The Four Graces

by D. E. Stevenson

  “We’re engaged now,” replied Sal, turning the ring on her finger and looking at it affectionately.

  “Good Lord!” exclaimed Roddy. “This is absolutely staggering! For heaven’s sake, let’s get out of this place so that I can kiss you…”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Sal was sitting up in bed watching Addie cream her face. It was a lengthy business and quite interesting, but did it really do any good? All the Graces had beautiful skins, and Sal could not see that Addie’s was any better, or for that matter any worse, than it ever had been.

  “What happened about Aunt Rona?” asked Addie suddenly.

  “Oh, well—” said Sal and then stopped.

  “It was rather mean of you,” said Addie. “I think you might have been decent to her. The poor old thing is back at her flat now.”

  Sal chuckled. “Poor old thing!” she exclaimed. “If Aunt Rona could hear you!”

  “I’m sorry for her,” declared Addie. “There she is, living in a sort of gloomy twilight with all the windows boarded up. It isn’t very cheerful for her.”

  “But, Addie, she has hundreds of friends—”

  “Oh, yes, she knows hundreds of people, but none of them seem keen to have her. She’s a bit of a bore.”

  “More than a bit.”

  “You needn’t listen.”

  “Listen!” cried Sal. “You’d have to be stone-deaf!”

  “I don’t mind, really,” said Addie. “Of course I know some people do. Betty says she wants to stand on the table and scream.”

  “Exactly my reaction,” said Sal, nodding.

  “Oh, well, you might have stuck it a bit longer. She’s been very decent to me; she gives me lots of things and she’s very useful, really. I mean if I meet anyone and want to ask him out, I can always ask him there. She’s always quite pleased to do anything like that for me, so I thought if you had her at Chevis Green, it would be paying her back a little.”

  Sal smiled at Addie’s idea of repaying kindness. “You might pay your own debts in future,” she suggested.

  “Pay my own debts? Oh, I see…But how could I?”

  “You might have asked her here.”

  “Be your age!” exclaimed Addie contemptuously.

  There was a short silence. Addie was now engaged in twisting little strands of hair into rings and pinning them carefully.

  “Wouldn’t one of the hundreds of people have her?” inquired Sal. “Hundreds of people with an average of fourteen bedrooms each—and not one available for Aunt Rona!”

  “She’s written to some of them,” said Addie. “But there’s nothing doing so far. Of course she does exaggerate a bit. I mean she goes up to a person and says I knew your mother at Montreux, or I met your uncle in Rome, and the person can’t escape. As a matter of fact, I’ve seen people pop into shops when they see her coming. It’s quite amusing sometimes.”

  “It must be,” said Sal dryly.

  “She collects people like postage stamps—it’s her hobby,” Addie explained.

  “She sticks pins into them like butterflies,” amended Sal. “She’s a human entomologist, that’s what she is.”

  “Well, I don’t mind her, and she likes me because I take her advice—or at least pretend to take it. By the way, what happened, exactly? She came back with a long tale about Liz being practically engaged to a man and then finding he was engaged to somebody else.”

  “It isn’t true.”

  “There must have been something in it,” objected Addie. “She couldn’t have dreamt the whole thing. Who was the man, and what did he do?”

  Sal had expected these questions. She said, “Roderick Herd. He came over from the camp at Ganthorne quite often and Aunt Rona got it into her head he was fond of Liz.”

  “And he’s engaged to somebody else?”

  “Yes, to me,” said Sal.

  Addie turned and look at her. “Heavens!” she exclaimed. “That was a bit of a slipup for Aunt Rona!”

  “People who talk most see least,” said Sal sententiously.

  “So you’re engaged! The first of the Graces! Sal tell me about it. Is it a secret?”

  “Not really,” replied Sal. “At least it was supposed to be a secret, but we’re going to be married in a fortnight.”

  “How exciting! At Chevis Green, I suppose?”

  “I suppose so,” said Sal.

  “You suppose so?”

  “It all depends,” explained Sal. “I mean Father may want us to wait.”

  “Then it isn’t fixed,” said Addie, somewhat disappointed. “I mean if it’s fixed I could see about leave, couldn’t I?”

  “The date is fixed,” replied Sal firmly.

