一双蓝眼睛 英文版 A Pair of Blue Eyes
托马斯.哈代 Thomas Hardy
Chapter XXXIX
'Each to the loved one's side.'
The friends and rivals breakfasted together the next morning. Nota word was said on either side upon the matter discussed theprevious evening so glibly and so hollowly. Stephen was absorbedthe greater part of the time in wishing he were not forced to stayin town yet another day.
'I don't intend to leave for St. Launce's till to-morrow, as youknow,' he said to Knight at the end of the meal. 'What are yougoing to do with yourself to-day?'
'I'll look for you this evening,' said Stephen.
'Yes, do. You may as well come and dine with me; that is, if wecan meet. I may not sleep in London to-night; in fact, I amabsolutely unsettled as to my movements yet. However, the firstthing I am going to do is to get my baggage shifted from thisplace to Bede's Inn. Good-bye for the present. I'll write, youknow, if I can't meet you.'
It now wanted a quarter to nine o'clock. When Knight was gone,Stephen felt yet more impatient of the circumstance that anotherday would have to drag itself away wearily before he could set outfor that spot of earth whereon a soft thought of him might perhapsbe nourished still. On a sudden he admitted to his mind thepossibility that the engagement he was waiting in town to keepmight be postponed without much harm.
It was no sooner perceived than attempted. Looking at his watch,he found it wanted forty minutes to the departure of the teno'clock train from Paddington, which left him a surplus quarter ofan hour before it would be necessary to start for the station.
Scribbling a hasty note or two--one putting off the businessmeeting, another to Knight apologizing for not being able to seehim in the evening--paying his bill, and leaving his heavierluggage to follow him by goods-train, he jumped into a cab andrattled off to the Great Western Station.
younger manpointedly.the firstthing!
Shortly afterwards he took his seat in the railway carriage.
The guard paused on his whistle, to let into the next compartmentto Smith's a man of whom Stephen had caught but a hasty glimpse ashe ran across the platform at the last moment.
Smith sank back into the carriage, stilled by perplexity. The manwas like Knight--astonishingly like him. Was it possible it couldbe he? To have got there he must have driven like the wind toBede's Inn, and hardly have alighted before starting again. No,it could not be he; that was not his way of doing things.
During the early part of the journey Stephen Smith's thoughtsbusied themselves till his brain seemed swollen. One subject wasconcerning his own approaching actions. He was a day earlier thanhis letter to his parents had stated, and his arrangement withthem had been that they should meet him at Plymouth; a plan whichpleased the worthy couple beyond expression. Once before the sameengagement had been made, which he had then quashed by ante-datinghis arrival. This time he would go right on to Castle Boterel;ramble in that well-known neighbourhood during the evening andnext morning, making inquiries; and return to Plymouth to meetthem as arranged--a contrivance which would leave their cherishedproject undisturbed, relieving his own impatience also.
At Chippenham there was a little waiting, and some loosening andattaching of carriages.
Stephen looked out. At the same moment another man's head emergedfrom the adjoining window. Each looked in the other's face.
Knight and Stephen confronted one another.
'You here!' said the younger man.
'Yes. It seems that you are too,' said Knight, strangely.
'Yes.'
The selfishness of love and the cruelty of jealousy were fairlyexemplified at this moment. Each of the two men looked at hisfriend as he had never looked at him before. Each was TROUBLED atthe other's presence.
'I thought you said you were not coming till to-morrow,' remarkedKnight.
'I did. It was an afterthought to come to-day. This journey wasyour engagement, then?'
'No, it was not. This is an afterthought of mine too. I left anote to explain it, and account for my not being able to meet youthis evening as we arranged.'
'So did I for you.'
'You don't look well: you did not this morning.'
'I have a headache. You are paler to-day than you were.'
'I, too, have been suffering from headache. We have to wait herea few minutes, I think.'
They walked up and down the platform, each one more and moreembarrassingly concerned with the awkwardness of his friend'spresence. They reached the end of the footway, and paused insheer absent-mindedness. Stephen's vacant eyes rested upon theoperations of some porters, who were shifting a dark and curious-looking van from the rear of the train, to shunt another which wasbetween it and the fore part of the train. This operation havingbeen concluded, the two friends returned to the side of theircarriage.
'Will you come in here?' said Knight, not very warmly.
'I have my rug and portmanteau and umbrella with me: it is ratherbothering to move now,' said Stephen reluctantly. 'Why not youcome here?'
'I have my traps too. It is hardly worth while to shift them, forI shall see you again, you know.'
'Oh, yes.'
And each got into his own place. Just at starting, a man on theplatform held up his hands and stopped the train.
Stephen looked out to see what was the matter.
One of the officials was exclaiming to another, 'That carriageshould have been attached again. Can't you see it is for the mainline? Quick! What fools there are in the world!'
'That singular carriage we saw has been unfastened from our trainby mistake, it seems,' said Stephen.
