“Roderick, will you really come?” cried his mother.
“Oh yes, I ‘ll go! I might as well be there as anywhere—reverting to idiocy and living upon alms. I can do nothing with all this; perhaps I should really like Northampton. If I ‘m to vegetate for the rest of my days, I can do it there better than here.”
“Oh, come home, come home,” Mrs. Hudson said, “and we shall all be safe and quiet and happy. My dearest son, come home with your poor mother!”
“Let us go, then, and go quickly!”
Mrs. Hudson flung herself upon his neck for gratitude. “We ‘ll go to-morrow!” she cried. “The Lord is very good to me!”
Mary Garland said nothing to this; but she looked at Rowland, and her eyes seemed to contain a kind of alarmed appeal. Rowland noted it with exultation, but even without it he would have broken into an eager protest.
“Are you serious, Roderick?” he demanded.
“Serious? of course not! How can a man with a crack in his brain be serious? how can a muddlehead reason? But I ‘m not jesting, either; I can no more make jokes than utter oracles!”
“Are you willing to go home?”
“Willing? God forbid! I am simply amenable to force; if my mother chooses to take me, I won’t resist. I can’t! I have come to that!”