“So beautiful,” added Rona, with a sigh.
“Yes,” said Mr. Grace again. “Yes, but I can’t help feeling you must find it dull here after London.”
“Never feel that, George,” said Rona earnestly. “I am exceedingly happy at Chevis Green. I have lived in London for years, of course, but the country is my spiritual home. I should like to settle down in the country; in fact I am thinking of selling my flat.”
“I shouldn’t do that,” said Mr. Grace quickly. “It would be most unwise.”
Rona was silent for a moment or two and then she said, “You have a very interesting family, George.”
“They are good girls,” agreed Mr. Grace.
“And most attractive.”
“Yes. Yes, I think they are.”
“They need a woman, George.”
“A woman!” exclaimed Mr. Grace in amazement. “They’ve got Joan. They seem to manage all right. It’s extremely difficult to get any sort of domestic help at the moment.”
“Not that sort of woman,” exclaimed Rona. “They need a gentlewoman, a kind, wise, experienced friend to turn to in all their little difficulties. They are standing at the threshold of life—one false step might ruin their whole future.”
“They’re very sensible girls—” began Mr. Grace.
“They lack experience, George. They lack guidance. I feel a want of stability in their natures.”
“They are young, Rona.”
“Exactly,” she replied. “They are very young. They need an older woman to guide them. Take Adeline, for instance. I saw quite a lot of Adeline when I was in town and I was able to help her in all sorts of little ways—little tactful hints, George, mere suggestions—and I could see that Adeline welcomed them and acted upon them. Yes, there was definite improvement there. Adeline has a flair for clothes,” added Rona, nodding thoughtfully.
Mr. Grace was silent. A flair for clothes seemed unimportant to him.
“Then there’s Elizabeth,” continued Rona, counting off Elizabeth on her fingers. “Elizabeth is a very pretty girl but she does not make the best of herself. A trifle hoydenish, I think. Of course some men admire that boyish manner. I suppose you’ve noticed that Roderick is very épris?”
“He comes over pretty frequently,” said Mr. Grace. “But I think he’s Addie’s friend. I heard him ask Tilly for her address.”
“Oh, George!” exclaimed Rona. “How can you be so blind! The man is head over heels in love with Elizabeth. What have you done about it?”
“I don’t believe in interfering.”
“I’m afraid you’re inclined to let things drift. We must find out all about Roderick,” said Rona thoughtfully. She let that sink in, and then continued, “Now we come to Matilda.”
“Tilly is very well as she is,” said her father hastily.
“No, George. Matilda is not very well. That farouche manner of hers is the outcome of inhibitions and complexes. Of course the child has attraction and, if she were taken in hand by someone who understood her condition, something might be made of her. She ought to go about more, she ought to meet interesting people.”
“She’s shy, that’s all.”
“Ah, George, you are being a little selfish, I think. Just a teeny bit selfish,” declared Rona, tapping him lightly on the knee. “You are keeping Matilda at home and giving her no chance to develop her personality. You want her to marry, I suppose?”
“She’s much too young!”
“Not at all. She’s just the right age. You don’t want her to grow up into a sour old maid.”
“There is no need for her to be sour,” objected Mr. Grace.
“An old maid then,” pursued Rona, pushing him into a corner.
“No,” said Mr. Grace. “No, I must say I hope all the girls will marry—eventually.”
“Sarah will never marry,” declared Rona. “Sarah is quite different from the others. I don’t think we could make much of Sarah.”
“Sal is a very fine character,” said Mr. Grace, his thoughts flying to the daughter who, even at this moment, was spending herself ungrudgingly in his service.
“She is capable, of course,” admitted Rona. “But there is a curious hardness there. She isn’t the type that appeals to men at all. We might think of a career for Sarah; some sort of training—”
“Sal will do exactly as she wants,” said Mr. Grace stoutly. “I would rather you didn’t interfere. We’ve all been very happy together.”