He was watching the process of attaching it. The van or carriage,which he now recognized as having seen at Paddington before theystarted, was rich and solemn rather than gloomy in aspect. Itseemed to be quite new, and of modern design, and its impressivepersonality attracted the notice of others beside himself. Hebeheld it gradually wheeled forward by two men on each side:slower and more sadly it seemed to approach: then a slightconcussion, and they were connected with it, and off again.
Stephen sat all the afternoon pondering upon the reason ofKnight's unexpected reappearance. Was he going as far as CastleBoterel? If so, he could only have one object in view--a visit toElfride. And what an idea it seemed!
At Plymouth Smith partook of a little refreshment, and then wentround to the side from which the train started for Camelton, thenew station near Castle Boterel and Endelstow.
Knight was already there.
Stephen walked up and stood beside him without speaking. Two menat this moment crept out from among the wheels of the waitingtrain.
'The carriage is light enough,' said one in a grim tone. 'Lightas vanity; full of nothing.'
'Nothing in size, but a good deal in signification,' said theother, a man of brighter mind and manners.
Smith then perceived that to their train was attached that samecarriage of grand and dark aspect which had haunted them all theway from London.
'You are going on, I suppose?' said Knight, turning to Stephen,after idly looking at the same object.
'Yes.'
'We may as well travel together for the remaining distance, may wenot?'
'Certainly we will;' and they both entered the same door.
Evening drew on apace. It chanced to be the eve of St.Valentine's--that bishop of blessed memory to youthful lovers--andthe sun shone low under the rim of a thick hard cloud, decoratingthe eminences of the landscape with crowns of orange fire. As thetrain changed its direction on a curve, the same rays stretched inthrough the window, and coaxed open Knight's half-closed eyes.
'You will get out at St. Launce's, I suppose?' he murmured.
'No,' said Stephen, 'I am not expected till to-morrow.' Knight wassilent.
'And you--are you going to Endelstow?' said the younger manpointedly.
'Since you ask, I can do no less than say I am, Stephen,'continued Knight slowly, and with more resolution of manner thanhe had shown all the day. 'I am going to Endelstow to see ifElfride Swancourt is still free; and if so, to ask her to be mywife.'
'So am I,' said Stephen Smith.
'I think you'll lose your labour,' Knight returned with decision.
'Naturally you do.' There was a strong accent of bitterness inStephen's voice. 'You might have said HOPE instead of THINK,' headded.
'I might have done no such thing. I gave you my opinion. ElfrideSwancourt may have loved you once, no doubt, but it was when shewas so young that she hardly knew her own mind.'
'Thank you,' said Stephen laconically. 'She knew her mind as wellas I did. We are the same age. If you hadn't interfered----'
'Don't say that--don't say it, Stephen! How can you make out thatI interfered? Be just, please!'
'Well,' said his friend, 'she was mine before she was yours--youknow that! And it seemed a hard thing to find you had got her, andthat if it had not been for you, all might have turned out wellfor me.' Stephen spoke with a swelling heart, and looked out ofthe window to hide the emotion that would make itself visible uponhis face.
'It is absurd,' said Knight in a kinder tone, 'for you to look atthe matter in that light. What I tell you is for your good. Younaturally do not like to realize the truth--that her liking foryou was only a girl's first fancy, which has no root ever.'
'It is not true!' said Stephen passionately. 'It was you put meout. And now you'll be pushing in again between us, and deprivingme of my chance again! My right, that's what it is! How ungenerousof you to come anew and try to take her away from me! When you hadwon her, I did not interfere; and you might, I think, Mr. Knight,do by me as I did by you!'
'Don't "Mr." me; you are as well in the world as I am now.'
'First love is deepest; and that was mine.'
'Who told you that?' said Knight superciliously.
'I had her first love. And it was through me that you and sheparted. I can guess that well enough.'
'It was. And if I were to explain to you in what way thatoperated in parting us, I should convince you that you do quitewrong in intruding upon her--that, as I said at first, your labourwill be lost. I don't choose to explain, because the particularsare painful. But if you won't listen to me, go on, for Heaven'ssake. I don't care what you do, my boy.'
'You have no right to domineer over me as you do. Just because,when I was a lad, I was accustomed to look up to you as a master,and you helped me a little, for which I was grateful to you andhave loved you, you assume too much now, and step in before me.It is cruel--it is unjust--of you to injure me so!'
Knight showed himself keenly hurt at this. 'Stephen, those wordsare untrue and unworthy of any man, and they are unworthy of you.You know you wrong me. If you have ever profited by anyinstruction of mine, I am only too glad to know it. You know itwas given ungrudgingly, and that I have never once looked upon itas making you in any way a debtor to me.'
Stephen's naturally gentle nature was touched, and it was in atroubled voice that he said, 'Yes, yes. I am unjust in that--Iown it.'
