Two of the three months passed, and all seemed to be going well.  Then one day there came to Mutimer a telegram from ’Arry’s employer; it requested that he would go to the shop as soon as possible.  Foreseeing some catastrophe, he hastened to Hoxton.  His brother was in custody for stealing money from the till.

The ironmonger was inexorable.  ’Arry passed through the judicial routine and was sentenced to three months of hard labour.

It was in connection with this wretched affair that Richard once more met his mother.  He went from the shop to tell her what had happened.

He found her in the kitchen, occupied as he had seen her many, many times, ironing newly washed linen.  One of the lodgers happened to come out from the house as he ascended the steps, so he was able to go down without announcing himself.  The old woman had a nervous start; the iron stopped in its smooth backward and forward motion; the hand with which she held it trembled.  She kept her eyes on Richard’s face, which foretold evil.

‘Mother, I have brought you bad news.’

She pushed the iron aside and stood waiting.  Her hard lips grew harder; her deep-set eyes had a stern light.  Not much ill could come to pass for which she was not prepared.

He tried to break the news.  His mother interrupted him.

‘What’s he been a-doin’?  You’ve no need to go round about.  I like straightforwardness.’

Richard told her.  It did not seem to affect her strongly; she turned to the table and resumed her work.  But she could no longer guide the iron.  She pushed it aside and faced her son with such a look as one may see in the eyes of a weak animal cruelly assailed.  Her tongue found its freedom and bore her whither it would.

’What did I tell you?  What was it I said that night you come in and told me you; was all rich?  Didn’t I warn you that there’d no good come of it?  Didn’t I say you’d remember my words?  You laughed at me; you got sharp-tempered with me an as good as called me a fool.  An’ what has come of it?  What’s come of it to me?  I had a ’ome once an’ children about me, an’ now I’ve neither the one nor the other.  You call it a ‘ome with strangers takin’ up well nigh all the ’ouse?  Not such a ome as I thought to end my days in.  It fair scrapes on my heart every time I hear their feet going up an’ down the stairs.  An’ where are my children gone?  Two of ’em as ’ud never think to come near me if it wasn’t to bring ill news, an’ one in prison.  How ’ud that sound in your father’s ears, think you?  I may have been a fool, but I knew what ‘ud come of a workin’ man’s children goin’ to live in big ‘ouses, with their servants an’ their carriages.  What better are you?  It’s come an’ it’s gone, an’ there’s shame an’ misery left be’ind it!’