The Four Graces (20 page)

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,” declared 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
.

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
intimate
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.