CHAPTER X
"If you please, miss"—the untidy maid stood in the doorway, aggressively—"the chicken 'asn't come yet and Cook sez it would be no good sending round, as the shop's shut."
Jill jumped up from the floor where she crouched drying her wet hair before the fire. She glanced up at the clock and frowned.
"Why, it's half past seven!—Of course. She ought to have told me long ago."
"I'm sure, miss"—the other protested with a faint smile not unmixed with malice—"it isn't Cook's fault—she does 'er best. But I'm sure in this 'ouse it's 'ard to please. What with meals at any hour and never knowing if it's two or three ... I'm sure..." She stopped short at the sudden anger in Jill's expressive gray eyes.
"That will do." She threw back her hair, which fell in a dark cloud over her shoulders, narrowing into damp points far below the line of her waist. "I'll come down and see Cook myself."
Lizzie retreated, her face sullen, before the peremptory young voice. Then, changing her mind, she whisked round and barred Jill's passage insolently.
"I'd like to say I want to leave. This day month." She tossed her head. "I don't seem to suit—and it don't suit me!—such goings-on ... an' lawless talk. I ain't used to a mistress as ups and breaks windows—it ain't decent!—an' my young man, 'e sez..."
"Be silent!"—Jill was white with suppressed rage—"If you want to give notice you must speak to Mrs. Uniacke."
"Or Mr. Somerfield, I s'pose..."
The barbed shaft stung the girl as she ran down the stairs, leaving Lizzie, quivering, in possession of the field.
Jill reached the basement, breathless and angry.
"Cook!" she called at the kitchen door. A stout and slovenly woman turned slowly round from before the range.
"Yes, miss?" She wiped her greasy hands on a torn apron, and stood there, expectant.
"What's all this about the chicken? Lizzie tells me it hasn't come?"
"No, miss." She leaned against the table, massive, inert, with an over-red face. Her person exhaled a faint smell of brandy and the glazed eyes completed the story.
"Then what are we going to have for dinner?"
"I'm sure I don't know, miss."
Jill gave her one look and passed with a quick stride into the larder. Thrown anyhow on the dingy shelves were scraps of fish, butter and suet, jars of dripping, some shrivelled apples and the scraggy remains of a leg of mutton. The closed-in place smelled of cheese and mice. Jill explored with hopeless disgust. Too well she knew the domestic chaos that balanced her mother's political activity.
For Mrs. Uniacke had no time for "home." She scorned the narrow "sheltered life" and wore out her strength in that daily fight to prove that Woman was fitted to rule.
"This mutton now..." Jill tipped the bone onto a clean plate from its close companionship with a raw herring, and came back, still frowning, into the kitchen.
"You could grill it, couldn't you?" she asked sharply.
The cook, stupidly, turned it over.
"I could..." she debated with tipsy solemnity. "But there's only, then, enough for two."
"Well, we are two!" Jill was impatient.
The cook sniffed. "More often three! ... I'm sure it's enough to drive one crazy, never knowing what's wanted. An' the tradesmen clamouring for their money ... There's the butcher to-day—'e told me straight: 'That's the last j'int you'll get from us!'—I've never lived in such a place...." Her voice rose. She stuck her hands on her hips and faced her young mistress.
"And I won't stay—what's more! I've always been a respectable woman ... and 'ard-working ... an' treated as such..." (The quick anger induced by spirits brought the tears to her bleary eyes.) "I'm sure if my pore 'usband was 'ere, 'e'd say: 'Martha—you clear, my girl.' 'E'd be ashamed—that's wot 'e'd be ... a butler 'e were in good service. So you can tell yer mother, miss, I've made my mind up—an' I goes!"
With a sob of injured pride she seized the bone in a shaky hand.
"Look at that!" She brandished it under Jill's disgusted nose.
"That's been our dinner since Sunday—and Canterb'ry—that's what it is!"
Poor Jill swallowed hard, struggling to keep her temper in check. Diplomacy she knew full well was the only weapon she dared use.
