The Four Graces (18 page)

“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.

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.