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257
Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
91
But
Peter
did
not
come
back.
That
spring
day
was
the
last
time
he
ever
saw
his
mother’s
face.
The
writer
of
the
letter—
the
last—
the
only
person
who
had
ever
seen
what
was
written
in
it,
was
dead
long
ago;
and
I,
a
stranger,
not
born
at
the
time
when
this
occurrence
took
place,
was
the
one
to
open
it.
The
captain’s
letter
summoned
the
father
and
mother
to
Liverpool
instantly,
if
they
wished
to
see
their
boy;
and,
by
some
of
the
wild
chances
of
life,
the
captain’s
letter
had
been
detained
somewhere,
somehow.
Miss
Matty
went
on,
“And
it
was
racetime,
and
all
the
post-horses
at
Cranford
were
gone
to
the
races;
but
my
father
and
mother
set
off
in
our
own
gig—
and
oh!
my
dear,
they
were
too
late—
the
ship
was
gone!
And
now
read
Peter’s
letter
to
my
mother!”
It
was
full
of
love,
and
sorrow,
and
pride
in
his
new
profession,
and
a
sore
sense
of
his
disgrace
in
the
eyes
of
the
people
at
Cranford;
but
ending
with
a
passionate
entreaty
that
she
would
come
and
see
him
before
he
left
the
Mersey:
“Mother;
we
may
go
into
battle.
I
hope
we
shall,
and
lick
those
French:
but
I
must
see
you
again
before
that
time.”
“And
she
was
too
late,”
said
Miss
Matty;
“too
late!”
We
sat
in
silence,
pondering
on
the
full
meaning
of
those
sad,
sad
words.
At
length
I
asked
Miss
Matty
to
tell
me
how
her
mother
bore
it.
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