The four walked back to the library together. Mrs. Agar looked back over her shoulder at every other footstep. She took no notice of her son. Her affection for him seemed suddenly to have been absorbed and lost in some other emotion.
Jem was half supporting, half carrying Arthur, whose eyes were like those of a dead man, while his lips were parted in a vacant, senseless way.
Already Ruthine could be heard giving his orders to the gardeners and other servants who had gathered round him in a wonderfully short space of time.
Dora passed into the library first, treading carefully over the broken glass, and Mrs. Agar followed her without appearing to notice the sound of breakage beneath her feet. No one had spoken a word since Mark Ruthine had told them that Seymour Michael was dead. There are some situations in life wherein we suddenly realise what an inadequate2 thing human speech is. There are some things that others know which we have never told them, and would ever be unable to tell them. There are some feelings within us for which no language can find expression.
Mrs. Agar was simply stupefied. When God does mete3 out punishment here on earth, He does so with an overflowing4 measure. This devoted5 mother did not even evince anxiety as to the welfare of her son, for whose sake she had made so many blunders, so many futile6 plots.
Jem brought Arthur into the room, and led him to an arm-chair. There was that steady masterfulness in his manner which comes to those who have looked on death in many forms and whom nothing can dismay.
He offered no unnecessary assistance or advice, did not fussily7 loosen Arthur's necktie, or perform any of those small inappropriate offices which some would have deemed necessary under the circumstances. He knew quite well that this was no matter of a necktie or a collar.
Mrs. Agar seated herself on a sofa opposite, and slowly swayed her body backwards8 and forwards. She was one of those persons who can never separate mental anguish9 from physical pain. They have but one way of expressing both, and possibly of feeling both. Her hands were clasped on her lap, her head on one side, her lips drawn10 back as if in agony. She even went so far as to breathe laboriously11.
Thus they remained; Jem watching Arthur, Dora watching Jem, who seemed to ignore her presence.
“What is the good of standing12 there?” she said to Jem. “Can't you find something more useful to do than that?”
Jem looked at her, first with surprise and then with something very nearly approaching contempt.
“I am waiting,” he replied, “for Ruthine. He is a doctor.”
“Who wants a doctor now? What is the good of a doctor now—now that Seymour is dead? I don't know what he is doing here, at any rate, meddling13.”
“Arthur wants a doctor,” replied Jem. “Can you not see that he is in a sort of trance? He hears and sees nothing. He is quite unconscious.”
Mrs. Agar seemed only half to understand. She stared at her son, swaying backwards and forwards in imbecile misery14.
“Oh dear! oh dear!” she whispered, “what have we done to deserve this?”
After a few seconds she repeated the words.
“What have we done to deserve this? What have we done ...”
Her voice died away into a whisper, and when that became inaudible her lips went on moving, still framing the same words over and over again.
In this manner they waited, with that dull senselessness to the flight of time which follows on a great shock.
They all heard the clatter15 of horses' feet on the gravel16 of the avenue, and probably they all divined that Mark Ruthine had sent for medical help.
To Dora the sound brought a sudden boundless17 sense of relief. Amidst this mental confusion it came as a practical common-sense proof that the tension of the last year was over. The burden of her own life was by it lifted from her shoulders; for Jem was here, and nothing could matter very much now.
Presently Ruthine came into the room. As he went towards Arthur he glanced at Dora and then at Mrs. Agar, but the young fellow was evidently his first care.
While he was kneeling by the low chair examining Arthur's eyes and face, Mrs. Agar suddenly rose and crossed the room.
“Who?” inquired Mark Ruthine, without looking round.
“Seymour Michael.”
“Yes.”
“Quite?”
“Yes.”
“Then Arthur killed him?”
“Yes.”
All this while Arthur was lying back in the chair, white and lifeless. His eyes were open, he breathed regularly, but he heard nothing that was said, nor saw anything before his eyes.
“Then,” said Mrs. Agar, “that was a murder?”
She was looking out of the window, towards the stone terrace, already conscious that the scene that she had witnessed there would never be effaced19 from her memory while she had life.
After a little pause Mark Ruthine spoke.
“No,” he answered, “it was not that. Your son was not responsible for his actions when he did it. I think I can prove that. I do not yet know what it was. It was very singular. I think it was some sort of mental aberration—temporary, I hope, and think. We will see when he recovers himself—when the circulation is restored.”
While he spoke he continued to examine his patient. He spoke in his natural tone, without attempting to lower his voice, for he knew that Arthur Agar had no comprehension of things terrestrial at that time.
“It was not,” he went on, “the action of a sane20 man. Besides, he could not have done it. In his right mind he could not have killed Seymour Michael, who was a strong man. As it is, I think that there was some sort of paralysis21 in Seymour Michael—a paralysis of fear. He seemed too frightened to attempt to defend himself. Besides, why should your son do it?”
“He was born hating him.”
Mark Ruthine slowly turned, still upon his knees. He rose, and in his dark face there was that strange eagerness again, like the eagerness of a sportsman approaching some unknown quarry22 in the jungle.
