Chapter Twenty-Six
It was a wet Saturday afternoon in October. Liz was spending it in the schoolroom, curled up in a big chair with her long legs tucked beneath her, reading a book. The volume that was engaging attention was not concerned with Roman Britain, but with Roman Rome, and in some ways it appealed to Liz even more than its predecessors. The writer of this particular book had a vivid imagination and therefore was able to arouse the imagination of his reader; so when Liz raised her eyes she saw, not the shabby schoolroom, familiar since infancy, but the dirty, narrow, cobble-paved streets of bygone Rome, and she heard, not the sounds of wind in the chimney and rain pattering rhythmically upon the jutting gable outside the window, but the creaking of axles, the crack of whips, iron wheels grinding over the stones, and all the noisy clamor of a jostling, shouting, virile crowd. Smelly, dirty, noisy, that was Rome; that was the cradle of the race whose sons had come to Britain more than two thousand years ago, and left their mark on Britain’s soil and shaped her destiny.
So interested and absorbed was Liz that it was with some surprise she noticed the time—after four already—and she rose to switch on the electric kettle for tea. It had always been Sal’s job to prepare tea when they had it in the schoolroom; now it was anybody’s job, which was not a satisfactory arrangement. Both Liz and Tilly had been astounded to find how many little jobs remained undone after Sal’s departure.
“Oh!” cried Tilly, coming in and slumping into a chair. “Oh, goodness, how tired I am! Why isn’t tea ready?”
“It will be in a minute,” replied Liz in conciliatory tones. She was aware that Tilly had far too much to do. This afternoon, for instance, Tilly had been all around the village collecting for the Red Cross Penny-a-Week Fund.
“It’s too much for one person,” continued Tilly. “We’ll have to get Mrs. Feather or somebody to help with the cooking. I’ve got the hens to do and shopping, and collecting and the choir practices and the work party, and teaching Sal’s Sunday school. It wasn’t quite so bad when William was here; he helped a good deal in various ways. I miss William frightfully. I wish he hadn’t had to go back to Oxford.”
She rather expected Liz to voice the same sentiments, but Liz was silent.
“Damn Cleopatra’s nose!” added Tilly venomously.
“Cleopatra’s nose?” inquired Liz, pausing, teapot in hand.
“If it had been shorter the whole history of the world would have been different—so Miss Marks said—I don’t know why, really.”
“Antony wouldn’t have loved her so much,” suggested Liz thoughtfully. “He must have liked long noses, I suppose, but what has that got to do with William?”
“Nothing at all. I was thinking of Sal.”
“Sal hasn’t got a long nose.”
“Goodness, how stupid you are!” exclaimed Tilly with sisterly candor. “It all began at Archie’s wedding. My duster was Cleopatra’s nose and if I hadn’t forgotten it, the whole history of the Grace family would have been different. If I had dusted the organ, I shouldn’t have got my frock dirty, so I shouldn’t have stayed behind when you all went on to the reception. I shouldn’t have met Miss Marks and Miss Marks wouldn’t have come to tea and forgotten her umbrella, and Roderick wouldn’t have met Sal and—”
“And the pig won’t get over the stile, and I’ll never get home tonight,” said Liz, smiling.
Tilly had to smile, too, because it did sound rather like the nursery classic Father used to say to them when they were little. “But all the same…” said Tilly, and left it at that.
There was a little silence. The two Graces were both thinking the same thoughts, regretting the fact that Cleopatra’s nose had been so long.
“Perhaps Sal will come home when Roderick goes to Burma,” said Liz at last.
“Perhaps she won’t,” retorted Tilly. “She never says so. To tell you the truth I feel as if Sal were a hundred million miles away.”
Liz had the same feeling. It was because Sal was married, of course. Sal wasn’t just Sal anymore; she was Mrs. Herd. Even her letters were Mrs. Herdish, thought Liz, who had had one that very morning, and found it colorless and unsatisfactory.
“I feel as if Sal were a thousand million miles away,” amended Tilly with bitter emphasis…and at that very moment the door opened and Sal walked in.
