Sleep in peace, p.22
Sleep in Peace, page 22
“I’m not dead yet,” he remarked caustically, “though some of you seem inclined to think so. And I should like to have a little peace before I go back to the mill, please.”
He stalked from the room; his three children, in horrified remorse, kept their voices to a whisper till he had left the house.
It was natural that poor Papa should be rather cross just now, for a protracted coal strike was in progress, and he and Ludo had the utmost difficulty in getting hold of coal on which to run the mill. Ludo harried their coal merchant day and night, and sometimes suddenly rushed off to old coal workings in the hillsides, which had been reopened; the coal extracted thence was, however, the merest sludge, and Tom Byram complained constantly, bursting into the office with his shovel in his hand, that on such stuff he could not possibly keep up the necessary pressure. The Hinchliffes, who used a great deal of steam in their processes, likewise grumbled constantly, and one day Mr. Armistead and Mr. Hinchliffe had an explosive row in the yard, with Ludo and Frederick hovering round deprecating their fathers’ violence. The quarrel was not serious, however, and its chief result, Laura shrewdly suspected, was to bring Edward back from Germany. He arrived on the same train as Grace, on the night before the wedding, for which it was alleged that he had returned, but Laura thought the coal strike a much more probable motive.
And here it was at last, the day they had waited and prepared for so long. Blackshaw House was astir very early, and was soon invaded by caterers; Gwen’s clear, high tones could be heard in every room, briskly directing every operation. She looked pale and pinched and was decidedly cross; she burst into the bathroom, where Laura was washing before putting on her bridesmaid’s dress, screwed up the corner of a towel and bored it into Laura’s ears with a ferocity quite unnerving. She had already laid out the new morning suits, the grey ties and top hats and white gloves to be worn by Papa and Ludo; she now harried them while dressing, subjecting their very collars to a severe scrutiny, then turning on Laura, brushed her hair so hard that Laura’s head was almost jerked from her spine. Suddenly Gwen withdrew to her own room; the caterers left, and a hush of suspense fell over the house. Laura dressed peacefully alone, admired herself in the glass, and came out on the landing to find Ludo, in wedding attire even to his button-hole, running wildly down the stairs.
“What’s the matter?” she whispered, horrified.
The white satin ribbon for Gwen’s bouquet had been forgotten, and Ludo was rushing off to town to fetch it. Laura went into her sister’s room to console her, and found her dressed, standing very still on a clean white sheet, spread to protect her rich satin folds from the carpet. She looked extremely pretty, modish and elegant, but rather daunted and young; Mildred was urging her to sit down. Gwen declined, and continued to wait for Ludo’s return standing, but she spoke so sweetly and waited so quietly that Laura was touched and alarmed—such patience was unlike her sister.
Now Grandmamma arrived, in her sealskin cape and the same bonnet, with long black satin strings and a short curly ostrich feather, which she used to wear when Laura was a child, clutching the same black leather bag with the chain handle. With her was Auntie Mary, looking quite dreadful in a purple costume with silver buttons like shields. Grandmamma, who as far as looks went seemed very little older than before, held her heart and panted, and Ludo took her into the dining-room and gave her a drop of brandy. Gwen, hearing of her arrival, sternly did her duty and came downstairs to speak to her; as soon as she entered the room Grandmamma threw up her hands, and cried: “Eh! Well!” It was plain she had never seen such a vision of beauty before, and Gwen smiled, well pleased. Now the cabs were at the door, with Grace in one of them; Grace was extremely handsome in her filmy blue and her sweeping Leghorn, but cold and still like marble; her arm was icy to Laura’s touch. Laura climbed in and they drove off together. Laura spoke to Grace eagerly; Grace opened her lips to reply, but no sound came, she took Laura’s hand and squeezed it, looking into her eyes with a grave and terrible look. Laura’s heart beat fast, and she felt as though her head would burst beneath the oppressive sense of things fateful and awful actually happening close about her.
