A Pair of Blue Eyes, by Thomas Hardy

T >> Thomas Hardy >> A Pair of Blue Eyes, by Thomas Hardy

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30

'Something which shall bring back to my mind the many scenes we
have enacted in this conservatory. I see what I should prize very
much. That dwarf myrtle tree in the pot, which you have been so
carefully tending.'

Elfride looked thoughtfully at the myrtle.

'I can carry it comfortably in my hat box,' said Knight. 'And I
will put it in my window, and so, it being always before my eyes,
I shall think of you continually.'

It so happened that the myrtle which Knight had singled out had a
peculiar beginning and history. It had originally been a twig
worn in Stephen Smith's button-hole, and he had taken it thence,
stuck it into the pot, and told her that if it grew, she was to
take care of it, and keep it in remembrance of him when he was far
away.

She looked wistfully at the plant, and a sense of fairness to
Smith's memory caused her a pang of regret that Knight should have
asked for that very one. It seemed exceeding a common
heartlessness to let it go.

'Is there not anything you like better?' she said sadly. 'That is
only an ordinary myrtle.'

'No: I am fond of myrtle.' Seeing that she did not take kindly to
the idea, he said again, 'Why do you object to my having that?'

'Oh no--I don't object precisely--it was a feeling.--Ah, here's
another cutting lately struck, and just as small--of a better
kind, and with prettier leaves--myrtus microphylla.'

'That will do nicely. Let it be put in my room, that I may not
forget it. What romance attaches to the other?'

'It was a gift to me.'

The subject then dropped. Knight thought no more of the matter
till, on entering his bedroom in the evening, he found the second
myrtle placed upon his dressing-table as he had directed. He
stood for a moment admiring the fresh appearance of the leaves by
candlelight, and then he thought of the transaction of the day.

Male lovers as well as female can be spoilt by too much kindness,
and Elfride's uniform submissiveness had given Knight a rather
exacting manner at crises, attached to her as he was. 'Why should
she have refused the one I first chose?' he now asked himself.
Even such slight opposition as she had shown then was exceptional
enough to make itself noticeable. He was not vexed with her in
the least: the mere variation of her way to-day from her usual
ways kept him musing on the subject, because it perplexed him.
'It was a gift'--those were her words. Admitting it to be a gift,
he thought she could hardly value a mere friend more than she
valued him as a lover, and giving the plant into his charge would
have made no difference. 'Except, indeed, it was the gift of a
lover,' he murmured.

'I wonder if Elfride has ever had a lover before?' he said aloud,
as a new idea, quite. This and companion thoughts were enough to
occupy him completely till he fell asleep--rather later than
usual.

The next day, when they were again alone, he said to her rather
suddenly--

'Do you love me more or less, Elfie, for what I told you on board
the steamer?'

'You told me so many things,' she returned, lifting her eyes to
his and smiling.

'I mean the confession you coaxed out of me--that I had never been
in the position of lover before.'

'It is a satisfaction, I suppose, to be the first in your heart,'
she said to him, with an attempt to continue her smiling.

'I am going to ask you a question now,' said Knight, somewhat
awkwardly. 'I only ask it in a whimsical way, you know: not with
great seriousness, Elfride. You may think it odd, perhaps.'

Elfride tried desperately to keep the colour in her face. She
could not, though distressed to think that getting pale showed
consciousness of deeper guilt than merely getting red.

'Oh no--I shall not think that,' she said, because obliged to say
something to fill the pause which followed her questioner's
remark.

'It is this: have you ever had a lover? I am almost sure you have
not; but, have you?'

'Not, as it were, a lover; I mean, not worth mentioning, Harry,'
she faltered.

Knight, overstrained in sentiment as he knew the feeling to be,
felt some sickness of heart.

'Still, he was a lover?'

'Well, a sort of lover, I suppose,' she responded tardily.

'A man, I mean, you know.'

'Yes; but only a mere person, and----'

'But truly your lover?'

'Yes; a lover certainly--he was that. Yes, he might have been
called my lover.'

Knight said nothing to this for a minute or more, and kept silent
time with his finger to the tick of the old library clock, in
which room the colloquy was going on.

'You don't mind, Harry, do you?' she said anxiously, nestling
close to him, and watching his face.

'Of course, I don't seriously mind. In reason, a man cannot
object to such a trifle. I only thought you hadn't--that was
all.'