Liz and Tilly gazed at her as if she were a visitant from another sphere—and as a matter of fact, she looked like the ghost of Sarah Grace. She stood for a moment in the middle of the room without speaking and then sat down in a chair and burst into tears.
“Sal!” cried Tilly, rushing at her. “Sal, darling! What’s the matter? Oh, goodness! Oh, Sal, don’t! What’s happened? What has happened?”
“N-nothing,” said Sal between her sobs. “I mean he’s gone, that’s all. I saw him off—this morning—I came straight home.”
“Of course you did!” cried Tilly, hugging her. “It’s lovely to have you—lovely. Don’t cry anymore.”
Liz was not as vocal but quite as solicitous. She pressed a clean handkerchief into Sal’s hand. “Take this,” she said huskily. She could think of nothing else to do or say. It upset Liz frightfully to see Sal cry, for Sal was not a crying sort of person. Tilly and Addie sometimes indulged in tears, but never Sal—even when she was very small and had fallen out of the swing and broken her arm she hadn’t cried.
“My own hankie is quite dry, thank you,” said Sal, refusing the offer. “I wanted to get here before I started—and I did.”
“Tea,” said Tilly, patting her gently on the back. “Tea will do you good. Liz, tea.”
“Tea—of course!” cried Liz, dashing for the teapot, thankful there was something she could do.
Tea is a most refreshing and reviving beverage and after two cups Sal felt a good deal better. She sat up and ran her fingers through her hair and began to take notice of her surroundings. “Everything just the same!” she said in surprise.
“Well, of course,” said Liz. “What did you expect?”
“I don’t know,” said Sal slowly. “I mean of course I expected everything to be exactly the same, and I should have been frightfully disappointed to find anything different, but it seems so awfully odd to think that all this has been here all the time, and you having tea here every afternoon. I can’t believe it, somehow. Either this is real and the other is a dream, or else I’m dreaming now.”
“This is real,” said Tilly firmly. She much preferred that Roderick should be the dream.
“I feel as if I had been a thousand miles away,” added the wanderer.
“So do we,” said Liz.
“And William has gone back to Oxford.”
“Yes,” said Tilly. “We miss him frightfully and he says in his letters that he misses us. He’s coming down to see us sometime soon, but he doesn’t say when.”
“He wouldn’t,” smiled Sal, thinking of William’s unannounced first arrival at the Vicarage.
“It’s a pity he isn’t here today,” said Tilly.
Sal didn’t think so. “Oh, no,” she said. “It’s nice to be just ourselves.”
“Just ourselves,” agreed Liz cheerfully. “Not even dear Aunt Rona!”
“I wonder where Aunt Rona is now,” put in Tilly.
Liz smiled mischievously. “Wherever she may be she’s the center of attraction, the life and soul of the party, keeping everyone merry and bright.”
“That goes without saying,” nodded Sal.
“Dear Aunt Rona,” said Liz. “Perhaps she’s staying with the Earl of Elephant and Castle. You know him, of course. He and the Countess are in Essex at the moment, enjoying a well-earned rest after the London season. Their Essex property is so delightful,” declared Liz, imitating the well-remembered drawl. “It’s just a cottage, of course, there are only sixteen bedrooms, but so comfortable and quiet. Mildred Mildew is there, too, another i
ntimate friend, and quite the best-dressed woman in London when I’m not there myself. Have you never met Mildred?…What a pity! I picked up her nephew at the Grand Hotel in Mentone, he tripped over my feet in the lounge. It was a little unfortunate, of course, because he upset his coffee over a Russian lady who was sitting beside me on the sofa and she made rather a fuss…but Marmaduke Mildew apologized so gracefully that I quite lost my heart to the dear fellow and we became friends for life in exactly five minutes. His sister married a brother of poor Titus—Titus Dunderhead, who died of drink, you know. He was usually as tight as a drum. You mustn’t confuse them with the Dunderheads of Scatterbrain, of course. That is quite a different family. Euthanasia Dunderhead is not out of the top drawer. I’m afraid Titus picked her up on the pier at Brighton, when he was half-seas over.”
