The Four Graces

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Bad!”

  “Oh, not wicked,” said Jane smiling. “They were silly, and soppy, and untrue to life and the characters were puppets.”

  Liz was dumb. She gazed at her companion with wide blue eyes, her sandwich halfway to her mouth.

  “But in spite of that,” continued Jane, “or perhaps because of that, thousands of people liked them, so all at once Helen and I found ourselves quite well off. We bought a very pleasant house and settled down comfortably—and of course I went on writing and the stories went on selling like mad. Everything in the garden was lovely; I liked writing and I liked getting letters from people all over the world. I was most horribly complacent and pleased with myself,” said Jane, nodding gravely. “I was as smug as a tabby—quite disgusting. Then I met two young airmen at tea one day, and one of them told me straight out exactly what he thought of my books.”

  “He didn’t like them?” asked Liz.

  “Definitely not,” replied Jane, smiling at the recollection. “But I wasn’t angry, I was interested, because really and truly in my inmost heart I had begun to feel bored with them myself. I had begun to realize what rubbish they were; he was only putting into words—and pretty hard words—exactly what I had been feeling. That finished it,” said Jane, with a shudder at the recollection. “That absolutely put the lid on—as Archie would say. I tried to go on writing but I couldn’t. The whole thing revolted me. Helen was furious, of course, and I didn’t blame her, really, because the books were our bread and butter, and also because she had helped a good deal in building up the publicity. I won’t go into details, it would just bore you, but the end of it was I ran away and went to Ganthorne Lodge as a P.G. and there I met Archie.”

  Jane stopped. She was obviously under the impression that the story—her own story—was finished. Liz thought otherwise.

  “How interesting!” exclaimed Liz. “It’s just like a novel, isn’t it? Do go on and tell me more.”

  “There isn’t any more to tell.”*

  “Are you still writing?”

  “No, indeed!” cried Jane. “And I never will—not that sort of story.”

  “I wonder if I have read any of your books?”

  “Quite likely,” said the author casually.

  “Tell me some of their names,” urged Liz.

  “Oh, there were dozens of them. I called myself Janetta Walters.”

  Liz was amazed. “Janetta Walters!” she cried. “Oh, but how exciting! I love her books! I thought you said they were frightful—and there’s one just out—all about Cornwall. It isn’t quite as good as the others, of course; I like Her Prince at Last the best, and I like—”

  “I wish I hadn’t told you!” exclaimed Jane.

  Liz was no fool. “Oh, don’t say that,” said Liz, full of remorse. “I mean, of course, if you’re sick of them, you hate them. I understand that.”

  “Yes, I hate them,” nodded Jane.

  “But think of the pleasure they give other people,” urged Liz. “Surely you must feel proud of that—and pleased. Archie likes them. Archie has a whole set.”

  “I know,” said Archie’s wife.

  Liz sighed. “It seems so sad. No more Janetta Walters! Couldn’t you go on writing when you’ve had a good rest?”

  “No, I couldn’t,” replied Jane, smiling at her. “But you needn’t worry; there will be plenty of Janetta stories to read. Helen is writing them now…but of course that’s a secret.”

  “Helen is writing them? But—”

  “Anybody could write them if they had enough time and patience, if they sat down at a desk with plenty of foolscap paper and a good solid pen.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Liz frankly.

  “It’s quite true. Helen wrote the new one, about Cornwall.”

  “I told you it wasn’t so good!”

  Jane laughed. She said, “Yes, you did. I couldn’t help being a little bit pleased about it, which is very illogical.”

  “Why illogical?”

  “Think it out,” said Jane, laughing quite cheerfully.

  They were silent, drinking tea and eating buns. It was warm and pleasant; the sky was blue and cloudless, the stubble of the cut field glittered like millions of little spears in the sunshine. Jane looked about for another topic of conversation, for she did not want to answer any more questions about Janetta Walters.

  “What are you reading?” asked Jane, pointing to a large, thick, shabby volume lying beside Liz’s coat. She felt quite safe in asking the question for even at this distance, she could see the book was not one of her own.

