The Four Graces (9 page)

“It won't be easy,” Sal warned her.

“No,” agreed Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe. “No, I daresay it won't. What can you suggest?”

“Well,” said Sal. “Well, I'm afraid there's only one thing for it; I'm dreadfully afraid you'll have to go and see Miss Bodkin and ask her to tea.”

Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe began to chuckle and then she threw back her head and laughed heartily, so heartily that Sal was forced to join in.

“But, honestly, it
will
be rather awful for you,” declared Sal. “Miss Bodkin is—well, Father calls her an estimable woman…”

“Don't,” said Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe, mopping her eyes.

“She's
very
kind, of course,” continued Sal. “I don't know what the village would do without her, really, but she isn't—awfully—interesting.”

“It doesn't matter,” said Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe in a trembling voice. “Just tell me what to say. Do I apologize about the delphiniums?”

“Heavens, no!” cried Sal in alarm. “You don't mention delphiniums.”

“I see,” nodded Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe. “I just ask her to tea and show her around the garden—or no, perhaps that would be a mistake. The garden is full of delphiniums.”

It was Sal's turn to lead the laughter this time.

“Tell me,” said Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe, blowing her nose. “Tell me, will Miss Bodkin be very—er—”

“I don't think so,” replied Sal. “She may be a tiny bit sticky at first, but she'll simply love being asked to tea at Chevis Place.”

Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe rose. She said, “I know how busy you are so I won't keep you. Thank you
very
much. I do hope you'll go on looking after me. It looks as if I shall need a good deal of looking after.”

“Don't go,” said Sal. “I mean unless you have to, of course.”

“Don't go?”

“No,” said Sal, patting the seat with her hand. “Sit down for another—well, say for another ten minutes.”

Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe sat down. “Why?” she asked.

“Because they're all looking at us,” said Sal. “I didn't tell you before, because it's rather a horrid feeling. Do you hate it?”

“No, not really,” replied Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe. “But why—oh, yes, I see! It's very nice of you, Miss Grace.”

They were silent for a few moments. Sal felt the eyes of the village boring into her (but I must bear it, she thought). She could not see the audience, but she knew it was there.

“It really is
very
kind of you,” reiterated Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe.

“Not particularly,” said Sal, smiling. “Not entirely altruistic, I'm afraid. You see we want you to help us. There are all sorts of things you could do; for instance, the Women's Institute.”

“Of course. Perhaps they would like a talk,” said Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe with alacrity.

Sal was pleased, but also surprised. Most people had to be pressed to talk to the Women's Institute, persuaded and encouraged, assured that the audience would be small, uncritical, and appreciative of the simplest peroration; here was somebody actually offering to talk as if talking was the most natural thing in the world.

“A talk! Oh, yes,” said Sal.

“About books, I suppose?”

“Ye-es, but not too literary. They would like a talk about the sort of books they read themselves.”

“What do they read?”

“Light novels, mostly. Janetta Walters's books—that sort of thing.”

Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe was silent.

“I know Janetta Walters isn't exactly literature,” continued Sal, smiling. “But Chevis Green loves her books, and to tell you the truth I rather enjoy them myself. You must admit there's something rather nice about them.”

Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe admitted nothing.

“Perhaps you don't read them,” ventured Sal.

“I used to,” said Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe.

Sal glanced at her companion and saw that she was staring at the War Memorial in a very odd way; staring through it, really.

“Archie likes them,” said Sal. “He's got a whole set of them.”

“I know,” replied Archie's wife.

It was distinctly intriguing, but it was not Sal's way to probe into affairs that did not concern her, so she decided to change the subject.

“About the fete—” she began.

“Oh, yes,” interrupted Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe, looking very much relieved. “I wanted to talk to you about that, but Miss Bodkin put it out of my head. I'm running the flower stall, and I wondered if you could possibly take it over for about an hour in the afternoon to give me a chance of having tea. I don't really mind about tea, but Archie seems to think I shall die if I don't have some refreshment.”

Sal agreed at once. “Of course,” she said. “Archie's quite right. When shall I come?”

They made the necessary arrangements and rose to go. The ten minutes had extended itself to nearly twenty.

“I wonder,” said Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe, hesitating before saying good-bye. “Would it be a good thing to ask Miss Bodkin to help me at the flower stall—or not?”

Sal looked thoughtful. “Rather—daring,” she said, “but—yes—I think you might. As a matter of fact, I don't believe Miss Bodkin could
resist
it.”

“I shall put my fate to the test,” declared Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe.

