Sleep in Peace (49 page)

“Do you mean you're thinking of putting Ludo in the attic?” demanded Laura, amazed.

“There's nowhere else, Miss Laura,” explained Mildred.

“Well, I should think we're the only family in the kingdom who received a returned soldier by turning him out of his bedroom!” cried the astounded Laura.

“Do you expect me to put the children in the attic?” flashed Gwen.

“Of course not. They can have my room—I'll go upstairs,” soothed Laura, in the kindly, persuasive tone she had used to stupid subordinates at the M/M.

“Spencer
would
be pleased,” said Gwen ironically.

“Surely you could take the children into your own room, Gwen? Just for a night or two, till we see what happens?” persisted Laura in her deliberately pleasant tone.

The thought of Gwen's relations with her husband was by no means in her mind, but she suddenly saw from Gwen's quick colour that it was in her sister's.

“Just till Christmas is over, and then I'll go upstairs. I should like it—there's a north light,” she enlarged hastily, remorseful.

Gwen made no reply, and left Laura in ignorance of her intentions, but as so often happened she was better than her word, and Laura, looking despairingly into Ludo's room in the late afternoon, saw that the children's impedimenta had been removed, Ludo's bed replaced and a fire lighted.

Ludo had asked them not to meet him at the station, since the trains were always so uncertain at Christmas; and indeed it was nearly two hours later than the time they had expected him when at last he appeared, still wearing his corporal's uniform. For once in a way, thought Laura, throwing herself into his arms, Blackshaw House had really risen to the occasion; for as it chanced at that moment there were fires and lights in all the rooms, so that the house seemed to blaze with welcome; the Christmas decorations, holly and red paper, danced in the wind as the front door opened; everyone rushed into the hall spontaneously, even Geoffrey; while Madeline appeared at the top of the stairs in a blue
dressing gown, flushed from her bath and crying: “Uncle Ludo! Uncle Ludo!”—a delicious spectacle.

“Well, my boy!” exclaimed Mr. Armistead, patting Ludo's shoulder fondly.

A large meal was rapidly prepared, as worthy of a returned hero as the improving food facilities allowed, while Ludo at his own request bathed and changed into civilian clothes. He coughed a good deal in a dry, pecking manner, Laura noticed, and it seemed that it was, as they had surmised, partly on account of his health that he had been demobilised so quickly.

“But there's nothing wrong with me,” said Ludo. “It's only that bit of gas, you know.”

Laura, going upstairs to summon him to his meal, found him standing gazing thoughtfully at the fire, his hands in the pockets of his old red dressing-gown. The firelight gleamed on his eyes, for they were wet with tears.

“Ludo!” exclaimed Laura, deeply moved. For she guessed that he felt, as she did, an immense relief that he had come through this great ordeal safely, and with only an executive blunder against his record of honourable service.

“What is it, lovey?” said Ludo mildly, turning to her.

“Only that I'm so glad you're home,” said Laura in a choked tone.

Christmas Day passed off well, with a minimum of untoward incident. For the sake of the children the Christmas dinner was held at noon, and Mr. Hinchliffe and Grace were invited for the day. Geoffrey clung tightly to his mother's hand all day and would not leave her even to receive his presents, glowering jealously at everyone who tried to remove him, a piece of mawkishness which vexed both his grandfathers; and there was a moment of natural sadness when Mr. Hinchliffe, after the King's health had been drunk in alcoholic or non-alcoholic beverages according to the age and principles of each member of the party, arose and said:

“I think we should all stand for a few moments in silent remembrance of those who have passed from us.”

With faces suddenly sobered, the grown-ups rose, and Gwen helped her children to the ground.

“Why should we be silent, Mummy?” demanded Geoffrey.

“Hush, Geoffrey,” said Gwen.

“But why should we be silent, Mummy?” persisted the child.

“Be quiet!” said Gwen in a tone so savage that Geoffrey was stilled.

When they had all resumed their seats Mr. Hinchliffe took it upon himself to explain to the child what was owed to the young men who had given up their lives, in a long harangue in which the names of Edward and Almighty God were mentioned frequently, to the grief and embarrassment of every member of the party. But this, after all, was soon over, and much must be forgiven to a man who had lost wife and son in so short a time. The name of Frederick was not mentioned.

