Sir, you shall understand what hath befall’n,
Which, as I think, you know not. Here is a letter.
OTHELLO.
Her departure was a relief to me. First, because I had heard so much, I wanted an opportunity of digesting it; and, secondly1, because of my interest in the engraving2 she had shown me, and the impatience3 I felt to study it more closely. I took it up the moment she closed the door.
It was the picture of a martyr4, and had evidently been cut from some good-sized book. It represented a man clothed in a long white garment, standing5 with his back to the stake, and his hand held out to the flames, which were slowly consuming it. As a work of art, it was ordinary; as the illustration of some mighty6 fact, it was full of suggestion. I gazed at it for a long time, and then turned to the bookcase. Was the book from which it had been taken there? I eagerly hoped so. For, ignorant as I may seem to you, I did not know the picture or the incident it represented; and I was anxious to know both. For Mr. Barrows was not the man to disfigure a work of art by covering it with a coarse print like this unless he had a motive7; and how could even a suspicion of that motive be mine, without a full knowledge of just what this picture implied?
But though I looked from end to end of the various shelves before me, I did not succeed in finding the volume from which this engraving had been taken. Large books were there in plenty, but none of the exact size of the print I held in my hand. I own I was disappointed, and turned away from the bookcase at last with a feeling of having been baffled on the verge8 of some very interesting discovery.
The theory advanced with so much assurance by Mrs. Simpson had not met with much credence9 on my part. I believed her facts, but not the conclusions she drew from them. Nothing she had related to me convinced me that Mr. Barrows was in any way insane; nor could I imagine for a moment that he could be so without the knowledge of Ada, if not of his associates and friends.
At the same time I was becoming more and more assured in my own mind that his death was the result of his own act, and, had it not been for the difficulty of imagining a reason for it, could have retired10 to rest that night with a feeling of real security in the justness of a conclusion that so exonerated11 the man I loved. As it was, that secret doubt still remained like a cloud over my hopes, a doubt which I had promised myself should be entirely12 removed before I allowed my partiality for Mr. Pollard to take upon itself the character of partisanship13. I therefore continued my explorations through the room.
Mr. Barrows’ desk presented to me the greatest attraction of any thing there; one that was entirely of the imagination, of course, since nothing could have induced me to open it, notwithstanding every key stood in its lock, and one of the drawers was pulled a little way out. Only the law had a right to violate his papers; and hard as it was to deny myself a search into what was possibly the truest exponent14 of his character, I resolutely15 did so, consoling myself with the thought that if any open explanation of his secret had been in these drawers, it would have been produced at the inquest.
As for his books, I felt no such scruples16. But then, what could his books tell me? Nothing, save that he was a wide student and loved the delicate and imaginative in literature. Besides, I had glanced at many of the volumes, in my search after the one which had held the engraving. Yet I did pause a minute and run my eye along the shelves, vaguely17 conscious, perhaps, that often in the most out-of~the-way corners lurks18 the secret object for which we are so carefully seeking. But I saw nothing to detain me, and after one brief glance at a strong and spirited statuette that adorned19 the top shelf, I hurried on to a small table upon which I thought I saw a photographic album.
I was not mistaken; and it was with considerable interest I took it up and began to run over its pages in search for that picture of Ada which I felt ought to be there. And which was there; but which I scarcely looked at twice, so much was my attention attracted by an envelope that fell out from between the leaves as I turned them eagerly over. That envelope, with its simple direction, “Miss Ada Reynolds, Monroe Street, S— — ” made an era in my history. For I no sooner perceived it than I felt confident of having seen it or its like before; and presently, with almost the force of an electric shock, I recollected20 the letter which I had brought Ada the afternoon of the day she died, and which, as my startled conscience now told me, had not only never been given her, but had not been so much as seen by me since, though all her belongings21 had passed into my hands, and the table where I had flung it had been emptied of its contents more than once. That letter and this empty envelope were, in style, handwriting, and direction, facsimiles. It had, therefore, come from Mr. Barrows; a most significant fact, and one which I had no sooner realized than I was seized by the most intense excitement, and might have done some wild and foolish thing, had not the lateness of the hour restrained me, and kept my passionate22 hopes and fears within their proper bounds. As it was, I found myself obliged to take several turns up and down the room, and even to open the window for a breath of fresh air, before I could face the subject with any calmness, or ask myself what had become of this letter, with any hope of receiving a rational reply.
