A Pair of Blue Eyes, by Thomas Hardy

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'Not till evening now. She's safe enough at Miss Bicknell's,
bless ye.'

Elfride went round to the door. She did not knock or ring; and
seeing nobody to take the horse, Elfride led her round to the
yard, slipped off the bridle and saddle, drove her towards the
paddock, and turned her in. Then Elfride crept indoors, and
looked into all the ground-floor rooms. Her father was not there.

On the mantelpiece of the drawing-room stood a letter addressed to
her in his handwriting. She took it and read it as she went
upstairs to change her habit.

STRATLEIGH, Thursday.

'DEAR ELFRIDE,--On second thoughts I will not return to-day, but
only come as far as Wadcombe. I shall be at home by to-morrow
afternoon, and bring a friend with me.--Yours, in haste,
C. S.'

After making a quick toilet she felt more revived, though still
suffering from a headache. On going out of the door she met Unity
at the top of the stair.

'O Miss Elfride! I said to myself 'tis her sperrit! We didn't
dream o' you not coming home last night. You didn't say anything
about staying.'

'I intended to come home the same evening, but altered my plan. I
wished I hadn't afterwards. Papa will be angry, I suppose?'

'Better not tell him, miss,' said Unity.

'I do fear to,' she murmured. 'Unity, would you just begin
telling him when he comes home?'

'What! and get you into trouble?'

'I deserve it.'

'No, indeed, I won't,' said Unity. 'It is not such a mighty
matter, Miss Elfride. I says to myself, master's taking a
hollerday, and because he's not been kind lately to Miss Elfride,
she----'

'Is imitating him. Well, do as you like. And will you now bring
me some luncheon?'

After satisfying an appetite which the fresh marine air had given
her in its victory over an agitated mind, she put on her hat and
went to the garden and summer-house. She sat down, and leant with
her head in a corner. Here she fell asleep.

Half-awake, she hurriedly looked at the time. She had been there
three hours. At the same moment she heard the outer gate swing
together, and wheels sweep round the entrance; some prior noise
from the same source having probably been the cause of her
awaking. Next her father's voice was heard calling to Worm.

Elfride passed along a walk towards the house behind a belt of
shrubs. She heard a tongue holding converse with her father,
which was not that of either of the servants. Her father and the
stranger were laughing together. Then there was a rustling of
silk, and Mr. Swancourt and his companion, or companions, to all
seeming entered the door of the house, for nothing more of them
was audible. Elfride had turned back to meditate on what friends
these could be, when she heard footsteps, and her father
exclaiming behind her:

'O Elfride, here you are! I hope you got on well?'

Elfride's heart smote her, and she did not speak.

'Come back to the summer-house a minute,' continued Mr. Swancourt;
'I have to tell you of that I promised to.'

They entered the summer-house, and stood leaning over the knotty
woodwork of the balustrade.

'Now,' said her father radiantly, 'guess what I have to say.' He
seemed to be regarding his own existence so intently, that he took
no interest in nor even saw the complexion of hers.

'I cannot, papa,' she said sadly.

'Try, dear.'

'I would rather not, indeed.'

'You are tired. You look worn. The ride was too much for you.
Well, this is what I went away for. I went to be married!'

'Married!' she faltered, and could hardly check an involuntary 'So
did I.' A moment after and her resolve to confess perished like a
bubble.

'Yes; to whom do you think? Mrs. Troyton, the new owner of the
estate over the hedge, and of the old manor-house. It was only
finally settled between us when I went to Stratleigh a few days
ago.' He lowered his voice to a sly tone of merriment. 'Now, as
to your stepmother, you'll find she is not much to look at, though
a good deal to listen to. She is twenty years older than myself,
for one thing.'

'You forget that I know her. She called here once, after we had
been, and found her away from home.'

'Of course, of course. Well, whatever her looks are, she's as
excellent a woman as ever breathed. She has had lately left her
as absolute property three thousand five hundred a year, besides
the devise of this estate--and, by the way, a large legacy came to
her in satisfaction of dower, as it is called.'

'Three thousand five hundred a year!'

'And a large--well, a fair-sized--mansion in town, and a pedigree
as long as my walking-stick; though that bears evidence of being
rather a raked-up affair--done since the family got rich--people
do those things now as they build ruins on maiden estates and cast
antiques at Birmingham.'

Elfride merely listened and said nothing.

