Presently indeed he saw that it had soothed her and that in spite of her
efforts to keep awake she had fallen fitfully asleep again. He let the
book drop, and sat still, studying his mother's strong, lined face in its
setting of gray hair. There was something in her temporary quiescence and
helplessness that touched him; and it was clear to him that in these
last few months she had aged considerably. As he watched, a melancholy
softness--as of one who sees deeper than usual into the human
spectacle--invaded and transformed his whole expression; his thin body
relaxed; his hands dropped at his side. The dead quiet of the house also
oppressed him--like a voice--an omen.
He knew that she had seen Enid Glenwilliam that morning. A little note
from Marion Atherstone that afternoon spoke anxiety and sympathy. "Enid
confesses she was violent. I am afraid it was a painful scene." And now
there was Arthur to be faced--who would never believe, of course, but that
his mother had done it.
A movement in the garden outside diverted his attention. He looked up and
saw two figures--Marcia and Newbury. A sight which roused in him afresh--on
the instant--all his fiercest animosities.
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