides, to churches or castles or other places of historical interest in the neighbourhood; Edward took photographs; Frederick had begun a collection of rubbings of ancient brasses. These rides, and the walks on which the boys sometimes took Grace, were planned with the aid of maps, of which Edward had a considerable collection.

Yes, the world was full of the most exciting, varied, interesting things; there was not the slightest need for any of those wicked amusements practised by other, ungodly, people, such as the theatre, and dancing, and cards. But then people who needed such amusements were probably under the influence of alcohol, which over-stimulated their nerves and awoke wicked cravings. None of the Hinchliffes, of course, would ever fall under the influence of alcohol, for they had all signed the Pledge. Grace was proud that she had been thought old enough to sign the Pledge on her last birthday;
I, Grace Mary Hinchliffe, promise with God's help never to take alcohol as a beverage
, it said, on a beautiful certificate scrolled with red and gold. People who took alcohol as a beverage almost necessarily committed other sins; to satisfy their feverish nerves they gambled, danced, even told lies. To tell lies was to fall into a moral abyss so awful that Grace shrank from even thinking of it, in horror. She had had a terrible shock when Father once accused Frederick of telling a lie. Frederick! Commit such a sin against God! Never! Grace refused to allow her belief in her brother to be shaken; Frederick might be careless and prone to exaggeration, but that he would tell a deliberate lie Grace entirely refused to believe. And she was right, as it turned out. Frederick had said he had locked the bicycle shed in the backyard, when in fact he had not locked it. They all prayed over the matter, earnestly; and presently Frederick, in an agony of blushes, remembered that he was confusing the evening in question with the evening before. Grace understood this at once, and was sure that God had understood it all the time. At first her sense of justice was troubled because Mr. Hinchliffe seemed not to understand
it, but presently, on representations from Edward, Father and Mother accepted the explanation too.

Edward was always the interpreter between the Hinchliffe children and their parents; he had a way of putting things which somehow soothed grown-ups. In the matter of breakages, for example, he was most useful; when Frederick tripped over a chair leg or Grace swept off a vase, Edward was often able to convince the indignant Mrs. Hinchliffe that the happening was pure accident, almost as it were an Act of God, which should therefore be accepted without cavil or question. His intercession in these matters was rather of ten necessary. Edward himself was very neat and nimble in all his ways, but Frederick and Grace were apt to sprawl, to bound, in the glow of their youthful spirits, and so many objects lay about their elbows in Cromwell Place that it was difficult to avoid breaking and spoiling. Edward had, however, a very salutary rule of prompt confession of one's misdemeanours which he strictly enforced. Once it had happened that Grace left the study window open, contrary to her mother's command, on a rainy day; the rain beat in upon an embroidered cloth covering a table which stood near by. Grace, reluctant to confess, dried the cloth secretly by the kitchen fire. But alas, the rain was saturated with Hudley soot, and a large dark mark remained which, having “dried in”, would be difficult to efface. Mrs. Hinchliffe, discovering the damage and its concealment, became very cross. As soon as she had left the study, Edward, balancing a protractor delicately between his bony fingers, turned to Grace and explained in a quiet, serious tone that her action had been not only morally wrong but also very silly. Accidents were always found out in the end; why, therefore, carry the burden of a guilty secret on one's conscience for a long time, when it need only be carried for a short? Here Frederick, frowning distressfully, broke in: not to tell people of one's minor disasters, he said, showed a lack of trust in them, a fear of them, which was very wounding. Objects in the house, resumed Edward, were
their parents' property, in which, naturally, they took a keen interest.

“Proputty, proputty, proputty!”
threw put Frederick at this, quoting, as usual—Grace could hear the inverted commas in his voice.

“Always admit what you've done, instantly,” urged Edward. “It relieves the mind and prevents further disaster.”

“Provided you admit it to yourself first,” muttered Frederick.

“Oh, don't let us have any casuistical subtleties,” urged Edward in his cool, authoritative tones. “I'm merely trying to explain a simple principle of conduct to Grace.”

“A principle? You mean a formula. It's you who are employing casuistry, not me,” contented Frederick.

A hearty wrangle followed.

“Oh, shut up, Frederick,” said Edward at length, resuming operations with the protractor.

“Shut up yourself,” replied Frederick hotly.

Grace's world was full of such discussions. The boys were arguing again now as they came in from the Library, their fresh cheeks glowing—they disagreed, it seemed, about the respective merits of Botha and De Wet.

“Botha's a better administrator,” said Edward.

“What have you been doing while we were out, Grace?” asked Frederick kindly.

“Drawing margins,” said Grace.

“Very nice,” approved Edward, examining them.

“A beautiful symmetry,” agreed Frederick.

Mr. Hinchliffe cleared his throat portentously and laid down his paper. “We'll have prayers,” he announced. “Edward, I believe it is your turn to read, my boy.”

“I thought it was,” said Edward.

As a result of the doctor's dictum a disagreeable conflict broke out in the Armistead family. Not about Laura—her fate was taken for granted; next term she was to accompany Gwen to school. But—and somehow things often seemed to work like that with Gwen—the idea of Laura's needing school started in Gwen's mind a whole train of thought about the need of school for Ludo. She suddenly became aware that the brothers of many of her friends “went away” to school. They went to public schools. Gentlemen's sons always went to public schools. Ludo must go to a public school. Gwen announced this emphatically to Papa, and went on announcing it. (Scarcely any remark made by Gwen during this period did not refer to the subject of Ludo's public school.) Papa at first laughed heartily at the suggestion, and stood jingling his money in his pockets with his back to the fire and a complacent expression on his freshly-shaved face; it tickled his vanity to think of a son of his attending school with, say, the son of an earl. At this stage of the argument he was wont to counter Grandmamma's blunt statements that the Hudley Grammar School had been good enough for him and should be good enough for his son, rather irritably; the school, he hinted, had gone down since then; all sorts of people nowadays sent their sons there.

“Henry Hinchliffe thinks it good enough for his sons,” grumbled old Mrs. Armistead..