He continued more quietly and impressively. 'Yes, Elfride, she is
wealthy in comparison with us, though with few connections.
However, she will introduce you to the world a little. We are
going to exchange her house in Baker Street for one at Kensington,
for your sake. Everybody is going there now, she says. At
Easters we shall fly to town for the usual three months--I shall
have a curate of course by that time. Elfride, I am past love,
you know, and I honestly confess that I married her for your sake.
Why a woman of her standing should have thrown herself away upon
me, God knows. But I suppose her age and plainness were too
pronounced for a town man. With your good looks, if you now play
your cards well, you may marry anybody. Of course, a little
contrivance will be necessary; but there's nothing to stand
between you and a husband with a title, that I can see. Lady
Luxellian was only a squire's daughter. Now, don't you see how
foolish the old fancy was? But come, she is indoors waiting to see
you. It is as good as a play, too,' continued the vicar, as they
walked towards the house. 'I courted her through the privet hedge
yonder: not entirely, you know, but we used to walk there of an
evening--nearly every evening at last. But I needn't tell you
details now; everything was terribly matter-of-fact, I assure you.
At last, that day I saw her at Stratleigh, we determined to settle
it off-hand.'

'And you never said a word to me,' replied Elfride, not
reproachfully either in tone or thought. Indeed, her feeling was
the very reverse of reproachful. She felt relieved and even
thankful. Where confidence had not been given, how could
confidence be expected?

Her father mistook her dispassionateness for a veil of politeness
over a sense of ill-usage. 'I am not altogether to blame,' he
said. 'There were two or three reasons for secrecy. One was the
recent death of her relative the testator, though that did not
apply to you. But remember, Elfride,' he continued in a stiffer
tone, 'you had mixed yourself up so foolishly with those low
people, the Smiths--and it was just, too, when Mrs. Troyton and
myself were beginning to understand each other--that I resolved to
say nothing even to you. How did I know how far you had gone with
them and their son? You might have made a point of taking tea with
them every day, for all that I knew.'

Elfride swallowed her feelings as she best could, and languidly
though flatly asked a question.

'Did you kiss Mrs. Troyton on the lawn about three weeks ago? That
evening I came into the study and found you had just had candles
in?'

Mr. Swancourt looked rather red and abashed, as middle-aged lovers
are apt to do when caught in the tricks of younger ones.

'Well, yes; I think I did,' he stammered; 'just to please her, you
know.' And then recovering himself he laughed heartily.

'And was this what your Horatian quotation referred to?'

'It was, Elfride.'

They stepped into the drawing-room from the verandah. At that
moment Mrs. Swancourt came downstairs, and entered the same room
by the door.

'Here, Charlotte, is my little Elfride,' said Mr. Swancourt, with
the increased affection of tone often adopted towards relations
when newly produced.

Poor Elfride, not knowing what to do, did nothing at all; but
stood receptive of all that came to her by sight, hearing, and
touch.

Mrs. Swancourt moved forward, took her step-daughter's hand, then
kissed her.

'Ah, darling!' she exclaimed good-humouredly, 'you didn't think
when you showed a strange old woman over the conservatory a month
or two ago, and explained the flowers to her so prettily, that she
would so soon be here in new colours. Nor did she, I am sure.'

The new mother had been truthfully enough described by Mr.
Swancourt. She was not physically attractive. She was dark--very
dark--in complexion, portly in figure, and with a plentiful
residuum of hair in the proportion of half a dozen white ones to
half a dozen black ones, though the latter were black indeed. No
further observed, she was not a woman to like. But there was more
to see. To the most superficial critic it was apparent that she
made no attempt to disguise her age. She looked sixty at the
first glance, and close acquaintanceship never proved her older.

Another and still more winning trait was one attaching to the
corners of her mouth. Before she made a remark these often
twitched gently: not backwards and forwards, the index of
nervousness; not down upon the jaw, the sign of determination; but
palpably upwards, in precisely the curve adopted to represent
mirth in the broad caricatures of schoolboys. Only this element
in her face was expressive of anything within the woman, but it
was unmistakable. It expressed humour subjective as well as
objective--which could survey the peculiarities of self in as
whimsical a light as those of other people.

This is not all of Mrs. Swancourt. She had held out to Elfride
hands whose fingers were literally stiff with rings, signis
auroque rigentes, like Helen's robe. These rows of rings were not
worn in vanity apparently. They were mostly antique and dull,
though a few were the reverse.

RIGHT HAND.

