“But doesn’t Lady Ridding realise that?”
“She won’t let herself realise it. Sister Monica is very useful to her. Lady Ridding wants maidservants at the Manor, and Sister Monica can always produce some village youngster whom she has ‘influenced’—hypnotised is a better word—and trained in the ways of genteel service. It’s a wonderlul gift, and Lady R. profits by it.”
“I think it’s awful,” said Anne.
Sanderson put his glass down and leant forward. “Look here, Mrs. Ferens. Don’t let this thing worry you. Those children aren’t ill treated, they’re only dominated. At the age of five they go on to other homes connected with schools. They soon forget the Warden of Gramarye. And in the nature of things, Sister Monica can’t go on very much longer. She’s over sixty now. When she retires Gramarye will be closed.”
“I’m delighted to hear it, but I can’t bear to think of her going on in that unctuous way. It’s terribly bad for small children to be terrorised as those poor scraps are being. Besides, if she’s a liar, somebody ought to bowl her out.”
“Nobody’s ever managed to do it. There are plenty of people who have tried, and it’s they who have suffered. I tell you, she would take your character away more easily than you could take hers. She has all the powers that be in this place on her side. Give her a wide berth and ignore her. She’ll die one day, in God’s good time.”
“That’s one way of looking at it,” said Anne. “Do tell me, why did she take a dislike to you?”
“Because I criticised her adversely. I thought she was—well, a tyrant and a bad influence in some respects. It was pointed out to me that I had no evidence and my opinion had not been invited. Oh, it was a sickening story. Don’t let’s talk about it.”
“All right. I won’t, but do tell me this. Is there nobody in the village who dislikes her?”
“Plenty of them, but they won’t say so. This village has its own peculiar character, you know. You’ll realise that when you’ve lived here a bit longer. At first one sees only its charm, everybody fitting together pleasantly, according to their station in life—but there’s more to it than that.” He broke off, laughing a little. “I’m getting prosy. I don’t want to bore you.”
“You’re not boring me,” said Anne. “I want to get this village in focus, and you can help me. Please go on.”
“Well, you’ve always got to remember its remoteness and its antiquity. Throughout the centuries, Milham in the Moor has been cut off from towns and society and affairs. Here it has been, on its hilltop at the edge of the moor, and it has flourished because it made itself into an integrated whole, in which everybody was interdependent. A small group of people living in such conditions are conscious of their interdependence. ‘Never make trouble in the village’ is an unspoken law, but it’s a binding law. You may know about your neighbours’ sins and shortcomings, but you must never name them aloud. It’d make trouble, and small societies want to avoid trouble.” Anne nodded. “I think I follow. And applying what you say to the subject of Sister Monica, nobody will attack her because she’d hit back. And then there would be hell to pay.”
“There would, indeed. She knows everything about everybody, and quite a lot of people in this village don’t wish their affairs to be made public. Villages, as you may know, are not really more virtuous than towns. They only look more virtuous, and are more successful in coating the past with limewash, as they do their cottages. What’s underneath is nobody’s business.”
“That’s a very good exposition,” said Raymond’s voice at the door. “Are you teaching Anne a bit about villages, Sanderson? She’s never lived in one before.” He came into the room and sat down happily in his favourite chair, while Anne fetched him a glass of sherry. “How nice all this is,” he murmured. “I’m enjoying our village. Apropos of what you said just now, Sanderson, people in villages don’t want their transgressions to be publicised. That’s true; but it’s also true that everybody knows where everybody else has erred, only it’s a convention that it’s never mentioned in public. That’s the very essence of village life—never noise it abroad.”
He turned to Anne. “And how about the tea party, angel?”
“A most elegant tea party,” she replied. “China tea in Rockingham cups and pre-war b. and b., cut like wafers and arranged on lace doilies. I saw all over the house and it’s the cleanest house ever. I saw the children at tea. One of them recited a little home, and they sang a verse of a hymn. All very high-minded. It roused the worst in me, but Mr. Sanderson has given me a good talking to, and I’m going to emulate village conventions. Say what you like, but say it withindoors and let not your right hand know what your left hand doeth.”
4
“Wicked, my dear? Of course she’s wicked,” replied Miss Emmeline Braithwaite.
Anne Ferens was returning a call—the country still practised formal manners, she found—and she was sitting in the white-panelled drawing room of Miss Braithwaite’s house. China tea again, good smoky Lapsang souchong, but the cups were Royal Worcester this time, and savoury sandwiches replaced thin bread and butter.
“Do help yourself. I always eat a good tea,” said Emmeline Braithwaite. She was seventyish, Anne guessed, very robust, very weatherbeaten, brindled hair and an equine profile, but she had a delightful voice and said exactly what she meant.
“We’re all wicked in some ways,” went on old Emmeline. “I’ve been a mass of iniquity in my time, but that woman combines all the worst sorts of wickedness. I’d disregard her cant and humbug, but I can’t stomach
