Mrs. Agar was simply stupefied. When God does mete out punishment here on earth, He does so with an overflowing measure. This devoted mother did not even evince anxiety as to the welfare of her son, for whose sake she had made so many blunders, so many futile 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 fussily 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 backwards and forwards. She was one of those persons who can never separate mental anguish 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 drawn back as if in agony. She even went so far as to breathe laboriously.
Thus they remained; Jem watching Arthur, Dora watching Jem, who seemed to ignore her presence.
It was Mrs. Agar who spoke first, angrily and bitterly.
“What is the good of standing 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, meddling.”