1st. Plainly set oval onyx, representing a devil's head. 2nd.
Green jasper intaglio, with red veins. 3rd. Entirely gold,
bearing figure of a hideous griffin. 4th. A sea-green monster
diamond, with small diamonds round it. 5th. Antique cornelian
intaglio of dancing figure of a satyr. 6th. An angular band
chased with dragons' heads. 7th. A facetted carbuncle accompanied
by ten little twinkling emeralds; &c. &c.

LEFT HAND.

1st. A reddish-yellow toadstone. 2nd. A heavy ring enamelled in
colours, and bearing a jacynth. 3rd. An amethystine sapphire.
4th. A polished ruby, surrounded by diamonds. 5th. The engraved
ring of an abbess. 6th. A gloomy intaglio; &c. &c.

Beyond this rather quaint array of stone and metal Mrs. Swancourt
wore no ornament whatever.

Elfride had been favourably impressed with Mrs. Troyton at their
meeting about two months earlier; but to be pleased with a woman
as a momentary acquaintance was different from being taken with
her as a stepmother. However, the suspension of feeling was but
for a moment. Elfride decided to like her still.

Mrs. Swancourt was a woman of the world as to knowledge, the
reverse as to action, as her marriage suggested. Elfride and the
lady were soon inextricably involved in conversation, and Mr.
Swancourt left them to themselves.

'And what do you find to do with yourself here?' Mrs. Swancourt
said, after a few remarks about the wedding. 'You ride, I know.'

'Yes, I ride. But not much, because papa doesn't like my going
alone.'

'You must have somebody to look after you.'

'And I read, and write a little.'

'You should write a novel. The regular resource of people who
don't go enough into the world to live a novel is to write one.'

'I have done it,' said Elfride, looking dubiously at Mrs.
Swancourt, as if in doubt whether she would meet with ridicule
there.

'That's right. Now, then, what is it about, dear?'

'About--well, it is a romance of the Middle Ages.'

'Knowing nothing of the present age, which everybody knows about,
for safety you chose an age known neither to you nor other people.
That's it, eh? No, no; I don't mean it, dear.'

'Well, I have had some opportunities of studying mediaeval art and
manners in the library and private museum at Endelstow House, and
I thought I should like to try my hand upon a fiction. I know the
time for these tales is past; but I was interested in it, very
much interested.'

'When is it to appear?'

'Oh, never, I suppose.'

'Nonsense, my dear girl. Publish it, by all means. All ladies do
that sort of thing now; not for profit, you know, but as a
guarantee of mental respectability to their future husbands.'

'An excellent idea of us ladies.'

'Though I am afraid it rather resembles the melancholy ruse of
throwing loaves over castle-walls at besiegers, and suggests
desperation rather than plenty inside.'

'Did you ever try it?'

'No; I was too far gone even for that.'

'Papa says no publisher will take my book.'

'That remains to be proved. I'll give my word, my dear, that by
this time next year it shall be printed.'

'Will you, indeed?' said Elfride, partially brightening with
pleasure, though she was sad enough in her depths. 'I thought
brains were the indispensable, even if the only, qualification for
admission to the republic of letters. A mere commonplace creature
like me will soon be turned out again.'

'Oh no; once you are there you'll be like a drop of water in a
piece of rock-crystal--your medium will dignify your commonness.'

'It will be a great satisfaction,' Elfride murmured, and thought
of Stephen, and wished she could make a great fortune by writing
romances, and marry him and live happily.

'And then we'll go to London, and then to Paris,' said Mrs.
Swancourt. 'I have been talking to your father about it. But we
have first to move into the manor-house, and we think of staying
at Torquay whilst that is going on. Meanwhile, instead of going
on a honeymoon scamper by ourselves, we have come home to fetch
you, and go all together to Bath for two or three weeks.'

Elfride assented pleasantly, even gladly; but she saw that, by
this marriage, her father and herself had ceased for ever to be
the close relations they had been up to a few weeks ago. It was
impossible now to tell him the tale of her wild elopement with
Stephen Smith.

He was still snugly housed in her heart. His absence had regained
for him much of that aureola of saintship which had been nearly
abstracted during her reproachful mood on that miserable journey
from London. Rapture is often cooled by contact with its cause,
especially if under awkward conditions. And that last experience
with Stephen had done anything but make him shine in her eyes.
His very kindness in letting her return was his offence. Elfride
had her sex's love of sheer force in a man, however ill-directed;
and at that critical juncture in London Stephen's only chance of
retaining the ascendancy over her that his face and not his parts
had acquired for him, would have been by doing what, for one
thing, he was too youthful to undertake--that was, dragging her by
the wrist to the rails of some altar, and peremptorily marrying
her. Decisive action is seen by appreciative minds to be
frequently objectless, and sometimes fatal; but decision, however
suicidal, has more charm for a woman than the most unequivocal
Fabian success.