After dinner the party separated, intending to reunite later for another meal. Madeline went to her afternoon nap, and her grandfathers to theirs; Ludo and Gwen read and dozed in the nursery, with Geoffrey playing quietly round his mother's feet; Laura and Grace retired to Laura's bedroom, and wrapping themselves in coats and eiderdowns, talked. Grace having passed an arm about Laura's waist as they came up the stairs exclaimed at its smoothness; it lacked the bulging knot of corset-lace which was hitherto always to be felt there. Laura explained that in London nowadays corsets had sunk inches below their former level, had shed their laces, and fastened at the side.

“Oh,
I
must have some like that,” exclaimed Grace with glee. “Isn't it splendid the way women's clothes have improved in the War?”

Laura agreed that it was, and they discussed the recent emancipation of women in all its aspects, including the moral one.

“It sometimes seems to me that you and I are the only girls in
England who haven't been seduced in the War,” said Grace, her fine eyes sparkling.

Laura smiled sardonically. “Weil, that's more by good luck than management,” she said.

“What do you mean, Laura?” cried Grace with a joyous gurgle. “Tell me at once.”

Laura gave her a humorous sketch of the vulgar episode of Charles.

“And you fell out of the taxi together!” cried Grace, bounding up and down on the bed in comic horror. “Really, Laura!”

But suddenly her face sobered, and she laughed no more.

“It was unkind of you not to reply to his postcard, I think, Laura,” she said sternly;

Laura, nonplussed, muttered something about prudence.

“Prudence!” said Grace. “When he was at the Front! You might have let him have your friendly forgiveness to die with, Laura. You might have written him a letter …”

Her voice died away, her eyes grew fixed, Laura perceived with sorrow that her thoughts were with Bernard Duchay.

“What do you mean to do now the Henshawe job's finished, Grace?” she said hastily.

Grace lifted her head and spoke in the cool precise tone which she employed when she expected opposition. “I've already accepted a post in an Elementary School in Birmingham,” she said.

“In an Elementary School!” exclaimed Laura, astonished. “But do people with degrees, with high qualifications, teach in Elementary Schools?, Board Schools?”

“No. Hitherto, no. That's why I'm determined to do so. It's so
unjust
, Laura,” said Grace, her fine face animated: “You must admit that it's unjust. Why should the children of the poor be taught by less well-qualified persons than the children of the rich? Is that equality of opportunity? Is that the kind of world people have fought and died for?”

“I suppose it will mean less salary, less opportunity, for you?” said Laura soberly.

“Naturally less salary, but not less opportunity in the high sense of the word, I hope,” said Grace.

“What does Mr. Hinchliffe say about it?” wondered Laura.

“We've had a row about it, and I've told him that I won't tolerate interference in my affairs,” said Grace coldly.

“I do
admire
you, Grace,” said Laura.

A few months after the signature of the Treaty of Versailles, Frederick, voteless for five years and debarred from entering the Civil Service, was released from prison and restored to civil life. He returned, naturally, to his father's home in Cromwell Place.

Mr. Armistead and Mr. Hinchliffe were both of the opinion that Gwen would now forgive him, and that the family of four would resume life together in the house in Prince's Road Terrace, which had been let to a munitions foreman during the War. Indeed Mr. Hinchliffe made this resumption a condition of Frederick's readmission to Blackshaw Mills. He seemed to think that if a man's own wife could not forgive him, nobody else could, and there were without doubt, if all was known, strong reasons why they should not be expected to do so. It seemed to Laura, on the other hand, that no better weapon for blackmailing Gwen and Frederick into the resumption of their marriage, which Mr. Hinchliffe ardently desired on grounds of respectability, could well have been found; it would be difficult indeed for any woman to refuse to rejoin her husband when such a refusal would deprive him also of his living. Whether Mr. Hinchliffe knew this and acted on it deliberately, or whether he was quite unconscious of the value to himself of the argument he had adopted, Laura could not decide, but she thought the result in either case abominable; and though she saw perfectly how difficult it would be if
Frederick remained in Hudley, at Blackshaw Mills, in contact with Mr. Armistead and Ludo every day but separated from his wife, she thought it meanly vile to push Gwen back into his arms merely for the sake of the family convenience. At the same time she longed with all her heart that Gwen and her children should leave Blackshaw House, so that Ludo and herself could live there at ease. Mr. Armistead's reactions were precisely the reverse: he desired Gwen to remain at Blackshaw House, but he also greatly desired her to be a respectable woman, living with her husband. Ludo as usual said nothing, except that he remarked once obscurely:

“Frederick never wanted to come into the mill.”

