The Four Graces

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Perfectly fair, and very well run,” said William solemnly.

  Mr. Grace wrote down the names of the winners in his little book, and the crowd, which had gathered to see the fun, melted away reluctantly.

  This was the last race, and Mr. Grace was just turning away when he was accosted by a very pretty woman, beautifully and fashionably dressed.

  “You’re Mr. Grace, aren’t you? Will you come and have your fortune told?”

  “Yes,” replied Mr. Grace, smiling at her. “Yes, I’ll come. Are you the sibyl?”

  “I’m Mrs. Smith,” she replied, missing the allusion.

  “Of course! You’ve come to live at The Beeches! My daughters would have called before this, but we’re a very large household at the moment and that keeps them busy.”

  “Oh, calling is a bore,” declared Mrs. Smith. “It would be much nicer if they could drop in some evening about seven for a drink…and you, too, of course, if you don’t think it very wicked.”

  “I see nothing very wicked in it,” said Mr. Grace in surprise.

  She smiled. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re broad-minded. I hope you’re broad-minded in every way.”

  “No,” said Mr. Grace.

  “No?” she exclaimed in amazement.

  “Not in the sense you mean, I’m afraid,” said Mr. Grace firmly. “I have noticed that nowadays when people speak of being broad-minded they really mean muddleheaded, or lacking in principles—or possibly lacking the strength to stand up for any principles they may have. Nowadays people are anxious to appear worse than they are,” said Mr. Grace, smiling. “It’s a queer sort of inverted hypocrisy, Mrs. Smith…but I must apologize for sermonizing.”

  “Not at all,” replied Mrs. Smith. “I always think it’s so interesting to hear people talking shop.”

  Mr. Grace was a trifle taken aback at this description of his calling. He was silent.

  They had been walking toward the fortune-teller’s tent, and now they were there. It was a small bell tent, wonderfully decorated with cabalistic signs cut out of black paper. Mr. Grace fished in his pocket for half a crown and prepared to go in, but Mrs. Smith had not done with him; she caught him by the arm and said, “I suppose you believe in Jonah and the whale, and all that?”

  Mr. Grace was annoyed. This seemed to him the wrong time and place for a theological discussion, so he did not take up the challenge.

  Mrs. Smith waited for a few moments for a reply and as none was forthcoming, she continued, “I don’t. You see a whale’s throat is very small so it would be quite impossible for it to swallow a man. Perhaps you didn’t know that.”

  “My dear young lady,” said Mr. Grace. “I don’t think it matters in the least whether or not you believe the whale swallowed Jonah. Many deeply religious people are not prepared to take the story literally.” It was rather a neat reply, and Mr. Grace was pleased with it. He was also rather pleased with himself for having denied himself the obvious joke. It had been an effort not to tell Mrs. Smith she need not swallow the whale, but it had been right to abstain.

  “We aren’t religious, Wilfred and I,” declared Mrs. Smith. “In fact, we don’t believe in anything.”

  Mr. Grace looked at her sternly. This was too much. He was really angry. Was she trying to rouse him, trying to drag him into a discussion, here and now, in the middle of this holiday-making crowd, or was she merely making the position of herself and her husband perfectly clear, or, thirdly, was she just an absolute fool? He was inclined to the third alternative.

  “So you see how it is,” said Mrs. Smith. “And if you would rather your daughters did not come to The Beeches—”

  “Oh, I see,” said Mr. Grace, interrupting her. “I see your point—but of course they can come. One of the principal duties of a Christian is to visit the heathen.” He smiled at her and, raising his battered hat, turned to go into the fortune-teller’s tent.

  Mr. Grace was going into the tent and Tilly was coming out; father and daughter almost bumped into each other in the narrow entrance.

  “Father!” exclaimed Tilly in delight. “Oh, Father, you’re the very person I wanted to see. Do you believe in it?”

  “No,” replied Mr. Grace. “I am going in to spend half a crown in an extremely good cause.”