Sal and Tilly were laughing uncontrollably, but Liz remained grave. “Then there’s Drusilla Dunderhead, of course. I met her at a wedding. I knew who she was, of course, so I went straight up and made my number to her. I managed to pin her into a corner so she couldn’t escape. Drusilla is the most delightful creature, absolutely out of the top drawer—in fact, practically off the mantelpiece—and so interesting in spite of the impediment in her speech. She was a Hickup before she married. I expect you’ve heard of Lord Hickup, Sarah.”
“Don’t,” cried Sal hysterically. “Don’t, Liz. It hurts…”
Liz took no notice. She continued in reproachful tones. “I can’t understand how you haven’t heard of Lord Hickup, Sarah. He was a most distinguished man, and such an unusual character. Some people found him a little difficile, of course—he was apt to throw the ornaments about when anything annoyed him—but he was always delightful to me. I remember on one occasion when I went to stay at Hickup Castle; we were having drinks on the terrace when Egbert Hickup came in. ‘Hallo, Rona, here again!’ he exclaimed and threw his cocktail at me in such a playful manner—he was always good company. Shortly after that he fell ill with delirium tremens and passed on, and they laid him to rest in the mausoleum below the castle walls. I have often felt that if Egbert had lived, the friendship between us might have deepened into something very beautiful.”
Tilly, weak with laughter, besought her to stop. “I’ve got it,” gasped Tilly. “I’ve—hick—got the Egbert Hick—Hickup. Please—hick—Liz, stop.”
Liz had begun to laugh herself, so she could not go on.
“Hold your breath, Tilly,” said Sal, mopping her streaming eyes. “Drink some tea and hold your breath…”
They were all three still laughing weakly and spasmodically when Mr. Grace came in.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Now that Sal was home she settled down into the old ways and took over her usual jobs, and things began to run smoothly again, as they had done before her departure, but Tilly noticed a difference in Sal. Sal was married; she had stepped out of spinsterhood into the married state and left her sisters behind (when she thought of it, Tilly was just a tiny bit shy of Sal). She was prettier, Tilly thought; there was a new dignity about her and, in spite of the fact that she worried about Roderick, a new serenity. Sal never mentioned the fact that she was worried; she laughed and talked much as usual, but for all that Tilly knew. For one thing, Sal was always at the gate to meet the postman, though it seemed unlikely that the postman would have anything to give her…and then one day she received a bulky letter and disappeared for at least an hour (secluding herself in her bedroom while she digested its contents), after which she emerged looking a little dazed but with starry eyes. So when Liz said, “She’s just the same; not Mrs. Herdish at all,” Tilly gave a very doubtful affirmative. Of course Liz was away all day so she didn’t see Sal waiting for her letter at the gate, returning without it, walking like an old woman without any spring in her step, and of course Liz was a bit vague herself, these days, cheerful as a cricket one moment and lost in dreams the next.
Mr. Grace, like Tilly, saw a difference in Sal. In a way his dream had come true, for here was Sal home again, and although her stay was only temporary (only to be enjoyed until Roderick came back from the East), that fact did not prevent Mr. Grace from enjoying it to the full. To him all life was temporary. “This transitory life,” as the prayer book puts it, was but a road upon which he was moving toward eternal life. He was in no hurry to reach the end of the road; for the road, though sorrowful at times, was intensely interesting (there was so much to see and to learn and so many things to do; he would be sorry when he came to the last mile), but still it was as a road that Mr. Grace looked upon it.
One Sunday afternoon when Sal had been home about a fortnight, Mr. Grace was walking up and down the terrace after lunch. Sal came out from the house and, pushing her hand through his arm, walked up and down with him in comfortable friendly silence. My dream! thought Mr. Grace. It was almost his dream. He loved her dearly; she was first in his heart (he realized that now), but of course he was second in hers. It was right that he should be; he would not have had it otherwise. He, like Tilly, thought his married daughter was prettier than ever, but he was a little worried about her. She looked fragile, he thought. She looked delicate (she had never been very strong and she was fretting about Roderick). She was more like Mary than ever, closer to him than ever before, they understood each other better…
Sal put his thought into words. “I love you better because I love Roddy,” she said. “More, not less. That’s funny, isn’t it?”
