一双蓝眼睛 英文版 A Pair of Blue Eyes
托马斯.哈代 Thomas Hardy
Chapter XXVII Page 2
'For Thou, to make my fall more great,Didst lift me up on high.'
What comes next, Elfride? It is the Hundred-and-second Psalm I amthinking of.'
'Yes, I know it,' she murmured, and went on in a still lowervoice, seemingly afraid for any words from the emotional side ofher nature to reach Stephen:
'"My days, just hastening to their end,Are like an evening shade;My beauty doth, like wither'd grass,With waning lustre fade."'
'Well,' said Knight musingly, 'let us leave them. Such occasionsas these seem to compel us to roam outside ourselves, far awayfrom the fragile frame we live in, and to expand till ourperception grows so vast that our physical reality bears no sortof proportion to it. We look back upon the weak and minute stemon which this luxuriant growth depends, and ask, Can it bepossible that such a capacity has a foundation so small? Must Iagain return to my daily walk in that narrow cell, a human body,where worldly thoughts can torture me? Do we not?'
'Yes,' said Stephen and Elfride.
'One has a sense of wrong, too, that such an appreciative breadthas a sentient being possesses should be committed to the frailcasket of a body. What weakens one's intentions regarding thefuture like the thought of this?...However, let us tune ourselvesto a more cheerful chord, for there's a great deal to be done yetby us all.'
But you have not said when it is to be?'Elfride? It.
As Knight meditatively addressed his juniors thus, unconscious ofthe deception practised, for different reasons, by the severedhearts at his side, and of the scenes that had in earlier daysunited them, each one felt that he and she did not gain bycontrast with their musing mentor. Physically not so handsome aseither the youthful architect or the vicar's daughter, thethoroughness and integrity of Knight illuminated his features witha dignity not even incipient in the other two. It is difficult toframe rules which shall apply to both sexes, and Elfride, anundeveloped girl, must, perhaps, hardly be laden with the moralresponsibilities which attach to a man in like circumstances. Thecharm of woman, too, lies partly in her subtleness in matters oflove. But if honesty is a virtue in itself, Elfride, having noneof it now, seemed, being for being, scarcely good enough forKnight. Stephen, though deceptive for no unworthy purpose, wasdeceptive after all; and whatever good results grace such strategyif it succeed, it seldom draws admiration, especially when itfails.
On an ordinary occasion, had Knight been even quite alone withStephen, he would hardly have alluded to his possible relationshipto Elfride. But moved by attendant circumstances Knight wasimpelled to be confiding.
'Stephen,' he said, 'this lady is Miss Swancourt. I am staying ather father's house, as you probably know.' He stepped a few pacesnearer to Smith, and said in a lower tone: 'I may as well tell youthat we are engaged to be married.'
Low as the words had been spoken, Elfride had heard them, andawaited Stephen's reply in breathless silence, if that could becalled silence where Elfride's dress, at each throb of her heart,shook and indicated it like a pulse-glass, rustling also againstthe wall in reply to the same throbbing. The ray of daylightwhich reached her face lent it a blue pallor in comparison withthose of the other two.
'I congratulate you,' Stephen whispered; and said aloud, 'I knowMiss Swancourt--a little. You must remember that my father is aparishioner of Mr. Swancourt's.'
'I thought you might possibly not have lived at home since theyhave been here.'
'I have never lived at home, certainly, since that time.'
'I have seen Mr. Smith,' faltered Elfride.
'Well, there is no excuse for me. As strangers to each other Iought, I suppose, to have introduced you: as acquaintances, Ishould not have stood so persistently between you. But the factis, Smith, you seem a boy to me, even now.'
Stephen appeared to have a more than previous consciousness of theintense cruelty of his fate at the present moment. He could notrepress the words, uttered with a dim bitterness:
'You should have said that I seemed still the rural mechanic's sonI am, and hence an unfit subject for the ceremony ofintroductions.'
'Oh, no, no! I won't have that.' Knight endeavoured to give hisreply a laughing tone in Elfride's ears, and an earnestness inStephen's: in both which efforts he signally failed, and produceda forced speech pleasant to neither. 'Well, let us go into theopen air again; Miss Swancourt, you are particularly silent. Youmustn't mind Smith. I have known him for years, as I have toldyou.'
'Yes, you have,' she said.
'To think she has never mentioned her knowledge of me!' Smithmurmured, and thought with some remorse how much her conductresembled his own on his first arrival at her house as a strangerto the place.
They ascended to the daylight, Knight taking no further notice ofElfride's manner, which, as usual, he attributed to the naturalshyness of a young woman at being discovered walking with him onterms which left not much doubt of their meaning. Elfride steppeda little in advance, and passed through the churchyard.
'You are changed very considerably, Smith,' said Knight, 'and Isuppose it is no more than was to be expected. However, don'timagine that I shall feel any the less interest in you and yourfortunes whenever you care to confide them to me. I have notforgotten the attachment you spoke of as your reason for goingaway to India. A London young lady, was it not? I hope all isprosperous?'