That in the startling and tragic23 events of that day it had been overlooked and forgotten, I did not wonder. But that it should have escaped my notice afterwards, or if mine, that of the landlady24 who took charge of the room in my absence, was what I could not understand. As far as I could remember, I left the letter lying in plain view on the table. Why, then, had not some one seen and produced it? Could it be that some one more interested than I knew had stolen it? Or was the landlady of my former home alone to blame for its being lost or mislaid?
Had it been daylight I should have at once gone down to my former boarding-place to inquire; but as it was ten o’clock at night, I could only satisfy my impatience by going carefully over the incidents of that memorable25 day, in the hope of rousing some memory which would lead to an elucidation26 of this new mystery. First, then, I distinctly recollected receiving the letter from the postman. I had met him at the foot of the steps as I came home from my unsuccessful search for employment, and he had handed me the letter, simply saying: “For Miss Reynolds.” I scarcely looked at it, certainly gave it no thought, for we had been together but a week, and I had as yet taken no interest in her concerns. So mechanical, indeed, had been my whole action in the matter, that I doubt if the sight of Mr. Barrows’ writing alone, even though it had been used in transcribing27 her name, would have served to recall the incident to my mind. But the shade of the envelope — it was of a peculiar28 greenish tint29 — gave that unconscious spur to the memory which was needed to bring back the very look of the writing which had been on the letter I had so carelessly handled; and I found, as others have found before me, that there is no real forgetfulness in this world; that the most superficial glance may serve to imprint30 images upon the mind, which only await time and occasion to reappear before us with startling distinctness.
My entrance into my own room, my finding it empty, and the consequent flinging of the letter down on the table, all came back to me with the utmost clearness; even the fact that the letter fell face downwards31 and that I did not stop to turn it over. But beyond that all was blank to me up to the moment when I found myself confronting Ada standing with her hand on her heart in that sudden spasm32 of pain which had been the too sure precursor33 of her rapidly approaching doom34.
But wait! Where was I standing when I first became conscious of her presence in the room? Why, in the window, of course. I remembered now just how hot the afternoon sun looked to me as I stared at the white walls of the cottage over the way. And she — where was she? — between me and the table? Yes! She had, therefore, passed by the letter, and might have picked it up, might even have opened it, and read it before the spell of my revery was broken, and I turned to find her standing there before my eyes. Her pallor, the evident distress35 under which she was laboring36, even the sudden pain which had attacked her heart, might thus be accounted for, and what I had always supposed to be a purely37 physical attack prove to be the result of a mental and moral shock. But, no. Had she opened and read the letter it would have been found there; or if not there, at least upon her person after death. Besides, her whole conduct between the moment I faced her and that of the alarm in the street below precluded38 the idea that any thing of importance to her and her love had occurred to break her faith in the future and the man to whose care she was pledged. Could I not remember the happy smile which accompanied her offer of assistance and home to me? And was there any thing but hope and trust in the tone with which she had designated her lover as being the best and noblest man in town? No; if she had read his communication and afterwards disposed of it in some way I did not observe, then it was not of the nature I suspected; but an ordinary letter, similar in character to others she had received, foretelling39 nothing, and only valuable in the elucidation of the mystery before me from the fact of its offering proof presumptive that he did not anticipate death, or at all events did not meditate40 it.
An important enough fact to establish, certainly; but it was not the fact in which I had come to believe, and so I found it difficult to give it a place in my mind, or even to entertain the possibility of Ada’s having seen the letter at all. I preferred rather to indulge in all sorts of wild conjectures41, having the landlady, the servant, even Dr. Farnham, at their base; and it was not till I was visited by some mad thought of Rhoda Colwell’s possible connivance42 in the disappearance43 of this important bit of evidence, that I realized the enormity of my selfish folly44, and endeavored to put an end to its further indulgence by preparing stoically for bed.
But sleep, which would have been so welcome, did not come; and after a long and weary night, I arose in any thing but a refreshed state, to meet the exigencies45 of what might possibly prove to be a most important day.