However, one ray was abstracted from the glory about her head.
But afterwards, when Knight was wandering by himself over the bare
and breezy hills, and meditating on the subject, that ray suddenly
returned. For she might have had a lover, and never have cared in
the least for him. She might have used the word improperly, and
meant 'admirer' all the time. Of course she had been admired; and
one man might have made his admiration more prominent than that of
the rest--a very natural case.

They were sitting on one of the garden seats when he found
occasion to put the supposition to the test. 'Did you love that
lover or admirer of yours ever so little, Elfie?'

She murmured reluctantly, 'Yes, I think I did.'

Knight felt the same faint touch of misery. 'Only a very little?'
he said.

'I am not sure how much.'

'But you are sure, darling, you loved him a little?'

'I think I am sure I loved him a little.'

'And not a great deal, Elfie?'

'My love was not supported by reverence for his powers.'

'But, Elfride, did you love him deeply?' said Knight restlessly.

'I don't exactly know how deep you mean by deeply.'

'That's nonsense.'

'You misapprehend; and you have let go my hand!' she cried, her
eyes filling with tears. 'Harry, don't be severe with me, and
don't question me. I did not love him as I do you. And could it
be deeply if I did not think him cleverer than myself? For I did
not. You grieve me so much--you can't think.'

'I will not say another word about it.'

'And you will not think about it, either, will you? I know you
think of weaknesses in me after I am out of your sight; and not
knowing what they are, I cannot combat them. I almost wish you
were of a grosser nature, Harry; in truth I do! Or rather, I wish
I could have the advantages such a nature in you would afford me,
and yet have you as you are.'

'What advantages would they be?'

'Less anxiety, and more security. Ordinary men are not so
delicate in their tastes as you; and where the lover or husband is
not fastidious, and refined, and of a deep nature, things seem to
go on better, I fancy--as far as I have been able to observe the
world.'

'Yes; I suppose it is right. Shallowness has this advantage, that
you can't be drowned there.'

'But I think I'll have you as you are; yes, I will!' she said
winsomely. 'The practical husbands and wives who take things
philosophically are very humdrum, are they not? Yes, it would kill
me quite. You please me best as you are.'

'Even though I wish you had never cared for one before me?'

'Yes. And you must not wish it. Don't!'

'I'll try not to, Elfride.'

So she hoped, but her heart was troubled. If he felt so deeply on
this point, what would he say did he know all, and see it as Mrs.
Jethway saw it? He would never make her the happiest girl in the
world by taking her to be his own for aye. The thought enclosed
her as a tomb whenever it presented itself to her perturbed brain.
She tried to believe that Mrs. Jethway would never do her such a
cruel wrong as to increase the bad appearance of her folly by
innuendoes; and concluded that concealment, having been begun,
must be persisted in, if possible. For what he might consider as
bad as the fact, was her previous concealment of it by strategy.

But Elfride knew Mrs. Jethway to be her enemy, and to hate her.
It was possible she would do her worst. And should she do it, all
might be over.

Would the woman listen to reason, and be persuaded not to ruin one
who had never intentionally harmed her?

It was night in the valley between Endelstow Crags and the shore.
The brook which trickled that way to the sea was distinct in its
murmurs now, and over the line of its course there began to hang a
white riband of fog. Against the sky, on the left hand of the
vale, the black form of the church could be seen. On the other
rose hazel-bushes, a few trees, and where these were absent, furze
tufts--as tall as men--on stems nearly as stout as timber. The
shriek of some bird was occasionally heard, as it flew terror-
stricken from its first roost, to seek a new sleeping-place, where
it might pass the night unmolested.

In the evening shade, some way down the valley, and under a row of
scrubby oaks, a cottage could still be discerned. It stood
absolutely alone. The house was rather large, and the windows of
some of the rooms were nailed up with boards on the outside, which
gave a particularly deserted appearance to the whole erection.
From the front door an irregular series of rough and misshapen
steps, cut in the solid rock, led down to the edge of the
streamlet, which, at their extremity, was hollowed into a basin
through which the water trickled. This was evidently the means of
water supply to the dweller or dwellers in the cottage.

A light footstep was heard descending from the higher slopes of
the hillside. Indistinct in the pathway appeared a moving female
shape, who advanced and knocked timidly at the door. No answer
being returned the knock was repeated, with the same result, and
it was then repeated a third time. This also was unsuccessful.

