一双蓝眼睛 英文版 A Pair of Blue Eyes
托马斯.哈代 Thomas Hardy
Chapter IX
'Her father did fume'
Oppressed, in spite of themselves, by a foresight of impendingcomplications, Elfride and Stephen returned down the hill hand inhand. At the door they paused wistfully, like children late atschool.
Why hadn't he already told? I object as much, ifnot more.
Women accept their destiny more readily than men. Elfride had nowresigned herself to the overwhelming idea of her lover's sorryantecedents; Stephen had not forgotten the trifling grievance thatElfride had known earlier admiration than his own.
'What was that young man's name?' he inquired.
Hewbysimply used the accepted word.
'Felix Jethway; a widow's only son.'
'I remember the family.'
pianoforteperformance of the?
'She hates me now. She says I killed him.'
Stephen mused, and they entered the porch.
'Stephen, I love only you,' she tremulously whispered. He pressedher fingers, and the trifling shadow passed away, to admit againthe mutual and more tangible trouble.
The study appeared to be the only room lighted up. They entered,each with a demeanour intended to conceal the inconcealable factthat reciprocal love was their dominant chord. Elfride perceiveda man, sitting with his back towards herself, talking to herfather. She would have retired, but Mr. Swancourt had seen her.
'Come in,' he said; 'it is only Martin Cannister, come for a copyof the register for poor Mrs. Jethway.'
magisterially; and the twomaids passed.
Martin Cannister, the sexton, was rather a favourite with Elfride.He used to absorb her attention by telling her of his strangeexperiences in digging up after long years the bodies of personshe had known, and recognizing them by some little sign (though inreality he had never recognized any). He had shrewd small eyesand a great wealth of double chin, which compensated in somemeasure for considerable poverty of nose.
The appearance of a slip of paper in Cannister's hand, and a fewshillings lying on the table in front of him, denoted that thebusiness had been transacted, and the tenor of their conversationwent to show that a summary of village news was now engaging theattention of parishioner and parson.
Mr. Cannister stood up and touched his forehead over his eye withhis finger, in respectful salutation of Elfride, gave half as muchsalute to Stephen (whom he, in common with other villagers, hadnever for a moment recognized), then sat down again and resumedhis discourse.
You do, you do! He is myown Stephen.
'Where had I got on to, sir?'
John Smith's hand, and squashed ento a pummy.
'To driving the pile,' said Mr. Swancourt.
'The pile 'twas. So, as I was saying, Nat was driving the pile inthis manner, as I might say.' Here Mr. Cannister held his walking-stick scrupulously vertical with his left hand, and struck a blowwith great force on the knob of the stick with his right. 'Johnwas steadying the pile so, as I might say.' Here he gave the sticka slight shake, and looked firmly in the various eyes around tosee that before proceeding further his listeners well grasped thesubject at that stage. 'Well, when Nat had struck some half-dozenblows more upon the pile, 'a stopped for a second or two. John,thinking he had done striking, put his hand upon the top o' thepile to gie en a pull, and see if 'a were firm in the ground.' Mr.Cannister spread his hand over the top of the stick, completelycovering it with his palm. 'Well, so to speak, Nat hadn't manedto stop striking, and when John had put his hand upon the pile,the beetle----'
'Oh dreadful!' said Elfride.
'The beetle was already coming down, you see, sir. Nat justcaught sight of his hand, but couldn't stop the blow in time.Down came the beetle upon poor John Smith's hand, and squashed ento a pummy.'
'Dear me, dear me! poor fellow!' said the vicar, with anintonation like the groans of the wounded in a pianoforteperformance of the 'Battle of Prague.'
'John Smith, the master-mason?' cried Stephen hurriedly.
'Ay, no other; and a better-hearted man God A'mighty never made.'
'Is he so much hurt?'
'I have heard,' said Mr. Swancourt, not noticing Stephen, 'that hehas a son in London, a very promising young fellow.'
'Oh, how he must be hurt!' repeated Stephen.
inquired. deluded anddisgraced by having him here,--the.
'A beetle couldn't hurt very little. Well, sir, good-night t'ye;and ye, sir; and you, miss, I'm sure.'