“Oh, George!” cried Rona. “Of course not. I shouldn’t dream of interfering. I was trying to offer a few teeny weeny suggestions, that’s all. I know how difficult it is for a lonely man to understand these young creatures and give them what they need. I just want to help you, George.”
Mr. Grace was getting very nervous indeed; he was more relieved and delighted than words could tell when he saw the burly form of William advancing toward him across the lawn. In fact, to the eyes of Mr. Grace, the burly form of William took on a positively angelic guise. William was an answer to a prayer.
“How very annoying!” exclaimed Rona. “Can’t he see we don’t want to be disturbed!”
“He has a note for me,” said Mr. Grace.
William had an envelope in his hand. He held it out to Mr. Grace, who took it and opened it, and unfolded the piece of paper it contained. The message was terse and to the point; it read as follows: you can make this an excuse if you want to escape.
“Oh!” exclaimed Mr. Grace in surprise. “Oh, yes—er—please excuse me, Rona.” He rose as he spoke and hurried into the house.
“What was it?” asked Rona.
“I didn’t open it,” replied William. (This was perfectly true, for he and Tilly had composed the missive together and sealed it up.)
“It’s most aggravating,” said Rona, with a sigh. “Most aggravating. One can never have a consecutive conversation in this house. We were talking about something very important.”
“I was afraid you were,” said William gravely.
***
Mr. Grace did not slacken pace until he had gained the sanctuary of his study. He locked the door behind him and sank into a chair. He discovered that his forehead was quite wet—and the palms of his hands—so he took out his handkerchief and wiped them. He was not pleased with himself. He had behaved like an arrant coward. He had behaved deceitfully. Why? Simply because he was terrified of Rona. And why be terrified of Rona? Rona couldn’t marry him without his consent, could she? Rona couldn’t drag him to the altar against his will. Mr. Grace’s mind said, “No, of course not,” but in his bones he was not so sure. Rona was so managing, that was the trouble. Already she was managing—or mismanaging—the whole house. It was extraordinarily difficult to stand up to Rona, for if you stood up to her, she immediately retired and came at you from a different angle. I did stand up to her, thought Mr. Grace. I said I would rather she didn’t interfere. Most people would have taken the hint—but not Rona. Rona had merely carried out her usual tactics, giving way at once (“I shouldn’t dream of interfering!” she had cried), and immediately returned to the attack. If William hadn’t appeared at the psychological moment, anything might have happened. Mr. Grace’s forehead was wet again; he wiped it and sighed wearily. Of course some of the things she had said were true. Mr. Grace couldn’t deny it. He was inclined to drift. He was inclined to let things take their course and trust that all would be well. Perhaps he ought to have done something about Roderick—but what? Fathers didn’t tackle young men, nowadays, and ask them their intentions. Mr. Grace had no idea what fathers did nowadays. He sighed again. Then Tilly. It was true that Tilly had not been quite so cheerful lately. Perhaps Rona was right (not about the inhibitions, of course, that was nonsense); perhaps Tilly should be poked out of her shell and made to go about even if she didn’t want to. He might arrange for Tilly to go to Bournemouth, to her cousin�
��s, for a long visit. That could be done. Rona was quite wrong about Sal—absolutely and entirely wrong. Sal wasn’t hard. Everyone loved Sal, except (apparently) Rona. Sal might not be the marrying type (Mr. Grace didn’t feel able to judge of that); in his heart of hearts he rather hoped she wasn’t. What on earth would he do without Sal? His thoughts moved on, his optimistic temperament reasserting itself, things would sort themselves out. Once Rona was gone and Liz was married (if Liz intended to get married), and Tilly had been sent off to enjoy herself at Bournemouth, he and Sal would settle down happily and comfortably. He envisaged all this vaguely, his thoughts moving without volition in a sort of dreamlike trance. He saw himself and Sal walking up and down the terrace, arm in arm. This was a favorite exercise of theirs—or had been, before Rona’s arrival—it had been a favorite exercise of Mary’s, and Sal was like Mary, more and more like Mary every day.
