一双蓝眼睛 英文版 A Pair of Blue Eyes
托马斯.哈代 Thomas Hardy
Chapter XXXIV
'Yea, happy shall he be that rewardeth thee as thou hast served us.'
Sixteen hours had passed. Knight was entering the ladies' boudoirat The Crags, upon his return from attending the inquest touchingthe death of Mrs. Jethway. Elfride was not in the apartment.
Mrs. Swancourt made a few inquiries concerning the verdict andcollateral circumstances. Then she said--
'The postman came this morning the minute after you left thehouse. There was only one letter for you, and I have it here.'
She took a letter from the lid of her workbox, and handed it tohim. Knight took the missive abstractedly, but struck by itsappearance murmured a few words and left the room.
has been because I loved.
The letter was fastened with a black seal, and the handwriting inwhich it was addressed had lain under his eyes, long andprominently, only the evening before.
Knight was greatly agitated, and looked about for a spot where hemight be secure from interruption. It was the season of heavydews, which lay on the herbage in shady places all the day long;nevertheless, he entered a small patch of neglected grass-platenclosed by the shrubbery, and there perused the letter, which hehad opened on his way thither.
The handwriting, the seal, the paper, the introductory words, allhad told on the instant that the letter had come to him from thehands of the widow Jethway, now dead and cold. He had instantlyunderstood that the unfinished notes which caught his eyeyesternight were intended for nobody but himself. He hadremembered some of the words of Elfride in her sleep on thesteamer, that somebody was not to tell him of something, or itwould be her ruin--a circumstance hitherto deemed so trivial andmeaningless that he had well-nigh forgotten it. All these thingsinfused into him an emotion intense in power and supremelydistressing in quality. The paper in his hand quivered as heread:
'THE VALLEY, ENDELSTOW.
'SIR,--A woman who has not much in the world to lose by anycensure this act may bring upon her, wishes to give you some hintsconcerning a lady you love. If you will deign to accept a warningbefore it is too late, you will notice what your correspondent hasto say.
'You are deceived. Can such a woman as this be worthy?
'One who encouraged an honest youth to love her, then slightedhim, so that he died.
'One who next took a man of no birth as a lover, who was forbiddenthe house by her father.
'One who secretly left her home to be married to that man, methim, and went with him to London.
'One who, for some reason or other, returned again unmarried.
'One who, in her after-correspondence with him, went so far as toaddress him as her husband.
'One who wrote the enclosed letter to ask me, who better thananybody else knows the story, to keep the scandal a secret.
'I hope soon to be beyond the reach of either blame or praise.But before removing me God has put it in my power to avenge thedeath of my son.
'GERTRUDE JETHWAY.'
The letter enclosed was the note in pencil that Elfride hadwritten in Mrs. Jethway's cottage:
'DEAR MRS. JETHWAY,--I have been to visit you. I wanted much tosee you, but I cannot wait any longer. I came to beg you not toexecute the threats you have repeated to me. Do not, I beseechyou, Mrs. Jethway, let any one know I ran away from home! It wouldruin 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.
Knight turned his head wearily towards the house. The ground roserapidly on nearing the shrubbery in which he stood, raising italmost to a level with the first floor of The Crags. Elfride'sdressing-room lay in the salient angle in this direction, and itwas lighted by two windows in such a position that, from Knight'sstanding-place, his sight passed through both windows, and rakedthe room. Elfride was there; she was pausing between the twowindows, looking at her figure in the cheval-glass. She regardedherself long and attentively in front; turned, flung back herhead, and observed the reflection over her shoulder.
Nobody can predicate as to her object or fancy; she may have donethe deed in the very abstraction of deep sadness. She may havebeen moaning from the bottom of her heart, 'How unhappy am I!' Butthe impression produced on Knight was not a good one. He droppedhis eyes moodily. The dead woman's letter had a virtue in theaccident of its juncture far beyond any it intrinsicallyexhibited. Circumstance lent to evil words a ring of pitilessjustice echoing from the grave. Knight could not endure theirpossession. He tore the letter into fragments.
He heard a brushing among the bushes behind, and turning his headhe saw Elfride following him. The fair girl looked in his facewith a wistful smile of hope, too forcedly hopeful to displace thefirmly established dread beneath it. His severe words of theprevious night still sat heavy upon her.
'I saw you from my window, Harry,' she said timidly.
'The dew will make your feet wet,' he observed, as one deaf.
'I don't mind it.'
