“Oh, she’s plain wicked. I know she is,” said Anne. “And it looks such a virtuous village, Ray: could anything be more innocent looking?” She paused and looked back at the sunny coloured cottages, and her husband laughed.
“Human nature’s never innocent, angel. Whenever you get a group of people living together, whether in town or village, you find the mixed characteristics of humanity—envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness mingled with neighbourliness and unselfishness and honest-to-God goodness. This place is beautiful: Stourton was hideous, but if a social statistician could get busy in both, he’d find the same percentages of human virtues and human failings. But I like humanity, and even its sins are sometimes endearing.”
“Yes. You’re perfectly right,” said Anne soberly, but he laughed.
“No one is ever perfectly right, my wench, neither you, nor I, nor anybody else. And remember this: the country looks innocent and towns often look the reverse, but human nature is the same whether in town or country—it’s a mixture of good and bad. The only people who really get my goat are the ones who kid themselves they’re a hundred per cent good. Now do you want me to do any heaving or shoving or manhandling this afternoon, or can I go and get the bits and pieces fixed in my surgery?”
“You go along to your surgery, Ray, or go and talk shop with that snuffy old mass of iniquity in his surgery. I know you’re panting to get started on a nice pneumonia or obstructed twins. All manhandling’s done: I’m going to make beds and get rid of the mess. Tea at five and don’t be late. And I won’t criticise anybody else or say anybody’s wicked.”
“Leave the aspersions to the village,” he laughed. “They’ve had a good look at you, and they’ll all have a few words to say on the subject of Jezebel, bless them.”
4
It was just as Anne had produced broom and dustpan that the old-fashioned bell jangled at the front door, and Anne found a strangely assorted group awaiting her: Lady Ridding stood in the porch, a picture of gracious benevolence and dignity: behind her was a buxom village woman, and in the drive an aged man standing by a wheelbarrow, with a tow-haired boy beside him.
“Welcome to the Dower House, Mrs. Ferens, and may you and your husband be very happy here,” smiled the great lady. “Now I haven’t come to interrupt you: I know how busy you must be, but I’ve brought Mrs. Beer to introduce her, and if you would like someone to help, she will stay now. She’s a great standby with polishing these old wooden floors. Thomas has brought you some flowers from the greenhouses as our moving-in gift. The arum lilies look so beautiful in this house, and he’ll collect the pots again when the flowers are over. And young Dick will bring your milk and cream and take any orders for vegetables. Now I won’t stay. I know you’re busy—and do send for Sanderson at once if you want anything done in the house.”
Anne tumbled out a breathless “Thank you…thank you very much, Lady Ridding,” as she looked at the noble pots of arums and primulas, and the older lady smiled back:
“Not at all. It’s a great pleasure—and how nice to have someone so young and pretty for a neighbour! I’m delighted to have you here, my dear.”
She sailed away like a galleon in full rig, her ample coat billowing out in the wind, and Mrs. Beer greeted Anne serenely.
“Good-afternoon, ma’am. Her ladyship’s like that, rather sudden but so good-hearted. Now if you’re not wanting me, I’ll just go straight home, but I’ve got some time free if so be you’d like me to sweep and polish.”
“I should like it very much, Mrs. Beer, so do come in,” said Anne, and the buxom body turned to old Thomas.
“Now do you ask Mrs. Ferens if she’d like them pots stood in the porch meanwhiles and how much milk she wants this evening, and don’t you step inside in them mucky boots, young Dick.”
Mrs. Beer turned out to be the sort of body whom overworked housewives pray for but seldom attain. She set to work clearing up the debris the vanmen had left and was polishing the floors in two-twos, while Anne got the beds made and tidied up the bedroom, realising how much easier it was to work in big rooms rather than in small ones. It was nearly four o’clock when she went into a drawing-room already shining and tidy with the pots of arum lilies standing on the wide window sills. Mrs. Beer was just putting the posy from Gramarye on the mantel shelf, and she said to Anne: “I see you’ve had Sister Monica here, ma’am. I’d know her little bunches of flowers anywhere; she’s clever the way she arranges them.”
“I think they’re beautiful,” said Anne. “I expect you’ve known Sister Monica a long time, Mrs. Beer.”
“Indeed I have, ma’am. I mind her when she first came, thirty years ago that be, and her cap and veil just the same as she wears to-day, never altered one bit she hasn’t except her white hair. Maybe she do look odd and old-fashioned to people from away, but we’re so used to her we never notice. I had my niece to stay with me at Christmas, she’s a Plymouth girl, and she was proper startled when she saw Sister. But there, she’s a wonderful woman. Old Dr. Brown, he do think the world of her, and so do Vicar and Lady Ridding.” Mrs. Beer looked around the room and then said: “And now, ma’am, if you’d like me to light Aga, I’m used to they. Two they’ve got at
