The Four Graces

by D. E. Stevenson

  I must smile, thought Liz, as she sat in the front pew with Addie, awaiting the arrival of the bride. I must smile, but not too brightly, not like the Cheshire cat. The worst of trying to smile, when you didn’t feel like smiling, was that your face got stiff, as it did when you were having your photograph taken. Liz remembered having her photograph taken by the man at Wandlebury when she was about eight years old. Father had decided that he wanted a photograph of Liz—goodness knew why—and had escorted her to the studio in much the same spirit as he escorted her to the dentist, but dressed in her best blue silk frock, which was different, of course. Liz had been proud of the honor and anxious to behave exactly as Father wanted. “Oh, what a pretty little girl!” said the man—foul creature. “But rather a sad expression.” “Smile,” said Father, nodding at her. Liz had done her best to produce a smile. “A little brighter,” said the man encouragingly. “A little brighter, please…too bright, too bright. Moisten the lips and start again.” The result of this appalling experience still hung in Father’s study, enlarged and tinted. Father liked it and often displayed it to his swans. Fortunately, it was unrecognizable and the swans looked at it vaguely and said, “How nice!” One of them had asked in reverent tones if it were a representation of St. Celia when a child.

  All this passed through the mind of Liz as she sat beside Addie waiting for Sal to come…and, now, here was Roderick, coming out of the vestry attended and supported by Jimmy Howe. They both looked grave and anxious. Roderick looked as if he would like to run away…and that made it easier for Liz to smile at him. She smiled.

  The bride had arrived and here she was, coming up the aisle leaning on William’s arm—for William was giving her away. Liz looked around (everybody looked around) and saw Sal. She was wearing a pale blue frock and a tiny pale blue hat with a pink rose in it. How pretty she was! How brave she was, thought Liz. She looked fragile, but there was strength in her. She had been quietly but absolutely determined to marry Roderick now. Quietly but resolutely she had gone her way, arranging everything. Being away from home all day, Liz had been unable to follow in detail the sequence of events, but she knew that Father wanted them to wait. Father, who was a very determined person and whom they all obeyed, had said quite definitely that the wedding would take place when the war with Japan was over…and now, here was Father, marrying them. Liz often “stood up” to Father. She teased him and “pulled his leg,” but she was doubtful if she would have had the moral courage to run counter to his wishes—as Sal had done. Sal must have been awfully sure, thought Liz, looking at her. Would Liz herself have been as sure as that—as sure of Roderick? So sure that she would have fought for him, even against Father? Quite honestly she decided she wouldn’t…and that decision suddenly made all the difference; it made Liz see that Sal had more right to Roderick…for, if you couldn’t be certain sure in your own mind, you hadn’t any right to complain if somebody else was. This thought released Liz; it opened something that had been shut…and when she knelt and joined in the singing of “Oh, Perfect Love,” she felt tears on her cheeks, but they weren’t bitter tears, they were cleansing and healing.

  William was giving Sal away. Sal had asked him to undertake this onerous task and he had agreed, though a trifle reluctantly. He was quite willing to do anything for the Graces but he distrusted himself, for he was aware that if he became nervous or flustered he was liable to make a mess of things. He pointed this out to Sal and reminded her of the circumstances of their first meeting. “Oh, I know,” Sal had replied, smiling at him. “But you don’t do things like that now. Look at how clever you are at washing up! You never break things now!” “I’m used to it,” William had replied. “I’m used to family life now, so I don’t get flustered…I should be extremely nervous, giving you away.” But there was nobody else available, so, after a little more persuasion, William consented. He wrote to Oxford for his best suit, which he had not worn for years, and proceeded to study the marriage service. Everybody coached William; he was so thoroughly coached that when the day came, he was thoroughly muddled; he was, also, even more nervous than he had anticipated, bowed with the heavy responsibility laid upon his shoulders. In spite of this, all went well. William was ready in plenty of time and looked extremely nice in his well-cut lounge suit, with his hair neatly brushed and a rose in his buttonhole. He walked steadily up the aisle with Sal’s hand on his arm and stood beside her at the altar steps looking like a rock, but feeling like a man of straw. The flowers, the music, the consciousness that everybody in the building was gazing at his back—all this increased his discomposure. He could not follow the service at all; he forgot everything he had learned.