  Tilly was a trifle dashed. “Oh!” she said. “Oh, I can’t help believing there’s something in it, you know. She’s so weird. She’s got such a marvelous deep voice…she says I’ve got an absolutely marvelous fortune. I’m born under Leo, which makes me terribly brave, and I’m going to have seven children.”

  “You will need courage for that,” said Mr. Grace gravely. “I find four children rather more than I can manage comfortably.”

  “My husband will be tall,” continued Tilly. “Tall and dark—and he will love me passionately. I can’t remember any more at the moment.”

  “You have remembered quite enough to go on with,” said Mr. Grace.

  Chapter Twenty

  After her interview with the sibyl, Tilly made her way to the other end of the park where the competitions were taking place, where dogs and ponies and horses and carts were being paraded and judged for prizes. She was not particularly interested in ponies or dogs, for she had never possessed either, but she did possess a pair of ankles, which, although not considered by her sisters to be of any great merit, she herself considered fairly presentable. It would be rather fun, thought Tilly, if she should win a prize—that would show them, wouldn’t it—and of course if she didn’t win a prize there would be no need to mention the subject. All the afternoon Tilly had been ankle-conscious to a marked degree. She had seen thick ankles and thin ankles walking about the place, ankles that were “beef to the heel,” ankles that were like broomsticks. She had seen bulgy ankles, and ankles with painful-looking knobs sticking out at the sides, a sight that made one shudder, but nowhere (to be perfectly honest) had Tilly seen a pair of ankles to match her own for shapeliness.

  Arrived at the enclosure where this interesting competition was taking place, Tilly stood and watched for a few minutes, trying to make up her mind to take the plunge. She saw that the competitors were being judged by two young men who were seated upon two chairs in front of a large white sheet. The bottom of the sheet hung about eighteen inches from the ground and the competitors stood behind the sheet with only their feet and ankles visible, so that no beauty of face or figure should influence the verdict of the judges. That was fair, thought Tilly; it was also reassuring. The ordeal would not be nearly so alarming as she had expected.

  The young men were strangers to Tilly and therefore strangers to Chevis Green. They looked rather nice, rather interesting, but, as one was tall and fair and the other short and dark, neither of them was the future husband who would love her passionately and help in the production of her family.

  Tilly watched five competitors before she managed to summon up sufficient courage to go forward herself (none of the five had ankles worth looking at). Then she paid her shilling and walked behind the sheet and stood there, awaiting judgment. She couldn’t see her judges, but she could hear them talking to each other in low voices, she could hear all they said. They did not know this, of course. They were obviously under the impression that their conversation was inaudible to their victim…but Tilly had sharp ears.

  “Pretty nifty,” said one young man after a short silence. “I rather like this ankle, Ted. How do you feel about it?”

  “You don’t think it’s a bit on the plump side, Wilfred?”

  “I don’t,” replied Wilfred firmly. “To tell you the truth I’m a bit sick of these skinny ankles, they give me the willies.” He raised his voice, quite unnecessarily, and said, “Will the competitor turn around slowly, please?”

  The competitor turned around slowly.

  “No, Ted,” said Wilfred. “It is not too plump. The more I look at this ankle the more I like it.
Look at the charming way it swells into the calf.”

  “The calf is no business of yours,” declared his friend.

  “And the instep, Ted. You must admit the instep is quite adorable. I wonder what sort of face this ankle has.”

  “Like the back of a bus, most likely.”

  “I don’t agree,” said Wilfred. “I bet you she’s a peach. I bet you she’s a flyer. Look here, Ted, I bet you ten bob she’s an absolute flyer. Will you take me?”

  “All right—but I’ve got to judge for myself. I mean if I say she’s no flyer, you’ve lost. I suppose we give her the ankle prize, do we?”

  “We do, my lad,” declared Wilfred. “We look at a few more, just for eye wash, and then we close and have a drink. How’s that?”

  “Suits me,” replied Ted cheerfully.

  Wilfred raised his voice and said, “That’s all, thank you. Please give your name to the attendant and wait.”

  Tilly gave her name to the attendant, who wrote it carefully on a small blue card and presented it to her with a grin. “Looks as if you’d won,” he said cheekily.

