一双蓝眼睛 英文版 A Pair of Blue Eyes
托马斯.哈代 Thomas Hardy
Chapter XL
'Welcome, proud lady.'
Half an hour has passed. Two miserable men are wandering in thedarkness up the miles of road from Camelton to Endelstow.
'Has she broken her heart?' said Henry Knight. 'Can it be that Ihave killed her? I was bitter with her, Stephen, and she has died!And may God have NO mercy upon me!'
'How can you have killed her more than I?'
'Why, I went away from her--stole away almost--and didn't tell herI should not come again; and at that last meeting I did not kissher once, but let her miserably go. I have been a fool--a fool! Iwish the most abject confession of it before crowds of mycountrymen could in any way make amends to my darling for theintense cruelty I have shown her!'
'YOUR darling!' said Stephen, with a sort of laugh. 'Any man cansay that, I suppose; any man can. I know this, she was MY darlingbefore she was yours; and after too. If anybody has a right tocall her his own, it is I.'
'You talk like a man in the dark; which is what you are. Did sheever do anything for you? Risk her name, for instance, for you?'
Yes, she did,' said Stephen emphatically.
'Not entirely. Did she ever live for you--prove she could notlive without you--laugh and weep for you?'
'Yes.'
'Never! Did she ever risk her life for you--no! My darling did forme.'
'Then it was in kindness only. When did she risk her life foryou?'
'To save mine on the cliff yonder. The poor child was with melooking at the approach of the Puffin steamboat, and I slippeddown. We both had a narrow escape. I wish we had died there!'
I cannot. You must be mistaken.
'Ah, but wait,' Stephen pleaded with wet eyes. 'She went on thatcliff to see me arrive home: she had promised it. She told me shewould months before. And would she have gone there if she had notcared for me at all?'
'You have an idea that Elfride died for you, no doubt,' saidKnight, with a mournful sarcasm too nerveless to support itself.
'Never mind. If we find that--that she died yours, I'll say nomore ever.'
'And if we find she died yours, I'll say no more.'
'Very well--so it shall be.'
The dark clouds into which the sun had sunk had begun to drop rainin an increasing volume.
'Can we wait somewhere here till this shower is over?' saidStephen desultorily.
'As you will. But it is not worth while. We'll hear theparticulars, and return. Don't let people know who we are. I amnot much now.'
They had reached a point at which the road branched into two--justoutside the west village, one fork of the diverging routes passinginto the latter place, the other stretching on to East Endelstow.Having come some of the distance by the footpath, they now foundthat the hearse was only a little in advance of them.
'I fancy it has turned off to East Endelstow. Can you see?'
'I cannot. You must be mistaken.'
Knight and Stephen entered the village. A bar of fiery light layacross the road, proceeding from the half-open door of a smithy,in which bellows were heard blowing and a hammer ringing. Therain had increased, and they mechanically turned for sheltertowards the warm and cosy scene.
Close at their heels came another man, without over-coat orumbrella, and with a parcel under his arm.
'A wet evening,' he said to the two friends, and passed by them.They stood in the outer penthouse, but the man went in to thefire.
The smith ceased his blowing, and began talking to the man who hadentered.
'I have walked all the way from Camelton,' said the latter. 'Wasobliged to come to-night, you know.'
He held the parcel, which was a flat one, towards the firelight,to learn if the rain had penetrated it. Resting it edgewise onthe forge, he supported it perpendicularly with one hand, wipinghis face with the handkerchief he held in the other.
'I suppose you know what I've got here?' he observed to the smith.
'No, I don't,' said the smith, pausing again on his bellows.
'As the rain's not over, I'll show you,' said the bearer.
He laid the thin and broad package, which had acute angles indifferent directions, flat upon the anvil, and the smith blew upthe fire to give him more light. First, after untying thepackage, a sheet of brown paper was removed: this was laid flat.Then he unfolded a piece of baize: this also he spread flat on thepaper. The third covering was a wrapper of tissue paper, whichwas spread out in its turn. The enclosure was revealed, and heheld it up for the smith's inspection.
people know who we are. I .
'Oh--I see!' said the smith, kindling with a chastened interest,and drawing close. 'Poor young lady--ah, terrible melancholything--so soon too!'
Knight and Stephen turned their heads and looked.
'And what's that?' continued the smith.
'That's the coronet--beautifully finished, isn't it? Ah, that costsome money!'
''Tis as fine a bit of metal work as ever I see--that 'tis.'
'It came from the same people as the coffin, you know, but was notready soon enough to be sent round to the house in Londonyesterday. I've got to fix it on this very night.'
The carefully-packed articles were a coffin-plate and coronet.