Sal watched her walk across the green toward Miss Bodkin's cottage. She's going to get it over at once, thought Sal. It's what I should do myself…

After Sal had departed to clear up the Bodkin imbroglio, Mr. Grace remained sitting upon the seat. It was an iron seat, not nearly such a comfortable seat as the one near the War Memorial on Chevis Green, but Mr. Grace did not notice the outward discomfort, his inward discomfort was so acute. He had said to Sal that the matter was childish—and so it was—but the fact did not absolve him from blame. He had caused offense to a woman; a lonely woman, defenseless, one of his own flock. Thinking of Miss Bodkin as a sheep made his behavior seem a good deal worse, made it seem unreasonable. He had said Miss Bodkin ought to know better, but does a sheep know better? Does any sane person expect a sheep to know better? Isn't it the very essence of sheephood to be foolish, easily led, to rush madly from one end of the field to the other for no reasonable cause? And poor Miss Bodkin
had
reasonable cause, thought Mr. Grace, pondering the matter gravely. Here was a woman who had done her best to beautify the altar of her church, had picked flowers from her garden and brought them to God's House…and he had allowed, nay, he had helped to “improve” her handiwork. It was natural that she should be hurt by the implication that her work was not good enough. Mr. Grace beat his breast—figuratively speaking, of course—thoughtless in the extreme, inconsiderate, lacking in understanding, deficient in charity. Sal had been right to take a grave view of the matter; he had been lamentably wrong to treat it as of no account.

Mr. Grace was so busy reproaching himself that he did not perceive the approach of his sister-in-law. It was not until Rona was within a few yards of him that his danger became apparent, and by that time, it was too late to escape.

“Ah, George!” exclaimed Rona in her usual penetrating voice. “I saw you from the window and I thought you looked a little depressed.”

Mr. Grace said nothing. He had no intention of taking Rona into his confidence, neither did he intend to lie.

“And it is
such
a beautiful day,” continued Rona, sitting down beside him. “The sunshine, the flowers, the birds singing in the trees…all sent for our benefit, George, to cheer us and to uplift our spirits.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Grace shortly. It was, to a large extent, his own attitude to Nature, but oddly enough the sentiments coming from Rona's lips annoyed him profoundly. If only she would go away, thought Mr. Grace, with (it is to be feared) a deplorable lack of Christian charity and hospitality.

“So beautiful,” added Rona, with a sigh.

“Yes,” said Mr. Grace again. “Yes, but I can't help feeling you must find it dull here after London.”

“Never feel that, George,” said Rona earnestly. “I am exceedingly happy at Chevis Green. I have lived in London for years, of course, but the country is my spiritual home. I should like to settle down in the country; in fact I am thinking of selling my flat.”

“I shouldn't do that,” said Mr. Grace quickly. “It would be
most
unwise.”

Rona was silent for a moment or two and then she said, “You have a very interesting family, George.”

“They are good girls,” agreed Mr. Grace.

“And most attractive.”

“Yes. Yes, I think they are.”

“They need a woman, George.”

“A woman!” exclaimed Mr. Grace in amazement. “They've got Joan. They seem to manage all right. It's extremely difficult to get any sort of domestic help at the moment.”

“Not
that
sort of woman,” exclaimed Rona. “They need a gentlewoman, a kind, wise, experienced friend to turn to in all their little difficulties. They are standing at the threshold of life—one false step might ruin their whole future.”

“They're very sensible girls—” began Mr. Grace.

“They lack experience, George. They lack guidance. I feel a want of stability in their natures.”

“They are young, Rona.”

“Exactly,” she replied. “They are very young. They need an older woman to guide them. Take Adeline, for instance. I saw quite a lot of Adeline when I was in town and I was able to help her in all sorts of little ways—little tactful hints, George, mere suggestions—and I could see that Adeline welcomed them and acted upon them. Yes, there was definite improvement there. Adeline has a flair for clothes,” added Rona, nodding thoughtfully.

Mr. Grace was silent. A flair for clothes seemed unimportant to him.

“Then there's Elizabeth,” continued Rona, counting off Elizabeth on her fingers. “Elizabeth is a very pretty girl but she does not make the best of herself. A trifle hoydenish, I think. Of course some men admire that boyish manner. I suppose you've noticed that Roderick is very
é
pris
?”

“He comes over pretty frequently,” said Mr. Grace. “But I think he's Addie's friend. I heard him ask Tilly for her address.”

