Free The Quiet Heart by Susan Barrie

that they would never do or say when they were in full possession of their senses, and capable of appreciating the possible implications.
    Marianne and Jessamy were not allowed to visit the sickroom very often, but they did occasionally take turns listening for his bell, and answered it with promptitude when it rang. Even Marianne, most critical of the invalid, was no laggard when that bell rang and it was her turn to be considered on duty. She would jump up with alacrity, glance at herself hastily in the nearest mirror and smooth her hair and the front of her dress, make certain nothing could be done to improve her appearance—even if it meant a second summons on the bell before she finally presented herself at the bedside of the sufferer—and enquire breathlessly what she could do to be of assistance when Leydon’s eyes swung round to her, and sometimes the merest suspicion of disappointment appeared in them which puzzled her.
    She flattered herself that she was sufficiently attractive to be regarded as a sight for sore eyes by most men ... and Charles Leydon was a man in the prime of life, whatever else he might or might not be that she could entirely approve of. She also flattered herself that she had a gentle touch, and he should have appreciated it when, without being asked, she turned his pillows and tucked in his sheet and emptied his ash-tray and poured him fresh barley water all with a few economical movements. But instead of always appearing grateful there were occasions when he frowned a little, even looked distinctly peevish.
    “You!” he would say when she entered the room. “What’s happened to your mother?”
    “You mean my stepmother?” with patient sweetness.
    “Of course.” The surprise in his voice caused her to recoil. “How could she possibly be your mother?”
    “Well, you called her my mother just now,” she reminded him gently, on the first occasion that he asked for Alison.
    He turned his face away from her. His voice sounded fretful.
    “I’d better call her Alison,” he said. “Then you’ll know who I’m talking about.”
    “Yes, do,” she cooed, determined not to take offence. “But you know, if there’s anything you need, I’m perfectly capable of getting it for you.”
    “Including a bed-pan if I need it?” The bright sparkle of amusement in his eyes disconcerted her so much that she blushed vividly, which was unusual for her.
    “I—I—” she stammered. “Does Alison do that?”
    “No, Mrs. Davenport.”
    “Then it’s Mrs. Davenport you need, isn’t it?”
    He shook his head violently.
    “Your Mrs. Davenport, excellent though she may be, smothers me with her maternal instincts. She loves to treat me as if I were two years old. No, I don’t want Mrs. Davenport, and I don’t want you.” This was on the second occasion when Marianne answered his bell. “And the next time you come to my room please refrain from pouncing on me as if you were an instrument of torture and I the victim. My pillows do not need all the feathers shaken out of them every few minutes, and as I’ve only smoked one cigarette so far to-day I object to being regarded as an inveterate smoker whose ash-trays are always crowded to capacity. And now, as I can’t remember why I rang, you can go!”
    Both his tone and his look were ungracious, but Marianne made allowance for his condition and retreated from the room without displaying anything in the nature of resentment. And the next time she was on call she respected his wishes and refrained from pouncing on him, as he had previously complained, and merely stood patiently waiting beside his bed until he had told her what it was he had pressed his bell for. As a reward for her exemplary behaviour he smiled at her with faint whimsicalness and apologised for his earlier rudeness; but by contrast with the kind of reception Jessamy received when she entered his room Marianne could hardly look upon herself as a prime favourite with him, and