"Now, look here, Cook. I'm awfully sorry. But I don't want to bother Mother. She's not well—and she's worried to death ... You know what it is to feel bad."
"That I do, Miss Jill!" The cook, mollified, wiped her eyes. "I'm sure with my 'eart as is always flutt'ring—an' the 'ot kitchen—an' pore food ... I didn't ought to do scrubbing—it's a crool shame at my age ... But there..." the facile sentiment born of alcohol was bubbling up and drowning anger. "I don't want to upset yer, miss. Yer don't 'ave too gay a life, you an' Master Roddy—bless 'im!—as always 'as a kind word for Cook..."
She maundered on as Jill retreated, aware that the crisis was postponed.
"That's right, Cookie—you'll see to it? You always make a ripping grill."
"And may Heaven forgive me for the fib," she added as she ran upstairs.
"I wonder why it's such a muddle? Always changing servants like this?"
But in her heart she knew the fault lay in the lack of proper management. The justice of her clear young brain told her that never could they expect a good class of maid to stay in this disorganized "feckless" house! The discomfort of the servants' quarters, the wretched food and poor pay forced Mrs. Uniacke to take the riff-raff whose characters held obvious flaws—like the unsober creature below or Lizzie, lazy and insolent.
And it struck the girl with sudden force that her Mother was giving up her life to secure the Vote with the main object of ameliorating the condition of women.
Yet here in her own small kingdom were servants badly housed and fed, expected to work for a barren wage sixteen hours without complaint.
And there was Roddy—her own brother—with riddled socks and worn-out clothes at a cheap school, while his mother spent their meagre surplus in outside expenses involved by this omnivorous Cause!
A memory of old times when her father lived rose in her mind. For Colonel Uniacke had held a firm rule over the house. In common with many retired officers, he supervised the daily ménage, with the result that when he died his wife missed his wise authority.
And if they couldn't govern their houses—Jill's active mind ran on—with the skill of the "old-fashioned woman," how were they going to govern the Empire?
It came to her with a sudden flash of childish insight that, in the new, inexorable cry of her sex, the Usefulness of the Individual was being carelessly swept aside for the dangerous Power of the Mass.
She had reached by now the second floor, immersed in her sombre thoughts, when she heard the front door open and paused to lean over the rail.
"That you, darling?" she called down—"it's so late—I was getting anxious."
She checked the impulse to retrace her steps as she saw below the shadow of Stephen.
Slowly toiling up the stairs, Mrs. Uniacke appeared, with a worn face where dark circles heightened the brilliance of her eyes.
"Oh, Mother—how tired you look!—and wet through..." Jill's hands ran with anxious fondness over the coat that shrouded the fragile form.
The older woman smiled feebly.
"I've had a hard day, Jill." She kissed her daughter's fresh cheek and moved on shakily into the bedroom.
"What luxury!"—her thin hands went out to the cheerful blaze—"did you tell Lizzie to light it, dear?"
"Yes. I washed my head, you see," Jill explained, "and I thought—it's so cold to-night—I could dry it here by your fire and then it would warm your room for you."
"It's very nice." Her mother sank down in the armchair as she spoke. Jill, with quick fingers, undid her veil and removed the soaking hat.
"Now, your boots..." She began to unlace them. "I put your slippers to toast—there, isn't that nice? Look here, darling, just to please me, won't you go straight to bed?"
"I can't." Mrs. Uniacke sighed. "I've brought Stephen back to dinner. He's been so good ... and he's wet too. I do hope he won't get a chill."
A shadow fell on the girl's bright face.
"Well—he can dine with me—for once! I'll bring you up your dinner myself, so it won't make extra work for Lizzie."
She tossed back her mane of hair and tried to speak in a cheerful tone. But Mrs. Uniacke's mouth hardened.
"I promised to go through some papers to-night ... I can't, Jill—though it's very tempting..." She pressed her hand to her hot forehead. "This wet weather gives me neuralgia. Oh dear! I wish I were stronger."