Mr. Cannister had been making unnoticeable motions of withdrawal,and by the time this farewell remark came from his lips he wasjust outside the door of the room. He tramped along the hall,stayed more than a minute endeavouring to close the door properly,and then was lost to their hearing.
good-night t'ye;and ye, sir; and you, miss, I'm sure!
Stephen had meanwhile turned and said to the vicar:
youhe would never be asked.
'Please excuse me this evening! I must leave. John Smith is myfather.'
The vicar did not comprehend at first.
'What did you say?' he inquired.
'John Smith is my father,' said Stephen deliberately.
A surplus tinge of redness rose from Mr. Swancourt's neck, andcame round over his face, the lines of his features became morefirmly defined, and his lips seemed to get thinner. It wasevident that a series of little circumstances, hitherto unheeded,were now fitting themselves together, and forming a lucid picturein Mr. Swancourt's mind in such a manner as to render uselessfurther explanation on Stephen's part.
'Indeed,' the vicar said, in a voice dry and without inflection.
This being a word which depends entirely upon its tone for itsmeaning, Mr. Swancourt's enunciation was equivalent to noexpression at all.
'I have to go now,' said Stephen, with an agitated bearing, and amovement as if he scarcely knew whether he ought to run off orstay longer. 'On my return, sir, will you kindly grant me a fewminutes' private conversation?'
'Certainly. Though antecedently it does not seem possible thatthere can be anything of the nature of private business betweenus.'
Mr. Swancourt put on his straw hat, crossed the drawing-room, intowhich the moonlight was shining, and stepped out of the Frenchwindow into the verandah. It required no further effort toperceive what, indeed, reasoning might have foretold as thenatural colour of a mind whose pleasures were taken amidgenealogies, good dinners, and patrician reminiscences, that Mr.Swancourt's prejudices were too strong for his generosity, andthat Stephen's moments as his friend and equal were numbered, orhad even now ceased.
Stephen moved forward as if he would follow the vicar, then as ifhe would not, and in absolute perplexity whither to turn himself,went awkwardly to the door. Elfride followed lingeringly behindhim. Before he had receded two yards from the doorstep, Unity andAnn the housemaid came home from their visit to the village.
'Have you heard anything about John Smith? The accident is not sobad as was reported, is it?' said Elfride intuitively.
'Oh no; the doctor says it is only a bad bruise.'
'I thought so!' cried Elfride gladly.
'He says that, although Nat believes he did not check the beetleas it came down, he must have done so without knowing it--checkedit very considerably too; for the full blow would have knocked hishand abroad, and in reality it is only made black-and-blue like.'
'How thankful I am!' said Stephen.
The perplexed Unity looked at him with her mouth rather than withher eyes.
'That will do, Unity,' said Elfride magisterially; and the twomaids passed on.
'Elfride, do you forgive me?' said Stephen with a faint smile.'No man is fair in love;' and he took her fingers lightly in hisown.
With her head thrown sideways in the Greuze attitude, she looked atender reproach at his doubt and pressed his hand. Stephenreturned the pressure threefold, then hastily went off to hisfather's cottage by the wall of Endelstow Park.
'Elfride, what have you to say to this?' inquired her father,coming up immediately Stephen had retired.
With feminine quickness she grasped at any straw that would enableher to plead his cause. 'He had told me of it,' she faltered; 'sothat it is not a discovery in spite of him. He was just coming into tell you.'
'COMING to tell! Why hadn't he already told? I object as much, ifnot more, to his underhand concealment of this, than I do to thefact itself. It looks very much like his making a fool of me, andof you too. You and he have been about together, andcorresponding together, in a way I don't at all approve of--in amost unseemly way. You should have known how improper suchconduct is. A woman can't be too careful not to be seen alonewith I-don't-know-whom.'
'You saw us, papa, and have never said a word.'
'My fault, of course; my fault. What the deuce could I bethinking of! He, a villager's son; and we, Swancourts, connectionsof the Luxellians. We have been coming to nothing for centuries,and now I believe we have got there. What shall I next invitehere, I wonder!'
driving the pile,' said Mr. Swancourt.thankful I .
