The Man with the Double Heart Part 19

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 gla.s.s 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 ma.s.s of waving dark-brown hair. "'Pon me word, you're growing up!" He stuck his gla.s.s 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 appet.i.te."

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 'a 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?