'This is St. Launce's Station, I think. Are you going to getout?'
Knight's manner of returning to the matter in hand drew Stephenagain into himself. 'No; I told you I was going to Endelstow,' heresolutely replied.
Knight's features became impassive, and he said no more. Thetrain continued rattling on, and Stephen leant back in his cornerand closed his eyes. The yellows of evening had turned to browns,the dusky shades thickened, and a flying cloud of dustoccasionally stroked the window--borne upon a chilling breezewhich blew from the north-east. The previously gilded but nowdreary hills began to lose their daylight aspects of rotundity,and to become black discs vandyked against the sky, all naturewearing the cloak that six o'clock casts over the landscape atthis time of the year.
Stephen started up in bewilderment after a long stillness, and itwas some time before he recollected himself.
'Well, how real, how real!' he exclaimed, brushing his hand acrosshis eyes.
'What is?' said Knight.
'That dream. I fell asleep for a few minutes, and have had adream--the most vivid I ever remember.'
He wearily looked out into the gloom. They were now drawing nearto Camelton. The lighting of the lamps was perceptible throughthe veil of evening--each flame starting into existence atintervals, and blinking weakly against the gusts of wind.
'What did you dream?' said Knight moodily.
'Oh, nothing to be told. 'Twas a sort of incubus. There is neveranything in dreams.'
'I hardly supposed there was.'
'I know that. However, what I so vividly dreamt was this, sinceyou would like to hear. It was the brightest of bright morningsat East Endelstow Church, and you and I stood by the font. Faraway in the chancel Lord Luxellian was standing alone, cold andimpassive, and utterly unlike his usual self: but I knew it washe. Inside the altar rail stood a strange clergyman with his bookopen. He looked up and said to Lord Luxellian, "Where's thebride?" Lord Luxellian said, "There's no bride." At that momentsomebody came in at the door, and I knew her to be Lady Luxellianwho died. He turned and said to her, "I thought you were in thevault below us; but that could have only been a dream of mine.Come on." Then she came on. And in brushing between us shechilled me so with cold that I exclaimed, "The life is gone out ofme!" and, in the way of dreams, I awoke. But here we are atCamelton.'
They were slowly entering the station.
withthat funeral?'some loosening.
'What are you going to do?' said Knight. 'Do you really intend tocall on the Swancourts?'
'By no means. I am going to make inquiries first. I shall stayat the Luxellian Arms to-night. You will go right on toEndelstow, I suppose, at once?'
'I can hardly do that at this time of the day. Perhaps you arenot aware that the family--her father, at any rate--is at variancewith me as much as with you.
'I didn't know it.'
'And that I cannot rush into the house as an old friend any morethan you can. Certainly I have the privileges of a distantrelationship, whatever they may be.'
Knight let down the window, and looked ahead. 'There are a greatmany people at the station,' he said. 'They seem all to be on thelook-out for us.'
When the train stopped, the half-estranged friends could perceiveby the lamplight that the assemblage of idlers enclosed as akernel a group of men in black cloaks. A side gate in theplatform railing was open, and outside this stood a dark vehicle,which they could not at first characterize. Then Knight saw onits upper part forms against the sky like cedars by night, andknew the vehicle to be a hearse. Few people were at the carriagedoors to meet the passengers--the majority had congregated at thisupper end. Knight and Stephen alighted, and turned for a momentin the same direction.
The sombre van, which had accompanied them all day from London,now began to reveal that their destination was also its own. Ithad been drawn up exactly opposite the open gate. The bystandersall fell back, forming a clear lane from the gateway to the van,and the men in cloaks entered the latter conveyance.
'They are labourers, I fancy,' said Stephen. 'Ah, it is strange;but I recognize three of them as Endelstow men. Rather remarkablethis.'
Presently they began to come out, two and two; and under the raysof the lamp they were seen to bear between them a light-colouredcoffin of satin-wood, brightly polished, and without a nail. Theeight men took the burden upon their shoulders, and slowly crossedwith it over to the gate.
Knight and Stephen went outside, and came close to the processionas it moved off. A carriage belonging to the cortege turned roundclose to a lamp. The rays shone in upon the face of the vicar ofEndelstow, Mr. Swancourt--looking many years older than when theyhad last seen him. Knight and Stephen involuntarily drew back.
Knight spoke to a bystander. 'What has Mr. Swancourt to do withthat funeral?'
'He is the lady's father,' said the bystander.
'What lady's father?' said Knight, in a voice so hollow that theman stared at him.
'The father of the lady in the coffin. She died in London, youknow, and has been brought here by this train. She is to be takenhome to-night, and buried to-morrow.'
Knight stood staring blindly at where the hearse had been; as ifhe saw it, or some one, there. Then he turned, and beheld thelithe form of Stephen bowed down like that of an old man. He tookhis young friend's arm, and led him away from the light.