It had been put into her own hand by the postman on his morning rounds. She flushed down to her neck on receipt of it, and turned it over and over. ‘It is mine?’ she said.
‘Why, yes, can’t you see it is?’ said the postman, smiling as he guessed the nature of the document and the cause of the confusion.
‘O yes, of course!’ replied Anna, looking at the letter, forcedly tittering, and blushing still more.
Her look of embarrassment1 did not leave her with the postman’s departure. She opened the envelope, kissed its contents, put away the letter in her pocket, and remained musing2 till her eyes filled with tears.
A few minutes later she carried up a cup of tea to Mrs. Harnham in her bed-chamber. Anna’s mistress looked at her, and said: ‘How dismal3 you seem this morning, Anna. What’s the matter?’
‘Well?’
‘I’ve got a letter—and what good is it to me, if I can’t read a word in it!’
‘Why, I’ll read it, child, if necessary.’
‘But this is from somebody—I don’t want anybody to read it but myself!’ Anna murmured.
‘I shall not tell anybody. Is it from that young man?’
‘I think so.’ Anna slowly produced the letter, saying: ‘Then will you read it to me, ma’am?’
This was the secret of Anna’s embarrassment and flutterings. She could neither read nor write. She had grown up under the care of an aunt by marriage, at one of the lonely hamlets on the Great Mid-Wessex Plain where, even in days of national education, there had been no school within a distance of two miles. Her aunt was an ignorant woman; there had been nobody to investigate Anna’s circumstances, nobody to care about her learning the rudiments6; though, as often in such cases, she had been well fed and clothed and not unkindly treated. Since she had come to live at Melchester with Mrs. Harnham, the latter, who took a kindly7 interest in the girl, had taught her to speak correctly, in which accomplishment8 Anna showed considerable readiness, as is not unusual with the illiterate9; and soon became quite fluent in the use of her mistress’s phraseology. Mrs. Harnham also insisted upon her getting a spelling and copy book, and beginning to practise in these. Anna was slower in this branch of her education, and meanwhile here was the letter.
Edith Harnham’s large dark eyes expressed some interest in the contents, though, in her character of mere10 interpreter, she threw into her tone as much as she could of mechanical passiveness. She read the short epistle on to its concluding sentence, which idly requested Anna to send him a tender answer.
‘Now—you’ll do it for me, won’t you, dear mistress?’ said Anna eagerly. ‘And you’ll do it as well as ever you can, please? Because I couldn’t bear him to think I am not able to do it myself. I should sink into the earth with shame if he knew that!’
From some words in the letter Mrs. Harnham was led to ask questions, and the answers she received confirmed her suspicions. Deep concern filled Edith’s heart at perceiving how the girl had committed her happiness to the issue of this new-sprung attachment11. She blamed herself for not interfering12 in a flirtation13 which had resulted so seriously for the poor little creature in her charge; though at the time of seeing the pair together she had a feeling that it was hardly within her province to nip young affection in the bud. However, what was done could not be undone14, and it behoved her now, as Anna’s only protector, to help her as much as she could. To Anna’s eager request that she, Mrs. Harnham, should compose and write the answer to this young London man’s letter, she felt bound to accede15, to keep alive his attachment to the girl if possible; though in other circumstances she might have suggested the cook as an amanuensis.
A tender reply was thereupon concocted16, and set down in Edith Harnham’s hand. This letter it had been which Raye had received and delighted in. Written in the presence of Anna it certainly was, and on Anna’s humble17 note-paper, and in a measure indited18 by the young girl; but the life, the spirit, the individuality, were Edith Harnham’s.
‘Won’t you at least put your name yourself?’ she said. ‘You can manage to write that by this time?’
‘No, no,’ said Anna, shrinking back. ‘I should do it so bad. He’d be ashamed of me, and never see me again!’
The note, so prettily19 requesting another from him, had, as we have seen, power enough in its pages to bring one. He declared it to be such a pleasure to hear from her that she must write every week. The same process of manufacture was accordingly repeated by Anna and her mistress, and continued for several weeks in succession; each letter being penned and suggested by Edith, the girl standing20 by; the answer read and commented on by Edith, Anna standing by and listening again.
Late on a winter evening, after the dispatch of the sixth letter, Mrs. Harnham was sitting alone by the remains21 of her fire. Her husband had retired22 to bed, and she had fallen into that fixity of musing which takes no count of hour or temperature. The state of mind had been brought about in Edith by a strange thing which she had done that day. For the first time since Raye’s visit Anna had gone to stay over a night or two with her cottage friends on the Plain, and in her absence had arrived, out of its time, a letter from Raye. To this Edith had replied on her own responsibility, from the depths of her own heart, without waiting for her maid’s collaboration23. The luxury of writing to him what would be known to no consciousness but his was great, and she had indulged herself therein.