  “Goodness!” cried Addie, looking at her in surprise tinged with respect and admiration. “It’s like that, is it? I shouldn’t have thought it of you. I mean I should have thought Liz might kick over the traces, but not good little Sal.”

  “I know it’s the right thing,” said Sal in a very thoughtful voice. “I know it’s right. I’m twenty-five. If Father won’t marry us, someone else will.”

  “My hat!” exclaimed Addie inelegantly.

  ***

  The Pikes lived in Bloomsbury. It was a street of tall, narrow houses, respectable and dreary. Mr. Pike worked on the railway and Mrs. Pike took lodgers—very respectable lodgers, of course. Sal had found her way to the house without difficulty; she had asked the policeman at Hyde Park Corner and he had told her exactly what to do. Now she had arrived, she stood on the doorstep for a few moments before she rang the bell, going over in her mind all she would say. Then she rang and Mrs. Pike appeared: a tall, big-boned woman with protruding teeth and pale blue eyes and curlers in her hair. She was not in the least the sort of woman Sal had expected to see, not sinister, not even very alarming. Indeed she smiled quite pleasantly when she saw Sal and led the way into the dining room where the remains of the lodgers’ breakfasts were still upon the table and the odor of kippers was still in the air.

  “I’m all be’ind this morning,” announced Mrs. Pike in apologetic tones.

  “I expect it’s difficult to get help,” said Sal sympathetically.

  “Difficult ain’t the word. And I’m full up, too—but you’re in luck. The second floor back will be leaving tomorrow. It’s a nice room, and quiet. I’ll let you see it in a minute. Two-pound-ten a week, is my terms—take it or leave it. Bed an’ breakfast, and if you want a bite of supper I don’t mind cooking it for you if you bring it ’ome. You keep your room, of course, an’ laundry’s extra. Breakfast’s at nine. If you want it sooner you get it yourself, that’s my rule an’ I don’t alter it for nobody, not for the queen, I wouldn’t. Most of the lodgers is out all day. That suits me best.”

  Mrs. Pike had rattled it all off at a terrific rate, and now she paused for breath.

  “I don’t want a room, thank you,” said Sal. “As a matter of fact—”

  “Oh,” said Mrs. Pike suspiciously. “You’re collecting, I suppose. I don’t give to nothing excep’ the Red Cross, an’ that was larst week.”

  “It’s about Bertie. I live at Chevis Green, you see, and—”

  “Bertie’s coming ’ome. I wrote an’ said so. I’ve a right to my own child, I suppose.”

  “Yes, of course. I just wondered if you had thought it out.”

  “Thought what out?” inquired Mrs. Pike suspiciously.

  “I wondered if you would have time to look after him, that’s all.”

  “’E’ll be away at school all day so what looking after will ’e need? And ’e could ’elp, too. There’s more to do in this ’ouse than one pair of ’ands can manage. A boy would be useful; ’e could run errands an’ help wash the dishes, couldn’t ’e?”

  “I wonder,” said Sal thoughtfully. “He isn’t eleven yet, is he? Boys of that age take a go
od deal of looking after. And what about his meals?”

  “’E’ll get ’is dinner at school. I’ve fixed that.”

  “What about his breakfast?”

  “Breakfast?” said Mrs. Pike doubtfully. “Breakfast’s at nine in this ’ouse.”

  “School is at nine, isn’t it?” inquired Sal, seeking information.

  “At nine, is it?”

  “At nine—usually,” said Sal, nodding. “That means he’ll have to have his breakfast at eight. Then he’ll be back at five for tea, of course.”

  “I don’t know who’d give it him,” said Mrs. Pike thoughtfully.

  Sal was silent. It was really very lucky indeed that Mrs. Pike had mistaken her for a prospective lodger.

  “Well, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Pike at last. “’E could be useful—the trouble I ’ave with girls nowadays! I daresay it would work out all right. It was you wrote to me, I suppose. You want Bertie to stay on with that Mrs. Element.”

  “I want what’s best for Bertie—and for you,” declared Sal, smiling at her in a friendly way for, thank goodness, it was true. Sal had come expecting to dislike Mrs. Pike, but there was something likeable about her. She was selfish, of course, but she was perfectly honest about it. There was no hypocrisy in her. She worked hard, and her house, though gloomy, was clean. That must take a bit of doing.

