Sleep in Peace (43 page)

“No, sir,” said Frederick simply. “Political revolution is useless without a change of heart. An ethical revolution is what is wanted.”

“If a German were attacking your mother and sister with a bayonet, what would you do?” put in another member roughly.

“I would put myself between the man and my mother.”

“You wouldn't try to restrain the German from doing any harm?”

“Yes—I should speak to him, reason with him.”

“Reason with a bayonet? The Captain there will tell you that wouldn't be much use,” said the member amid laughter. “You wouldn't use any force to him, then?”

“I would give my life to save life,” said Frederick sternly, “but to take life in order to save it is not to save it; it is to do evil that good may come.”

“How long have you held these convictions?” asked the Chairman.

“Ever since I began to think for myself. Before I left school.”

“You began very early,” said the member who had last spoken.

“Didn't you ever have a bit of a fight, a rough and tumble, at school?” asked the Military Representative persuasively.

“Never.”

“Never lifted your hand in anger against anyone in your life?”

“Once,” admitted Frederick in a low tone.

“Oh? Once? And what was the occasion of that? Was it in self-defence? Or in defence of another?”

“I must decline to answer—it's my private business,” replied Frederick hotly, amid titters from the public. “It's the action which above all others I regret in my life.”

“An act of aggression, evidently,” said the Military Representative, smiling at his fellow-members and the gallery.

“What is your employment?” resumed the Chairman.

“He ought to be a missionary,” murmured the Military Representative.

“Cloth dyer and finisher.”

“That's not a starred trade,” said one of the members in a reproving tone.

“I never said it was,” said Frederick impatiently. “I'm not trying to hide behind my occupation.”

There was an awkward pause. One or two members of the Tribunal had sons who might be said to be doing precisely that. Frederick, suddenly remembering this, exclaimed:

“I meant nothing personal. I am not concerned with the conscience of others, only with my own.”

“Have your employers appealed for you at all?” said the member who had last spoken, coldly.

“No,” said Frederick. “I have not asked them to do so.”

“Would they if you had?”

“What is the use of these hypothetical speculations?” said Frederick impatiently. “If you mean to ask whether I consider myself indispensable to the firm, certainly I do not.”

“You are in your father's business, Messrs. Armistead and Hinchliffe, I understand,” resumed the Chairman.

A stir of interest rippled along the Tribunal at these names.

“Is he Alderman Hinchliffe's son?” asked a hitherto silent member in a tone of pain.

“Yes. You are the son of a man very highly respected in this town,” said the Chairman to Frederick, “but we cannot allow that to weigh with us here. Your father, I see, has not written to the Tribunal to support your appeal.”

“He does not know of my appeal,” said Frederick.

“Is it a fact that your brother took a Commission a week after war was declared, and fell fighting for his King and Country?” asked the Chairman in a more sympathetic tone.

“That is the fact,” said Frederick drily.

“Has that fact influenced your decision not to fight?”

“Not in any way. My brother had his convictions, I have mine.”

“Do you object to non-combatant service?”

“I object to every activity which condones the moral evil of war.”

“That's not an answer to my question. Do you object to being sent for non-combatant service?”

“I do.”

The members of the Tribunal bent towards the Chairman, and there was a murmured conference. It did not last long, and soon the decision was announced: the appeal was disallowed, and the applicant ordered to non-combatant service by the first of the following month.

“To give you time to change your mind,” said the Chairman kindly.

“I'm afraid I cannot change my moral categories at the bidding of this or any other tribunal,” said Frederick in his ringing golden tones.

The Chairman coughed disapprovingly, and the sergeant shepherded Frederick from the Court.

As it chanced, Laura was busy at a Red Cross bazaar all that day. In the morning she decorated the hall where the bazaar was to be held with huge flags of the Allies painted by herself—there were so many allies, now that Roumania and Portugal had come in, they made a pretty show. In the afternoon she listened with enthusiasm to the patriotic speeches of the M.P. opener and the Mayor of Hudley, and then helped to serve tea to the twelve hundred eager buyers who thronged the hall. In a red silk jumper and a pleated brown skirt, carrying heavy trays and never mistaking an order, Laura felt both useful and dashing, and it was with a light heart if with aching feet that she came out in the evening into the nipping Hudley air.