  “Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?” inquired Mr. Grace.

  William awoke from his trance and replied immediately in a loud voice—a voice that startled even William himself by its unexpectedly stentorian tones, “I, William Single.”

  Mr. Grace hesitated. He was in such a very emotional state of mind that the unlooked-for response put him out of his stride (in fact, Mr. Grace might easily have married his daughter to the wrong man, for of course, it was now the moment for Mr. Grace to “prompt” the young couple and it was on the tip of his tongue to say, “I, William Single, do take thee, Sarah Mary…”). Fortunately, however, the bridegroom, who had studied the marriage service with meticulous care and had learned all the important bits by heart so that there should be no possible mistake, saved the situation by taking Sal’s hand and pronouncing in audible, though not stentorian, tones, “I, Roderick James, do take thee, Sarah Mary, to be my wedded wife.” And he smiled so sweetly and proudly and confidently at his almost-father-in-law as he said the words (unprompted) that his almost-father-in-law was comforted and reassured and was able to continue the service in the conventional manner.

  And now it was over, and Tilly was playing the Wedding March: “Tum, tum, te tum tum tum tum tum, tum, te te tum,” but playing it mechanically and quite without the verve and expression with which she had rolled it out at the Chevis-Cobbe wedding, and the congregation was streaming out, first two by two, and then in a flood as if a dam had burst…and Tilly could hear the chatter of voices outside the church door where people were standing about in the blazing August sunshine. They would stand there and chatter for quite a bit, because most of them were merely onlookers—not guests—so they had no further goal and would just stand and talk and then go home to tea.

  Only close friends had been invited to tea at the Vicarage, only the Chevis-Cobbes, Dr. Wrench, Miss Marks, Jimmy Howe, and Miss Bodkin, and a few other near neighbors who have not appeared in this veracious chronicle of the Grace family, and who, like the flowers of spring, have nothing to do with the case. There had been some doubt in Sal’s mind whether or not to ask Miss Bodkin, for if one asked Miss Bodkin it might cause a little jealousy in the village, and, although Sal would have been charmed to ask the whole village, it just wasn’t possible. But Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe had solved the problem. “Ask her, poor soul,” said Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe. “She’d love to be asked—she needn’t come if she doesn’t want to—and, after all, it’s her affair if the others are jealous.” So Miss Bodkin had been asked and had accepted rapturously, and when Tilly came out of the side door, there she was walking across the churchyard to the Vicarage in her pink dress and hat (but, of course, not wearing the yellow muslin apron with the little black spots). The others were drifting toward the Vicarage, too. Sal and Roderick first, arm in arm, and seemingly oblivious that anybody else existed; Addie with Timmy Howe and, following them, a little group composed of Liz, Dr. Wrench, William, and the Chevis-Cobbes. Miss Marks was alone. Tilly came upon her standing before the memorial to the victims of the Black Death.

  “How delightful to see you again!” exclaimed Miss Marks. “I hope you remembered to dust the organ today. It would have been most unfortunate if you had got dust upon that very charming dress.”

  “Yes, I remembered,” replied Tilly, not ve
ry graciously, for of course the blame for the whole affair was directly attributable to Miss Marks and her umbrella (she even had it with her today!).

  “Such a pretty dress, and so becoming,” added Miss Marks, with a friendly smile.

