Autumn set in, and the red dahlias which kept the warm light alive in their bosoms¹ so late into the evening died in the night, and the morning had nothing but brown balls of rottenness to show.

 

They called me as I passed the post-office door in Eberwich one evening, and they gave me a letter for my mother. The distorted, sprawling² handwriting perplexed³ me with a dim uneasiness; I put the letter away, and forgot it. I remembered it later in the evening, when I wished to recall something to interest my mother. She looked at the handwriting, and began hastily and nervously⁴ to tear open the envelope; she held it away from her in the light of the lamp, and with eyes drawn⁵ half closed, tried to scan it. So I found her spectacles, but she did not speak her thanks, and her hand trembled. She read the short letter quickly; then she sat down, and read it again, and continued to look at it.

 

"What is it mother?" I asked.

 

She did not answer, but continued staring at the letter. I went up to her, and put my hand on her shoulder, feeling very uncomfortable. She took no notice of me, beginning to murmur⁶: "Poor Frank—Poor Frank." That was my father's name.

 

"But what is it mother?—tell me what's the matter!"

 

She turned and looked at me as if I were a stranger; she got up, and began to walk about the room; then she left the room, and I heard her go out of the house.

 

The letter had fallen on to the floor. I picked it up. The handwriting was very broken. The address gave a village some few miles away; the date was three days before.

 

"My Dear Lettice:

    "You will want to know I am gone. I can hardly last a day or two—my kidneys are nearly gone.

    "I came over one day. I didn't see you, but I saw the girl by the window, and I had a few words with the lad. He never knew, and he felt nothing. I think the girl might have done. If you knew how

分享到：