Hester』s diary was damaged. The key was missing, the clasp so rusted that it left e stains on your fingers. The first three pages were stuck together where the glue from the inner cover had melted into them. On every page the last word dissolved into a brownish tide mark, as if the diary had been exposed to dirt and damp together. A few pages had been torn; along the ripped edges was a tantalizing list ments: abn, cr, ta, est. Worst of all, it seemed that the diary had at some point been submerged in water. The pages undulated; when closed, the diary splayed to more than its intehiess.
It was this submersion that was going to cause me the greatest difficulty. When one gla a page, it was clear that it was script. Not any old script, either, but Hester』s. Here were her firm asders, her balanced, fluid loops; here were her fortable slant, her eic yet funal gaps. But on a closer look, the words were blurred and faded. Was this line an l or a t? Was this curve an a or an e? Or an s, even? Was this figuration to be read as bet or lost?
It was going to be quite a puzzle. Although I subsequently made a transcript of the diary, on that day the holiday train was too crowded to permit pencil and paper. I hunched in my window seat, diary close to my nose, and pored over the pages, applying myself to the task of deciphering. I managed one word in three at first, then as I was drawn into the flow of her meaning, the words began to e halfway to meet me, rewarding my efforts with generous revelations, until I was able to turn the pages with something like the speed of reading. In that train, the day before Christmas, Hester came to life.
I will not test your patience by reprodug Hester』s diary here as it came to me: fragmented and broken. In the spirit of Hester herself, I have mended and tidied and put in order. I have banished chaos and clutter. I have replaced doubt with certainty, shadows with clarity, laae with substance. In doing so, I may have occasionally put words inte that she never wrote, but I promise that if I have made mistakes, it is only in the small things; where it matters I have squinted and scrutinized until I am as sure as sure be that I have distinguished her inal meaning.
I do not give the entire diary, only aed sele of passages. My choice has been dictated first by questions of relevao my purpose, which is to tell the story of Miss Winter, and sed by my desire to give an accurate impression of Hester』s life at Angelfield.
Angelfield House is det enough at a distance, although it faces the wrong way and the windows are badly positioned, but on approag, one sees instantly the state of dilapidation it has been allowed to fall into.
Ses of the stonework are dangerously weathered. Window frames are rotting. And it did look as though parts of the roof are storm-damaged. I shall make it apriority to check the ceilings iis.
The housekeeper weled me at the door. Though she tries to hide it, I uood immediately that she has difficulty seeing and hearing. Given her great age, this is no surprise. It also explains the filthy state of the house, but I suppose the Angelfield family does not want to throw her out after a lifetime』s servi the house. I approve their loyalty, though I fail to see why she ot be helped by younger, stronger hands.
Mrs. Duold me about the household. The family has been living here with what most would sider a greatly reduced staff for years now, and it has e to be