  “Well,” said Mrs. Pike thoughtfully. “Well, I’ll ’ave to talk to ’is father. It’s the breakfast worries me. The morning’s a bit of a rush as it is, an’ I ain’t a good riser, never was. Breakfast’s at nine in this ’ouse an’ I don’t fancy getting up at cockcrow an’ giving Bertie ’is breakfast at eight…an’ tea at five wouldn’t be easy, neither. It’s the only time I ’ave to myself to do a bit of washing an’ such like. Looks as if young Bertie might be more trouble than ’e’s worth.”

  Sal said nothing.

  “You ain’t leading me up the garden?” inquired Mrs. Pike, with a return of suspicion.

  Sal shook her head. “I just thought things out,” she said. “You could ask at the school what time the boys have to be there. They would tell you. It would be a pity if you sent for Bertie and then found you couldn’t manage.”

  “That Mrs. Element would ’ave ’im back, wouldn’t she?”

  “I don’t know,” said Sal. This was the only lie she had told, and she hated telling it.

  “You don’t think she would,” said Mrs. Pike, mistaking the cause of Sal’s embarrassment. “Well, that would be a nice thing, I must say. If I found I couldn’t manage an’ Mrs. Element wouldn’t ’ave ’im back. Where would ’e go?”

  Sal could offer no suggestions.

  Mrs. Pike deliberated for about a minute. It seemed a long time to Sal.

  “What about ’er?” asked Mrs. Pike at last. “She wants to stick to Bertie. What’s Bertie doing for ’er that she’s so set on ’aving ’im stay?”

  Sal hesitated. It was a difficult question to answer, for she had decided it would be a mistake to speak of the affection that existed between Bertie and his foster mother. Jealousy was a queer thing and unpredictable in its effects. “It’s quite different in the country,” said Sal. “Mr. Element works in a garage and has to be there early, so they all have breakfast together in plenty of time for school—and of course Mrs. Element isn’t nearly as busy as you are. It’s a different sort of life.” Sal rose as she spoke. “I won’t keep you,” she said. “I’m afraid I’ve kept you back as it is.”

  “I’ll think about it,” said Mrs. Pike. “I won’t pay nothing for ’im to be kept. That’s flat.”

  “I daresay that could be arranged,” said Sal hopefully.

  They were at the door now. Sal held out her hand.

  “Good-bye,” said Mrs. Pike. “I’m glad you came. I’ll speak to ’is father, see?”

  “Good-bye,” said Sal.

  They shook hands solemnly on the doorstep.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “The voice that breathed o’er Eden,

  That earliest wedding day…”

  Tilly Grace was playing the well-known hymn for the second time in three months, but this time she was not humming the words, for she did not feel like humming. As a matter of fact, she felt so wretched, so upset and altogether miserable that she did not care whether she played well or ill; she did not care whether the wedding went off with a swing or not. If by suddenly going on strike and ceasing to provide music for the ceremony Tilly could have stopped the wedding, she would have done so—that was the sort of mood she was in—would prevent Sal from marrying Roderick, and marrying him today. Sal had overcome worse obstacles than the strike of an organist to attain her end, and she had overcome them by sheer dogged determination—and, having gotten over or under or around or through every obstacle in her path, here she was at her goal, standing at the altar steps beside Roderick, calm and composed with not a hair out of place.

  Tilly had not wanted Roderick to marry Liz, but this was a worse disaster; for Tilly had discovered quite unexpectedly that she loved Sal best (better than anybody in the world, better even than Father), and Sal was so much more vulnerable than Liz, so easily hurt, so tenderhearted…and Tilly didn’t trust Roderick a yard. If he isn’t kind to Sal, I shall kill him, thought Tilly, grinding out “The Voice That Breathed o’er Eden” with clenched teeth.

  Roderick was not nearly good enough for Sal…in fact (thought Tilly), in fact, he was not “good” at all. He had a Past—Tilly was sure of that—and even if he had no Past worthy of a capital letter before he appeared at Chevis Green (to see the rose window, of which he knew nothing and cared less) he had a Past now. First he had fancied Addie and had wheedled her address out of Tilly…and what a pity he hadn’t stuck to Addie, for Addie would have been a match for him…and then he had dropped Addie and fallen for Liz…and now he was marrying Sal!

  What about me? said Tilly to herself with frightful cynicism. Why was I left out of everything? He saw me first, didn’t he? It’s a pity he isn’t a Mormon, so that he could have us all!