  “Oh, I’m glad you like it,” replied Tilly, relenting a little. “You’re coming to tea, aren’t you? I think I’d better run on…”

  Tilly had taken very little interest in the arrangements for tea, which was horrid of her, of course (she knew it was horrid), but, now, seeing all these people converging upon her home, her domestic instincts got the better of her horridness. Who was getting the tea, wondered Tilly, racing across the churchyard like a mountain goat. Not Joan, because Joan was in the church, not Liz nor Addie, because they were strolling idly and talking to the guests, and it was obvious that Sal’s thoughts were not engaged with domestic affairs. Tilly rushed into the kitchen with the belated intention of putting on kettles, and trying to find something for the guests to eat—and so preventing an absolute fiasco—and there, to her amazement, she found Mrs. Element and Bertie busily engaged in filling teapots with boiling water from a magnificent array of kettles bubbling and hissing merrily upon the stove…and it was obvious that teapots and kettles from all over the village had found their way to the Vicarage kitchen to play their part in the celebrations.

  “It’s all ready, nearly. There’s the trays,” said Mrs. Element, pointing to the trays of cups and saucers set out upon the kitchen table. “I’d be grateful if you’d just carry them in, Miss Tilly. I don’t ’ardly like to trust Bertie and I ain’t too keen on appearing myself. All those people makes me ’ot and bothered, so if you just take in the trays…”

  “This is kind of you!” said Tilly.

  “Kind!” exclaimed Mrs. Element. “Look what Miss Sal’s done for Bertie and me! Bertie and me would do a good deal more than that for Miss Sal—Mrs. ’Erd, I should say.”

  “Mrs. Herd?” cried Tilly. “Oh, yes…Mrs. Herd.”

  “It’ll take a bit of getting used to,” agreed Mrs. Element, smiling.

  Put to shame by Mrs. Element (for what, after all, had Sal done for Mrs. Element compared with her endless kindnesses to her own family?), Tilly seized a tray and bore it into the drawing room where the guests were congregating and where there was such a storm of conversation already raging that there might have been a hundred people in the room instead of about a score. The newly married couple were standing in front of the fireplace, which was banked with flowers, and were receiving the congratulations of their friends with the blend of happiness and embarrassment usual under the circumstances.

  There was a lull in the noise when Tilly appeared and the male element in the company rushed forward from all directions, converging upon the tray bearer and embarrassing her a good deal in its eagerness to be of service. Jimmy Howe was the successful competitor for the tray, and having obtained it he stood there holding it tightly with a strained expression upon his face.

  “Where?” he inquired anxiously.

  “Over there, I should think,” replied Tilly, pointing to a table in the window that was spread with a white lace doth and was laden with cakes.

  “Oh, yes, of course,” said Jimmy Howe.

  The tray having arrived at its destination in safety, Tilly was free to look at the cakes that, as far as she was concerned, were as manna, fallen from the skies. The pièce de résistance was a large iced cake bearing the inscription “Happiness and Good Fortune” done in pink sugar upon the top. On closer inspection Tilly decided the cakes must have come from the village, for she recognized the gingerbread as being of Mrs. Feather’s baking, and the sponge was identical with the sponge Mrs. Bouse had made for the Women’s Institute. Miss Bodkin, who was standing near the table, cleared up the mystery of the iced cake by remarking to Tilly in a low, anxious voice, “The icing is just a little soft, I’m afraid, but it’s better than being too hard, isn’t it?”

  “Much better,” agreed Tilly. “It looks a marvelous cake. Sal had better cut it, hadn’t she?”

  The party followed a natural course; people talked and laughed: healths were drunk in tea and a few of the waggishly inclined made waggish speeches. Long before anyone had expected, the station taxi arrived from Wandlebury to convey the married couple to the station. There was no time for long-drawn-out farewells. Sal hugged everybody she could lay hands on—including Miss Bodkin—and the next moment had vanished from the scene, and the climax having been reached the party broke up rather quickly and the guests departed.

  “It went off very well,” said Mr. Grace; he had said exactly the same after the Chevis-Cobbe wedding, but this time he said it differently, not cheerfully, not rubbing his hands together with satisfaction, but in a somewhat forlorn tone of voice.