  Tilly knew she had won, but she did not feel as elated as she had expected. She had been nervous before, now she was feeling worse; she was feeling positively ill with fright. If it had not been for Leo and the courage with which he had endowed her, she would have taken to her heels and fled. Leo helped a good deal. It was Leo who suggested she should take out her powder compact and remove the shine from her nose…it would be a pity (whispered Leo) if Wilfred lost his bet; Wilfred was much the nicer.

  Fortunately there was not long to wait. The attendant put up a notice saying, “Competition Now Closed,” and the two judges came out. They had no sooner emerged from the enclosure than they were set upon by a very smart young woman in a pale gray silk coat and skirt and a scarlet halo hat.

  “Wilfred!” she exclaimed, seizing his arm. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I’ve been talking to the Padre, the most quaint creature, straight from Dickens, with the funniest hat you ever saw.”

  “It was Trollope,” said Wilfred, shaking off her hand in a casual way. “I mean it was Trollope, not Dickens, who wrote about comic parsons. Wasn’t it, Ted?”

  “What does it matter!” said the young woman crossly. “I wish you’d come home. I’m dead tired. I couldn’t think where you had got to.”

  “Why on earth did you wait?” he retorted. “Surely you’re capable of walking home by yourself if you want to.”

  “What have you been doing?” she inquired.

  “As a matter of fact,” said Wilfred in an offhand way. “As a matter of fact, Ted and I have been judging a competition. Chevis-Cobbe asked us if we’d take it on.”

  “It’s been pretty hard work,” declared Ted.

  “Hard, but interesting,” agreed Wilfred.

  “Do come home, Wilfred. If you want a drink, you can have it at home—”

  “Presently. You buzz off.”

  The young woman showed no inclination to “buzz off.” She waited impatiently.

  “Where’s the winner?” asked Ted, looking around.

  The attendant pushed Tilly forward and she presented the little blue card. She was aware that the two young men were regarding her with interest and felt herself blushing beneath their scrutiny. (“Leo,” said Tilly firmly to herself.)

  “Oh!” said Wilfred. “Oh, yes—er—you’ve won. Hasn’t she, Ted?”

  “Definitely,” said Ted. “Er—congratulations.”

  “Good show, wasn’t it?” said Wilfred.

  “Awfully good show,” agreed Ted.

  Tilly had a feeling that the gentlemen would have said a good deal more if Mrs. Wilfred had not been standing by. The young woman in gray was obviously married to Wilfred; he had treated her as his wife, thought Tilly (with cynicism deplorable in one so young).

  “Oh, by the way,” said Ted. “Look here, Wilfred, old man, I owe you ten bob, don’t I?”

  “Most definitely you do, old man.”

  The money changed hands.

  “A horse, I suppose,” said Mrs. Wilfred contemptuously. “I can’t see the fun of betting on horses.”

  “A filly,” said Ted casually.

  “An absolute flyer. Eh, Ted?” inquired Wilfred.

  “You’ve said it, old man,” replied Ted.

  “Oh!” said Wilfred. “Oh, look here, Miss Grace! You keep this card and hand it in when the prizes are being presented. I hope you get a good one.”

  “A pair of silk stockings,” suggested Ted. “That would be about right, I should think.”

  “Artistically correct,” agreed Wilfred.

  ***

  Mr. Grace emerged from the dim shadow of the fortuneteller’s tent into the blazing sunshine. He felt rather pleased with himself. Of course it was all absolute nonsense, merely a dodge to get half a crown out of your pocket for the Red Cross, but, still, it was rather pleasant to be told pleasant things about your constitution. Mr. Grace’s constitution was “finely balanced”; it was “powerful yet delicate”; it was “extremely sensitive to beauty.” He had been warned that he had “a decided tendency to overwork the body, intellectually or physically.” Aries (the ram) ruled his head and the sibyl had assured him that further investigation of this sign of the Zodiac would yield excellent results. She had added that his lucky day was Saturday.