However, some of the unpleasant accessories of that occasion were
now out of sight again, and Stephen had resumed not a few of his
fancy colours.

Chapter XIII

'He set in order many proverbs.'

It is London in October--two months further on in the story.

Bede's Inn has this peculiarity, that it faces, receives from, and
discharges into a bustling thoroughfare speaking only of wealth
and respectability, whilst its postern abuts on as crowded and
poverty-stricken a network of alleys as are to be found anywhere
in the metropolis. The moral consequences are, first, that those
who occupy chambers in the Inn may see a great deal of shirtless
humanity's habits and enjoyments without doing more than look down
from a back window; and second they may hear wholesome though
unpleasant social reminders through the medium of a harsh voice,
an unequal footstep, the echo of a blow or a fall, which
originates in the person of some drunkard or wife-beater, as he
crosses and interferes with the quiet of the square. Characters
of this kind frequently pass through the Inn from a little foxhole
of an alley at the back, but they never loiter there.

It is hardly necessary to state that all the sights and movements
proper to the Inn are most orderly. On the fine October evening
on which we follow Stephen Smith to this place, a placid porter is
sitting on a stool under a sycamore-tree in the midst, with a
little cane in his hand. We notice the thick coat of soot upon
the branches, hanging underneath them in flakes, as in a chimney.
The blackness of these boughs does not at present improve the
tree--nearly forsaken by its leaves as it is--but in the spring
their green fresh beauty is made doubly beautiful by the contrast.
Within the railings is a flower-garden of respectable dahlias and
chrysanthemums, where a man is sweeping the leaves from the grass.

Stephen selects a doorway, and ascends an old though wide wooden
staircase, with moulded balusters and handrail, which in a country
manor-house would be considered a noteworthy specimen of
Renaissance workmanship. He reaches a door on the first floor,
over which is painted, in black letters, 'Mr. Henry Knight'--
'Barrister-at-law' being understood but not expressed. The wall
is thick, and there is a door at its outer and inner face. The
outer one happens to be ajar: Stephen goes to the other, and taps.

'Come in!' from distant penetralia.

First was a small anteroom, divided from the inner apartment by a
wainscoted archway two or three yards wide. Across this archway
hung a pair of dark-green curtains, making a mystery of all within
the arch except the spasmodic scratching of a quill pen. Here was
grouped a chaotic assemblage of articles--mainly old framed prints
and paintings--leaning edgewise against the wall, like roofing
slates in a builder's yard. All the books visible here were
folios too big to be stolen--some lying on a heavy oak table in
one corner, some on the floor among the pictures, the whole
intermingled with old coats, hats, umbrellas, and walking-sticks.

Stephen pushed aside the curtain, and before him sat a man writing
away as if his life depended upon it--which it did.

A man of thirty in a speckled coat, with dark brown hair, curly
beard, and crisp moustache: the latter running into the beard on
each side of the mouth, and, as usual, hiding the real expression
of that organ under a chronic aspect of impassivity.

'Ah, my dear fellow, I knew 'twas you,' said Knight, looking up
with a smile, and holding out his hand.

Knight's mouth and eyes came to view now. Both features were
good, and had the peculiarity of appearing younger and fresher
than the brow and face they belonged to, which were getting
sicklied o'er by the unmistakable pale cast. The mouth had not
quite relinquished rotundity of curve for the firm angularities of
middle life; and the eyes, though keen, permeated rather than
penetrated: what they had lost of their boy-time brightness by a
dozen years of hard reading lending a quietness to their gaze
which suited them well.

A lady would have said there was a smell of tobacco in the room: a
man that there was not.

Knight did not rise. He looked at a timepiece on the mantelshelf,
then turned again to his letters, pointing to a chair.

'Well, I am glad you have come. I only returned to town
yesterday; now, don't speak, Stephen, for ten minutes; I have just
that time to the late post. At the eleventh minute, I'm your man.'

Stephen sat down as if this kind of reception was by no means new,
and away went Knight's pen, beating up and down like a ship in a
storm.