Elfride began to cry at this very unpropitious aspect of affairs.'O papa, papa, forgive me and him! We care so much for oneanother, papa--O, so much! And what he was going to ask you is, ifyou will allow of an engagement between us till he is a gentlemanas good as you. We are not in a hurry, dear papa; we don't wantin the least to marry now; not until he is richer. Only will youlet us be engaged, because I love him so, and he loves me?'
Mr. Swancourt's feelings were a little touched by this appeal, andhe was annoyed that such should be the case. 'Certainly not!' hereplied. He pronounced the inhibition lengthily and sonorously,so that the 'not' sounded like 'n-o-o-o-t!'
'No, no, no; don't say it!'
'Foh! A fine story. It is not enough that I have been deluded anddisgraced by having him here,--the son of one of my villagepeasants,--but now I am to make him my son-in-law! Heavens aboveus, are you mad, Elfride?'
'You have seen his letters come to me ever since his first visit,papa, and you knew they were a sort of--love-letters; and since hehas been here you have let him be alone with me almost entirely;and you guessed, you must have guessed, what we were thinking of,and doing, and you didn't stop him. Next to love-making comeslove-winning, and you knew it would come to that, papa.'
The vicar parried this common-sense thrust. 'I know--since youpress me so--I know I did guess some childish attachment mightarise between you; I own I did not take much trouble to preventit; but I have not particularly countenanced it; and, Elfride, howcan you expect that I should now? It is impossible; no father inEngland would hear of such a thing.'
'But he is the same man, papa; the same in every particular; andhow can he be less fit for me than he was before?'
'He appeared a young man with well-to-do friends, and a littleproperty; but having neither, he is another man.'
'You inquired nothing about him?'
'I went by Hewby's introduction. He should have told me. Soshould the young man himself; of course he should. I consider ita most dishonourable thing to come into a man's house like atreacherous I-don't-know-what.'
'But he was afraid to tell you, and so should I have been. Heloved me too well to like to run the risk. And as to speaking ofhis friends on his first visit, I don't see why he should havedone so at all. He came here on business: it was no affair ofours who his parents were. And then he knew that if he told youhe would never be asked here, and would perhaps never see meagain. And he wanted to see me. Who can blame him for trying, byany means, to stay near me--the girl he loves? All is fair inlove. I have heard you say so yourself, papa; and you yourselfwould have done just as he has--so would any man.'
'And any man, on discovering what I have discovered, would also doas I do, and mend my mistake; that is, get shot of him again, assoon as the laws of hospitality will allow.' But Mr. Swancourtthen remembered that he was a Christian. 'I would not, for theworld, seem to turn him out of doors,' he added; 'but I think hewill have the tact to see that he cannot stay long after this,with good taste.'
explanation on Stephen's part.friendliness.
'He will, because he's a gentleman. See how graceful his mannersare,' Elfride went on; though perhaps Stephen's manners, like thefeats of Euryalus, owed their attractiveness in her eyes rather tothe attractiveness of his person than to their own excellence.
'Ay; anybody can be what you call graceful, if he lives a littletime in a city, and keeps his eyes open. And he might have pickedup his gentlemanliness by going to the galleries of theatres, andwatching stage drawing-room manners. He reminds me of one of theworst stories I ever heard in my life.'
'What story was that?'
'Oh no, thank you! I wouldn't tell you such an improper matter forthe world!'
'If his father and mother had lived in the north or east ofEngland,' gallantly persisted Elfride, though her sobs began tointerrupt her articulation, 'anywhere but here--you--would have--only regarded--HIM, and not THEM! His station--would have--beenwhat--his profession makes it,--and not fixed by--his father'shumble position--at all; whom he never lives with--now. ThoughJohn Smith has saved lots of money, and is better off than we are,they say, or he couldn't have put his son to such an expensiveprofession. And it is clever and--honourable--of Stephen, to bethe best of his family.'
'Yes. "Let a beast be lord of beasts, and his crib shall stand atthe king's mess."'
'You insult me, papa!' she burst out. 'You do, you do! He is myown Stephen, he is!'
