e, an' there's
shame an' misery left be'ind it!'

Richard listened without irritation; he was heavy-hearted, the shock
of his brother's disgrace had disposed him to see his life on its dark
side. And he pitied his poor old mother. She had never been tender
in her words, could not be tender; but he saw in her countenance the
suffering through which she had gone, and read grievous things in the
eyes that could no longer weep. For once he yielded to rebuke. Her
complaint that he had not come to see her touched him, for he had
desired to come, but could not subdue his pride. Her voice was feebler
than when he last heard it raised in reproach; it reminded him that
there would come a day when he might long to hear even words of
upbraiding, but the voice would be mute for ever. It needed a moment
such as this to stir his sluggish imagination.

'What you say is true, mother, but we couldn't help it. It's turned out
badly because we live in bad times. It's the state of society that's to
blame.'

He was sincere in saying it; that is to say, he used the phrase so
constantly that it had become his natural utterance in difficulty; it
may be that in his heart he believed it. Who, indeed, shall say that he
was wrong? But what made such an excuse so disagreeable in his case was
that he had not--intellectually speaking--the right to avail himself of
it. The difference between truth and cant often lies only in the lips
that give forth the words.

'Yes, that's what you always said,' replied Mrs. Mutimer impatiently.
'It's always someone else as is to blame, an' never yourself. The
world's a good enough world if folk 'ud only make it so. Was it the bad
times as made you leave a good, honest girl when you'd promised to marry
her? No, you must have a fine lady for your wife; a plain girl as earnt
her own bread, an' often had hard work to get it, wasn't good enough for
you. Don't talk to me about bad times. There's some men as does right
an' some as does wrong; it always was so, an' the world's no worse nor
no better, an' not likely to be.'

The poor woman could not be generous. A concession only led her on
to speak the thoughts it naturally suggested to her. And her very
bitterness was an outcome of her affection; it soothed her to rail
at her son after so long a silence. He had injured her by his holding
aloof; she was urged on by this feeling quite as much as by anger with
his faults. And still Mutimer showed no resentment. In him, t