Thus it ran:
'Great Walpole-street, Wednesday.
'MY DEAR MARTIN,--Although I have been gifted with a singularly patient disposition, with the power of enduring a large amount of weariness and suffering without complaint, yet as a worm will turn, so do I at length lift up my voice to protest against my son's treatment of me. There are not, I imagine, many mothers in this world who have made such sacrifices for their offspring as I have for you, Martin; there are certainly very few sons who have received such an offer from their parents as that made by me to you when last you were in London, and yet the treatment which I receive at your hands is in exact conformity with that which has been my lot during my ill-fated life. My long-suffering has been overlooked, my kindness unappreciated, my actions misunderstood.
'Martin, are you, or are you not, going to take advantage of the offer which I made you to take your position in my establishment, give up your country parish, and become a shining light in the metropolis? One would have thought such an opportunity, combining as it would an admirable position in society, not vain and frivolous, but solid and respectable and eminently fitted for a clergyman, with the command of wealth, which would have placed you entirely at your ease, would have been such a one as you would not have hesitated to avail yourself of; and yet weeks, I may say months, have passed since I first broached the subject to you, and I have as yet received no definite reply. I must ask you to let me hear from you at once, Martin, upon this point. I always thought the late Mr. Calverley the most dilatory of men, and I do not wish to see his bad example imitated by my own flesh and blood.
'I suppose that, independently of other considerations, the son of any other woman would have thought of his mother's loneliness, and done his best to console her even under much less agreeable circumstances; but I am fated I know, and I do not repine. One thing, however, I am determined on, and that is, I will not bear this solitude any longer; I must have a companion of some kind; and upon your answer will depend what steps I shall take. By the way, talking of companions, Madame Du Tertre has called here once or twice lately. She seems very comfortable in her new place, and talked a great deal about you. But I have no fear; my son will always know his proper position in society. Write to me at once, Martin; and believe me
'Your affectionate mother,
'JANE CALVERLEY.'
A faint smile played over Martin's lips as he perused two or three portions of this letter, and when he came to its conclusion he laid it aside with a shrug of the shoulder.
'Poor mother,' he muttered, 'she is right so far. I certainly ought to have given her an answer upon that matter long since. I will write to her to-night. Now let's see what Statham has to say.'
'The letter from Statham was that described in a previous chapter. Martin's exclamation on reading it has been already recorded. After a little time he placed both letters in his pocket, clasped his hands behind him, and walked up and down the gravel path.