There was a crowd at the church gates, and murmurs of admiration followed Grace and herself up the red carpet to the porch. They had to wait there for a long long time, so long that Laura felt almost choked with apprehension; surely there was something wrong! Ludo came out and had a word with them, but none of them knew what they were saying. Then all of a sudden up came the cab, and Papa and Gwen descended, all serene as Ludo would say, and Gwen shook out her train and took Papa’s arm, and Grace and Laura formed up behind her, and the wedding march sounded, and all the guests rose, and the wedding procession swept down the aisle, just as it ought to do. Papa looked particularly handsome and debonair, his moustaches were very beautifully waxed, he held his head high and smiled and swung his shoulders and was plainly enjoying the ceremony. Gwen of course looked lovely and walked like a queen. Frederick crept out from the side, looking small and crumpled in a frock coat, with his collar up round his ears; an obscure friend of his whom Laura had never seen before crept out behind him as his best man. (A pity Edward had declined that office!) The guests looked splendid; Mrs. Hinchliffe was weeping, in brown velvet with a white bouquet. Mr. Hinchliffe thunderously cleared his throat. Gwen’s responses could not be heard at all, so that Laura felt she was overdoing the maidenly modesty; Frederick’s could have been heard a mile away. Laura’s teeth chattered with excitement, Grace beside her stood unnaturally rigid, like a statue; they both performed with perfect exactitude what they were required to do. The ceremony proceeded, and Frederick Foster and Gwendolen Thwaite were pronounced man and wife.
In the vestry there was a tremendous crush, and Laura could scarcely reach Gwen to kiss her; there was a pale air of triumph in Gwen’s eye, she was perfectly composed and made suitably pretty speeches in reply to the congratulations offered her; Frederick on the contrary was crimson and dishevelled and seemed about to weep. There was the other wedding march, confetti, red carpet, and Ludo packing Gwen’s train into a cab; Frederick and Gwen drove away alone, Grace and Laura found themselves in another cab with Papa and the best man, who proved to be some kind of journalist on the Hudley News.
The reception was tedious; Ludo made a facetious speech which did not quite come off, Frederick quoted Walt Whitman alarmingly, Mr. Hinchliffe refused champagne in a very loud voice and spoke very piously and at great length, Grace and Laura were separated during all this and the bones of Laura’s collar hurt. When the speeches were over and Gwen had gone upstairs to change, Laura pushed hither and thither through the crowd which surged about the presents, looking for Edward. She found him at last in a corner, talking to Ludo about the advisability of installing electric motors in Blackshaw Mills. Ludo looked vexed, as well he might, thought Laura, by this intrusion of business into what should be a festive hour; he also looked very spruce and handsome beside Edward, who was wearing an ordinary lounge suit and appeared dirty and tired.
“Hullo, Edward!” said Laura brightly.
“Well, Laura,” replied Edward indifferently.
He surveyed her with cool distaste, and it was clear to Laura that he found her hat quite ludicrous. (She was uncertain of its curves herself.) Immensely disconcerted, Laura withdrew, and devoted herself to playing the good granddaughter.
Presently Gwen came downstairs, dressed all in bottle-green, and Frederick appeared in a new suit of indigo. This suit was of Armistead cloth, Hinchliffe finished, and cut by Ludo’s Bradford tailor, but nobody would have believed any of these items, for nothing had any style on Frederick. (As Ludo observed bitterly to Laura: “His suits fit where they touch.”) The Armisteads and the Hinchliffes accompanied the young couple to the station. Gwen, serene and smiling, received her friends’ good wishes with the pretty dignity of a newly married wife. Frederick wrung all their hands heartily, but for once was inarticulate with emotion; he looked very much younger than Gwen, far younger than the actual two years between them entitled him to do; indeed he appeared a mere hobbledehoy. The train moved; Mr. Armistead cried: “Theyr’e off!” in a voice between terror and elation; Gwen, leaning from the carriage window, suddenly flung her arms round Laura, kissed her and kissed her as though she would never let her go. Laura’s hat fell off, she staggered, felt ridiculous, returned kiss for kiss and wished with all her heart that she loved her sister more.
The train departed; the Armisteads and the Hinchliffes turned away and walked soberly up the stairs. Awe Hill with its forest of black chimneys loomed sombrely above them; Mrs. Hinchliffe wept, and Edward gravely took her arm.