But all this was getting him nowhere. Here he was, drifting again, and indulging in daydreams. This was no time for daydreams, there were things to be done, and the first thing to be done was to tackle Rona, thought Mr. Grace, nerving himself to the task. This state of affairs could not continue. It was an unbearable state of affairs…No peace for anyone, no comfort, everyone at loose ends…and his work was suffering. How could he think out a sermon when his whole being was constantly upset (like this, thought Mr. Grace). He must tackle Rona firmly. The next time she sought a private conversation, he must pull himself together and take the bull by the horns. Mr. Grace sat there for a long time, trying to decide what he would say to Rona next time.
***
Rona was washing for supper. She was thinking about George and trying to decide what she would say to him next time. George was very slow. It was extremely hard to bring him to the point. The worst of it was there was so little opportunity for private conversation. People came and went. You started to talk and then you were interrupted. There were far too many people in the house. The mornings were quiet, of course, but George was shut up in his study the whole morning and even Rona had not dared to disturb his seclusion. In the afternoon he was usually out, visiting his parishioners or distributing books to the patients in the local hospital; people called frequently at the Vicarage and George interviewed them all. It really was a revelation to Rona to see how busy George was; she had always thought a country parson had a pretty easy life. I must take a firm line, thought Rona. I must keep them all under my eye. She finished her ablutions and watched the water gurgling away through the plug hole; then she dried her hands with quick, competent movements and hung up the towel. No more nonsense, said Rona to herself. Her reflections looked back at her from the bathroom mirror (the round, beveled mirror in which Mr. Grace saw his round, ruddy face every morning when he shaved), and she touched her hair lightly, arranging it, turning her head from side to side. She powdered her face and reddened her lips, carrying out the familiar ritual with intense concentration…then she noticed there was a frown between her brows and smoothed it out hastily. She was aware that frowns beget wrinkles.
The evenings at the Vicarage were usually the most pleasant part of the day, for the day’s duties were over and there was a feeling of relaxation in the air. Mr. Grace smoked his pipe and read; the girls sewed and talked. Sometimes Mr. Grace would look up from his book and would remark in pathetic tones, “These Graces chatter so!” and Liz would kiss her hand to him in an airy way and reply, “We’ve heard that before, darling, and it isn’t even original. It was Sir Timothy O’Brien who thought of it first, wasn’t it?” But in spite of this “cheek”—which of course was very reprehensible—the chatter would cease, or perhaps continue in low tones that did not disturb the reader. William’s advent had made no difference to the evenings at the Vicarage. He usually read, though sometimes his book would be put aside and he would listen to the chattering of the Graces. But the coming of Aunt Rona had changed everything and, instead of being the most pleasant part of the day, the evening was the worst. Her idea of a pleasant evening was conversation, with herself as chief performer. Indeed one could hardly call it conversation for it developed into a monologue. She talked without ceasing in her clear penetrating tones, which precluded all idea of “not listening.” She talked about people—people the Graces didn’t know and didn’t want to know; people she had met before the war, staying in hotels in Switzerland; people she had met in London, or Paris, or country houses, where, according to herself, she was always a welcome guest.
She would start by saying, “You know Lord Wetheringham, George…Oh, don’t you? I thought you might know him, such a very cultured man. His daughter married a Bull—not one of the Bulls of Nether Astwick, of course. These Bulls live near Newmarket. Henry is a delightful creature and tremendously artistic, so their house is quite a gem—not large, of course, there are only twelve bedrooms—but so well planned and comfortable. Fixed basins in every bedroom, and any amount of bathrooms.”
“How nice!” Mr. Grace would say.