"Do go to bed"—Jill pleaded. "Look here—if you must work this evening, why can't Stephen come up here? I could put a table by your side and you've got that lovely pink jacket Aunt Elizabeth sent at Christmas."
"Here? In my bedroom?" Mrs. Uniacke stared. "I shouldn't think of such a thing! Really, Jill, you must be mad!"
The girl's face went suddenly scarlet at the horror in her mother's voice.
"Well—he's almost one of the family. I don't see..." She bit her lip.
"All right, Mother—you know best." She hesitated for a moment, then went slowly toward the door. "It's getting late. I must do my hair."
But on the landing outside she gave vent to her impatience.
"Bother him!—I know she'll be ill." Then a voice called her back.
"Jill—I think—after all—I'll go to bed—my head's so bad. Will you look after Stephen? He likes a glass of port, remember. And I'm wondering if Roddy's slippers..."
"Too small," said Jill promptly. "There goes the gong!—don't you worry—I'll see to everything all right."
"No meat for me," her Mother added—"just a little soup—with a rack of toast. I'm too tired for anything solid."
"That's a mercy in disguise," said Jill as she fled up the further stairs. Her mind was much relieved as she thought of the debatable grilled bone. She brushed back her rebellious locks and tied them hurriedly with a ribbon. "I'm glad about the chicken now. Stephen will enjoy his dinner!"
That worthy greeted her with his supercilious smile. "H'are you—Where's your mother?" He held out a limp white hand.
"She's dead-tired and gone to bed. You'll have to put up with me to-night."
"An unexpected pleasure." He drawled with a side-long glance at the girl, her face rosy from the fire in its mass of waving dark-brown hair. "'Pon me word, you're growing up!" He stuck his glass into his eye and moved leisurely to take the head of the long table.
"My place," said Jill politely. "Roddy's away. Will you sit here?"
With an air of childish dignity she began to ladle out the soup.
Stephen laughed—a trifle sourly.
"Sorry to hear your mother's ill. What's the matter?"
"Overwork."
Their eyes met, and at last the man lowered his against his will.
"I suppose you know you're killing her? She can't go on at this rate! I should have thought"—Jill paused a moment—"you would have seen it for yourself."
Stephen laid his spoon down. His irritation at her words was increased by his first taste of the soup, a muddy, thin brown mixture.
"Is this the cook I found for you?" Purposely he ignored her speech and spoke in a languid voice, with studied indifference.
"Yes. Aren't you pleased?" Jill laughed aloud. "You really are a comfort, Stephen! What should we do without your help?" She rose to her feet as she spoke. "Roddy was saying the other day"—she covered her mother's basin of soup and went on with mischievous glee—"'What I do like about Stephen is he always knows what's what! You've only to look at his socks and ties—they match to a T—he's such a K-nut!' D'you like being a Nut, Stephen?"
Her voice was innocence itself.
She turned with the tray in her hand, and added, as he answered nothing:
"Drink your soup—it will do you good! And Mother's sure to ask for news of your appetite."
The door banged and she was gone.
Stephen turned with a frown to Lizzie, now recovered from her tantrums and inwardly enjoying the sport, for the servants all hated the man.
He enjoyed in the kitchen circle the pseudonym of "The Cuckoo"—a flight of fancy on Cook's part, who likened the house to a Robin's nest!
"Sherry, please," he ordered sharply.
"There's none up, sir," the maid snapped. She would miss nothing by her manner, for Stephen rarely gave a tip.
Down came Jill with a kind message.
"Mother hopes you've all you want? She's feeling a little more rested. I think I shall keep her in bed a week."
"I'm afraid that's impossible." Stephen sneered. "She's going to speak at a meeting to-morrow, and on Friday we're off to Leeds—for the great Demonstration." ("One back," he said to himself, as he saw the girl's mouth tighten.)
"It's an odd thing," said Jill shortly, "that rest's not included in Woman's Rights."