“And Mr. Hinchliffe made him!” countered Laura hotly.

The situation was indeed one of cruel perplexity for all concerned—save only Frederick, who quite simply wanted his wife and his children to live with him, and never considered the Blackshaw Mills side of the question at all.

It was presently arranged that Frederick should come to Blackshaw House on a certain morning to have an interview with Gwen. After breakfast that morning—a meal at which everyone was very silent, and Gwen looked pale—Mr. Armistead asked his daughter whether she would prefer him to remain at home, within call; now that Ludo was back, it was easier for him to stay away from the mill.

“Why should you?” said Gwen irritably.

Mr. Armistead and Ludo therefore prepared to set off together as of old. On the doorstep, however, Mr. Armistead hesitated, then turned back and said solemnly to his elder daughter:

“Whichever way you decide, Gwen, you have my support.”

“Thank you, Papa,” said Gwen primly.

After they had gone the house seemed very quiet. Laura, ill at ease, sought for her sister, and found her in the nursery, slowly rocking herself back and forth in the old rocking-chair. Geoffrey was playing with his soldiers at her feet; Madeline beneath the
table was engaged in one of her obscure private games with a couple of hassocks.

“Isn't Geoffrey going to school this morning?” enquired Laura mildly. “Would you like me to take him?”

“I'm keeping him at home to-day,” said Gwen.

Laura hesitated. “Would you like me to go out, Gwen?” she asked.

“Why should you?” said Gwen irritably.

The perplexed Laura moved away. After a few steps, however, on a sudden impulse she swung round and returned to her sister's side, and laying her hand on her arm said with emotion:

“Gwen,
don't
go back to Frederick unless you love him.”

“What do you know about it, Laura?” said Gwen in a tone of anger, rocking herself more vehemently.

Laura withdrew to her room in the attic, and began to sort some drawings, very ill at ease.

Presently the front-door bell rang, the housemaid answered the door, and Laura rushed down into the hall to meet Frederick and save him the necessity of asking for Gwen. He looked much smaller than Laura remembered him, and his golden hair had lost its gloss, but his face was as pink as ever. At present there was an expression of anguished suspense in his moist grey eyes.

“Come this way, Frederick,” said Laura in an artificial tone, leading him into the drawing-room, where a fire had been specially lighted. “It's cold to-day, isn't it.”

“I don't feel it,” said Frederick hoarsely.

“I'll fetch—Gwen,” mumbled Laura, leaving him.

“Frederick has come,” she announced soberly to Gwen.

“I shan't see him,” said Gwen.

“Not see him! When it's all been arranged! But, Gwen, you must see him,” exclaimed Laura, dismayed.

“I shall not see him,” repeated Gwen, setting her lips.

“But, Gwen, you
must
. It's unfair to Frederick. It's unfair to the children. Papa will be so vexed,” urged Laura wretchedly.

Gwen made no reply.

“Come, Gwen,” pleaded Laura. “It's hard for you, I know, but really you must.” She unwisely put a hand beneath her sister's elbow, to urge her to her feet. Gwen shrank back in a fury and threw off the hand.

“You want to get me out of the house, don't you?” she cried. “You want me to go?”

“Gwen, you know I don't,” urged Laura earnestly. “I'm not urging you to go back to Frederick, I'll only urging you to see him now. You can't keep him waiting minute after minute like this,” she continued, glancing frantically at the clock: “You'll drive him mad with misery, Gwen, you will indeed. It's wrong.”

“I shall not see him,” repeated Gwen. Her mouth twisted suddenly, and she whispered: “I heard his voice.”