The Four Graces by D. E. Stevenson Page B

stupid?”
    Sal sat down beside Tilly on the sofa so that they could talk in whispers. (Odd that one should have to talk in whispers in one’s own drawing room; odd, but necessary, for Aunt Rona had a way of appearing suddenly and silently when one least expected her.)
    â€œDo you think she’s stupid?” repeated Tilly.
    â€œNo,” said Sal. “No, she’s rather clever in her own way. Stupid in some ways, perhaps…”
    â€œYou never know what she’s thinking,” complained Tilly.
    It was true, of course, and to Sal’s mind this was the most unbearable trait in Aunt Rona’s personality. You never knew what she was thinking. Her eyes were opaque, and unchanging, they gave no clue to her thoughts; her tongue, instead of revealing her thoughts, obscured them still further. Her armor had no chinks—or none that Sal could find—and you could not offend her for she never took offense. She was always bright and pleasant and often smiling, but her smile was not a proper smile for it never reached her eyes.
    â€œShe’s made us all horrid,” said Tilly miserably.
    â€œThere’s frightfully dangerous poison in her,” said Sal.
    They were silent for a few minutes, their heads close together, and Tilly began to feel comforted, for she and Sal were in tune again (it was wretched to be out of tune with Sal). Sal understood about it now, she understood that Tilly was sorry for being “difficult” and the blame had been laid upon Aunt Rona and her poisonous influence; so that was all right.
    â€œSal,” said Tilly in a threadlike whisper. “Have you noticed Aunt Rona talks as if she intended to stay here—always?”
    â€œYes,” said Sal.
    â€œIt couldn’t be—I mean do you think she has designs on—on Father?”
    â€œYes,” said Sal.
    â€œYou’ve noticed it!” exclaimed Tilly in dismay. “I was just hoping it was imagination!”
    â€œNo,” said Sal. “No, it isn’t imagination. That’s why I try to—to keep track of her. Father is terrified of her, I’m certain of it.”
    â€œWhat are we to do?” cried Tilly. “What are we to do? If she has made up her mind to marry him, he hasn’t a chance!”
    â€œI don’t know about that ,” said Sal thoughtfully.
    They were silent again.
    â€œPerhaps William could do something about it,” said Tilly at last.
    â€œWilliam!”
    â€œYes, William is rather—deep. I don’t mean deep in a horrid way, of course, but he sees a good deal more than you would think.”
    â€œI don’t believe William could help much.”
    â€œI shall talk to him anyhow,” declared Tilly.

Chapter Twelve
    Yesterday had been wet, but today it had cleared up and the sun was shining brightly. Sal walked down the garden with a bucket in each hand; she was going to feed the hens. The henhouse was at the end of the garden near the stream; it was the same stream that flowed between the cottages at Chevis Green and, later, joined the Wandle and flowed through the square at Wandlebury. Here, in the Vicarage garden, the stream was in its infancy, smiling and chuckling like a happy baby. Watercress grew in the shallows in the curve of the bank, and willows flourished beside it. Quite near, and casting a shade on the water, was a weeping elm and, back from the henhouse, there was a wild piece of ground, gay with rose-red willow herb that Jos Barefoot treasured for his bees. Jos loved his bees. He was like a bee himself; small and brown and wizened. His eyes were brown like chestnuts and his voice was high-pitched. Bees crawled over his arms but never stung him. “They knows old Jos,” he would say. He was too old to do much work, but he pottered around and kept the garden from becoming a wilderness.
    Sal called the ducks and fed them; the hens came scurrying after her; she had one hen sitting on a