5
There was peace in Blackshaw House; the days drifted by in a delicious quiescence.
One slept long, and when woken by Mildred’s knock lay on drowsy and warm, dreaming, one’s whole body remembering with beatific relief that there was no Gwen. Ludo, returning from his early visit to the mill, calling up cheerfully from the hall, startled one into a hurried rising; one threw on one’s clothes and rushed downstairs, a couple of minutes after Mildred had rung the bell. Ludo did not mind one’s being late, and Papa said nothing, though he minded; he merely looked at his daughter over his crooked pince-nez reproachfully and repressed a sigh. After breakfast one helped Mildred to make the beds, discussing dinner and tea with her meanwhile.
Mildred was deeply depressed at first after Gwen’s departure; she had hoped to go with her on her marriage to some large establishment, and felt it a personal affront that Gwen should keep no maid. Joy seemed to have gone out of her life; she did her duty by the Armisteads with melancholy austerity, was very respectful to Mr. Armistead and Ludo, but listened to any remarks from Laura in a mournful silence, her hands hanging limply by her sides, an expression of incredulous scorn on her face, as if Laura were quite mad. Her most frequent remark to Laura was: “You didn’t ought to do”—this, that or the other—“Miss Laura; Mrs. Frederick would never have allowed it.” Or: “I always did it this way when Miss Gwen was here.” After a while, however, finding that she had much greater liberty than formerly, Mildred cheered up. Indeed she cheered up rather too much; she began to entertain her friends in the kitchen rather too often and too noisily. Laura’s timid, indirect hints, and a reasoned remonstrance from Ludo, had no effect; at last one night when bursts of laughter floated along the hall into the dining-room, Papa rose up, strode to the kitchen door and threw it open, his newspaper dangling from one hand as usual, and scowling at the assembled company (which included several members of the Byram family) over his crooked pince-nez, demanded fiercely: “What is this?” These three words from the Master were completely effective; the parties died down. But the rebellious interlude seemed to have sweetened Mildred’s character, loosened, perhaps, some severe restricting bond; for she became much kindlier in manner than she had ever been before, and treated Laura’s attempts to learn to cook with almost genial tolerance.
For Laura devoted herself conscientiously to the business of housekeeping, as it was understood in that place and time. After making the beds with Mildred (on Monday, washing-day, one made them alone) she dusted the bedrooms. On Mondays one gave them “a good dust”, on Tuesdays an “ordinary” one; on Wednesdays Mildred turned them out, Thursdays and Fridays were “ordinary” again, Saturdays “good”. On Sundays they received what Laura called “a flick”, but Mildred, disapproving such levity, regarded as “a tidy”. After finishing the bedrooms, Laura went downstairs.
On Mondays “a woman” came to help Mildred with the household washing, which was all done at home; sounds of the wheel of the new washing-machine which Gwen had just installed, and of the heavy old mangle, rose up piercingly from the wash-kitchen downstairs. Mildred, looking brisk and busy in her rosy print dress, crossed the back garden back and forth between the green wooden posts, winding a white rope “line” round the pegs at their tops. Soon Mrs. Womersley came panting up the stairs, a large clothes-basket full of wet clean clothes grasped in her ample arms. Mildred, mounting a big unpainted buffet which creaked, a clothes-peg or two in her mouth, a damp clutch of garments in her hand, pegged these to the line, and soon a row of white linen ballooned and flapped in the breeze, or sometimes hung dismally flat in the still, sooty air. (“There’s no druft today,” mourned Mrs. Womersley on these occasions.) The final act of this process was to raise the line to a peak in its centre by a long, slender clothes-prop, cut at one end into a V. It was considered beneath Laura’s dignity to peg clothes out, but she was allowed to take them in, especially if a sudden flurry of rain brought all the women rushing to the rescue. Then everything became very dramatic; clothes-props were flung recklessly down, pegs flew in all directions, the women rushed into the kitchen, laden with piles of half-dry clothes so high that Mildred’s prim face, Mrs. Womersley’s red cheerful cheeks, Laura’s bright dark eyes, were hidden behind