  “Oh, that!” said Liz. “As a matter of fact, I got it from the librarian at Wandlebury. I’m going to read every word of it.”

  Jane was intrigued. Liz had announced her intention with resolute determination—almost with defiance—and the book certainly looked pretty heavy reading. If Liz liked the Janetta type of book, that shabby volume was obviously not her meat. Should she inquire further or not, wondered Jane, glancing at her companion…Liz was gazing in the other direction and looked so like an oyster that Jane decided not.

  Jane was right, of course. The book was not the kind of literature Liz enjoyed, but she had not borrowed it for the purpose of enjoyment, nor had she borrowed it with the object of improving her mind. She had borrowed it because she needed something to occupy her mind. You had to have something to occupy your mind (so Liz had found). If you had decided not to think about Roderick—who was now your sister’s husband—you had to have something else to think about. You couldn’t just not think about Roderick, there had to be some positive alternative, so that when you found yourself beginning to think about Roderick you could immediately switch over. The problem was what positive alternative should you choose. Looking about for something, Liz’s eye fell upon William, whose enthrallment with the Romans and everything to do with Roman civilization was obvious to the meanest intelligence. There must be something in it, thought Liz. The Romans must be interesting—if you knew about them. Liz wasted no time. She went to Wandlebury, sought out the custodian of the public library, and informed him that she wanted a book about Roman remains. He produced several books for her inspection and Liz chose the thickest (it was A History of the Romans Under the Empire, Vol. VIII, by Charles Merivale). I shall read every word of it, said Liz to herself as she tucked it under her arm. It was pretty heavy going, of course, but she set her teeth and stuck to it. She took the book to the fields with her and read it while she ate her lunch, and she took it to bed with her—it certainly had the merit of sending her to sleep. The experiment was taking a good deal of courage and determination, but nobody, not her worst enemy, could question the courage of Liz. Her judgment was sometimes faulty and she had a habit of leaping before she looked, but for sheer moral courage and determination it would have been hard to find her match.

  “There’s Archie!” exclaimed Jane, and she stood up and signaled to him with a Thermos flask.

  ***

  Liz had been born upon the first of September and it was a habit of the Graces to have a picnic upon that auspicious day. This year, of course, Liz would be busy at the farm unless she asked for a special holiday.

  “I think you should,” said Tilly. (It was the thirty-first of August; they were all having supper together in the kitchen, because it was Thursday and therefore Joan’s day out.)

  “I see no reason why you shouldn’t,” agreed Mr. Grace.

  “You work hard enough,” added William, helping himself to raspberry jam.

  “I see lots of reasons why I shouldn’t,” replied Liz firmly. “Archie would give me a holiday for my birthday if I asked him—he’d give it because I’m me—but what would he say if Nat Bouse asked for a day off because it was his birthday? Archie would think he had gone mad…Yes, it’s silly, isn’t it?” agreed Liz, surveying the laughter of her family with complete gravity. �
��It’s silly if it’s Nat; so it’s silly if it’s me. There’s no difference at all between me and Nat except that he can milk three cows to my two. We’re both farmhands, working for a weekly wage—what’s the difference between us?”

  “He has a red mustache,” replied Tilly, giggling.

  With a lightning transition from the sublime to the ridiculous, Liz dipped her finger in the remains of the raspberry jam and the next moment was like Nat in this respect also.

  “Crazy girl!” exclaimed Mr. Grace, laughing immoderately.

  Perhaps the Fates were pleased with Liz for her devotion to duty; at any rate they provided a lovely day for her birthday. The morning had just the faintest tang of September when Liz let herself out of the back door of the Vicarage; she sniffed the air appreciatively and, throwing one long leg over her bicycle, rode off to work.

  A lovely day for her birthday and there were more pleasures in store; for Polly—one of the huge Clydesdales of which Archie was so proud—was considerate enough to cast a shoe that very morning, and Archie called Liz away from cleaning the pigsties and asked her to take Polly to the blacksmith at Chevis Green.

