To none of the sources upon which
I have touched was it clearly traceable; in truth, it arose from
them all. The man had never in his life been guilty of offence
against his graver conscience; he had the sensation of being about
to plunge from firm footing into untried depths. His days were
troubled; his appetite was not what it should have been; he could
not take the old thorough interest in his work. It was becoming
clear to him that the matter must be settled one way or another with
brief delay.
One day at the end of September he received a letter addressed by
Alice. On opening it he found, with much surprise, that the contents
were in his mother's writing. It was so very rarely that Mrs.
Mutimer took up that dangerous instrument, the pen, that something
unusual must have led to her doing so at present. And, indeed, the
letter contained unexpected matter. There were numerous errors of
orthography, and the hand was not very legible; but Richard got at
the sense quickly enough.
'I write this,' began Mrs. Mutimer, 'because it's a long time since
you've been to see us, and because I want to say something that's
better written than spoken. I saw Emma last night, and I'm feeling
uncomfortable about her. She's getting very low, and that's the
truth. Not as she says anything, nor shows it, but she's got a deal
on her hands, and more on her mind.
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