them. The table grew full of clothes, Laura triumphantly rushed in with the last remaining laundry, a few forlorn teacloths and some woollen stockings. Mildred, rather cross, with pursed lips, sorted the piles of garments into their different categories; the “rack”, a kind of horizontal grid which lived usually suspended near the kitchen ceiling, was let down hurriedly on its creaking ropes, and the larger clothes spread there to dry. Meanwhile Mrs. Womersley panted up from the cellar with two “clothes-horses” of unpainted wood; these were carefully dusted, and laden with drying clothes. Laura liked Monday morning because of the drama of the washing, and because on Monday mornings she was busy. It was her duty to attend to the drying and ironing of the handkerchiefs, what Mildred called “the starch things”, and her own underclothes and blouses. Laura loved ironing, and did it well; to create that beautiful smooth glossiness out of a chaos of creases, that was art, that was fun. Handkerchiefs and table-napkins had to be folded into lovely geometrical patterns; that was jolly too. At first Mildred would not allow Laura to iron the two weekly table-cloths which decked the long dining-table (one for breakfast and dinner, one for the more ceremonial tea); she would not admit that Laura was capable of managing their long, heavy folds. But one day Laura, greatly daring, folded and mangled and ironed the very best table-cloth all by herself, and it looked lovely; after that Mildred grudgingly yielded the management of all the starched linen to her. Yes, Laura liked Monday mornings; when Ludo and Papa came home to dinner one had scarcely finished one’s work; one ran about, flushed and eager, setting the table, fetching up the cold beef from the cellar; on Monday mornings one was useful, necessary; there was a place for one in the world.
On Tuesday mornings one did the mending. Holes in socks, buttons off shirts; torn embroidery; torn sheets; patches under the arms of cambric camisoles. That was rather dull. As soon as it was finished, one Walked to town, where there were usually a few small shopping errands to be done for Mildred.
On Wednesday mornings there was nothing much to do; one rearranged the flowers, cut their stems and gave them all fresh water, then walked to town, where there were usually a few small shopping errands to be done for Mildred. On Thursday mornings there was nothing much to do; while Mildred turned out the drawing-room one usually made a pudding, then walked to town.
On Friday mornings Mildred baked; and Laura tried her hand at cakes and pastry. (Mildred of course washed up the bowls and pans.) Ludo was interested in Laura’s cooking experiments, and treated them encouragingly; he ate half-boiled fowl, lumpy sauce, stodgy puddings and sad cake cheerfully, and noted each improvement with a flattering eye. Papa on the contrary was rather unhappy about Laura’s concoctions; he sighed, and regarded his helpings dismally. Once he even threw his spoon down crossly after a couple of mouthfuls, pushed his plate away and said: “I can’t eat this stuff!” That very evening he actually proposed to send for Grandmamma to come and take charge of Blackshaw House, and for a few days this disaster seemed imminent. But Gwen, to whom Laura flew with the proposal, opposed it vigorously, and after a further few days’ peevish grumbling from Papa, the matter was allowed to drop. Poor Papa was often rather peevish nowadays; his skin looked yellow, his shoulders stooped, his moustaches seemed thinner and less trim than of old; only when Gwen came to Blackshaw House did he revive his old sparkle. He seemed so oddly lacking in understanding, too. Ludo suggested that, since Gwen had a dress allowance, it was only fair that Laura should have one too; but Papa stared at him in amazement and said he had never heard of such a thing. So Laura’s clothes and amusements continued to be dependent on Gwen’s representations to Papa of what was proper, and on what she could squeeze out of the housekeeping money. This was not much, for Papa kept her very short of housekeeping money, and what he gave her he supervised, as though she were a mere child. It was odd, thought Laura mournfully; accounts, letters, arrangements of any kind, were the easiest things in the world to her, for she had spent the last eight years of her life learning how to deal with them, while housewifery was utterly unknown to her; yet Papa expected her to be able to cook like Mildred at once, and thought her incapable of the simplest division sum. Poor Papa!