'No: the match is broken off.'
It being always difficult to know whether to express sorrow orgladness under such circumstances--all depending upon thecharacter of the match--Knight took shelter in the safe words: 'Itrust it was for the best.'
'I hope it was. But I beg that you will not press me further: no,you have not pressed me--I don't mean that--but I would rather notspeak upon the subject.'
Stephen's words were hurried.
Knight said no more, and they followed in the footsteps ofElfride, who still kept some paces in advance, and had not heardKnight's unconscious allusion to her. Stephen bade him adieu atthe churchyard-gate without going outside, and watched whilst heand his sweetheart mounted their horses.
'Good heavens, Elfride,' Knight exclaimed, 'how pale you are! Isuppose I ought not to have taken you into that vault. What isthe matter?'
'Nothing,' said Elfride faintly. 'I shall be myself in a moment.All was so strange and unexpected down there, that it made meunwell.'
'I thought you said very little. Shall I get some water?'
'No, no.'
'Do you think it is safe for you to mount?'
'Quite--indeed it is,' she said, with a look of appeal.
'Now then--up she goes!' whispered Knight, and lifted her tenderlyinto the saddle.
Her old lover still looked on at the performance as he leant overthe gate a dozen yards off. Once in the saddle, and having a firmgrip of the reins, she turned her head as if by a resistlessfascination, and for the first time since that memorable partingon the moor outside St. Launce's after the passionate attempt atmarriage with him, Elfride looked in the face of the young man shefirst had loved. He was the youth who had called her hisinseparable wife many a time, and whom she had even addressed asher husband. Their eyes met. Measurement of life should beproportioned rather to the intensity of the experience than to itsactual length. Their glance, but a moment chronologically, was aseason in their history. To Elfride the intense agony of reproachin Stephen's eye was a nail piercing her heart with a deadlinessno words can describe. With a spasmodic effort she withdrew hereyes, urged on the horse, and in the chaos of perturbed memorieswas oblivious of any presence beside her. The deed of deceptionwas complete.
Gaining a knoll on which the park transformed itself into wood andcopse, Knight came still closer to her side, and said, 'Are youbetter now, dearest?'
'Oh yes.' She pressed a hand to her eyes, as if to blot out theimage of Stephen. A vivid scarlet spot now shone withpreternatural brightness in the centre of each cheek, leaving theremainder of her face lily-white as before.
'Elfride,' said Knight, rather in his old tone of mentor, 'youknow I don't for a moment chide you, but is there not a great dealof unwomanly weakness in your allowing yourself to be sooverwhelmed by the sight of what, after all, is no novelty? Everywoman worthy of the name should, I think, be able to look upondeath with something like composure. Surely you think so too?'
'Yes; I own it.'
His obtuseness to the cause of her indisposition, by evidencinghis entire freedom from the suspicion of anything behind thescenes, showed how incapable Knight was of deception himself,rather than any inherent dulness in him regarding human nature.This, clearly perceived by Elfride, added poignancy to her self-reproach, and she idolized him the more because of theirdifference. Even the recent sight of Stephen's face and the soundof his voice, which for a moment had stirred a chord or two ofancient kindness, were unable to keep down the adoration re-existent now that he was again out of view.
She had replied to Knight's question hastily, and immediately wenton to speak of indifferent subjects. After they had reached homeshe was apart from him till dinner-time. When dinner was over,and they were watching the dusk in the drawing-room, Knightstepped out upon the terrace. Elfride went after him verydecisively, on the spur of a virtuous intention.
'Mr. Knight, I want to tell you something,' she said, with quietfirmness.
'And what is it about?' gaily returned her lover. 'Happiness, Ihope. Do not let anything keep you so sad as you seem to havebeen to-day.'
'I cannot mention the matter until I tell you the whole substanceof it,' she said. 'And that I will do to-morrow. I have beenreminded of it to-day. It is about something I once did, anddon't think I ought to have done.'
This, it must be said, was rather a mild way of referring to afrantic passion and flight, which, much or little in itself, onlyaccident had saved from being a scandal in the public eye.
Knight thought the matter some trifle, and said pleasantly:
'Then I am not to hear the dreadful confession now?'
'No, not now. I did not mean to-night,' Elfride responded, with aslight decline in the firmness of her voice. 'It is not light asyou think it--it troubles me a great deal.' Fearing now theeffect of her own earnestness, she added forcedly, 'Though,perhaps, you may think it light after all.'
'But you have not said when it is to be?'
'To-morrow morning. Name a time, will you, and bind me to it? Iwant you to fix an hour, because I am weak, and may otherwise tryto get out of it.' She added a little artificial laugh, whichshowed how timorous her resolution was still.
'Well, say after breakfast--at eleven o'clock.'
'Yes, eleven o'clock. I promise you. Bind me strictly to myword.'