  “Take Toby, too,” said Archie. “Take them both. Trod may as well have a look at Toby while he’s about it.”

  “Honestly, Archie?” asked Liz, scarcely able to credit her good fortune.

  Archie waved and strode away.

  It was still quite early so Liz finished the pigsties, as a sop to her uncomfortably sensitive conscience, then off she went with the two big gentle creatures, sitting sideways on Toby’s back and leading Polly in true plowboy style, joggle, joggle—joggle, joggle, through lanes smelling deliriously of damp earth drying in the warm September sun. It was a real birthday treat, and Liz enjoyed it all the more because she had just begun to enjoy life again with her old zest. The Romans had done their job and ousted Roderick. The odd thing was that now, when there was no longer any need to pursue her labors and immerse herself in their affairs, the Romans had become interesting to Liz on their own account, so, instead of throwing up her studies and exchanging Romans Under the Empire, Vol. VIII, for a thinner and less weighty tome, in the Janetta Walters genre (which was a pleasure Liz had promised herself and to which she had been looking forward with eager anticipation), Liz had exchanged Merivale for another equally thick and no less weighty volume, which she intended to peruse from start to finish.

  The forge was at the other end of Chevis Green, so Liz had to ride through the village to reach her goal, and this pleased her enormously for she was proud of her job and delighted that her friends should see her perched upon Toby’s back. Mr. Toop was the first to see her; he came to the door of his shop in his blue-striped apron and told her she was a proper plowboy and no mistake. Jane Chevis-Cobbe, coming out of the post office, saw her and waved frantically. Mrs. Element saw her and rushed out of her cottage to see her better, calling shrilly to Mrs. Bouse. Mrs. Bouse waddled to her door with her youngest in her arms, and entreated the infant to “Look at Miss Liz on the big ’orsie, then!” All this was extremely pleasant to Liz.

  Reuben Trod was hard at work when Liz arrived at the forge, she could hear the clang of his hammer as she approached; he came to the doorway attired in his leather apron, with his shirt sleeves rolled up and his huge hairy arms black with coal dust.

  His face broke into a broad smile when he saw Liz. “Well, there now, look at that!” he exclaimed. “You be a proper farm lad. ’Tis a pity Passon can’t see you!”

  “I can wait if you’re busy, Reuben,” said Liz, sliding from her perch.

  “I’ll take ’em now,” declared Reuben. “I’ll take the mare first. You’ll get a surprise when you see my new ’prentice.”

  “Where’s Jim Aleman?” asked Liz, with interest. “Why has Jim left and who have you got instead?”

  Reuben was chuckling delightedly—there was some joke on, thought Liz, as she followed him into the big open shed.

  “There ’e be!” said Reuben, shaking with laughter. “There be my new ’prentice. I tell ’im ’e be too strong for a smith—nearly blew the fire clean out, so ’e did.”

  Liz looked at this prodigy of strength who was “too strong for a smith,” and was amazed to see William Single standing beside the fire with an enormous pair of bellows in his hand. He had taken off his coat and rolled up his sleeves, and his arms were every bit as thick and sinewy as Reuben’s own—though not as hairy.

  “William!” exclaimed Liz.

  “Yes,” said William, looking a trifle sheepish. “I just—er—dropped in to see Trod about something, and, as Aleman was out getting his dinner, I just—er—”

  “Nonsense,” said Liz sternly. “You needn’t try to take me in.”

  “We’ll ’ave to make a clean breast of it,” declared Reuben, still chuckling. “We be caught out good an’ proper, Mr. Single.”

  “Oh, well,” agreed William. “It’s nearly finished, anyway.”

  “What’s nearly finished?” demanded Liz.

  “’Tis a secret, Miss Liz,” explained Reuben. “Mr. Single an’ me be making a little present for Passon. ’Tis for the church, so it be. We be putting our ’eads together over it—an’ our ’ands, too.”