A newspaper placard said:
Ethical Revolution Wanted
.

Interested, and wondering who the speaker was whose views coincided so nearly with her own, Laura on impulse stopped and bought a paper—Papa monopolised the paper all evening, at home. It seemed that it was a conscientious objector, before the Military Service Tribunal, who desired an ethical revolution—it seemed, in fact, that it was Frederick! Laura exclaimed in heartfelt dismay. He really meant to carry it so far, then!

She took a tram and went to Cromwell Place.

The maid who admitted her went to enquire whether Mrs. Hinchliffe would receive her before ushering her in. This procedure, unheard-of between the Hinchliffes and Laura for many years, impressed Laura painfully, and deepened the air of disaster which seemed to her to hang over the house.

“I just thought I'd come in,” she said nervously, entering the dining-room.

“Thank you, Laura,” said Mrs. Hinchliffe.

Frederick was sitting at the table, having a meal. He rose up in a flurry, muttered a greeting with his mouth full and without looking at her, then sat down and began to eat again heartily. It struck Laura that she had never seen Frederick eat quite so heartily—usually he ate as though he had no idea what was on
his plate. Mrs. Hinchliffe, a look of sorrow firmly subdued on her quiet face, sat by the hearth, knitting a khaki sock. Laura, not liking to open the topic of the Tribunal unless Mrs. Hinchliffe chose to do so, uttered a few jerky commonplaces about knitting to which Mrs. Hinchliffe replied with apparent interest. Presently, ostensibly in search of more wool, she rose and left the room.

“I've read the account of the case in the
News
, Frederick,” said Laura.

“Oh? They've put it in already, then,” said Frederick in a noncommittal tone, cutting himself another slice from the loaf.

“Yes. I want to tell you, Frederick,” Laura forced herself to utter in a high, strained tone, “that though I don't agree with you at all—I think you're quite wrong; we
must
surely resist oppression and fight tyranny—though I don't agree with you at all, I honour and respect you with all my heart for being so faithful to your convictions.”

“Thank you, Laura,” said Frederick gravely.

“Laura,” called Mrs. Hinchliffe from the hall.

Laura obediently rose and went out to her. Mrs. Hinchliffe led her into the drawing-room and, carefully closing the door, burst into tears.

Amazed and distressed, Laura put her arms about the older woman, drew her head down to her shoulder, and murmured comfortingly in her ear.

“Frederick must do what he thinks right,” she urged soothingly.

“It isn't that,” said Mrs. Hinchliffe. She withdrew from Laura's shoulder, wiped her eyes and sat down. “I don't want to say anything I ought not against your sister, Laura,” she said with her usual quiet dignity, “but I think she is not doing her duty—her Christian duty. After all, she promised to take Frederick for better or for worse, you know.”

“What? What are you saying, Mrs. Hinchliffe?” exclaimed Laura, a burning sickness clutching at her bowels.

“When were you last at Blackshaw House?” began Mrs. Hinchliffe, with an air of relating all things in their proper order.

“Not since ten o'clock—I've been at the Red Cross Bazaar all day.”

“Well, dear, I'm afraid it will be a great shock to you, but Gwen has left Frederick,” said Mrs. Hinchliffe in a kind firm tone.

“Left him?” gasped Laura.

“Yes, left him. And left him without a scrap of food in the house. Of course Frederick has done very wrong, I know,” said Mrs. Hinchliffe, her lips suddenly trembling. “Mr. Hinchliffe condemns him very strongly for this conscientious objection; he considers it thoroughly irresponsible. Though I say if he thinks he is following the commandment of God, who are we to come between him and his Maker? But then it seems he is in debt.”

“In debt? But Blackshaw Mills are doing so well lately,” objected Laura.

“There are unpaid bills, dear,” admitted Mrs. Hinchliffe sadly. “Left over from Gwen's confinements. It's very very wrong of Frederick, I admit, but still—”

“If he's in debt it's Gwen who's put him there,” said Laura in a loud, angry tone. “He never spends anything on himself—you've only to look at him to know that.”

