“I used to think,” she answered, “that if any trouble came to me I would bear it like a stoic.  But that was at home, where things don’t speak to us of enjoyment as they do here.  Here it is such a mixture; one does n’t know what to choose, what to believe.  Beauty stands there—­beauty such as this night and this place, and all this sad, strange summer, have been so full of—­and it penetrates to one’s soul and lodges there, and keeps saying that man was not made to suffer, but to enjoy.  This place has undermined my stoicism, but—­shall I tell you?  I feel as if I were saying something sinful—­I love it!”

“If it is sinful, I absolve you,” said Rowland, “in so far as I have power.  We are made, I suppose, both to suffer and to enjoy.  As you say, it ’s a mixture.  Just now and here, it seems a peculiarly strange one.  But we must take things in turn.”

His words had a singular aptness, for he had hardly uttered them when Roderick came out from the house, evidently in his darkest mood.  He stood for a moment gazing hard at the view.

“It ’s a very beautiful night, my son,” said his mother, going to him timidly, and touching his arm.

He passed his hand through his hair and let it stay there, clasping his thick locks.  “Beautiful?” he cried; “of course it ’s beautiful!  Everything is beautiful; everything is insolent, defiant, atrocious with beauty.  Nothing is ugly but me—­me and my poor dead brain!”

“Oh, my dearest son,” pleaded poor Mrs. Hudson, “don’t you feel any better?”

Roderick made no immediate answer; but at last he spoke in a different voice.  “I came expressly to tell you that you need n’t trouble yourselves any longer to wait for something to turn up.  Nothing will turn up!  It ’s all over!  I said when I came here I would give it a chance.  I have given it a chance.  Have n’t I, eh?  Have n’t I, Rowland?  It ’s no use; the thing ’s a failure!  Do with me now what you please.  I recommend you to set me up there at the end of the garden and shoot me.”

“I feel strongly inclined,” said Rowland gravely, “to go and get my revolver.”

“Oh, mercy on us, what language!” cried Mrs. Hudson.

“Why not?” Roderick went on.  “This would be a lovely night for it, and I should be a lucky fellow to be buried in this garden.  But bury me alive, if you prefer.  Take me back to Northampton.”

“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!”