"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!"