  Liz promised discretion and was shown the work; it was a lectern of wrought iron, and was decorated with vine leaves and delicately curling tendrils to match the grille of the organ gallery. Reuben obviously was proud of his work, and he had every reason to be proud, for it was a beautiful thing. He pointed out its merits to Liz and explained that Mr. Single had made the design, copying it from the grille and drawing it to scale, and he himself had been working at it for some weeks in his spare time.

  “Father will be pleased,” said Liz. “It’s lovely. The design is beautiful and so is the workmanship. A lectern is just what we need.”

  “I know,” said William, nodding. “It was Roderick who gave me the idea; he said you were going to get up a subscription for a new lectern after the war.”

  “How on earth did Roderick know?” wondered Liz.

  The lectern was now put aside for the more urgent business of shoeing Polly, and Liz, leaning against the wooden pillar of the shed, watched the process with interest. She had always loved the forge and had spent hours here when she was a child, watching Reuben’s father at work, but today the experience was even more enthralling, perhaps because she was in such a very receptive frame of mind.

  Reuben sized the piece of metal with his tongs and thrust it into the heart of the glowing embers. “Blow,” he said to William. “Blow ’er up, Mr. Single…gently, now…you be blowing too ’ard, you’ll be blowing me out of my own forge in ’alf a minute. That’s better…that’s right, blow ’er up.”

  William was intent upon his job, his face grave with responsibility, red with the glow from the fire.

  The iron was glowing now; Reuben threw it upon the anvil and, seizing his hammer, began to shape it quickly and neatly with strong, deft blows. The hammer rose and fell, the sparks flew…it was thus men had worked for thousands of years, heating iron and shaping it to their needs; it was an old, old trade and there was magic in it. Liz was enthralled.

  The shoe was ready for fitting when Jim Aleman returned from his dinner. He was somewhat surprised to find his place filled by a stranger.

  “See now,” said Reuben gravely. “You be out of a job, young Jim. Better be looking out for a new job so you don’t want to be on the dole.”

  Young Jim fell in with the jest. “I be gettin’ along, then, Reuben, so be you don’t want me,” he replied.

  They sparred at each other gravely while Tim took off his coat and hung it on a nail, then William surrendered the bellows and came over to talk to Liz.

  “Do you think he’ll approve of it?” inquired William anxiously. “Will he think it good enough for the church?”

  “He’ll simply love it,” declar
ed Liz. “Father always likes original things, made by people’s hands, and he’ll like this all the more because it has been made by one of his own people. You couldn’t have thought of anything that would please him better.”

  “Good,” said William, nodding. “I wanted to give something to Chevis Green—something in return for all I’ve received.”

  William was standing in the entrance to the forge, half in shadow and half in sunlight. He was hot and dirty and his face was smeared with dust, but somehow he looked right. There was a dignity about him. Without his clumsy shapeless coat he seemed a different man. Liz had a sudden feeling that this sort of work was William’s birthright. His tremendous strength had not been given him for nothing—in another, earlier, more natural civilization, William would have been a smith. Like Jove he would have fashioned thunderbolts, thought Liz, looking at him.

  “Is my face dirty?” inquired William, smearing it still more.

  “Yes, but it doesn’t matter,” replied Liz. “What does matter is your clothes. Why don’t you take more interest in the fit of your clothes, William?”

  “I don’t know,” said William, somewhat surprised at the urgency of her tone. “I suppose I should, really. This coat is rather old. I’ll order a new one when I go back to Oxford.”

  Liz sighed. “I suppose you must go back to Oxford?”

  He turned his head and looked down at her. There were not many people who could look down at Liz. “Why—yes—” he said in surprise.

  “Shall you be glad or sorry?”

  “Sorry…and glad,” said William slowly. “Of course I enjoy my work…”

  “I know!” cried Liz. “I know exactly how you feel. It was like that at the end of the holidays when I went back to school. I hated leaving home, but I loved school.”

  She waited for a few moments but William said nothing. He was gazing out over the sunlit country. He looked rather forlorn.

  “You’ll come back,” said Liz comfortingly.

  *Further details of Jane’s history are available in The Two Mrs. Abbotts.