In the morning-room, lounging over a low fire, sat Mrs. Darkham, the doctor's wife, a big, coarse, heavy-looking woman—heavy in mind as in body. Her hair, a dull brown, streaked liberally with gray, was untidily arranged, stray locks of it falling about her ears. She was leaning forward, staring with stupid, small, but somewhat vindictive blue eyes into the sorry glow of the fire, and her mouth looked as though she were dwelling on thoughts unkindly. It was a loose mouth, and vulgar. The woman, indeed, was plebeian in every feature and movement.
The room was well furnished—that is, comfortably, even expensively—but it lacked all signs of taste or culture. It was not unclean, but it was filled with that odious air that bespeaks carelessness, and a want of refinement. The tables had been dusted, but there were few ornaments on them—a copy of Wordsworth was so closely leaved as to suggest the idea that it had never been opened; another of Shakespeare in the same condition; some sea-shells, and no flowers.
On the hearthrug—squatting—foolishly playing with the cinders in the grate, sat a boy—a terrible creature—deaf and dumb and idiotic. It was the woman's son. The son of Dr. Darkham, that clever man, that learned scientist!
He sat there, crouching, mouthing; his head protruded between his knees, playing with the cinders, making passes at the fire with his long fingers. He was sixteen, but his face was the face of a child of seven. His mind had stood still; his body, however, had developed. He was short, clumsy, hideous; but there was strength —enormous strength—in the muscular arms and legs. The face vacant, without thought of any kind, was in some remarkable way beautiful. He had inherited his father's dark eyes—all his father's best points, indeed—and etherealised them. If his soul had grown with his body, he would have been one of Nature's greatest products; but his soul lay stagnant, and the glorious dark eyes held nothing.
His figure was terrible—short and broad. His hair had never grown, and the body had ceased to form upwards at twelve. He had now the appearance of a boy of that age, but the strength of his real years.
The mother sat in the lounging chair looking into the fire; the boy sat on the rug. Neither of them was doing anything besides. Suddenly the door opened.
The woman started and looked round. The poor creature on the rug still played with the cinders.
"Oh, you!" said Mrs. Darkham. Her husband had just come in.
"Yes. I am going out; I want a stamp."
"You'll find them in the table drawer, then," said his wife sullenly. Her voice was guttural, vulgar.