"Not until we get the Vote." Somerfield eyed with suspicion a scraggy, blackened object borne by Lizzie toward his little hostess.
"Silver Grill," she explained, "cooked 'à point' by your treasure-trove. Like a bit?" She dug the fork into the charred meat and smiled.
"It's best Canterbury," she added, with a reminiscence from below. "You know, we have to economize or there'd be nothing for the Cause."
Stephen's temper began to slide.
"Look here, Jill. Don't talk of things you're too young yet to understand."
He turned the unpalatable fragments over angrily on his plate.
"Potatoes?—Onions?" Her voice was sweet. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Stephen. I quite forgot you couldn't eat them! But then, you see, I didn't expect you. If you'd only given us a little warning. If you'd told me, for instance, yesterday—or was it Monday you lunched with us? No. Sunday supper. How stupid I am!—I never can remember dates."
Upstairs Mrs. Uniacke was lying back against the pillows and enjoying the rare luxury of a quiet rest in bed.
"I hope they're getting on all right?" Her thoughts were with the pair below. "I don't know how it is that Jill seems always to upset Stephen."
She knew her children resented his presence and the claim he made upon her time. But habit was too strong for her, and each day cemented the tie. She had always leaned. From nursery days she had never learnt to stand alone, and since her husband's death Stephen had slowly become a part of her life.
The friendship was that rare achievement, a purely platonic affair. Perhaps, as her children grew older, strong and capable, she missed the sense of tenderness about her, the touch of baby clinging hands. With all her utterly feminine nature, she longed to comfort and to guide. And in this parasite who had crept into the heart of her home she found the two attributes needed in her barren and widowed life.
She could "mother" him. He loved "fuss," with none of her children's independence. And at the same time she could lean on his young strength and masculine mind.
But her thoughts of him were utterly pure. It was no sentimental affair cropping up in her middle age with a last desperate clutch at romance.
And to strengthen the link between them stood the Cause—the cry of Woman's wrongs; the excitement of new-found power and the secret thrill of martyrdom.
She had reached an impressionable age, and broken by her great sorrow—for her husband had been the love of her life—her arms went out to her suffering sisters.
If only she could ease the burden, throw her failing strength into the balance, she could die with the sense of something achieved.
Humbly she offered her "widow's mite."
*****
Meanwhile in the dingy dining-room Jill had checked her love of fun. Her natural courtesy forbade an open quarrel with her mother's guest. She felt she had gone quite far enough...!
Assuming a more serious air, she asked the man for information respecting the long day's work.
Stephen, a little mollified by a glass of the late Colonel's port, smoking an excellent cigarette (recommended by him to Mrs. Uniacke), launched forth into description of a visit to a factory; a lengthy investigation of wages and the hours allotted to the female "hands"; while Jill sat at the end of the table, listening thoughtfully.
She held as yet no settled opinions on the question of Woman's Suffrage. Undetermined, she kept herself, by McTaggart's advice, slightly aloof.
Nevertheless the atmosphere of the house stimulated thought. It made life a bigger affair to picture a broader field for her sex.
"You say"—she leaned her chin on her hands, her dark-fringed eyes full of light. "That the finer, more delicate work is undertaken by the women. That they do it better, are paid less ... No, it doesn't sound a bit fair!"
"Ah! you begin to see," said Somerfield. "They do it too in less time. Their fingers are smaller, their work neater—in fact it's economy to employ them."
"Then what do you propose?" said Jill—"to get them paid the same as men?"
"Undoubtedly—or even more. It's their due—and we shall see it's done."
"But—wait a minute. You can't make money. I mean—it's got to come from somewhere. And if the employers can't give more, I suppose ... they'll take it from the men?" She went on thoughtfully, thinking aloud. "They could level down and pay all alike. Is that the idea?"
Somerfield nodded. "Well—one of them—but there are other methods."
"Let's stick to the first." Jill was logical, true to the broad college training.
It saved her from the common pitfall of feminine minds in argument. She could weigh the various pros and cons free from personalities.
"I suppose most of the men are married?"