From one of the only two windows on the ground floor which were
not boarded up came rays of light, no shutter or curtain obscuring
the room from the eyes of a passer on the outside. So few walked
that way after nightfall that any such means to secure secrecy
were probably deemed unnecessary.

The inequality of the rays falling upon the trees outside told
that the light had its origin in a flickering fire only. The
visitor, after the third knocking, stepped a little to the left in
order to gain a view of the interior, and threw back the hood from
her face. The dancing yellow sheen revealed the fair and anxious
countenance of Elfride.

Inside the house this firelight was enough to illumine the room
distinctly, and to show that the furniture of the cottage was
superior to what might have been expected from so unpromising an
exterior. It also showed to Elfride that the room was empty.
Beyond the light quiver and flap of the flames nothing moved or
was audible therein.

She turned the handle and entered, throwing off the cloak which
enveloped her, under which she appeared without hat or bonnet, and
in the sort of half-toilette country people ordinarily dine in.
Then advancing to the foot of the staircase she called distinctly,
but somewhat fearfully, 'Mrs. Jethway!'

No answer.

With a look of relief and regret combined, denoting that ease came
to the heart and disappointment to the brain, Elfride paused for
several minutes, as if undecided how to act. Determining to wait,
she sat down on a chair. The minutes drew on, and after sitting
on the thorns of impatience for half an hour, she searched her
pocket, took therefrom a letter, and tore off the blank leaf.
Then taking out a pencil she wrote upon the paper:

'DEAR MRS. JETHWAY,--I have been to visit you. I wanted much to
see you, but I cannot wait any longer. I came to beg you not to
execute the threats you have repeated to me. Do not, I beseech
you, Mrs. Jethway, let any one know I ran away from home! It would
ruin me with him, and break my heart. I will do anything for you,
if you will be kind to me. In the name of our common womanhood,
do not, I implore you, make a scandal of me.--Yours, E.
SWANCOURT.'

She folded the note cornerwise, directed it, and placed it on the
table. Then again drawing the hood over her curly head she
emerged silently as she had come.

Whilst this episode had been in action at Mrs. Jethway's cottage,
Knight had gone from the dining-room into the drawing-room, and
found Mrs. Swancourt there alone.

'Elfride has vanished upstairs or somewhere,' she said.

'And I have been reading an article in an old number of the
PRESENT that I lighted on by chance a short time ago; it is an
article you once told us was yours. Well, Harry, with due
deference to your literary powers, allow me to say that this
effusion is all nonsense, in my opinion.'

'What is it about?' said Knight, taking up the paper and reading.

'There: don't get red about it. Own that experience has taught
you to be more charitable. I have never read such unchivalrous
sentiments in my life--from a man, I mean. There, I forgive you;
it was before you knew Elfride.'

'Oh yes,' said Knight, looking up. 'I remember now. The text of
that sermon was not my own at all, but was suggested to me by a
young man named Smith--the same whom I have mentioned to you as
coming from this parish. I thought the idea rather ingenious at
the time, and enlarged it to the weight of a few guineas, because
I had nothing else in my head.'

'Which idea do you call the text? I am curious to know that.'

'Well, this,' said Knight, somewhat unwillingly. 'That experience
teaches, and your sweetheart, no less than your tailor, is
necessarily very imperfect in her duties, if you are her first
patron: and conversely, the sweetheart who is graceful under the
initial kiss must be supposed to have had some practice in the
trade.'

'And do you mean to say that you wrote that upon the strength of
another man's remark, without having tested it by practice?'

'Yes--indeed I do.'

'Then I think it was uncalled for and unfair. And how do you know
it is true? I expect you regret it now.'

'Since you bring me into a serious mood, I will speak candidly. I
do believe that remark to be perfectly true, and, having written
it, I would defend it anywhere. But I do often regret having ever
written it, as well as others of the sort. I have grown older
since, and I find such a tone of writing is calculated to do harm
in the world. Every literary Jack becomes a gentleman if he can
only pen a few indifferent satires upon womankind: women
themselves, too, have taken to the trick; and so, upon the whole,
I begin to be rather ashamed of my companions.'

'Ah, Henry, you have fallen in love since and it makes a
difference,' said Mrs. Swancourt with a faint tone of banter.

'That's true; but that is not my reason.'

'Having found that, in a case of your own experience, a so-called
goose was a swan, it seems absurd to deny such a possibility in
other men's experiences.'