“What do you mean, Mrs. Agar?” he asked.
“I mean that he was born with a hatred23 for that man stronger than anything that was in him. His soul was given to him full of hate for Seymour Michael. Such things are when a woman bears a child in the midst of great passion.”
“Yes,” said Mark Ruthine, “I know.”
“The night he was born,” Mrs. Agar went on, “I first saw and spoke to that man after he had come back from India—after I had learnt what he had done.”
Ruthine turned round towards Jem and Dora.
“You hear that,” he said to them. “This is not the story of a mother trumped24 up in court to save her son. It is the truth. There are some things which we do not understand even yet. Don't forget what you have heard. It will come in usefully.”
He turned to Mrs. Agar again.
“Did he know the story?” he asked.
“He never heard it until you told it just now.”
“Can you swear to that, Mrs. Agar?”
“Yes.”
“Then,” said Ruthine, “he does not know now that you are the woman whom Seymour Michael wronged. He need never know it. The paroxysm had come on before you spoke—that was why I shouted. He was mad with hate, before you opened your lips.”
Mrs. Agar was now beginning to realise what was at stake. The mother's love was re-awakening. The old cunning look came into her eyes, and her quick, truthless mind was evidently on the alert. There was something animal-like in Mrs. Agar; but she was of the lower order of animal, that seeks to defend its young by cunning and not by sheer bravery.
Ruthine must have guessed at something, for he said at once:
“Remember what you have told me. You will have to repeat that exactly. Add nothing to it, take nothing from it, or you will spoil it. Tell me, has your son seen this man more than once?”
“No, only once; at Cambridge.”
“All right; I think I shall be able to prove it.”
As he spoke he went towards the writing-table and, sitting down, he wrote out a prescription25. Dora followed him and held out her hand for the paper.
“Send for that at once, please,” he said.
“I have sent for the local doctor,” he said to him. “But I should advise having some one else—Llandoller from Harley Street. This is far above our heads.”
“Telegraph for him,” answered Jem Agar.
While Ruthine wrote he went on speaking.
“We must get him upstairs at once,” he said. “I should like to have him in bed before the doctor comes.”
In answer to the bell, rung a second time, the servant came, looking white and scared.
“Show Dr. Ruthine Mr. Arthur's room,” said Jem; and Ruthine took Arthur up in his arms like a child.
When they had gone there was a silence. Mrs. Agar made no attempt to follow. She sat down again on the sofa, swaying backwards and forwards. Perhaps she was dimly aware that there remained something still to be said.
Jem Agar crossed the room and stood in front of her. Dora, from the background, was pleading with her eyes for this woman. There were the makings of a very hard man in James Edward Makerstone Agar, and seven years of the grimmest soldiering of modern days had done nothing to soften27 him. He was strictly28 just; but it is not justice that women want. To all men there comes a time when they recognise the fact that all their time and all their energies are required for the taking care of one woman, and that all the rest must take care of themselves.
“You may stay,” he said to his step-mother, “until Arthur is removed from this house—but no longer. I shall never pretend to forgive you, and I never want to see you again.”
Mrs. Agar made no answer, nor did she look up.
“Go,” said Jem, with a little jerk of his head towards the door.
Slowly she rose, and without looking at either of them she passed out of the room.
When, at last, they were left alone in the quiet library where they had played together as children, where the happiest moments of his life and the most miserable29 of hers had been lived through.
Dora did not seem to know quite what to do. She was standing by the writing-table, with one hand resting on it, facing him, but not looking at him. She suddenly felt unable to do that—felt at a loss, abashed30, unequal to the moment.
But Jem seemed to have no hesitation31. He was quite natural and very deliberate. He seemed to know quite well what to do. He closed the door behind Mrs. Agar, and then he came across the room and took Dora in his arms, as if there were no question about it. He said nothing. After all, there was nothing to be said.
THE END
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
spoke
|
|
| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
inadequate
|
|
| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
mete
|
|
| v.分配；给予 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
overflowing
|
|
| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
devoted
|
|
| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
futile
|
|
| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
fussily
|
|
| adv.无事空扰地，大惊小怪地，小题大做地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
backwards
|
|
| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
anguish
|
|
| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
drawn
|
|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
laboriously
|
|
| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
meddling
|
|
| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
misery
|
|
| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
clatter
|
|
| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
gravel
|
|
| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
boundless
|
|
| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
abruptly
|
|
| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
effaced
|
|
| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
sane
|
|
| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
paralysis
|
|
| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
quarry
|
|
| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
hatred
|
|
| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
trumped
|
|
| v.（牌戏）出王牌赢（一牌或一墩）( trump的过去分词 )；吹号公告，吹号庆祝；吹喇叭；捏造 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
prescription
|
|
| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
beckoned
|
|
| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
soften
|
|
| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
strictly
|
|
| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
miserable
|
|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
abashed
|
|
| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
hesitation
|
|
| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |