"That will please her," I answered, drying away the tears which had risen to my eyes. "But please do not disappoint her. I will tell her of your visit. Do not keep her waiting. She is weak; she has been very ill. At what hour will you come?"
"About twelve o'clock. But she must be very bad indeed from the way you speak."
"She is far from well."
"Are you hiding anything from me, Westenra?"
"I am," I replied stoutly. "And you cannot get my secret from me. When you see mother to-morrow perhaps you will know without my speaking. Do not say anything to agitate her."
"My poor, poor child. Westenra, you ought never to have left us. You do not look well; but never mind, spring is coming, and Jim Randolph will be home before May."
CHAPTER XX
RUINED
It was on the afternoon of that same day that Jane Mullins sent for me to go into her private sitting-room.
"Shut the door," she said, "I must talk to you."
Really Jane looked most queer. During the last month or two, ever since Mr. Randolph went away, she had been taking less and less pains with her dress; her hair was rough and thinner than ever; her little round figure had fallen away; she seemed to have aged by many years. She was never a pretty woman, never in any sense of the word, but now there was something grotesque about her, grotesque and at the same time intensely pathetic.