RODERICK HUDSON
"Oh, my dearest son," pleaded the poor lady; "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 've given it a chance. Have n't I, eh? Have n't I, Rowland? It 's no use; our little experiment '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 dead."
"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?" his mother quavered.
"Why should n't I go? I might as well be there as anywhere—reverting to idiocy and living on alms. I can do nothing with all this; perhaps I should really like again the opposite pole. 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 pleaded, "and we shall all be safe and quiet and happy. My dearest son, come home with your poor little mother!"
"Let us go then—quickly!"
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