'There is danger in getting wet feet.'
'Yes...Harry, what is the matter?'
'Oh, nothing. Shall I resume the serious conversation I had withyou last night? No, perhaps not; perhaps I had better not.'
'Oh, I cannot tell! How wretched it all is! Ah, I wish you wereyour own dear self again, and had kissed me when I came up! Whydidn't you ask me for one? why don't you now?'
'Too free in manner by half,' he heard murmur the voice withinhim.
'It was that hateful conversation last night,' she went on. 'Oh,those words! Last night was a black night for me.'
'Kiss!--I hate that word! Don't talk of kissing, for God's sake! Ishould think you might with advantage have shown tact enough tokeep back that word "kiss," considering those you have accepted.'
She became very pale, and a rigid and desolate charactery tookpossession of her face. That face was so delicate and tender inappearance now, that one could fancy the pressure of a finger uponit would cause a livid spot.
as her husband.weeks and months. He .
Knight walked on, and Elfride with him, silent and unopposing. Heopened a gate, and they entered a path across a stubble-field.
'Perhaps I intrude upon you?' she said as he closed the gate.'Shall I go away?'
'No. Listen to me, Elfride.' Knight's voice was low and unequal.'I have been honest with you: will you be so with me? If any--strange--connection has existed between yourself and a predecessorof mine, tell it now. It is better that I know it now, eventhough the knowledge should part us, than that I should discoverit in time to come. And suspicions have been awakened in me. Ithink I will not say how, because I despise the means. Adiscovery of any mystery of your past would embitter our lives.'
Knight waited with a slow manner of calmness. His eyes were sadand imperative. They went farther along the path.
'Will you forgive me if I tell you all?' she exclaimedentreatingly.
'I can't promise; so much depends upon what you have to tell.'
Elfride could not endure the silence which followed.
'Are you not going to love me?' she burst out. 'Harry, Harry,love me, and speak as usual! Do; I beseech you, Harry!'
'Are you going to act fairly by me?' said Knight, with risinganger; 'or are you not? What have I done to you that I should beput off like this? Be caught like a bird in a springe; everythingintended to be hidden from me! Why is it, Elfride? That's what Iask you.'
In their agitation they had left the path, and were wanderingamong the wet and obstructive stubble, without knowing or heedingit.
'What have I done?' she faltered.
'What? How can you ask what, when you know so well? You KNOW thatI have designedly been kept in ignorance of something attaching toyou, which, had I known of it, might have altered all my conduct;and yet you say, what?'
She drooped visibly, and made no answer.
'Not that I believe in malicious letter-writers and whisperers;not I. I don't know whether I do or don't: upon my soul, I can'ttell. I know this: a religion was building itself upon you in myheart. I looked into your eyes, and thought I saw there truth andinnocence as pure and perfect as ever embodied by God in the fleshof woman. Perfect truth is too much to expect, but ordinary truthI WILL HAVE or nothing at all. Just say, then; is the matter youkeep back of the gravest importance, or is it not?'
'I don't understand all your meaning. If I have hidden anythingfrom you, it has been because I loved you so, and I feared--feared--to lose you.'
'Since you are not given to confidence, I want to ask you someplain questions. Have I your permission?'
'Yes,' she said, and there came over her face a weary resignation.'Say the harshest words you can; I will bear them!'
'There is a scandal in the air concerning you, Elfride; and Icannot even combat it without knowing definitely what it is. Itmay not refer to you entirely, or even at all.' Knight trifled inthe very bitterness of his feeling. 'In the time of the FrenchRevolution, Pariseau, a ballet-master, was beheaded by mistake forParisot, a captain of the King's Guard. I wish there was another"E. Swancourt" in the neighbourhood. Look at this.'
He handed her the letter she had written and left on the table atMrs. Jethway's. She looked over it vacantly.
'It is not so much as it seems!' she pleaded. 'It seems wickedlydeceptive to look at now, but it had a much more natural originthan you think. My sole wish was not to endanger our love. OHarry! that was all my idea. It was not much harm.'
'Yes, yes; but independently of the poor miserable creature'sremarks, it seems to imply--something wrong.'
'What remarks?'
'Those she wrote me--now torn to pieces. Elfride, DID you runaway with a man you loved?--that was the damnable statement. Hassuch an accusation life in it--really, truly, Elfride?'
'Yes,' she whispered.
Knight's countenance sank. 'To be married to him?' came huskilyfrom his lips.