Cicero called the library the soul of the house; here the house
was all soul. Portions of the floor, and half the wall-space,
were taken up by book-shelves ordinary and extraordinary; the
remaining parts, together with brackets, side-tables, &c., being
occupied by casts, statuettes, medallions, and plaques of various
descriptions, picked up by the owner in his wanderings through
France and Italy.

One stream only of evening sunlight came into the room from a
window quite in the corner, overlooking a court. An aquarium
stood in the window. It was a dull parallelopipedon enough for
living creatures at most hours of the day; but for a few minutes
in the evening, as now, an errant, kindly ray lighted up and
warmed the little world therein, when the many-coloured zoophytes
opened and put forth their arms, the weeds acquired a rich
transparency, the shells gleamed of a more golden yellow, and the
timid community expressed gladness more plainly than in words.

Within the prescribed ten minutes Knight flung down his pen, rang
for the boy to take the letters to the post, and at the closing of
the door exclaimed, 'There; thank God, that's done. Now, Stephen,
pull your chair round, and tell me what you have been doing all
this time. Have you kept up your Greek?'

'No.'

'How's that?'

'I haven't enough spare time.'

'That's nonsense.'

'Well, I have done a great many things, if not that. And I have
done one extraordinary thing.'

Knight turned full upon Stephen. 'Ah-ha! Now, then, let me look
into your face, put two and two together, and make a shrewd
guess.'

Stephen changed to a redder colour.

'Why, Smith,' said Knight, after holding him rigidly by the
shoulders, and keenly scrutinising his countenance for a minute in
silence, 'you have fallen in love.'

'Well--the fact is----'

'Now, out with it.' But seeing that Stephen looked rather
distressed, he changed to a kindly tone. 'Now Smith, my lad, you
know me well enough by this time, or you ought to; and you know
very well that if you choose to give me a detailed account of the
phenomenon within you, I shall listen; if you don't, I am the last
man in the world to care to hear it.'

'I'll tell this much: I HAVE fallen in love, and I want to be
MARRIED.'

Knight looked ominous as this passed Stephen's lips.

'Don't judge me before you have heard more,' cried Stephen
anxiously, seeing the change in his friend's countenance.

'I don't judge. Does your mother know about it?'

'Nothing definite.'

'Father?'

'No. But I'll tell you. The young person----'

'Come, that's dreadfully ungallant. But perhaps I understand the
frame of mind a little, so go on. Your sweetheart----'

'She is rather higher in the world than I am.'

'As it should be.'

'And her father won't hear of it, as I now stand.'

'Not an uncommon case.'

'And now comes what I want your advice upon. Something has
happened at her house which makes it out of the question for us to
ask her father again now. So we are keeping silent. In the
meantime an architect in India has just written to Mr. Hewby to
ask whether he can find for him a young assistant willing to go
over to Bombay to prepare drawings for work formerly done by the
engineers. The salary he offers is 350 rupees a month, or about
35 Pounds. Hewby has mentioned it to me, and I have been to Dr.
Wray, who says I shall acclimatise without much illness. Now,
would you go?'

'You mean to say, because it is a possible road to the young
lady.'

'Yes; I was thinking I could go over and make a little money, and
then come back and ask for her. I have the option of practising
for myself after a year.'

'Would she be staunch?'

'Oh yes! For ever--to the end of her life!'

'How do you know?'

'Why, how do people know? Of course, she will.'

Knight leant back in his chair. 'Now, though I know her
thoroughly as she exists in your heart, Stephen, I don't know her
in the flesh. All I want to ask is, is this idea of going to
India based entirely upon a belief in her fidelity?'

'Yes; I should not go if it were not for her.'

'Well, Stephen, you have put me in rather an awkward position. If
I give my true sentiments, I shall hurt your feelings; if I don't,
I shall hurt my own judgment. And remember, I don't know much
about women.'

'But you have had attachments, although you tell me very little
about them.'

'And I only hope you'll continue to prosper till I tell you more.'

Stephen winced at this rap. 'I have never formed a deep
attachment,' continued Knight. 'I never have found a woman worth
it. Nor have I been once engaged to be married.'

'You write as if you had been engaged a hundred times, if I may be
allowed to say so,' said Stephen in an injured tone.

'Yes, that may be. But, my dear Stephen, it is only those who
half know a thing that write about it. Those who know it
thoroughly don't take the trouble. All I know about women, or men
either, is a mass of generalities. I plod along, and occasionally
lift my eyes and skim the weltering surface of mankind lying
between me and the horizon, as a crow might; no more.'

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