Immediately, the new Cicely accused the old Cicely of complacency. Well, why not? At the same time, the new Cicely pointed out exciting avenues down which, as Lady Wilverley, she could prance triumphantly. It would be delightful to entertain, after the war, clever people, who—so Tiddy affirmed—could be lured into the country if you “did” them properly. Also, she would ride perfect hunters, and drive her own Rolls-Royce car. The new Cicely agreed with the old Cicely that it was possible to combine two centuries, the eighteenth and the twentieth, taking from each what was desirable and charming. That would be a real achievement.
Descending to earth, her still dreaming orbs rested upon Martha Giles’s cottage. It stood by itself, tumbling over a corner where the village street impinged upon the village green. Even Lady Selina admitted deprecatingly that Martha’s cottage was an eyesore. And in it lived Martha and nine children. There were only four rooms. But, oddly enough, Martha loved it, and just because of that Lady Selina had promised not to pull it down. Of course it leaked like a sieve, and the cracked walls streamed with moisture, rain or shine. At the back were the sties. Martha lived by her pigs, on her pigs, and with her pigs. Buckets of wash came as doles from the Manor. Kindly neighbours, knowing that Martha’s pride refused actual cash, substituted meal and bran. Martha’s chickens and geese picked up what they could find on the green.
Cicely greeted Martha, and braced herself to meet condolence. Martha wiped a dry eye with a corner of a clean apron. How she managed to keep clean aprons on herself and clean pinafores on her children was one of the mysteries that defy explanation, like the Indian rope trick.
She said wailingly:
“Master Brian be gone to Kingdom Come, miss. You must up and bear this like a Christian ’ooman. Yas ... I mind me when my pore Giles was took. I give ’un a rare funeral . . .” This was another unelucidated mystery. The poorer the widow the richer the funeral! Martha continued: “But after funeral I sez to myself, I sez: ‘Better him nor me.’ ”
A wild impulse surged through Cicely to laugh. Happily, she restrained herself. She accepted Martha’s statement literally, saying gravely: “Giles couldn’t have looked after the children as you do.”
“That’s how I feels, miss. ’Tis God Amighty’s marcy as we wimmenfolk don’t have to fight these tremenjous battles. If we was killed in ’eaps what would the children do?”
“What indeed?” asked Cicely. “I hope you are well, Martha?”
“I be allers troubled wi’ my sciaticky, miss. But there, a widder wi’ nine children to fend for bain’t able to enjy her bad health.” She added obsequiously: “I be a grateful ’ooman, miss. I tells the little ’uns that they’d be lying snug in churchyard, if ’twasn’t for my lady. We doesn’t get all the milk we uster do.”
“Oh, dear! I must inquire about that. Good morning, Martha.”