'That may or may not be true, Elfride,' returned her father, againuncomfortably agitated in spite of himself 'You confuse futureprobabilities with present facts,--what the young man may be withwhat he is. We must look at what he is, not what an improbabledegree of success in his profession may make him. The case isthis: the son of a working-man in my parish who may or may not beable to buy me up--a youth who has not yet advanced so far intolife as to have any income of his own deserving the name, andtherefore of his father's degree as regards station--wants to beengaged to you. His family are living in precisely the same spotin England as yours, so throughout this county--which is the worldto us--you would always be known as the wife of Jack Smith themason's son, and not under any circumstances as the wife of aLondon professional man. It is the drawback, not the compensatingfact, that is talked of always. There, say no more. You mayargue all night, and prove what you will; I'll stick to my words.'
Elfride looked silently and hopelessly out of the window withlarge heavy eyes and wet cheeks.
'I call it great temerity--and long to call it audacity--inHewby,' resumed her father. 'I never heard such a thing--givingsuch a hobbledehoy native of this place such an introduction to meas he did. Naturally you were deceived as well as I was. I don'tblame you at all, so far.' He went and searched for Mr. Hewby'soriginal letter. 'Here's what he said to me: "Dear Sir,--Agreeably to your request of the 18th instant, I have arranged tosurvey and make drawings," et cetera. "My assistant, Mr. StephenSmith"--assistant, you see he called him, and naturally Iunderstood him to mean a sort of partner. Why didn't he say"clerk"?'
'They never call them clerks in that profession, because they donot write. Stephen--Mr. Smith--told me so. So that Mr. Hewbysimply used the accepted word.'
'Let me speak, please, Elfride! "My assistant, Mr. Stephen Smith,will leave London by the early train to-morrow morning...MANYTHANKS FOR YOUR PROPOSAL TO ACCOMMODATE HIM...YOU MAY PUT EVERYCONFIDENCE IN HIM, and may rely upon his discernment in the matterof church architecture." Well, I repeat that Hewby ought to beashamed of himself for making so much of a poor lad of that sort.'
'Professional men in London,' Elfride argued, 'don't know anythingabout their clerks' fathers and mothers. They have assistants whocome to their offices and shops for years, and hardly even knowwhere they live. What they can do--what profits they can bringthe firm--that's all London men care about. And that is helped inhim by his faculty of being uniformly pleasant.'
'Uniform pleasantness is rather a defect than a faculty. It showsthat a man hasn't sense enough to know whom to despise.'
'It shows that he acts by faith and not by sight, as those youclaim succession from directed.'
'That's some more of what he's been telling you, I suppose! Yes, Iwas inclined to suspect him, because he didn't care about saucesof any kind. I always did doubt a man's being a gentleman if hispalate had no acquired tastes. An unedified palate is theirrepressible cloven foot of the upstart. The idea of my bringingout a bottle of my '40 Martinez--only eleven of them left now--toa man who didn't know it from eighteenpenny! Then the Latin linehe gave to my quotation; it was very cut-and-dried, very; or I,who haven't looked into a classical author for the last eighteenyears, shouldn't have remembered it. Well, Elfride, you hadbetter go to your room; you'll get over this bit of tomfoolery intime.'
'No, no, no, papa,' she moaned. For of all the miseries attachingto miserable love, the worst is the misery of thinking that thepassion which is the cause of them all may cease.
'Elfride,' said her father with rough friendliness, 'I have anexcellent scheme on hand, which I cannot tell you of now. Ascheme to benefit you and me. It has been thrust upon me for somelittle time--yes, thrust upon me--but I didn't dream of its valuetill this afternoon, when the revelation came. I should be mostunwise to refuse to entertain it.'
'I don't like that word,' she returned wearily. 'You have lost somuch already by schemes. Is it those wretched mines again?'
'No; not a mining scheme.'
'Railways?'
'Nor railways. It is like those mysterious offers we seeadvertised, by which any gentleman with no brains at all may makeso much a week without risk, trouble, or soiling his fingers.However, I am intending to say nothing till it is settled, thoughI will just say this much, that you soon may have other fish tofry than to think of Stephen Smith. Remember, I wish, not to beangry, but friendly, to the young man; for your sake I'll regardhim as a friend in a certain sense. But this is enough; in a fewdays you will be quite my way of thinking. There, now, go to yourbedroom. Unity shall bring you up some supper. I wish you not tobe here when he comes back.'