Why was it a luxury?
Edith Harnham led a lonely life. Influenced by the belief of the British parent that a bad marriage with its aversions is better than free womanhood with its interests, dignity, and leisure, she had consented to marry the elderly wine-merchant as a pis aller, at the age of seven-and-twenty—some three years before this date—to find afterwards that she had made a mistake. That contract had left her still a woman whose deeper nature had never been stirred.
She was now clearly realizing that she had become possessed24 to the bottom of her soul with the image of a man to whom she was hardly so much as a name. From the first he had attracted her by his looks and voice; by his tender touch; and, with these as generators25, the writing of letter after letter and the reading of their soft answers had insensibly developed on her side an emotion which fanned his; till there had resulted a magnetic reciprocity between the correspondents, notwithstanding that one of them wrote in a character not her own. That he had been able to seduce26 another woman in two days was his crowning though unrecognized fascination27 for her as the she-animal.
They were her own impassioned and pent-up ideas—lowered to monosyllabic phraseology in order to keep up the disguise—that Edith put into letters signed with another name, much to the shallow Anna’s delight, who, unassisted, could not for the world have conceived such pretty fancies for winning him, even had she been able to write them. Edith found that it was these, her own foisted-in sentiments, to which the young barrister mainly responded. The few sentences occasionally added from Anna’s own lips made apparently28 no impression upon him.
The letter-writing in her absence Anna never discovered; but on her return the next morning she declared she wished to see her lover about something at once, and begged Mrs. Harnham to ask him to come.
There was a strange anxiety in her manner which did not escape Mrs. Harnham, and ultimately resolved itself into a flood of tears. Sinking down at Edith’s knees, she made confession29 that the result of her relations with her lover it would soon become necessary to disclose.
Edith Harnham was generous enough to be very far from inclined to cast Anna adrift at this conjuncture. No true woman ever is so inclined from her own personal point of view, however prompt she may be in taking such steps to safeguard those dear to her. Although she had written to Raye so short a time previously30, she instantly penned another Anna-note hinting clearly though delicately the state of affairs.
Raye replied by a hasty line to say how much he was affected31 by her news: he felt that he must run down to see her almost immediately.
But a week later the girl came to her mistress’s room with another note, which on being read informed her that after all he could not find time for the journey. Anna was broken with grief; but by Mrs. Harnham’s counsel strictly32 refrained from hurling33 at him the reproaches and bitterness customary from young women so situated34. One thing was imperative35: to keep the young man’s romantic interest in her alive. Rather therefore did Edith, in the name of her protégée, request him on no account to be distressed36 about the looming37 event, and not to inconvenience himself to hasten down. She desired above everything to be no weight upon him in his career, no clog38 upon his high activities. She had wished him to know what had befallen: he was to dismiss it again from his mind. Only he must write tenderly as ever, and when he should come again on the spring circuit it would be soon enough to discuss what had better be done.
It may well be supposed that Anna’s own feelings had not been quite in accord with these generous expressions; but the mistress’s judgment39 had ruled, and Anna had acquiesced40. ‘All I want is that niceness you can so well put into your letters, my dear, dear mistress, and that I can’t for the life o’ me make up out of my own head; though I mean the same thing and feel it exactly when you’ve written it down!’
When the letter had been sent off, and Edith Harnham was left alone, she bowed herself on the back of her chair and wept.
‘I wish it was mine—I wish it was!’ she murmured. ‘Yet how can I say such a wicked thing!’
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1
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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2
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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3
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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4
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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5
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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6
rudiments
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| n.基础知识，入门 | |
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7
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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8
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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9
illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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10
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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11
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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12
interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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13
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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14
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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15
accede
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| v.应允，同意 | |
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16
concocted
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的过去式和过去分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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17
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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18
indited
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| v.写（文章，信等）创作，赋诗，创作( indite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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19
prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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20
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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21
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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22
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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23
collaboration
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| n.合作，协作；勾结 | |
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24
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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25
generators
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| n.发电机，发生器( generator的名词复数 )；电力公司 | |
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26
seduce
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| vt.勾引，诱奸，诱惑，引诱 | |
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27
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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28
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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29
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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30
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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31
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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32
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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33
hurling
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| n.爱尔兰式曲棍球v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的现在分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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34
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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35
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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36
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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37
looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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38
clog
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| vt.塞满，阻塞；n.[常pl.]木屐 | |
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39
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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40
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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