The first thing to be done was undoubtedly46 to visit my old home and interview its landlady. If nothing came of that, to hunt up the nurse, Mrs. Gannon, whom, as you will remember, I had left in charge of my poor Ada’s remains47 when sudden duty in the shape of Dr. Farnham carried me away to the bedside of Mrs. Pollard; and if this also came to naught48, to burst the bonds of secrecy49 which I had maintained, and by taking this same Dr. Farnham into my confidence obtain at least an adviser50 who would relieve me, if only partially51, from the weight of responsibility, which I now felt to be pressing rather too heavily upon my strength.
But though I carried out this programme as far as seeking for and procuring52 an interview with Mrs. Gannon at her place of nursing, I did not succeed in obtaining the least clew to the fate of this mysteriously lost letter. Neither of the women mentioned had seen it, nor was it really believed by them to have been on the table when they arranged the room after my Ada’s peaceful death. Yet even to this they could not swear, nor would the landlady admit but that it might still have been lying there when they came to carry Ada away, though she would say that it could not have been anywhere in view the next day, for she had thoroughly53 cleaned and tidied up the room herself, and as in doing this she had been obliged to shift every article off the table on to the bed and back again, she must not only have seen, but handled the letter twice; and this she was morally certain she did not do.
I was therefore in as great perplexity as ever, and was seriously meditating54 a visit to Dr. Farnham, when I bethought me of making one final experiment before resorting to this last and not altogether welcome alternative.
This was to examine every thing which had been on the table, in the hope of discovering in some out-of-the-way receptacle the missing letter for which I had such need. To be sure it was an effort that promised little, there having been but few articles on the table capable of concealing55 even such a small object as this I was in search of; but when one is at their wits’ ends, they do not stop to discuss probabilities, or even to weigh in too nice a scale the prospect56 of success.
Recalling, therefore, just what had been on the table, I went to the trunk in which these articles were packed, and laid them out one by one on the floor. They were as follows: A work-basket of Ada’s; a box of writing-paper; a copy of Harper’s Magazine; an atlas57; and two volumes of poetry, one belonging to Ada and one to me.
A single glance into the work-basket was sufficient, also into the box of stationery58. But the atlas was well shaken, and the magazine carefully looked through, before I decided59 it was not in them. As for the two books of poetry, I disdained60 them so completely, I was about to toss them back unopened, when there came upon me a disposition61 to be thorough, and I looked at them both, only to find snugly62 ensconced in my own little copy of Mrs. Browning the long~sought and despaired-of letter, with its tell-tale green envelope unbroken, and its contents, in so far as I could see, unviolated and undisturbed.
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1
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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2
engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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3
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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4
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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5
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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6
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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7
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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8
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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9
credence
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| n.信用，祭器台，供桌，凭证 | |
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10
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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11
exonerated
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| v.使免罪，免除( exonerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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12
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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13
Partisanship
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| n. 党派性, 党派偏见 | |
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14
exponent
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| n.倡导者，拥护者；代表人物；指数，幂 | |
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15
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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17
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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18
lurks
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| n.潜在，潜伏；（lurk的复数形式）vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的第三人称单数形式） | |
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19
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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21
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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22
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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25
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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26
elucidation
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| n.说明，阐明 | |
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27
transcribing
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| （用不同的录音手段）转录( transcribe的现在分词 )； 改编（乐曲）（以适应他种乐器或声部）； 抄写； 用音标标出（声音） | |
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28
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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29
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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30
imprint
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| n.印痕，痕迹；深刻的印象；vt.压印，牢记 | |
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31
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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32
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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33
precursor
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| n.先驱者；前辈；前任；预兆；先兆 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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35
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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36
laboring
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| n.劳动，操劳v.努力争取(for)( labor的现在分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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37
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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38
precluded
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| v.阻止( preclude的过去式和过去分词 )；排除；妨碍；使…行不通 | |
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39
foretelling
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的现在分词 ) | |
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40
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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41
conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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42
connivance
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| n.纵容；默许 | |
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43
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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44
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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45
exigencies
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| n.急切需要 | |
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46
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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47
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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48
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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49
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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50
adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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51
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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52
procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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53
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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54
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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55
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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56
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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57
atlas
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| n.地图册，图表集 | |
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58
stationery
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| n.文具；(配套的)信笺信封 | |
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59
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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60
disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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61
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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62
snugly
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| adv.紧贴地；贴身地；暖和舒适地；安适地 | |
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