Upon the following morning, Cicely, in a white frock with black ribands, walked from the Manor to Dr. Pawley’s house. At Lady Selina’s request she was wearing the white frock. The weather happened to be very hot; a heat-wave had spread itself over the south of England. This alone justified thin and light garments, but Cicely knew that another reason lay at the back of her mother’s mind. From now on she would be expected to play the part of bride-elect. Lady Selina, coming early to Cicely’s bedroom, had said gently:

“I am sure that our dear boy would urge you not to wear black. I feel at this moment that he is sharing our great joy. And you owe it to Arthur to make yourself look as nice as possible.”

“Very well, Mother.”

That appeared to be the only answer possible to dozens of just such well-meant suggestions. Already Lady Selina had prepared an itinerary, so to speak. She had decided what tradesmen should be honoured by her patronage. Not a moment was to be wasted. The selection of a trousseau for Lord Wilverley’s wife exacted undivided energies and a pleasant pilgrimage to certain shrines of fashion, where the high-priests would assuredly refuse to be hurried and harried in the performance of their sacred offices. Anything approximating to what Tiddy called “reach-me-downs” filled Lady Selina with revulsion. What her girl wore must be hand-sewn, hand-embroidered, stamped (to the understanding eye) with a cachet of its own.

Cicely lingered for a minute on the village green. Inevitably the thought rushed to her mind: “All this will be mine some day.” For the first time, she gazed at the familiar landscape with an intimate sense of possession. Out of the present, she flitted into the future. Pious aspirations bore her upward and onward. She floated upon outstretched wings above a reconstructed and regenerated Upworthy ... It lay beneath her, bathed in sunshine, an object lesson in the administration of a sacred trust ... She beheld her life’s mission accomplished.

Presently, as was natural, her thoughts swooped from others to herself. She could survey herself as bride-elect with an odd detachment. Indeed, for the moment she became a dual personality. The new Cicely in V.A.D. kit, alert, critical, conscious of the immense changes taking place under her nose, met the old Cicely, diffident, silent, moving slowly along lines of least resistance, the “Yes, Mother ... No, Mother,” girl, without initiative, without definite ambitions, content to follow, not daring to lead. This queerly-contrasted pair stared at each other. Possibly, a sense of humour played the part of common denominator. The old Cicely could smile derisively at her own frock! When a maid can do this, none need despair of her. The old Cicely was aware that she might have stepped out of one of the gilded frames in the Manor drawing-room. Gainsborough might have portrayed her exactly as she stood without fear of anachronism. She wore a big, black picture-hat. Across her bosom was folded a black lace fichu, arranged by Lady Selina, and caught together with a mourning brooch which held a miniature. Around her waist, cleverly twisted by the same tender hands, was a black watered-silk sash. To complete the portrait, and as it was unduly hot, she had discarded gloves for long black silk mittens. And she carried a small black silk bag, with her cipher on it in paste.

She could not escape the conviction that the old Cicely was pleased with herself.

Henceforward, she would be at peace. That remained the dominating thought. Pleasing others, she had pleased herself. And Arthur would be “good” to her. They would be “pals.” The new Cicely observed that so busy a man wouldn’t be in the way when he wasn’t wanted. Some uxorious husbands bored their wives. Arthur had said that his wife would have a free hand. The new Cicely then proceeded to startle the old Cicely by the mention of—babies. After the first shock, the old Cicely confronted motherhood without blushing. Proudly she reflected that she had chosen the real right sort to be the father of the babies. Tiddy had discussed Eugenics with her. During her short experience as a V.A.D., Cicely had seen enough of men to discriminate between good and bad. Speaking generally, the Tommies had been splendid, but now and again an exception outrageously revealed himself a beast By accident, Cicely had been in a ward when a patient was brought in mad with delirium tremens. And Tiddy, who was also present, said afterwards that the patient ought to be locked up for the term of his unnatural life, not merely because of his offence, but to enforce celibacy upon him. Dwelling tenderly upon her babies, Cicely recalled a crayon drawing of Arthur, taken when he was two years old—a fat, dimpled darling in a red coral necklace and holding a red coral rattle in his hand. Practically, he wore nothing else. Yes; she had chosen the right man.

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.”

“Good morning, miss, and thank ’ee kindly.”

She curtsied deferentially to the heiress of Upworthy, the future autocrat, the dispenser of wash and eyewash. Cicely hurried on.

Exhilaration was tempered by exasperation. Martha Giles forced thought upon her; she invaded peace of mind, most dear to us after storm and stress. Martha presented a composite photograph of all dependents who accept doles gratefully with a very lively sense of injury if they are withheld or curtailed. Danecourt simply swarmed with just such parasites. And a year ago Cicely would have resented angrily the use of such an ugly word. It was almost as unmentionable as fleas or ... Even in thought a Chandos could not assign the common, loathsome name applied to pests that a toothcomb removed from the heads of dirty children!

Why was Martha such a parasite?

Why would it break her heart if her ramshackle hovel was pulled down?