“Oh, George!” exclaimed Rona. “How can you be so blind! The man is head over heels in love with Elizabeth. What have you done about it?”

“I don't believe in interfering.”

“I'm afraid you're inclined to let things drift. We must find out all about Roderick,” said Rona thoughtfully. She let that sink in, and then continued, “Now we come to Matilda.”

“Tilly is very well as she is,” said her father hastily.

“No, George. Matilda is
not
very well. That
farouche
manner of hers is the outcome of inhibitions and complexes. Of course the child has attraction and, if she were taken in hand by someone who understood her condition, something might be made of her. She ought to go about more, she ought to meet interesting people.”

“She's shy, that's all.”

“Ah, George, you are being a little selfish, I think. Just a teeny bit selfish,” declared Rona, tapping him lightly on the knee. “You are keeping Matilda at home and giving her no chance to develop her personality. You want her to marry, I suppose?”

“She's much too young!”

“Not at all. She's just the right age. You don't want her to grow up into a sour old maid.”

“There is no need for her to be sour,” objected Mr. Grace.

“An old maid then,” pursued Rona, pushing him into a corner.

“No,” said Mr. Grace. “No, I must say I hope all the girls will marry—eventually.”

“Sarah will never marry,” declared Rona. “Sarah is quite different from the others. I don't think we could make much of Sarah.”

“Sal is a very fine character,” said Mr. Grace, his thoughts flying to the daughter who, even at this moment, was spending herself ungrudgingly in his service.

“She is capable, of course,” admitted Rona. “But there is a curious hardness there. She isn't the type that appeals to men at all. We might think of a career for Sarah; some sort of training—”

“Sal will do exactly as she wants,” said Mr. Grace stoutly. “I would rather you didn't interfere. We've all been very happy together.”

“Oh, George!” cried Rona. “Of course not. I shouldn't
dream
of interfering. I was trying to offer a few teeny weeny suggestions, that's all. I know how difficult it is for a lonely man to understand these young creatures and give them what they need. I just want to help you, George.”

Mr. Grace was getting very nervous indeed; he was more relieved and delighted than words could tell when he saw the burly form of William advancing toward him across the lawn. In fact, to the eyes of Mr. Grace, the burly form of William took on a positively angelic guise. William was an answer to a prayer.

“How very annoying!” exclaimed Rona. “Can't he see we don't want to be disturbed!”

“He has a note for me,” said Mr. Grace.

William had an envelope in his hand. He held it out to Mr. Grace, who took it and opened it, and unfolded the piece of paper it contained. The message was terse and to the point; it read as follows: you can make this an excuse if you want to escape.

“Oh!” exclaimed Mr. Grace in surprise. “Oh, yes—er—please excuse me, Rona.” He rose as he spoke and hurried into the house.

“What was it?” asked Rona.

“I didn't open it,” replied William. (This was perfectly true, for he and Tilly had composed the missive together and sealed it up.)

“It's most aggravating,” said Rona, with a sigh. “Most aggravating. One can never have a consecutive conversation in this house. We were talking about something
very
important.”

“I was afraid you were,” said William gravely.