'You can hit palpably, cousin Charlotte,' said Knight. 'You are
like the boy who puts a stone inside his snowball, and I shall
play with you no longer. Excuse me--I am going for my evening
stroll.'

Though Knight had spoken jestingly, this incident and conversation
had caused him a sudden depression. Coming, rather singularly,
just after his discovery that Elfride had known what it was to
love warmly before she had known him, his mind dwelt upon the
subject, and the familiar pipe he smoked, whilst pacing up and
down the shrubbery-path, failed to be a solace. He thought again
of those idle words--hitherto quite forgotten--about the first
kiss of a girl, and the theory seemed more than reasonable. Of
course their sting now lay in their bearing on Elfride.

Elfride, under Knight's kiss, had certainly been a very different
woman from herself under Stephen's. Whether for good or for ill,
she had marvellously well learnt a betrothed lady's part; and the
fascinating finish of her deportment in this second campaign did
probably arise from her unreserved encouragement of Stephen.
Knight, with all the rapidity of jealous sensitiveness, pounced
upon some words she had inadvertently let fall about an earring,
which he had only partially understood at the time. It was during
that 'initial kiss' by the little waterfall:

'We must be careful. I lost the other by doing this!'

A flush which had in it as much of wounded pride as of sorrow,
passed over Knight as he thought of what he had so frequently said
to her in his simplicity. 'I always meant to be the first comer
in a woman's heart, fresh lips or none for me.' How childishly
blind he must have seemed to this mere girl! How she must have
laughed at him inwardly! He absolutely writhed as he thought of
the confession she had wrung from him on the boat in the darkness
of night. The one conception which had sustained his dignity when
drawn out of his shell on that occasion--that of her charming
ignorance of all such matters--how absurd it was!

This man, whose imagination had been fed up to preternatural size
by lonely study and silent observations of his kind--whose
emotions had been drawn out long and delicate by his seclusion,
like plants in a cellar--was now absolutely in pain. Moreover,
several years of poetic study, and, if the truth must be told,
poetic efforts, had tended to develop the affective side of his
constitution still further, in proportion to his active faculties.
It was his belief in the absolute newness of blandishment to
Elfride which had constituted her primary charm. He began to
think it was as hard to be earliest in a woman's heart as it was
to be first in the Pool of Bethesda.

That Knight should have been thus constituted: that Elfride's
second lover should not have been one of the great mass of
bustling mankind, little given to introspection, whose good-nature
might have compensated for any lack of appreciativeness, was the
chance of things. That her throbbing, self-confounding,
indiscreet heart should have to defend itself unaided against the
keen scrutiny and logical power which Knight, now that his
suspicions were awakened, would sooner or later be sure to
exercise against her, was her misfortune. A miserable incongruity
was apparent in the circumstance of a strong mind practising its
unerring archery upon a heart which the owner of that mind loved
better than his own.

Elfride's docile devotion to Knight was now its own enemy.
Clinging to him so dependently, she taught him in time to presume
upon that devotion--a lesson men are not slow to learn. A slight
rebelliousness occasionally would have done him no harm, and would
have been a world of advantage to her. But she idolized him, and
was proud to be his bond-servant.

Chapter XXXI

'A worm i' the bud.'

One day the reviewer said, 'Let us go to the cliffs again,
Elfride;' and, without consulting her wishes, he moved as if to
start at once.

'The cliff of our dreadful adventure?' she inquired, with a
shudder. 'Death stares me in the face in the person of that
cliff.'

Nevertheless, so entirely had she sunk her individuality in his
that the remark was not uttered as an expostulation, and she
immediately prepared to accompany him.

'No, not that place,' said Knight. 'It is ghastly to me, too.
That other, I mean; what is its name?--Windy Beak.'

Windy Beak was the second cliff in height along that coast, and,
as is frequently the case with the natural features of the globe
no less than with the intellectual features of men, it enjoyed the
reputation of being the first. Moreover, it was the cliff to
which Elfride had ridden with Stephen Smith, on a well-remembered
morning of his summer visit.

So, though thought of the former cliff had caused her to shudder
at the perils to which her lover and herself had there been
exposed, by being associated with Knight only it was not so
objectionable as Windy Beak. That place was worse than gloomy, it
was a perpetual reproach to her.

But not liking to refuse, she said, 'It is further than the other
cliff.'

'Yes; but you can ride.'

'And will you too?'

'No, I'll walk.'

A duplicate of her original arrangement with Stephen. Some
fatality must be hanging over her head. But she ceased objecting.