Knight and Stephen came forward. The undertaker's man, on seeingthem look for the inscription, civilly turned it round towardsthem, and each read, almost at one moment, by the ruddy light ofthe coals:
E L F R I D E,Wife of Spenser Hugo Luxellian,Fifteenth Baron Luxellian:Died February 10, 18--.
They read it, and read it, and read it again--Stephen and Knight--as if animated by one soul. Then Stephen put his hand uponKnight's arm, and they retired from the yellow glow, further,further, till the chill darkness enclosed them round, and thequiet sky asserted its presence overhead as a dim grey sheet ofblank monotony.
'Where shall we go?' said Stephen.
'I don't know.'
A long silence ensued....'Elfride married!' said Stephen then in athin whisper, as if he feared to let the assertion loose on theworld.
'False,' whispered Knight.
'And dead. Denied us both. I hate "false"--I hate it!'
Knight made no answer.
Nothing was heard by them now save the slow measurement of time bytheir beating pulses, the soft touch of the dribbling rain upontheir clothes, and the low purr of the blacksmith's bellows hardby.
'Shall we follow Elfie any further?' Stephen said.
'No: let us leave her alone. She is beyond our love, and let herbe beyond our reproach. Since we don't know half the reasons thatmade her do as she did, Stephen, how can we say, even now, thatshe was not pure and true in heart?' Knight's voice had now becomemild and gentle as a child's. He went on: 'Can we call herambitious? No. Circumstance has, as usual, overpowered herpurposes--fragile and delicate as she--liable to be overthrown ina moment by the coarse elements of accident. I know that's it,--don't you?'
'It may be--it must be. Let us go on.'
They began to bend their steps towards Castle Boterel, whitherthey had sent their bags from Camelton. They wandered on insilence for many minutes. Stephen then paused, and lightly puthis hand within Knight's arm.
'I wonder how she came to die,' he said in a broken whisper.'Shall we return and learn a little more?'
They turned back again, and entering Endelstow a second time, cameto a door which was standing open. It was that of an inn calledthe Welcome Home, and the house appeared to have been recentlyrepaired and entirely modernized. The name too was not that ofthe same landlord as formerly, but Martin Cannister's.
Knight and Smith entered. The inn was quite silent, and theyfollowed the passage till they reached the kitchen, where a hugefire was burning, which roared up the chimney, and sent over thefloor, ceiling, and newly-whitened walls a glare so intense as tomake the candle quite a secondary light. A woman in a white apronand black gown was standing there alone behind a cleanly-scrubbeddeal table. Stephen first, and Knight afterwards, recognized heras Unity, who had been parlour-maid at the vicarage and younglady's-maid at the Crags.
'Unity,' said Stephen softly, 'don't you know me?'
She looked inquiringly a moment, and her face cleared up.
'Mr. Smith--ay, that it is!' she said. 'And that's Mr. Knight. Ibeg you to sit down. Perhaps you know that since I saw you last Ihave married Martin Cannister.'
'How long have you been married?'
'About five months. We were married the same day that my dearMiss Elfie became Lady Luxellian.' Tears appeared in Unity's eyes,and filled them, and fell down her cheek, in spite of efforts tothe contrary.
The pain of the two men in resolutely controlling themselves whenthus exampled to admit relief of the same kind was distressing.They both turned their backs and walked a few steps away.
Then Unity said, 'Will you go into the parlour, gentlemen?'
'Let us stay here with her,' Knight whispered, and turning said,'No; we will sit here. We want to rest and dry ourselves here fora time, if you please.'
That evening the sorrowing friends sat with their hostess besidethe large fire, Knight in the recess formed by the chimney breast,where he was in shade. And by showing a little confidence theywon hers, and she told them what they had stayed to hear--thelatter history of poor Elfride.
'One day--after you, Mr. Knight, left us for the last time--shewas missed from the Crags, and her father went after her, andbrought her home ill. Where she went to, I never knew--but shewas very unwell for weeks afterwards. And she said to me that shedidn't care what became of her, and she wished she could die.When she was better, I said she would live to be married yet, andshe said then, "Yes; I'll do anything for the benefit of myfamily, so as to turn my useless life to some practical account."Well, it began like this about Lord Luxellian courting her. Thefirst Lady Luxellian had died, and he was in great trouble becausethe little girls were left motherless. After a while they used tocome and see her in their little black frocks, for they liked heras well or better than their own mother---that's true. They usedto call her "little mamma." These children made her a shadelivelier, but she was not the girl she had been--I could see that--and she grew thinner a good deal. Well, my lord got to ask theSwancourts oftener and oftener to dinner--nobody else of hisacquaintance--and at last the vicar's family were backwards andforwards at all hours of the day. Well, people say that thelittle girls asked their father to let Miss Elfride come and livewith them, and that he said perhaps he would if they were goodchildren. However, the time went on, and one day I said, "MissElfride, you don't look so well as you used to; and though nobodyelse seems to notice it I do." She laughed a little, and said, "Ishall live to be married yet, as you told me."
