The adulteress

"Old friends, yes. By the way, I miss one familiar face. Your daughter." He had turned his smile on Jessie.

She flushed—with pleasure I think. "Oh, Evalina did rather well for herself. She's a married lady now."

"Indeed!"

"Yes, indeed. She's Mistress Mather of Grasslands."

"Isn't that the other big house ... ? There were three of them."

"Yes," I said. "Eversleigh, the manorial residence, then Enderby and Grasslands."

"The two rather less glorious luminaries," said Dickon, "but nevertheless quite bright when not put in the shade. So your charming daughter is mistress of Grasslands."

"Yes, she is. She's settled in very nicely."

"I wonder if she would like me to call."

"I'm sure she would."

I felt nauseated by the smile about his mouth; I was recalling that moment in the barn. He looked at me and knew it. He was becoming a very disturbing person now that he was reaching maturity.

We had left the table and dusk was falling when Dr. Cabel approached me.

He said: "Lord Eversleigh has had a restful day. He is conscious now. If you would like to see him for a few minutes?"

"Yes, I would."

It was the same time as it had been last night, I noticed, and remarked on this.

"Yes, there is bound to be a certain regularity," said Dr. Cabel. "That might persist for a day or so and then the pattern could change and the mornings could be the best time to see him. Are you ready now?"

He lighted a candle, for it was dark enough now for us to need one.

Dickon met us on the stairs.

"We are going to see Lord Eversleigh," said the doctor.

Dickon nodded and turned away as we went into the room. The doctor put his candle down on the mantelpiece beside the other one which was burning there. Jessie was at the bedside.

She put her fingers to her lips.

"Is he sleeping?" whispered Dr. Cabel.

"No. But he's drowsy."

"It won't do any harm for you to say a word to him," said the doctor to me. "I fancy he remembered your visit last night and was looking forward to another."

I went to the bed. His face was turned away and, as last night, his nightcap was slightly askew; his hand with the signet ring lay outside the coverlet. I bent to take it and just at that moment there was a movement at the head of the bed.

Dickon stood there.

Both Jessie and the doctor turned sharply. Jessie let out an exclamation.

The doctor went swiftly to Dickon and whispered something.

Jessie turned to me: "He wants you to take his hand. He knows you're here." I took the hand and kissed it just below the ring. I was thinking of Dickon's impertinence in coming in when it had been made clear that he was not wanted.

I felt the fingers curl round mine, though he did not move his position and half his face was still buried in the pillow; but his lips moved and I thought I heard him say: "Zipporah."

I bent over him.

"I'm here, Uncle Carl. You must get better. There's so much to talk about."

His eyes were closed and his head moved slightly. The doctor came back to the bed; he had evidently prevailed on Dickon to depart.

He seemed a little agitated. He raised his eyebrows and nodded to me.

"Better go now." He mouthed the words.

I followed him out of the room. Jessie joined us.

"That was rather upsetting," said Dr. Cabel.

"You mean Dickon's coming in like that?"

"Yes, we have to be careful."

"But my uncle couldn't have been aware of it."

"He was aware of something. I sensed the change in him. We have to be so careful. That is why I only want you to see him even when he is well enough to stand the strain of visitors."

"It was all so quick ... and quite silent ... he couldn't have been aware ..."

Dr. Cabel smiled at me as though he couldn't expect me to understand.

Then he said to Jessie: "I think I'll go in. It might be necessary to give him something to calm him down."

I said good night to them. I would go to my room. I wanted to read awhile.

I thought they were making a great fuss, although I deplored Dickon's irresponsibility in walking in to the sick room when it had been made so clear to him that he wasn't expected to do so. On the other hand I could not see that Uncle Carl, who seemed only just able to recognize me, could possibly have known about it.

I went to my room but I couldn't read. I was disturbed. First of all by Dickon's visit. What I wanted to think of was the pleasant afternoon I had had at Enderby but now these strange thoughts were persisting. It had all seemed so odd suddenly in that sick room that evening, although he had been lying in almost the same position with his face half buried in the bedclothes. His only response had been in the pressure of his fingers and his lips moving to say my name. I wished that I could see him alone. I supposed that would make no difference. But in the room tonight there had been something ... I was not sure what ... something strange ... something that was worrying me.

I must go to bed. Perhaps tomorrow I might look in at Enderby again. Was that too soon? Perhaps not, as I should not be staying here long. They had said to come again.