“A very large connection,” Rona would continue. “Mavis Bull married three times and her first husband was a Paggleton-Smythe. I met his brother Frederick at a hotel in Cannes. He was staying at Cannes when I was there, just after poor Gerald passed on. Gerald was my second husband, of course. I don’t think you ever met him. Of course I knew exactly who the Paggleton-Smythes were, so I spoke to them in the lounge and we became very intimate. They used to take me over to Monte in their Rolls. Then, when I was at Biarritz, I met Crispin Paggleton-Smythe—Frederick’s cousin—so of course I made my number to him. He was quite the most handsome man I ever saw and all the women in the hotel were mad about him. His mother was an American, of course. A lovely woman. I was devoted to Sadie Paggleton-Smythe, and his sister—Crispin’s sister, I mean—has a delightful little service flat in Palace Gate and writes for all the society papers. I met her at a wedding and I went straight up to her and told her I knew her mother. We had a most interesting little chat. Then, of course, there’s Walter. He went out to South Africa and built a bridge—quite wonderful, it was—they gave him the O.B.E. I expect you know Walter.”
“I don’t know any of them,” Mr. Grace would say.
“You must have heard of Walter.”
“No,” Mr. Grace would reply, stifling a yawn.
“You’d like him, I’m sure. He’s quite charming, so friendly and unspoiled by his success. Unfortunately he got in tow with a most extraordinary woman, definitely not out of the top drawer. It was a great shock to the family. Clarence (that’s Walter’s half brother, of course) was very naughty about poor Robina. He used to say, ‘The only excuse for Robina is her children.’ They have three sweet children—or is it four? I can’t remember at the moment…”
The Graces—and William—were obliged to sit and listen while Aunt Rona racked her brains (aloud of course) trying to remember whether or not a woman in whom they had not the slightest interest had three or four children.
It was impossible for anybody else to talk while this was going on; equally impossible to read. They had tried turning on the wireless but Aunt Rona talked it down without the slightest difficulty (music, plays, Brains Trust, Aunt Rona talked them all down) and the resulting noise was simply unbearable. The Graces—and William—had no option but to sit and listen to Aunt Rona until they could, with decency, rise and go to bed.
Tonight Aunt Rona settled herself in her usual chair and asked Liz (as usual) to get her a footstool and suggested that the window should be shut. This having been done she opened her mouth and said, “George, have you ever met—” But she got no further.
“Let’s do a crossword!” said William loudly, and he opened the paper and folded it carefully into a little square.
Liz was surprised at the suggestion coming from William, for William was not good at this particular form of mental sport. They had tried him before and had given him up as hopeless, his brain was much too orderly and literal; he could not even see the point when it was
explained to him. You need a special sort of brain to be good at crosswords, a mad-hatter type of brain, quick, intuitive, and slightly illogical—in short just the sort of brain the Graces possessed.
Liz was about to say, “But, William, you don’t like crosswords,” when she encountered William’s eye and received a forbidding look. “But, William, you—haven’t got a pencil,” said Liz, changing her remark in midair.
“A pencil! Oh, yes, I have,” declared William, producing it from one of his capacious pockets.
Sal smiled to herself. It was rather clever of William. Of course he might be wrong, Aunt Rona might be terribly good at crosswords, but, somehow, Sal thought not.
“I’ll read out the clues,” continued William. “It won’t bother you, will it, Mr. Grace?”
“Not at all, William,” replied Mr. Grace in cheerful tones.
“Er,” said William, gazing at the paper. “Um—let’s see now. She enables an ally to unite the Poles. Five letters.”
There was a short silence, and then Liz said, “Susan.”
“Susan!” exclaimed Aunt Rona. “Who is Susan? It doesn’t sound like a Polish name.”
“Oh, very neat,” said Tilly, smiling.
William wrote it down. He had no idea at all why it should be Susan but he was willing to takes the Graces’ word for it…not so Aunt Rona.
“I think it must be Vashinska,” declared Aunt Rona. “I remember reading about her in the papers. She’s a captain in the Russian Army, and Russia is our ally, of course.”
“Five letters,” William objected.
“Susan is right,” declared Liz. “It has nothing to do with Russia or Poland.”
Aunt Rona was unconvinced. “It must have, Elizabeth,” she objected. “The clue is perfectly clear. She enables an ally to unite the Poles. I can’t see how you make it Susan.”
“South and north with America in between,” explained Tilly, in the patient voice one might use to a very stupid child.
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