CHAPTER XXIII
A month passed quickly away. Almost every day McTaggart's car drew up at the house near Primrose Hill, and Jill and Roddy joyfully mounted in it, with an occasional fourth in the shape of Aunt Elizabeth. Then off they went out of London into the cooler country air, a trio of gay explorers armed with maps and a pic-nic hamper.
Such cakes! For Mrs. Belsey had fallen a victim to Roddy's charms, his wheedling voice and jolly laugh and "Cookie—just one jam-puff?"
Miss Uniacke, too, had thoroughly enjoyed what she was pleased to call her "bounden duty."
From attic to cellar the musty old house had been turned literally inside out. For the invalid had improved at a surprisingly quick rate. No longer the household moved on tiptoe. Good food and the sense of all responsibility shelved on to the shoulders of the capable little old maid; her careful nursing and cheerful common sense had gone far to hasten the cure.
With her two devoted well-trained servants and a charwoman (forbidden "chatter!") Aunt Elizabeth had probed into every hole and corner.
The episode of the dead mouse (in a disused cupboard under the stairs) had proved the culminating point in her campaign against disorder.
Jill had been summoned to find her Aunt, rigid, holding between finger and thumb the tail of the moral offender: not unlike a small rodent herself, with her sharp nose and pointed chin framed in a grey check duster.
Her brown fringe was frankly awry, her grey eyes had steely points.
"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 assure 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 space silence fell between them, charged with memories, sweet and sad. Then Aunt Elizabeth stirred, took off her glasses, 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 unsexed!"
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 butter 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! God 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 apron! 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 'stitch ... stitch' 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 nobility. 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 superstition—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 passed 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 pass 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 passing need.
Among the bright birds of passage 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 Dick 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.
"I don't know what you'll get to eat"—the pretty grey-haired woman smiled—"half the servants have gone to Scotland—Bertram and I lead the simple life!"
"I'm not particular"—he laughed—"so long as you don't give me rabbit!"
This was an old joke between them. Once they had stayed in a country house where the hostess was noted for frugality and rabbit had figured on the menu to an alarming extent. Beginning with cold pie at breakfast, a curry (with suspicious bones) had proved the hot dish at lunch and a "chicken cream" figured at dinner in which McTaggart had found a shot!
So he declared. And ever after the hostess in private had been named "Bunny" in Lady Leason's set. McTaggart smiled at the recollection.
He was going that afternoon to take Miss Uniacke for a final drive, with Jill and Roddy; for on the morrow she was leaving her sister-in-law.
With the quick recuperative power that many nervous women possess the invalid had cast off the yoke of her recent illness rapidly.
Already keen to return to work, despite Aunt Elizabeth's many lectures, the very fact of her late ordeal had fired her vivid imagination.
She held that her public demonstration had given her at last the right to consider herself not only a martyr but a worthy Champion of the Cause.
But behind her desire for active work lay dormant the thought of Stephen's friendship. She had suffered from the enforced estrangement, yet was shrewdly aware of the reason.
She knew that Miss Uniacke did not approve of the intimacy, but imagined too that the little old maid was no lover of the opposite sex. She had been honestly amazed at her attitude toward McTaggart. It never occurred to her that Jill was the link between the curious pair. Nor could she realize in the girl a charm that would warrant the supposition.
Although she loved her only daughter and was secretly proud of her own offspring, she would have been greatly surprised had an outsider pointed out the fact of Jill's attraction to men.
The girl was so unlike herself!
It is a curious human trait that a mother can rarely appreciate a different type in her daughter. And yet some hidden law of Nature presiding at the children's birth most frequently endows a girl with the characteristics of the father. Jill was the picture of Colonel Uniacke. Roddy, with his bright colour, high cheek bones, and bird-like glance, was far more like the mother, though a stronger edition, in miniature.
But Jill, tall, gracefully formed, was rounded too; with wide grey eyes and her father's well-shaped hands and feet. Her mouth was a shade too large for beauty, but full of character, fresh and curved, with the deep corners that spell humour, and her chin held a note of obstinacy.
She had her father's clear judgment, sense of proportion and of balance, his strong vitality, warm heart and an almost passionate love of justice. Her greatest stumbling block was pride.
Many a time as a tiny child had she wept in secret over a fault, but refused to apologize. She was 'sent to Coventry' once for a week for some unwise rebellious speech, but at the end of the punishment the little girl was still stubborn.