  Sensitive to beauty, thought Mr. Grace, looking around. That, at least, was true. He felt extraordinarily sensitive to the beauty of this charming and typically English scene—the bright golden sunshine and blue sky, the tall shady trees, the green grass, and the brilliantly colored dresses, groups of which formed and scattered and reformed before his eyes so that the whole effect resembled a kaleidoscope…Mr. Grace was delighted with it all.

  Mr. Grace was so delighted with the scene and with his own reaction to the beauty of it that he felt at peace with the world, so, when he saw Rona making her way toward him, he went forward to meet her cheerfully, and being ultrasensitively-minded he noticed what an air she had and how well her clothes became her.

  “Well, Rona, are you enjoying yourself?” he inquired.

  “Yes, indeed. Who wouldn’t be on a day like this? Your lines are laid in pleasant places, George.”

  Mr. Grace agreed that they were.

  “I introduced myself to Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe,” continued Rona. “I went straight up to her and told her who I was. She was most kind. I was drawn to her at once and I’m certain she had the same feeling about me. I hope we shall become great friends.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Grace, but not with any great enthusiasm, for it sounded as if Rona intended to stay on indefinitely at Chevis Green.

  “It is most important that we should be on friendly terms with the Chevis-Cobbes.”

  “We always have been,” replied Mr. Grace. “Archie is an excellent fellow and a very good landlord—”

  “I know,” interrupted Rona. “But it is quite different now he is married. The social side of it comes into the picture. We must make certain that if there are parties at Chevis Place the girls will be asked; we must be not only on friendly but on intimate terms.”

  “I don’t like that implication very much,” said Mr. Grace. “As a matter of fact, Sal has met Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe and likes her immensely—”

  “Really? I shouldn’t have thought—” Rona paused, and then continued, “You are so busy, George, you haven’t time to attend to the social side…The girls do their best, of course, but they’re too young and inexperienced to understand the importance of social contacts with the big houses, with the county people. Social contacts are important, George, not only important to yourself, but to the parish as a whole. The fact is,” said Rona archly. “The fact is you need a wife.”

  Mr. Grace was no fool, he had seen the point for which Rona was making and he had decided that
this time he would not evade the issue, but would meet it fair and square. It was therefore without the slightest hesitation and in an unexpectedly resolute voice that he replied, “I am married, Rona.”

  “You are married!” Rona exclaimed in horror-stricken tones.

  “To Mary,” said Mr. Grace. “Mary and I took each other for better or for worse, and death has not parted us.”

  “But that’s nonsense!” cried Rona.

  “It isn’t nonsense to me,” returned Mr. Grace, smiling. He was able to smile, for he had gained the initiative and intended to use it freely. “It isn’t nonsense to me. Mary is with me constantly; her presence is very real; she guides me and gives me help and counsel in my life, in my parish, and in all problems connected with the girls.”

  Mr. Grace felt perfectly happy now. The cloud that had cast its shadow upon his spirit had lifted, the sun was shining again. He was amazed at the sudden transformation of his feelings, absolutely amazed. It just shows you should always take the bull by the horns, thought Mr. Grace.

  “But, George,” began Rona, pulling herself together. “But, George—”

  Mr. Grace looked the bull squarely in the eyes. “I have no intention of committing bigamy,” he said.

  “Bigamy!” echoed the bull in a strangled voice.

  “Bigamy,” repeated Mr. Grace cheerfully. “You said I needed another wife…”

  The conversation, though reasonably consecutive, had been interrupted several times by passersby; people were moving about all the time, laughing and talking and calling to one another, but the conversation had been so all absorbing that neither Mr. Grace nor Rona had taken much heed of the crowd. Now, however, a child appeared, carrying a large doll, and, forcing herself between them, inquired if they would take tickets for the raffle. Mr. Grace took four tickets, one for each of his daughters, and by the time the transaction had been completed, Rona had recovered a little from the shock. She had recovered sufficiently to find her voice and suggest to George that they should go and have some tea.

  “Not for me, thank you,” said Mr. Grace briskly. “I’m on my way down to the field to see the pony races.” He raised his hat and left her.