  And Liz, instead of replying—as she had done before—that weddings always did go off well and that she, for one, had never heard of a wedding that didn’t, replied quite soberly that she thought it had, and at any rate Sal had looked perfectly sweet.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Jane Chevis-Cobbe walked down to the five-acre field with a large basket on her arm. The field was being harvested today—Archie had told her so at breakfast—and as it was a perfectly lovely day, fine and warm with just a suspicion of a breeze to keep it from being sultry, she had decided to take tea down to the field for Archie and herself. She intended to ask Liz to have it with them for Sal had asked her to keep an eye on Liz and cheer her up. Jane did not feel quite so drawn toward Liz—Sal was more her kind of person—but she realized that Liz must be feeling a little flat and this was a good way to keep an eye on her. Jane was disappointed when she got to the field to find no Archie, but Liz was there, helping to load up the last two wagons with the sweet-smelling sheaves of corn. Liz was a marvelous-looking creature, decided Jane, watching her at work, watching her gathering the sheaves and forking them onto the wagons. With her long legs and her straight back she looked like a Greek boy—yet not like a boy, either. The sun shone on her golden hair and her fair skin was tanned to a beautiful smooth brown.

  Liz saw Jane and waved, and a few minutes later she came over to the hedge in the shade of which Jane had sat down.

  “Archie’s gone,” said Liz. “He had to go down to the garage to see Element about one of the tractors that wasn’t behaving nicely. He asked me to tell you.”

  “Perhaps you’d like some tea,” suggested Jane.

  Liz sat down at once. “That’s very nice of you, Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe. I was hoping you might have enough for me,” admitted Liz, smiling. “The fact is this sort of work agrees with me so well that I’m always hungry and thirsty. I don’t know why I don’t get fat.”

  Jane thought the reason pretty obvious. “You work too hard,” she said. She hesitated and then added, “Sal calls me Jane. I’d rather, really. It seems funny when you call Archie, ‘Archie.’”

  “We’ve known Archie such ages,” said Liz hastily. “But—yes, it is rather silly. I’d like to.”

  “Good,” said Jane, taking out a Thermos flask and unscrewing the top.

  “I wanted to thank you for decorating the church. It was lovely.”

  “Sal was lovely. She’s very happy, you know. I think you’re a little worried about her, aren’t you?”

  “Just selfish,” declared Liz. “I’m missing her so horribly. We all are.”

  “She’ll miss you,” said Jane thoughtfully. “Oh, yes, she will. I’m terribly happy with Archie, but I miss my sister quite a lot. There are all sorts of things you share with a sister—silly little things that you wouldn’t think of talking to a husband about.”

  “I thought you had no relations!” exclaimed Liz. “She wasn’t at the wedding—”

  “We quarreled. She didn’t want me to marry Archie…there was a reason, of course.”

  Liz was interested. She had always sensed a mystery about Archie’s wife, and as
Liz was a forthright person she voiced her feelings at once. “A reason? What sort of reason?” inquired Liz eagerly.

  Jane hesitated. She had very nearly told Sal her unusual history—that day when they were sitting on the seat in the middle of Chevis Green—but Sal had shown no curiosity and the moment had passed. Now, here was Liz, thirsting for information, and Jane felt inclined to give it to her. “I’ll tell you if you’re interested,” said Jane slowly. “I don’t want other people to know—you’ll soon see why.”

  This mysterious utterance made Liz more anxious to know than ever. She promised the strictest secrecy and prepared herself to listen to the tale.

  “Helen and I were very badly off,” said Jane, offering Liz a sandwich. “It was quite horrible. We lived in lodgings and scrimped and scraped, and then, quite suddenly, I found I could write stories, and the extraordinary thing was that the stories were accepted by a publisher and people bought them and read them.”

  “Why extraordinary?” inquired Liz, who was under the impression that this was the natural sequence of events.

  “Because they were so terribly bad,” explained their author in a matter-of-fact voice.