Part 29 (1/2)

The next moment we were bowling away in her carriage.

”Ah,” she cried, ”now you look more like yourself. Pray give that old hat to the housemaid. Don't put it on again. I mean to drive you home now, Westenra.”

”Thank you,” I answered.

”I mean to see your mother also. Is she seriously ill?”

”She is,” I replied. I lowered my eyes and dropped my voice.

”But what is the matter, my poor child? You seem very sad.”

”I have a great deal to make me sad, but I cannot tell you too much now, and you must not question me.”

”And Jim has gone, really?”

”Mr. Randolph has gone.”

The d.u.c.h.ess seemed about to speak, but she closed her lips.

”He wrote and told me he had to go, but he will come back again. When did you say he went, Westenra?”

”I did not say, d.u.c.h.ess.”

”But give me the date, dear, please, and be quick.”

I thought for a moment.

”He left England on the 30th of November,” I said.

”Ah, and this is the 15th of March. What a nice genial spring we are having. He will be home soon; I am sure of that.”

”Have you heard from him?” I asked abruptly.

”Just a line _en route_. I think it was dated from Colombo. Have you heard?”

”I believe mother had a letter, and I think Jane had.”

”He has not written to you?”

”No.” I felt the colour leap into my cheeks like an angry flame. I was ashamed of myself for blus.h.i.+ng.

The d.u.c.h.ess looked at me attentively, and I saw a pleased expression in her eyes. That look made me still more uncomfortable. She bent towards me, took my hand, and pressed it.

”You like Jim, do you not?” she said.

”Yes,” I answered very slowly. ”I do not know Mr. Randolph well, but what little I have seen of him I like. He is courteous, and he thinks of others; he is very unselfish; he has much sympathy and tact, too. I think he is very fond of mother.”

The d.u.c.h.ess gave the queerest, most inexplicable of smiles.