The Four Graces (2 page)

“Certainly not. This seems to me a charming place for tea.”

“Good,” said Tilly, throwing off her hat and coat. “We'll have tea here. I'm glad I didn't go to the party. It's funny, you know. I
would
have gone if I hadn't dirtied my skirt. If I'd dusted the organ—as I ought to have done if I'd had any sense—I shouldn't have met you, should I?”

“
Le
nez
de
Cléopâtre
,” said Miss Marks, smiling.

“Cleopatra's nose?” asked Tilly in a bewildered voice.

“‘
Le
nez
de
Cléopâtre: s'il eut été plus court, toute la face de la terre aurait changé
.'”

“Oh!” said Tilly, hesitating with the kettle in her hand. “Oh, yes…yes, I see. The duster that I didn't use is like Cleopatra's nose. I mean if I'd
used
it, Cleopatra's nose would have been shorter and we shouldn't have met.”

“Exactly,” said Miss Marks, without batting an eyelid. She really was a very remarkable woman.

“Well, I'm glad her nose wasn't shorter. I hate parties, you know. One person is much more interesting than a lot of people…and it will be lovely for Liz and Sal to tell me about it when they come home. You saw them in church, didn't you?”

“Very good-looking young women,” said Miss Marks, nodding.

“Darlings,” said Tilly, as she shook out a clean tablecloth and spread it on the table. “Liz and Sal are older than me and Addie is younger. She's just here for forty-eight hours, and she has to go back to London tonight. Liz works on the farm at Chevis Place—Archie's farm, you know—Sal and I keep house and help father. We arranged it like that,” said Tilly, as she gathered cups and saucers and plates and spoons from the cupboard and laid them on the table. “Because Sal isn't terribly strong and I can play the organ…and of course Joan stays with her mother now and only comes to us for the day. She has a baby… I told you she was married, didn't I?”

Tilly paused, aware that she had been babbling, but her new friend was not only perfectly calm but appeared to be following with interest. “Mrs. Robinson,” said Miss Marks, nodding.

“You're interested in people!” said Tilly, surprised at this feat of memory.

“What could be more interesting?”

“Some people like books better, or—or
things
.”

“Books are people,” smiled Miss Marks. “In every book worth reading, the author is there to meet you, to establish contact with you. He takes you into his confidence and reveals his thoughts to you.”

Tilly nodded thoughtfully. “Are you Archie's aunt?” she inquired.

“I am no relation, but I have lived with young Mrs. Abbott for years. I was her governess at one time. Now I run the house and do the cooking. I like it,” she added defiantly.

“Yes—well—it's useful,” said Tilly, a trifle taken aback.

Tea was ready now so they sat down at the table, and Miss Marks took off her gloves.

“I thought the bride looked nice,” said Tilly suddenly.

“Jane is a very pleasant young woman,” said Miss Marks, sipping her tea with great satisfaction. “She has been staying at Ganthorne Lodge for some months, so I can speak with authority. Jane has a sweet nature.”

This encomium might have sounded halfhearted (as a matter of fact, Tilly was usually “put off” by the report that so-and-so had a sweet nature, for she had found that, more often than not, it meant that so-and-so was rather wet), but already she had weighed up Miss Marks and realized her habit of understatement.

“I'm glad she's nice,” said Tilly. “It'll make a lot of difference to us—I mean, in the parish. People are so touchy in Chevis Green.”

“Not only in Chevis Green—but you need have no fears on that score. Jane is essentially kind.”

“Oh, good!” said Tilly.

Miss Marks had gone and supper was almost ready when the merrymakers began to return. Sal was the first to reach home. She walked into the kitchen and smiled at Tilly. “Cinderella,” she said in a teasing voice.

“Not really,” replied Tilly, shoving a tray of bread under the grill. “Cinderella wanted to go to the party, and I didn't…but, anyhow, I've had a fairy godmother to keep me company.”

“So I see. She's left her broomstick,” said Sal, pointing to the dresser upon which lay, forlorn and forgotten, Miss Marks's umbrella.

“Oh!” cried Tilly in dismay.

