It was my mother’s. A pencil-writing, on a crushed and torn piece of paper, blotted with wet. Folded roughly like a letter, and directed to me at my guardian’s.
“You know the hand,” he said, “and if you are firm enough to read it to me, do! But be particular to a word.”
It had been written in portions, at different times. I read what follows:
I came to the cottage with two objects. First, to see the dear one, if I could, once more—but only to see her—not to speak to her or let her know that I was near. The other object, to elude pursuit and to be lost. Do not blame the mother for her share. The assistance that she rendered me, she rendered on my strongest assurance that it was for the dear one’s good. You remember her dead child. The men’s consent I bought, but her help was freely given.
“ ‘I came.’ That was written,” said my companion, “when she rested there. It bears out what I made of it. I was right.”
The next was written at another time:
I have wandered a long distance, and for many hours, and I know that I must soon die. These streets! I have no purpose but to die. When I left, I had a worse, but I am saved from adding that guilt to the rest. Cold, wet, and fatigue are sufficient causes for my being found dead, but I shall die of others, though I suffer from these. It was right that all that had sustained me should give way at once and that I should die of terror and my conscience.
“Take courage,” said Mr. Bucket. “There’s only a few words more.”
Those, too, were written at another time. To all appearance, almost in the dark: