The Man with the Double Heart Part 51

"Look at _that_!--I've a great mind to take it straight to your Mother.

I wonder you haven't all had typhoid! That's what comes of a dirty house!"--she scoffed--"she really _ought_ to know."

"Oh, Aunt Elizabeth, _don't_!" cried Jill. "Mother's afraid of mice."

"Hm..." Miss Uniacke snorted at this--"and calls herself a militant suffragette! I'm really ashamed for the servants to see it. Take it away and bury it--and I only hope it will be a lesson!"

Inwardly she was rejoicing. Jill, obediently, received the corpse and departed toward the garden. On the way she met Roddy--who promptly proposed to skin it!--but the gruesome project was abandoned and a small grave dug instead, with an ornamental tombstone.

As soon as the house was thoroughly cleaned the reformer turned her attention to the domestic education of her niece. For Mrs. Uniacke was up, on a long chair in her room, and required but little nursing now.

Every morning after breakfast Aunt Elizabeth donned a hat of plaited straw, tied with a ribbon under her pointed chin, not unlike the kind worn by a careful horse during a heat wave--so Jill thought--and only needing two holes and a pair of ears!

She and Jill would adjourn to the garden, where a pantry table and chairs were arranged on the swept path under a sycamore.

Here they mended the long-neglected household linen and the older woman preached; taking for her text the decadence of the present age, as compared to that of her early youth.

"In _my_ young days"--she would start with a sniff--"we took a pride in our homes. We hadn't time for discontent and to dabble in men's affairs. Look at this darn..." she held it out. "I'd like to see a _man_ do that!"

Contempt was in her shrill voice. She went on, more gently:

"I remember we used once a week to meet at my Mother's house--your Grandmamma, Jill, my dear, but you don't remember her--my two cousins and my sister and a girl friend, and have a Sewing Bee. You think it sounds dull?--I a.s.sure you it wasn't! We took it in turns to read aloud--Wilkie Collins was coming out in a weekly journal--most exciting! We fixed the day on which it appeared, and no one was allowed to peep inside. Edward used to take it in. He was always so full of fun--and one afternoon he pretended it hadn't come. We were so vexed and then my cousin Jean found it pushed carefully into a stocking ready to darn! How we laughed!" She glanced up, smiling, at Jill--"You're very like your Father, my dear, his hair and eyes--and dark brows."

"Am I?--I'm so glad." The girl checked a sudden sigh. "You can't think how we missed him!"--her voice was low--"it seemed, somehow ...

like the end of everything."

For a s.p.a.ce silence fell between them, charged with memories, sweet and sad. Then Aunt Elizabeth stirred, took off her gla.s.ses, wiped them aggressively, and in a sharp, business-like voice:

"Now--let me see." She held out her hand--"Algebra and Euclid and Greek and she can't hem a tablecloth! That's the modern education ...

Look at that line--d'you call that straight? Girls brought up to think of nothing but dress and pleasure--pampered by maids!--And they proceed to fall in love!--(an eloquent sniff) with some young fool without a penny to his name--marry in haste--and can't even teach the cook to make a milk pudding!

"Then you pick up the newspaper one day and find--'What to Do with Our Girls?'" she sneered, "and 'Is Marriage Really a Failure?'--'Should Mother Dance the Tango?' I've no patience with the women--empty dolls or else uns.e.xed!"

She bit her cotton with sharp teeth and went on with her homily.

"In _my_ young days"--Jill dared to smile--"we were not ashamed of women's work--we took a pride in it, my dear. Why, your Grandmother Uniacke lived in the depths of the country, fifteen miles from a town and no railway station either! No shops--no chemist. She had her own store-room of drugs and dispensed them as well as any doctor. Once a week the villagers came and explained their ailments and Mamma used to prescribe--in all but the most dangerous cases. She was the squire's wife, you see, and this was expected then. We made our own b.u.t.ter and cheese--bread, of course--and home-brewed ale and cured our own bacon too. Everywhere my mother presided. She was like a little queen; in a kingdom of her own! There was no time, I can tell you, to discuss Woman's Rights--we took that for granted in _my_ young days. And if a girl couldn't sew it was considered a disgrace! She very soon had to learn--and dairy work and plain cooking."

She broke off abruptly--with a sharp glance at Jill.

"Now--measure it with your card. Don't you get that hem too wide. I sometimes think sewing machines were the invention of the Devil! G.o.d knew when He made woman the soothing effect of needlework. And directly Eve ate the apple and filled her brain with education she had to set about an ap.r.o.n! Not only as a covering but to occupy her idle hands. There's nothing beats it, to my mind, as a sedative for the nerves. When you're worried with puzzling questions, take a bit of plain sewing and you'll find the 'st.i.tch ... st.i.tch' brings its own peace. With no noise and clatter like working a machine or that other abomination--a typewriter. I'd as soon be in a factory, and I verily believe we've never had the same health since the advent of machinery.