“Why worry?” asked Sal, sinking into a comfortable chair. “It hasn't rained for a fortnight and probably won't rain for another three weeks. Why did she bring it, I wonder.”

“I don't think she ever goes anywhere without it,” replied Tilly seriously.

Sal was silent. She talked less than the others and, perhaps, thought more. Tilly, looking at her as she lay back in the chair, thought how peaceful she was. Liz or Addie would have been full of questions—not so Sal. Sal would listen if you wanted to tell her something, but she never probed.

“Was it a nice party?” asked Tilly, turning the toast. “Did you talk to anyone interesting? What did you think of
her
?”

“Rather a dear,” replied Sal, answering the last question.

She might have gone on to answer the others but she had no chance, for the door burst open and Liz appeared on the scene. Liz took off her hat and shook out her curls. “Oh, you've managed everything,” said Liz. “I rushed home to help you. Why didn't you come? You'd have liked it. I looked for you everywhere. There was champagne cup and ices. Lovely party! Poor Addie had to leave early to catch her train, but one of the officers took her straight to the station in his jeep.”

“With a brown face?” inquired Tilly, remembering the one who had stared so hard in church.

“No, pink,” replied Liz. “Tall and pink with fair hair.”

“Jimmy Howe,” said Sal.

“Very new,” added Liz. “And as a matter of fact, you needn't try to scent a romance. It was me he liked in spite of the fact that I'm old enough to be his grandmother. I asked him to take Addie to the station…Oh, Tilly,
not
macaroni and cheese! Father had awful dreams last time.”

“There wasn't anything else,” said Tilly. “And you needn't worry because this is macaroni and cheese with a difference.”

“I didn't know there could be much difference. Hallo, where's the umbrella come from?”

“It's hers,” said Tilly, whisking around the kitchen and piling the dishes onto a tray. “I mean she showed me. She said it couldn't give anyone awful dreams if you made it like this—beautifully creamy—”

Sal laughed. “Did she stir it with her broomstick, Tilly? Is it fairy food?”

“Real silk!” murmured Liz, fingering it reverently. “Somehow it seems—
more
than just an umbrella—”

“Oh, it
is!
” cried Tilly.

Mr. Grace was the last to arrive. He came in smiling; although he was always reluctant to attend social functions, he enjoyed them tremendously when he got there.

“It went off very well, I think,” said Mr. Grace. “In spite of the heat everyone seemed to be enjoying it, and the bride looked charming.”

“It always does, and
she
always does,” declared Liz. “I mean I've never
heard
of a wedding that didn't go off well, have you, darling? Can you imagine anyone saying, ‘It didn't go off very well, did it? And wasn't the bride plain?'”

Mr. Grace was so used to the imbecility of his oldest daughter that it did not worry him. “I'll just go and wash,” he said.

***

They had their supper in the kitchen because Joan had gone home and it was easier, and if anyone had seen the Graces sitting around the kitchen table, enjoying their evening meal, he would have seen a pleasant sight. The girls talked about the wedding, of course, but their conversation wandered about a good deal and veered to and fro in a manner a stranger would have found perfectly natural. Sometimes they disagreed with each other and said so, making no bones about it, but they were so much in tune and so fully in accord upon essentials that it did not matter how violently they disagreed upon nonessentials. In fact a good hearty disagreement was welcome, adding spice to their talk. Now and then Liz would emit her sudden explosive snort of laughter, and Sal would chuckle delightedly.

“I met a young man at the reception,” said Mr. Grace.

“And you asked him to lunch,” added Liz reproachfully.

“How did you know?” inquired her father in amazement.

“I know
you
, darling.”

Mr. Grace sighed. He was of a hospitable nature and the straitness of war rationing was a burden to him. “I keep on forgetting,” he explained.

“We could kill Pedro,” soothed Tilly. “We've always meant to, haven't we?”

“Yes,” agreed Mr. Grace, comforted. “Yes, kill Pedro by all means. We must give the young man a good lunch.”

“Is he an officer?” asked Liz.

“Yes, from the camp at Ganthorne. I have no idea of his rank, but I should think he is too young to be a major.”

“Too old to be a lieutenant?”