  Archie’s wedding had taken place at the end of May, so the church had been decorated with the flowers of spring, but now it was early August and the church was full of roses. Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe had brought the roses from Chevis Place—cartloads of them—and had decorated the church with her own hands, aided and abetted by Miss Bodkin, who was now her faithful slave. There were roses everywhere, white and pink and red roses; the scent of them drifted up to Tilly in the organ gallery and made her feel sick. She would never enjoy the scent of a rose again, that much was certain. And what right had Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe to decorate the church for Sal’s wedding? What right had she to interfere? Sal wasn’t her sister. She wasn’t losing the person she loved best in all the world.

  (Yes, Tilly was in one of her moods. She had been in that uncomfortable condition for a whole fortnight; in fact, ever since Sal’s return from London with Roderick’s ring upon her finger and the fixed determination to marry him without delay.)

  The church was crowded. There were quite as many people here today as there had been at the Chevis-Cobbe wedding; the congregation comprised practically the whole population of Chevis Green (there had been no time to invite outsiders, because Sal did not want them). Tilly, peering through the grille, saw Liz and Addie—not in the Vicarage pew today, but in the front pew, which looked odd and wrong and was all just a part of the oddness and wrongness of the whole affair. Behind them sat the Chevis-Cobbes, Dr. Wrench, and Miss Bodkin, and behind them Mr. and Mrs. Toop and Jos Barefoot. Jos Barefoot did not attend weddings, as a rule, but he had come to Sal’s. Tilly’s eye strayed further. She saw Joan, looking very pretty in Sal’s blue frock, and she saw the Alemans—a whole pewful of them—and she saw the Bouses and the Feathers with all their progeny, and she saw Mr. Element. There was no sign of Mrs. Element nor of Bertie, which seemed queer. (Ungrateful pigs not to come after all Sal had done
for them!) It was the bridegroom’s side of the church that, today, was empty of relations; Miss Marks was the only person in the front pew on Roderick’s side, and she—as Tilly knew—was no relation but probably had come out of good nature because Roderick had nobody else.

  Tilly had been so busy looking at the congregation and thinking her own thoughts that she had not paid much attention to the service, but now, suddenly, she realized it was time for her to play her part, so she swung around hastily.

  Liz and Addie had arrived at the church much too early and it was not until they were seated in the front pew without hope of escape that Liz realized what a mistake they had made. It was her mistake, really, because of course it did not matter to Addie how long they sat there, the cynosure of every eye, until the arrival of the bride. Addie was quite pleased to know that people were staring at her. In fact, she turned and stared back and smiled at her friends in a cheerful manner, and she stared at the flowers and thought how lovely they were. She decided that, if possible, she would be married in rose time; no other flower was so sweet, and no other flower had the same symbolic meaning. “Roses, roses all the way,” said Addie to herself…

  Addie was the only member of the Grace family whose reaction to this wedding was cheerful and natural. She had arrived at the Vicarage last night for a fortnight’s leave, bubbling over with excitement, eager to know all that was to be known, eager to help in all the arrangements, but (being Addie) most eager of all to display her new and extremely becoming hat and frock to her less dress-conscious sisters. Although all this had jarred a little on people who were not feeling the same enthusiasm, her presence had helped to make things easier, and the fact that (being Addie) she was completely oblivious of any strain helped still more. Sal was especially glad to see her, not only because of her excitement and enthusiasm (so lacking in the other Graces), but also because within five minutes of her arrival she had solved one of Sal’s most pressing problems by offering her the flat. Sal and Roderick could have the flat for the remaining fortnight of Roderick’s course; Addie would be on leave and Betty was “rooming” with another girl during her absence, so the flat was “absolutely available” as Addie put it. Could anything have fitted in more beautifully? Nothing, declared Sal with fervent gratitude. It would be far nicer than living in a hotel, which was the only alternative. They would have the place to themselves and Sal could cook the most succulent meals for Roddy…Having made the offer (which, to be perfectly honest, was not entirely altruistic, for naturally Roderick would insist on paying rent), Addie proceeded to bask in the sunshine of Sal’s gratitude, all the more abundant because this was the only fruit that had fallen into Sal’s lap. Everything else connected with the wedding had been won by perseverance, with blood and tears. The flat was Sal’s reward.