"About two-thirds, roughly speaking."
"Then what about their wives and children? If you cut down the wages the husbands earn won't it come pretty hard on them? It seems unfair that the factory women—who are most of them, I suppose, unmarried—should take the bread out of the mouths of their married sisters—and the children."
Somerfield looked annoyed.
"Oh, I don't say that would happen exactly. There are other ways ... But what we want is to see women get decent wages, full value for their work. The employers will have to come forward. If we make a strong stand they're bound to give way..."
"Strikes?" Jill raised her eyebrows. "I thought they ruined the nation's trade? And that women always suffered more—the wives and mothers in these times. Besides..." relentlessly she pursued her way with a child's honest search for knowledge. "I don't really understand ... But, supposing that wages all round are raised, well then the employers—to make a profit—will have to sell at a higher cost. And won't that make living dearer?—in case of food and necessities?"
"Not in the end. You ought to study Political Economy. I doubt if it much affects the class we're working for at any rate. It may hit ours!" He smiled sadly with an air of secret martyrdom—"And the rich too, I sincerely hope!"
"But if you keep on 'hitting the rich'"—Jill adopted his expression—"and the large class of employers—won't they some day have to retrench? And doesn't that mean cutting down employment in every grade—for women too?"
"More likely smaller dividends!" Somerfield sneered. "These syndicates and capitalists are the curse of England"—his voice rose—"that's where the people's money goes—back to the pockets of the rich!"
"But aren't there a lot of decent people, middle-class and rather poor, investors too, dependent on dividends? Oh, I can't understand it all!—It seems to me whatever you do to alter the distribution of wealth you ruin some one—and always, always it pans out harder for those who work!"
"We're not talking of Socialism," Somerfield hastily interposed—"we're discussing the need for the Vote—for women to have a hand in the Government. To see that their own sex don't suffer—to put down all sorts of wrongs that have lingered on from feudal days when women were nothing more than slaves!"
"It sounds glorious." Jill was moved, but the doubt still haunted her.
"If only one could pick the women. They're such a lot of us, you see—and—really—some are awful fools!"
"And what about the present Government? And the next too, if it comes to that! D'you think their brains are above suspicion?" He gave her a mocking glance.
"No." Jill nodded her head. "But allowing that they're rather stupid, do you want to add to the general confusion by pairing them with the other sex—an equal number of ignorant women?"
"Oh! you're hopeless!" He got up and poured himself out another glass from the port decanter on the sideboard. "I thought you really wanted to learn?"
"So I do." Jill sat tight. "But I won't be swept off my feet by ... a sort of hypnotism of Sex! I want to keep an unprejudiced eye. Of course I'd like to see women take a leading place everywhere. But if they make a mess of it, we're worse off than we were before. We stand to lose as well as gain by rushing into public life." She threw back a lock of hair that had fallen forward, blinding her.
"Now, look here, Stephen, we've got a lot ... I'm not talking of influence and the right to expect chivalry—which by the way I think we're losing, through the tactics of the Militants! You've only to stand in a Suffrage crowd and listen to some of the remarks. Why, fifty ... a hundred years ago ... a decent man would have taken umbrage. Men were run through in those days for far less said of their sisters or wives! But—to go back—-we've got some pull. To begin with, men, when they marry, keep us! I dare say I'm old-fashioned. Yes—of course! I knew you'd laugh!—but it's big, really. It means a home—and protection—and a fair chance for ... bringing up a family."
She flushed slightly under his smile, but went on bravely with her argument.
"It seems to me that by and by we'll have to work, share and share alike, ill or well, on equal terms. And what's to become of our home life—and—well ... the next generation?"
Stephen saw his chance at last.
"Are you thinking of marriage yourself, Jill? You seem to arrange for all possibilities..."
His greenish eyes were insolent under their long fair lashes.
"Oh!" She sprang up. "Oh! you beast...!"
But she faced him still, breathless, white.
"At any rate, if I did, I'd live in my own house!" she cried.