“Don't pull his leg,” said Tilly quickly.

“He likes it,” declared Liz. “It's good for him to have his leg pulled.”

“Your uncouth idiom revolts me,” said Mr. Grace, who, when he liked, was perfectly capable of holding his own. “I suppose you will know what his rank is when you see him. You can count the buttons on his shoulder strap. To me his rank is immaterial—”

“'Tis but the guinea stamp,” murmured Sal.

“Quite so. His name is Roderick Herd and he is coming to see the rose window.”

“Interested in rose windows,” said Liz regretfully.

Mr. Grace let that pass. He was aware that his daughters did not appreciate rose windows—not as much as they should—and his thoughts were busy in a different direction for he was remembering his conversation with Roderick Herd. (If Mr. Grace had been an habitué of the local picture house, he would have recognized this “remembering” as a “flashback.”) It had happened as follows: Mr. Grace, slightly dazed by the babble of talk, had withdrawn to the edge of the human whirlpool when suddenly a very brown young man (brown face, brown hair, brown eyes) had accosted him in a respectful manner. “Excuse me, sir. You are Mr. Grace, aren't you? May I ask if you are any relation to W.G.?” This was a question often put to Mr. Grace (though not as often now as formerly, for the present generation is lamentably indifferent to the giants of the past), and he always made the same answer: “No, but I have four daughters.” It was a “mad hatter” reply, but Mr. Grace found it a useful test of character. Some people said, “Oh, had
he
four daughters?” Others abandoned W.G. and inquired about the daughters; others looked puzzled, mystified, or merely stupid. Time was when Mr. Grace had replied, “No, but I'm very keen on cricket.” But the daughters were better. This particular young man, Roderick Herd, had taken the daughters without flinching. “Yes,” he had said (almost as if he had known). “Yes, you can't have everything, can you, sir?” And one had to admit that, as a response, it was pretty hard to beat.

You can't have everything, thought Mr. Grace, looking around the table with satisfaction. He was of the opinion that his daughters were beautiful. He knew they were good. Liz was the most attractive, perhaps, she was so full of life, vital and glowing and eager for any adventure that might come her way. She was tall and slim, her hair was golden and full of deep waves, her complexion was milk and roses. Tilly was nearly as tall, but not so slim; her cheeks were rounded and dimpling. Her head was like the head of a bird (an English thrush, thought Mr. Grace, waxing poetical); it was smooth and broad and her brown hair swept back from her forehead, thick as feathers. Sal's hair was darker, with reddish lights; it was softer hair, little tendrils curled about her forehead and her ears. She had a fragile look but there was resilience there, an unexpected toughness and spring. Less taking than the others, perhaps, but with a charm of her own, with well-molded bone beneath the softness of her smooth white skin and rather a wide mouth with a gracious curve.

Mr. Grace liked to think of his daughters as “children” (about ten years old), but sometimes they alarmed him because suddenly they seemed older than himself, and wiser, and because he had discovered that they understood him too well and occasionally “managed” him tactfully. At other times, they alarmed him by their foolishness. What mysterious creatures they were! Was it because they were motherless? If Mary had lived…but Mary had died and left him to deal with the daughters as best he could. His sister had offered to help him, but he had decided against the plan, for the daughters were his responsibility and nobody else's. Mary helped. He was often conscious of her guidance. It had worked out pretty well, really. There had been anxious times, of course, but—yes—it had worked out pretty well. Mr. Grace looked at them again, and his heart warmed toward them. I love them all alike, thought Mr. Grace. But although this was his honest conviction, it was not quite true, for Sal had a special place in his heart. He had been frightened of his first child, for he knew nothing about babies, and he had scarcely dared to touch the fragile morsel of humanity that was Liz, but when his second child arrived, he was “broken in” and was able to enjoy her from the first. He had bathed Sal and put her to bed, he had sung to her and told her stories. Sal was delicate when she was a child and had had to rest, lying for long hours on her back. She had been too delicate to go to school so he had taught her himself and taken pleasure in it. Together they had explored the highways and byways of knowledge.

They have taught me a lot, thought Mr. Grace humbly. I am a more useful servant of God for having four daughters.