***

Mr. Grace did not slacken pace until he had gained the sanctuary of his study. He locked the door behind him and sank into a chair. He discovered that his forehead was quite wet—and the palms of his hands—so he took out his handkerchief and wiped them. He was not pleased with himself. He had behaved like an arrant coward. He had behaved deceitfully. Why? Simply because he was terrified of Rona. And why be terrified of Rona? Rona couldn't marry him without his consent, could she? Rona couldn't drag him to the altar against his will. Mr. Grace's mind said, “No, of course not,” but
in
his
bones
he was not so sure. Rona was so managing, that was the trouble. Already she was managing—or mismanaging—the whole house. It was extraordinarily difficult to stand up to Rona, for if you stood up to her, she immediately retired and came at you from a different angle. I
did
stand up to her, thought Mr. Grace. I said I would rather she didn't interfere. Most people would have taken the hint—but not Rona. Rona had merely carried out her usual tactics, giving way at once (“I shouldn't dream of interfering!” she had cried), and immediately returned to the attack. If William hadn't appeared at the psychological moment, anything might have happened. Mr. Grace's forehead was wet again; he wiped it and sighed wearily. Of course some of the things she had said were true. Mr. Grace couldn't deny it. He
was
inclined to drift. He was inclined to let things take their course and trust that all would be well. Perhaps he ought to have done something about Roderick—but what? Fathers didn't tackle young men, nowadays, and ask them their intentions. Mr. Grace had no idea what fathers did nowadays. He sighed again. Then Tilly. It was true that Tilly had not been quite so cheerful lately. Perhaps Rona was right (not about the inhibitions, of course, that was nonsense); perhaps Tilly should be poked out of her shell and made to go about even if she didn't want to. He might arrange for Tilly to go to Bournemouth, to her cousin's, for a long visit. That could be done. Rona was quite wrong about Sal—absolutely and entirely wrong. Sal wasn't hard. Everyone loved Sal, except (apparently) Rona. Sal might not be the marrying type (Mr. Grace didn't feel able to judge of that); in his heart of hearts he rather hoped she wasn't. What on earth would he do without Sal? His thoughts moved on, his optimistic temperament reasserting itself, things would sort themselves out. Once Rona was gone and Liz was married (if Liz intended to get married), and Tilly had been sent off to enjoy herself at Bournemouth, he and Sal would settle down happily and comfortably. He envisaged all this vaguely, his thoughts moving without volition in a sort of dreamlike trance. He saw himself and Sal walking up and down the terrace, arm in arm. This was a favorite exercise of theirs—or had been, before Rona's arrival—it had been a favorite exercise of Mary's, and Sal was like Mary, more and more like Mary every day.

But all this was getting him nowhere. Here he was, drifting again, and indulging in daydreams. This was no time for daydreams, there were things to be done, and the first thing to be done was to tackle Rona, thought Mr. Grace, nerving himself to the task. This state of affairs could not continue. It was an unbearable state of affairs…No peace for anyone, no comfort, everyone at loose ends…and his work was suffering. How could he think out a sermon when his whole being was constantly upset (
like
this
, thought Mr. Grace). He must tackle Rona firmly. The next time she sought a private conversation, he must pull himself together and take the bull by the horns. Mr. Grace sat there for a long time, trying to decide what he would say to Rona next time.

***

Rona was washing for supper. She was thinking about George and trying to decide what she would say to him next time. George was very slow. It was extremely hard to bring him to the point. The worst of it was there was so little opportunity for private conversation. People came and went. You started to talk and then you were interrupted. There were far too many people in the house. The mornings were quiet, of course, but George was shut up in his study the whole morning and even Rona had not dared to disturb his seclusion. In the afternoon he was usually out, visiting his parishioners or distributing books to the patients in the local hospital; people called frequently at the Vicarage and George interviewed them all. It really was a revelation to Rona to see how busy George was; she had always thought a country parson had a pretty easy life. I must take a firm line, thought Rona. I must keep them all under my eye. She finished her ablutions and watched the water gurgling away through the plug hole; then she dried her hands with quick, competent movements and hung up the towel. No more nonsense, said Rona to herself. Her reflections looked back at her from the bathroom mirror (the round, beveled mirror in which Mr. Grace saw his round, ruddy face every morning when he shaved), and she touched her hair lightly, arranging it, turning her head from side to side. She powdered her face and reddened her lips, carrying out the familiar ritual with intense concentration…then she noticed there was a frown between her brows and smoothed it out hastily. She was aware that frowns beget wrinkles.

The evenings at the Vicarage were usually the most pleasant part of the day, for the day's duties were over and there was a feeling of relaxation in the air. Mr. Grace smoked his pipe and read; the girls sewed and talked. Sometimes Mr. Grace would look up from his book and would remark in pathetic tones, “These Graces chatter so!” and Liz would kiss her hand to him in an airy way and reply, “We've heard that before, darling, and it isn't even original. It was Sir Timothy O'Brien who thought of it first, wasn't it?” But in spite of this “cheek”—which of course was very reprehensible—the chatter would cease, or perhaps continue in low tones that did not disturb the reader. William's advent had made no difference to the evenings at the Vicarage. He usually read, though sometimes his book would be put aside and he would listen to the chattering of the Graces. But the coming of Aunt Rona had changed everything and, instead of being the most pleasant part of the day, the evening was the worst. Her idea of a pleasant evening was conversation, with herself as chief performer. Indeed one could hardly call it conversation for it developed into a monologue. She talked without ceasing in her clear penetrating tones, which precluded all idea of “not listening.” She talked about people—people the Graces didn't know and didn't want to know; people she had met before the war, staying in hotels in Switzerland; people she had met in London, or Paris, or country houses, where, according to herself, she was always a welcome guest.