“I don't think we could call Gwen extravagant, dear,” said Mrs. Hinchliffe reprovingly. “In any case, it's the duty of a man to provide for his wife and children suitably, and the solvency of the household is his first care.”

“That's what Mr. Hinchliffe says, I suppose,” said Laura with bitterness, deciding privately that Mr. Hinchliffe paid Frederick about half what Mr. Armistead paid Ludo.

“But whatever Frederick has done,” summed up Mrs. Hinchliffe with stately emphasis, “Gwen should keep her marriage vows, and not leave her husband when he is in trouble. With young children, too! And leaving the poor boy without a scrap of food
in the house!” she cried out suddenly in a sobbing tone, her stern control collapsing. “When he returned from the Tribunal this morning she was there,; and of course he told her of the result; she never said a word, but this afternoon when he got back from the mill the house was empty. And there wasn't a scrap of food in the house, poor boy. Not a piece of bread, or a handful of tea, or anything at all. It looks as though she'd planned it before, Laura.”

“She planned it years ago!” exclaimed Laura bitterly. The words: “She has meant to leave him ever since Edward was killed,” rose to her lips; astonished, she suppressed them.

“That's just what Frederick said,” said Mrs. Hinchliffe, mildly surprised, “when he came home an hour ago, but his father blames the whole thing on his being a conscientious objector.”

“Where is Mr. Hinchliffe?” asked Laura.

“He's gone to see your father, dear,” said Mrs. Hinchliffe.

“Do you suppose Gwen has gone to Blackshaw House?” cried Laura hoarsely.

“Where else? Of course she'll have gone home,” said Mrs. Hinchliffe. “And taken the children with her. Whatever Frederick's faults, it's very wrong of her, Laura. They're Frederick's children, too, after all. And to leave him without a scrap of food in the house!”

She wept again, and Laura again put an arm about her shoulders. But her caress was now perfunctory. The news now touched her too closely for her to be able to sympathise with another's grief.

“I must go,” she said presently in a tone unlike her own. “I must see … I must go home.”

“Yes, go, dear,” agreed Mrs. Hinchliffe with the simple, resigned unselfishness induced by a lifetime of religious practice. “You'll be needed.”

They exchanged a sad, confused embrace, and Laura ran from the house in torment.

As soon as she reached Blackshaw House she put her finger on the front-door bell, and kept it there: Mildred came hurrying, wearing once more her look of gloating participation in other people's troubles. Laura strode in, and began to frame a question. It was needless, however; for as she spoke the kitchen door swung quietly open, and out stepped Geoffrey. Elegant and spotless in a white woollen suit and shining brown shoes, the child advanced with light neat steps, leaned his long slender body against the scrolled banisters, and, crossing his ankles in an attitude ludicrously and touchingly resembling Mr. Armistead's, fixed on his aunt a disdainful stare. His dark eyes were inimical, challenging: Laura felt rejected from her own home.

“The Master has Mr. Hinchliffe with him, Miss Laura,” breathed Mildred.

“Where is Miss Gwen?” demanded Laura harshly.

Mildred, rolling her eyes in a reproachful plea for silence, looked towards the stairs.

Laura, sick at heart, went up. As she passed the door of Ludo's room, long so quiet and empty, she heard voices and saw a light. She went in. Madeline's cot had been set up at the foot of Ludo's bed, Geoffrey's little bed at the side; by the dressing-table stood Gwen, unpacking the children's night-clothes from an attaché case.

“It's no use looking at me like a thundercloud, Laura,” said Gwen crossly, catching sight of her sister's face in the mirror. “I can't live with Frederick any longer, and this is my home.”

“Of course it's your home,” admitted Laura angrily, “but you needn't surely take
Ludo's
room for your children? It looks as though you thought he wouldn't need it again.” (Oh, Ludo!)

“I'm sure Spencer would be the first to say: let the children have it,” said Gwen in a virtuous tone.

“Of course he would! That's just why!” cried Laura. She turned away; it was impossible to make Gwen see that it was worse to exploit people who were willing to be exploited than those who
were not. Madeline, sitting very quiet in Ludo's armchair, her chubby legs dangling apart beneath her smocked white silk frock, watched her aunt's movements intently, from Frederick's wide grey eyes.