'"Shall you, miss? I am glad to hear that," I said.
'"Whom do you think I am going to be married to?" she said again.
'"Mr. Knight, I suppose," said I.
'"Oh!" she cried, and turned off so white, and afore I could getto her she had sunk down like a heap of clothes, and fainted away.Well, then, she came to herself after a time, and said, "Unity,now we'll go on with our conversation."
'"Better not to-day, miss," I said.
'"Yes, we will," she said. "Whom do you think I am going to bemarried to?"
'"I don't know," I said this time.
'"Guess," she said.
'"'Tisn't my lord, is it?" says I.
'"Yes, 'tis," says she, in a sick wild way.
'"But he don't come courting much," I said.
"'Ah! you don't know," she said, and told me 'twas going to be inOctober. After that she freshened up a bit--whether 'twas withthe thought of getting away from home or not, I don't know. For,perhaps, I may as well speak plainly, and tell you that her homewas no home to her now. Her father was bitter to her and harshupon her; and though Mrs. Swancourt was well enough in her way,'twas a sort of cold politeness that was not worth much, and thelittle thing had a worrying time of it altogether. About a monthbefore the wedding, she and my lord and the two children used toride about together upon horseback, and a very pretty sight theywere; and if you'll believe me, I never saw him once with herunless the children were with her too--which made the courting sostrange-looking. Ay, and my lord is so handsome, you know, sothat at last I think she rather liked him; and I have seen hersmile and blush a bit at things he said. He wanted her the morebecause the children did, for everybody could see that she wouldbe a most tender mother to them, and friend and playmate too. Andmy lord is not only handsome, but a splendid courter, and up toall the ways o't. So he made her the beautifullest presents; ah,one I can mind--a lovely bracelet, with diamonds and emeralds.Oh, how red her face came when she saw it! The old roses came backto her cheeks for a minute or two then. I helped dress her theday we both were married--it was the last service I did her, poorchild! When she was ready, I ran upstairs and slipped on my ownwedding gown, and away they went, and away went Martin and I; andno sooner had my lord and my lady been married than the parsonmarried us. It was a very quiet pair of weddings--hardly anybodyknew it. Well, hope will hold its own in a young heart, if so beit can; and my lady freshened up a bit, for my lord was SOhandsome and kind.'
'How came she to die--and away from home?' murmured Knight.
'Don't you see, sir, she fell off again afore they'd been marriedlong, and my lord took her abroad for change of scene. They werecoming home, and had got as far as London, when she was taken veryill and couldn't be moved, and there she died.'
'Was he very fond of her?'
'What, my lord? Oh, he was!'
'VERY fond of her?'
'VERY, beyond everything. Not suddenly, but by slow degrees.'Twas her nature to win people more when they knew her well. He'dhave died for her, I believe. Poor my lord, he's heart-brokennow!'
'The funeral is to-morrow?'
'Yes; my husband is now at the vault with the masons, opening thesteps and cleaning down the walls.'
The next day two men walked up the familiar valley from CastleBoterel to East Endelstow Church. And when the funeral was over,and every one had left the lawn-like churchyard, the pair wentsoftly down the steps of the Luxellian vault, and under the low-groined arches they had beheld once before, lit up then as now.In the new niche of the crypt lay a rather new coffin, which hadlost some of its lustre, and a newer coffin still, bright anduntarnished in the slightest degree.
Beside the latter was the dark form of a man, kneeling on the dampfloor, his body flung across the coffin, his hands clasped, andhis whole frame seemingly given up in utter abandonment to grief.He was still young--younger, perhaps, than Knight--and even nowshowed how graceful was his figure and symmetrical his build. Hemurmured a prayer half aloud, and was quite unconscious that twoothers were standing within a few yards of him.
Knight and Stephen had advanced to where they once stood besideElfride on the day all three had met there, before she had herselfgone down into silence like her ancestors, and shut her brightblue eyes for ever. Not until then did they see the kneelingfigure in the dim light. Knight instantly recognized the mourneras Lord Luxellian, the bereaved husband of Elfride.
They felt themselves to be intruders. Knight pressed Stephenback, and they silently withdrew as they had entered.
'Come away,' he said, in a broken voice. 'We have no right to bethere. Another stands before us--nearer to her than we!'
And side by side they both retraced their steps down the greystill valley to Castle Boterel.