Cranford

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.