"ElizabethGaskell-LizzieLeigh" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gaskell Elizabeth C)

father's tender reception of the repentant prodigal.

So passed the Christmas evening in the Upclose Farm.

The snow had fallen heavily over the dark waving moorland before the
day of the funeral. The black storm-laden dome of heaven lay very
still and close upon the white earth, as they carried the body forth
out of the house which had known his presence so long as its ruling
power. Two and two the mourners followed, making a black procession,
in their winding march over the unbeaten snow, to Milne Row Church;
now lost in some hollow of the bleak moors, now slowly climbing the
heaving ascents. There was no long tarrying after the funeral, for
many of the neighbours who accompanied the body to the grave had far
to go, and the great white flakes which came slowly down were the
boding forerunners of a heavy storm. One old friend alone
accompanied the widow and her sons to their home.

The Upclose Farm had belonged for generations to the Leighs; and yet
its possession hardly raised them above the rank of labourers. There
was the house and out-buildings, all of an old-fashioned kind, and
about seven acres of barren unproductive land, which they had never
possessed capital enough to improve; indeed, they could hardly rely
upon it for subsistence; and it had been customary to bring up the
sons to some trade, such as a wheelwright's or blacksmith's.

James Leigh had left a will in the possession of the old man who
accompanied them home. He read it aloud. James had bequeathed the
farm to his faithful wife, Anne Leigh, for her lifetime, and
afterwards to his son William. The hundred and odd pounds in the
savings bank was to accumulate for Thomas.

After the reading was ended, Anne Leigh sat silent for a time and
then she asked to speak to Samuel Orme alone. The sons went into the
back kitchen, and thence strolled out into the fields regardless of
the driving snow. The brothers were dearly fond of each other,
although they were very different in character. Will, the elder, was
like his father, stern, reserved, and scrupulously upright. Tom (who
was ten years younger) was gentle and delicate as a girl, both in
appearance and character. He had always clung to his mother arid
dreaded his father. They did not speak as they walked, for they were
only in the habit of talking about facts, and hardly knew the more
sophisticated language applied to the description of feelings.

Meanwhile their mother had taken hold of Samuel Orme's arm with her
trembling hand.

"Samuel, I must let the farm--I must."

"Let the farm! What's come o'er the woman?"