She took no notice; perhaps she did not hear him. He came up to her side and touched her, upon which she started to her feet. "Mother," he repeated, "where have you been?" And he could not help noticing a kind of unholy triumph in her face. "Why are you not in bed?" he asked. "It is six o'clock in the morning, and your bed has not been slept on."
"It's all right, Paul," she said. "It's all right. Never mind; you needn't fear. I've found out something. I've done something!"
"Found out something! Done something! What?"
"I am not going to tell you," she said, and the look on her face frightened him. It might be that some long-desired thing had been given to her—some great object attained, some unholy desire gratified. For the look on her face was not one that a man loves to see in the face of his mother.
"All you hoped for shall come to pass, Paul. Yes, all—all, my boy; don't be afraid. I've done it!"
Her words sounded like a knell in his soul. It seemed to him that they had a dark, ominous meaning. He was not a nervous man, rather he was strong, determined, not easily moved; but it seemed as though something had gripped him, and he was afraid.
"I never dreamt when I went out," she said, "that I should do such a good night's work—never dreamt that everything would come so easily." And then she laughed.
"Tell me what you mean, mother."
"No, Paul, nothing. But you'll have a surprise—yes, you'll have a surprise!"
She might have been mad. Her face was strange, her words were strange, the look on her face was such as he had never seen before.