"It's changed even the social side. In _my_ young days the people with means were the landed gentry and the n.o.bility. But now all the fine old places are being sold up to the rich manufacturers"--she sighed with real chagrin. "Everywhere, instead of good work and durability, it's cheap clothes trimmed with imitation lace. And women with idle hands, discontented and neurotic.

"If every woman did the work she leaves to her lady's maid and saw to good old-fashioned food and unadulterated bread, we shouldn't hear of these cases of 'nervous breakdown' everywhere. It's the unnatural life we lead, turning night into day, eating unwholesome kickshaws and poisoning ourselves with doctored wines!"

"But don't you think..." Jill got her chance at last as Aunt Elizabeth paused for breath--"that the present education is broadening women's minds? Think of the frightful superst.i.tion--the narrow moral point of view--the bigoted creeds of the centuries past. When girls talked of nothing but sentiment and fainted and screamed..."

"Hm...." Miss Uniacke interrupted. "I don't see very much improvement.

They shriek now on public platforms--instead of in their own parlours.

It's a less decent form of hysteria, to _my_ mind!"

Jill laughed aloud.

"All the same--I think they've more self-respect nowadays. They don't go running after men..."

"_Don't_ they?" snapped her Aunt. "Just read a few cases of breach of promise and divorce! That will show you how far the modern woman respects herself!

"Nine times out of ten it's idleness breeds sin. If they tubbed their own babies they'd have less leisure for such mischief. But babies are out of fashion now..." the intrepid old maid stole a glance at Jill's calm face and proceeded--"Mind you, I don't say I consider it's right to bring a lot of children into the world if you haven't the means to support them. But you'll notice if you look around it's the people who could well afford it who generally shirk that duty! A baby's a handicap, you see, in a life of pleasure.--It means self-denial--and besides this, the young generation shrink from any form of pain!...

"When you marry, Jill, my dear," her thoughts swerved to McTaggart--"make up your mind to be wife and mother--instead of a well-dressed, idle doll! You'll be far happier--mark my words--it's what the Almighty planned for women."

"I shan't marry." Jill's dark head was bent in shadow over her work.

"All young girls _say_ that." Aunt Elizabeth smiled to herself. "And some of us stick to it," she added with a touch of grim honesty.

"There you are!" cried Jill. But the moment the words had pa.s.sed her lips she regretted them. For the thin old face was a trifle wistful.

She went on quickly.

"I'd far rather be like you, with all your liberty, Aunt Elizabeth.

For, after all, though one _does_ hear of happy marriages"--she paused--"they're rather rare, aren't they? And if one marries for love ... it's that--or _nothing_!" Her face was grave. "How can one tell it's going to last?"

For once her Aunt found no reply.

So the mornings would pa.s.s away in work and argument, strangely happy, followed by long afternoons in the open air with McTaggart.

Jill looked the picture of health, with sunburnt cheeks and healthy nerves.

For the summer had triumphed over the rain and a long spell of drought succeeded.

London was clearing fast of its smart crowd, and the streets and parks seemed to draw a breath of relief, freed from the daily whirl. Few people lingered in town, save the workers, and, here and there, a scattered fragment of society detained by some pa.s.sing need.

Among the bright birds of pa.s.sage was Lady Leason. McTaggart met her one July morning coming briskly forth from her tailor's.

"Well--this _is_ nice!" He stopped and shook hands. "I thought you and d.i.c.k had gone to Cowes?"

"No--I'm a lone widow"--she smiled. "I'm off next week to join him in Scotland. I've been trying on some shooting clothes"--she produced a pattern--"How d'you like it?"

"Heather mixture--nice stuff," he fingered it with approval. "It's simply ages since I've seen you--I've only been back a little time and meant to call, but heard you had gone. Shall you be at home next Sunday?"

"What are you doing this evening? Come and dine--that would be better.

I've got Bertram staying with me--my cousin. He's up for the Church Congress."

"I'd love to. Is that the Bishop?" and as she nodded--"at eight o'clock?"

"Yes--as usual. We'll have a chat--just ourselves--that will be nice.

You haven't missed much this season--everything spoilt by rain. Ascot was like the Flood and I didn't get a single winner!"

"Hard luck!" said McTaggart. He saw her into a taxi and stood for a moment leaning on the door.