They walked the length of the terrace before he replied. “Love is like that,” said Mr. Grace. “The more you divide it the bigger it grows.”
“Like shallots,” said Sal, with a little chuckle.
“Just like shallots,” agreed Mr. Grace, smiling.
“We’ll have to divide it again,” Sal told him. “You’d like a grandson, wouldn’t you?”
So that was the explanation! He pressed her hand against his side. “Either,” he said. “A boy in the family would be a change, but girls are very satisfactory.”
***
It was now time for Mr. Grace to collect his notes for the children’s service, which was at three o’clock. He was going to talk to the children about the Prodigal Son, and especially about the joy of the Father when he saw his long-lost child. Mr. Grace understood this joy a good deal better than before, not that Sal had wasted her substance, nor eaten husks, but simply because she had been away and was now returned. On entering his study Mr. Grace was somewhat surprised to find his eldest daughter there, browsing among his books…Liz did not, as a rule, worry herself about literary matters.
“Can I help you?” he inquired politely.
“Er—no, it’s all right,” said Liz. “I was just looking for something.”
“You found it, I hope?” he asked, gathering his notes together.
“No, but it doesn’t matter. It’s just—nothing much—a quotation, really.” She hesitated, blushing furiously, and then mumbled, “‘When half gods go the gods arrive.’”
Mr. Grace had heard the quotation, but could not remember where, nor in what connection; he suggested that Liz should ask Sal.
“No,” said Liz quickly. “No, I’d rather not—it doesn’t matter a bit—don’t bother. I think perhaps I’ll go up the hill and have a quiet afternoon instead of going to church. You don’t mind, do you?”
She withdrew in disorder, leaving her father bewildered and anxious. Her behavior had been so queer. “When half gods go the gods arrive.” What did Liz want with the quotation? What meaning did she attach to the words? She could not be thinking of Sal’s arrival, could she? No, for she had blushed. Who were the half gods? Not Rona, surely—nor William. She had blushed… Who were the gods?
Really his daughters were a worry to Mr. Grace.
Meantime Liz was on her way to the hill where she intended to spend her quiet afternoon. She was taking with her a basket containing a Thermos flask and a good supply of sandwiches, for it was
no part of her intention to fast, and she was also taking the book about Rome just in case she got tired of her own thoughts and needed food for her brain. Arrived at the Roman camp, where William had dug and measured, Liz climbed still farther and sat down upon the hillside to think things out. There was a great deal to think about. What a lot had happened to the Grace family in a few short months, what changes had taken place! Life was like that, thought Liz. You drifted on for years and years—then, suddenly, everything happened at once and all the things that had seemed so stable dissolved and disintegrated before your eyes…and life was new.
“When half gods go the gods arrive,” murmured Liz. It was a pity she hadn’t been able to find the quotation and so learn the context, but perhaps it was just as well because the context might spoil it. As it was, Liz could attach her own meaning to the words and apply them to the condition of her own heart…Liz was in love again.
Liz wouldn’t have put it like that, of course. She would have said she was in love—or perhaps she might have said she was in love for the first time (the other times paled into the insignificance of passing fancies). This was real love. This was deep and high and broad; it filled the whole of her being with magnificence. This love had grown slowly and naturally, had developed from respect and liking into affection and so had become love…and this love made her happy, filled her with unutterable joy, for she knew it was returned in full measure. She knew he loved her—had known it for months—and then she had found her heart turning to him. Now she adored him, and who wouldn’t? He was a real man, whole, splendid, worthy of the best that life could give; worthy of a far better fate than herself…but no other girl could love him so dearly, that was certain, and no other girl could understand him so well, could give him so much tenderness and care… “When half gods go the gods arrive.”
The sun was warm. It was very quiet up here. Below were the ruins of the Roman fort sleeping in the sunshine as they had slept for hundreds and hundreds of years. Liz lay back against the bank and presently closed her eyes…she began to dream.
The Four Graces Page 21