As I began to regain strength and the doctors pronounced me fit to leave the sick-room, she began to display signs of uneasiness, and often looked at me in a singular kind of way, as though there were something which she would say to me.
And one night I woke up suddenly, to find her standing by my bedside, wrapped in a long dressing-gown, her grey hair streaming down her back and a wild gleam in her burning eyes. I started up in bed with a cry of fear, but she held out her hand with a gesture which she intended to be reassuring.
“Nothing is the matter, Philip,” she said. “Lie down, but listen.”
I obeyed, and had she noticed me closely she would have seen that I was shivering; for her strange appearance and the total lack of affection in her manner, had filled me with something approaching to horror.
“Philip, you will soon be well enough to go out,” she continued. “People will ask you questions about that night.”
It was the first time the subject had been broached between us. I raised myself a little in the bed and gazed at her, with blanched cheeks and fascinated eyes.
“Listen, Philip! You must remember nothing. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” I answered faintly.
“You must forget that you saw me in the garden; you must forget everything your father said to you. Do you hear?”
“Yes,” I repeated. “But—but, mother——”