'Very well, Harry, I'll ride,' she said meekly.

A quarter of an hour later she was in the saddle. But how
different the mood from that of the former time. She had, indeed,
given up her position as queen of the less to be vassal of the
greater. Here was no showing off now; no scampering out of sight
with Pansy, to perplex and tire her companion; no saucy remarks on
LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI. Elfride was burdened with the very
intensity of her love.

Knight did most of the talking along the journey. Elfride
silently listened, and entirely resigned herself to the motions of
the ambling horse upon which she sat, alternately rising and
sinking gently, like a sea bird upon a sea wave.

When they had reached the limit of a quadruped's possibilities in
walking, Knight tenderly lifted her from the saddle, tied the
horse, and rambled on with her to the seat in the rock. Knight
sat down, and drew Elfride deftly beside him, and they looked over
the sea.

Two or three degrees above that melancholy and eternally level
line, the ocean horizon, hung a sun of brass, with no visible
rays, in a sky of ashen hue. It was a sky the sun did not
illuminate or enkindle, as is usual at sunsets. This sheet of sky
was met by the salt mass of gray water, flecked here and there
with white. A waft of dampness occasionally rose to their faces,
which was probably rarefied spray from the blows of the sea upon
the foot of the cliff.

Elfride wished it could be a longer time ago that she had sat
there with Stephen as her lover, and agreed to be his wife. The
significant closeness of that time to the present was another item
to add to the list of passionate fears which were chronic with her
now.

Yet Knight was very tender this evening, and sustained her close
to him as they sat.

Not a word had been uttered by either since sitting down, when
Knight said musingly, looking still afar--

'I wonder if any lovers in past years ever sat here with arms
locked, as we do now. Probably they have, for the place seems
formed for a seat.'

Her recollection of a well-known pair who had, and the much-
talked-of loss which had ensued therefrom, and how the young man
had been sent back to look for the missing article, led Elfride to
glance down to her side, and behind her back. Many people who
lose a trinket involuntarily give a momentary look for it in
passing the spot ever so long afterwards. They do not often find
it. Elfride, in turning her head, saw something shine weakly from
a crevice in the rocky sedile. Only for a few minutes during the
day did the sun light the alcove to its innermost rifts and slits,
but these were the minutes now, and its level rays did Elfride the
good or evil turn of revealing the lost ornament.

Elfride's thoughts instantly reverted to the words she had
unintentionally uttered upon what had been going on when the
earring was lost. And she was immediately seized with a misgiving
that Knight, on seeing the object, would be reminded of her words.
Her instinctive act therefore was to secure it privately.

It was so deep in the crack that Elfride could not pull it out
with her hand, though she made several surreptitious trials.

'What are you doing, Elfie?' said Knight, noticing her attempts,
and looking behind him likewise.

She had relinquished the endeavour, but too late.

Knight peered into the joint from which her hand had been
withdrawn, and saw what she had seen. He instantly took a
penknife from his pocket, and by dint of probing and scraping
brought the earring out upon open ground.

'It is not yours, surely?' he inquired.

'Yes, it is,' she said quietly.

'Well, that is a most extraordinary thing, that we should find it
like this!' Knight then remembered more circumstances; 'What, is
it the one you have told me of?'

'Yes.'

The unfortunate remark of hers at the kiss came into his mind, if
eyes were ever an index to be trusted. Trying to repress the
words he yet spoke on the subject, more to obtain assurance that
what it had seemed to imply was not true than from a wish to pry
into bygones.

'Were you really engaged to be married to that lover?' he said,
looking straight forward at the sea again.

'Yes--but not exactly. Yet I think I was.'

'O Elfride, engaged to be married!' he murmured.

'It would have been called a--secret engagement, I suppose. But
don't look so disappointed; don't blame me.'

'No, no.'

'Why do you say "No, no," in such a way? Sweetly enough, but so
barely?'

Knight made no direct reply to this. 'Elfride, I told you once,'
he said, following out his thoughts, 'that I never kissed a woman
as a sweetheart until I kissed you. A kiss is not much, I
suppose, and it happens to few young people to be able to avoid
all blandishments and attentions except from the one they
afterwards marry. But I have peculiar weaknesses, Elfride; and
because I have led a peculiar life, I must suffer for it, I
suppose. I had hoped--well, what I had no right to hope in
connection with you. You naturally granted your former lover the
privileges you grant me.'

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30