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CHAPTER IV



To return now to the moment at which Anna, at Melchester, had
received Raye's letter.

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 embarrassment 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 musing 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
dismal you seem this morning, Anna. What's the matter?'

'I'm not dismal, I'm glad; only I--' She stopped to stifle a sob.

'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 rudiments;
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 kindly interest in the girl, had
taught her to speak correctly, in which accomplishment Anna showed
considerable readiness, as is not unusual with the illiterate; 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 mere 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 attachment. She blamed
herself for not interfering in a flirtation 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 undone, 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 accede, 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 concocted, 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 humble note-paper, and in a measure indited 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 prettily 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 standing 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 remains of her fire. Her
husband had retired 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 collaboration. 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 possessed 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 generators, 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 seduce another woman in two
days was his crowning though unrecognized fascination 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 apparently 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 confession 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 previously, 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 affected 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 strictly refrained from hurling at him the
reproaches and bitterness customary from young women so situated.
One thing was imperative: to keep the young man's romantic interest
in her alive. Rather therefore did Edith, in the name of her
protegee, request him on no account to be distressed about the
looming event, and not to inconvenience himself to hasten down. She
desired above everything to be no weight upon him in his career, no
clog 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
judgment had ruled, and Anna had acquiesced. '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!'





Life's Little Ironies by Thomas Hardy
Category:
19th century fiction

Short stories
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