"I'm sorry that I hurt you, Mother—I am sorry"—the tears rolled down—"but I meant every word I said—and I do still—I can't help it!"
Colonel Uniacke was called, prompted by his indignant wife.
He took Jill on his knee.
"Now, then, child—out with it!"
"I said"—her arms went round his neck—"I simply hated Miss Bellew" ... (she referred to the new governess). "She's a perfect sneak and she hit Roddy—I know I'm naughty"—she wailed aloud—"but I do hate her—she's a beast! and I won't 'kiss and make friends'—not to please anybody!..."
"All right, then, you needn't." The child stared with wide eyes. "But while she's in authority you'll treat her with a proper respect. If she's a foe you're still bound—more than ever bound in honour—to show her every courtesy. And now go and kiss your mother."
Jill slid down, her sobs checked. This was a new point of view. Her father watched her thoughtfully.
"Of course," he said, "it's rather hard on Miss Bellew, when you think of it. She's paid to teach you—it's her living—she doesn't do it out of pleasure. You are the daughter of the house. She's my guest..." He shrugged his shoulders.
Jill turned without a word, and went back into the schoolroom.
From the passage outside, her parents heard her explain the matter.
"Miss Bellew"—she stood there in her crumpled pinafore, stiff and forlorn, tears still on her cheeks. "I'm sorry I was rude to you. I'm sorry I said you were a beast. But you hit Roddy—that finished it—and I don't like you—I never shall! But I won't call you names again. No—I don't want to be kissed ... but I'm going to be a good girl ... as long (sniff) ... as you're Father's guest."
She kept her word. Weeks later she explained the truce to Colonel Uniacke.
"We're 'honourable foes,' you see—like Coeur de Lion and Saladin."
The story had become a classic, and in the quiet garden one evening Aunt Elizabeth repeated it to the much-amused McTaggart.
"It's just like Jill"—he commented—"she's got a man's code of honour. I've never met a girl like her ... it's a character in a thousand."
Aunt Elizabeth looked up slyly—and caught the light in the blue eyes.
"I think we're both of us fond of Jill," she said, letting the words sink in. Then started briskly to talk of Mrs. Uniacke's improvement, drifting off into her pet aversion—Woman's Suffrage and Militant ways.
But her stray shot had missed the mark. The purely brotherly terms on which McTaggart met his girl friend were still untouched by sentiment.
He hardly knew how much he cared; content with a sense of friendship so totally distinct from all his other dealings with her sex.
He knew that Jill liked him. Not for a moment did he guess the presence of a deeper feeling. She supplied the want he had keenly felt in his own lack of home life. It was good to know that in one house he was always a welcome guest without the fear of intrigue or wearisome social convention.
For during the long months abroad many traps had been laid for him, and it bred a shrewd distrust of girls, based on more than vanity.
Now as he strolled slowly along toward his club through the Mayfair streets his thoughts ran back to Cydonia.
He walked past the Cadells' door. The blinds were down, the shutters fixed. Obedient to the decree of fashion they had moved on with the social tide.
But a feeling of thankfulness possessed him. He knew well that he had escaped a life with a woman who would have bored him, chained to the "obvious orthodox"!
And he wondered...
Was there a way of love that could survive monotony? Could he ever rely on himself to recognize the "one woman"?
Had his "double heart" been the cause of the indecision that beset him?—these swift passions that burned out like straw. Would he ever know the sacred flame?
And suddenly the gypsy's words rose up into his mind.
"Between two fires you shall burn and burn." ... He felt a thrill of superstition.
She had foretold his "golden crown," the fortune "coming over-seas" ... What was it she had prophesied later? He knit his brows, searching his memory.
Like a head on a coin, clear and raised, he saw again the swarthy face; he heard the strange pattering voice, felt her warm touch on his hand.
"When the light fades ... on the turn of the tide ... there's the Lucky Moon and the Dream of your life...!"
The "Dream of his life"? He shook himself as though to break the uncanny spell.
"What nonsense it is! I expect she tells the same tale to every man." But he knew in his heart he was not unmoved. There was magic in the chosen words.
The Dream of his life...?
With wistful eyes he tried in vain to pierce the veil, knowing behind a vision lay, sweet—unguessed—the face of Love.