'Yes. Oh, forgive me! I had never seen you, Harry.'
'To London?'
'Yes; but I----'
'Answer my questions; say nothing else, Elfride Did you everdeliberately try to marry him in secret?'
'No; not deliberately.'
'But did you do it?'
A feeble red passed over her face.
'Yes,' she said.
'And after that--did you--write to him as your husband; and did headdress you as his wife?'
'Listen, listen! It was----'
'Do answer me; only answer me!'
'Then, yes, we did.' Her lips shook; but it was with some littledignity that she continued: 'I would gladly have told you; for Iknew and know I had done wrong. But I dared not; I loved you toowell. Oh, so well! You have been everything in the world to me--and you are now. Will you not forgive me?'
It is a melancholy thought, that men who at first will not allowthe verdict of perfection they pronounce upon their sweethearts orwives to be disturbed by God's own testimony to the contrary,will, once suspecting their purity, morally hang them uponevidence they would be ashamed to admit in judging a dog.
The reluctance to tell, which arose from Elfride's simplicity inthinking herself so much more culpable than she really was, hadbeen doing fatal work in Knight's mind. The man of many ideas,now that his first dream of impossible things was over, vibratedtoo far in the contrary direction; and her every movement offeature--every tremor--every confused word--was taken as so muchproof of her unworthiness.
'Elfride, we must bid good-bye to compliment,' said Knight: 'wemust do without politeness now. Look in my face, and as youbelieve in God above, tell me truly one thing more. Were you awayalone with him?'
'Yes.'
'Did you return home the same day on which you left it?'
'No.'
The word fell like a bolt, and the very land and sky seemed tosuffer. Knight turned aside. Meantime Elfride's countenance worea look indicating utter despair of being able to explain mattersso that they would seem no more than they really were,--a despairwhich not only relinquishes the hope of direct explanation, butwearily gives up all collateral chances of extenuation.
The scene was engraved for years on the retina of Knight's eye:the dead and brown stubble, the weeds among it, the distant beltof beeches shutting out the view of the house, the leaves of whichwere now red and sick to death.
'You must forget me,' he said. 'We shall not marry, Elfride.'
How much anguish passed into her soul at those words from him wastold by the look of supreme torture she wore.
'What meaning have you, Harry? You only say so, do you?'
She looked doubtingly up at him, and tried to laugh, as if theunreality of his words must be unquestionable.
'You are not in earnest, I know--I hope you are not? Surely Ibelong to you, and you are going to keep me for yours?'
'Elfride, I have been speaking too roughly to you; I have saidwhat I ought only to have thought. I like you; and let me giveyou a word of advice. Marry your man as soon as you can. Howeverweary of each other you may feel, you belong to each other, and Iam not going to step between you. Do you think I would--do youthink I could for a moment? If you cannot marry him now, andanother makes you his wife, do not reveal this secret to him aftermarriage, if you do not before. Honesty would be damnation then.'
Bewildered by his expressions, she exclaimed--
'No, no; I will not be a wife unless I am yours; and I must beyours!'
'If we had married----'
'But you don't MEAN--that--that--you will go away and leave me,and not be anything more to me--oh, you don't!'
Convulsive sobs took all nerve out of her utterance. She checkedthem, and continued to look in his face for the ray of hope thatwas not to be found there.
'I am going indoors,' said Knight. 'You will not follow me,Elfride; I wish you not to.'
'Oh no; indeed, I will not.'
'And then I am going to Castle Boterel. Good-bye.'
He spoke the farewell as if it were but for the day--lightly, ashe had spoken such temporary farewells many times before--and sheseemed to understand it as such. Knight had not the power to tellher plainly that he was going for ever; he hardly knew for certainthat he was: whether he should rush back again upon the current ofan irresistible emotion, or whether he could sufficiently conquerhimself, and her in him, to establish that parting as a supremefarewell, and present himself to the world again as no woman's.
Ten minutes later he had left the house, leaving directions thatif he did not return in the evening his luggage was to be sent tohis chambers in London, whence he intended to write to Mr.Swancourt as to the reasons of his sudden departure. He descendedthe valley, and could not forbear turning his head. He saw thestubble-field, and a slight girlish figure in the midst of it--upagainst the sky. Elfride, docile as ever, had hardly moved astep, for he had said, Remain. He looked and saw her again--hesaw her for weeks and months. He withdrew his eyes from thescene, swept his hand across them, as if to brush away the sight,breathed a low groan, and went on.