 A pair of blue eyes by Thomas Hardy, Chapter 31. A worm in the bud. One day the reviewer said, Let us go to the cliffs again, Alfreda, and, without consulting her wishes, he moved as if to start at once. The cliff of her dreadful adventure, she inquired, with a shudder, death stares me in the face in the person of that cliff. Nevertheless, so entirely had she sunk her individuality in his that the remark was not uttered as an expotulation, and she immediately prepared to accompany him. No, not that place, said Knight, it is ghastly to me too. That other, I mean, what is its name, Windy Beak? Windy Beak was the second cliff in height along the coast, and, as is frequently the case with the natural features of the globe, no less than with the intellectual features of men, it enjoyed the reputation of being the first. Moreover, it was the cliff to which Alfreda had ridden with Stephen Smith, on a well-remembered morning of a summer visit. So, though the thought of the former cliff had caused her to shudder at the perils to which her lover and herself had there been exposed, by being associated with Knight only, it was not so objectionable as Windy Beak. That place was worst and loomy. It was a perpetual reproach to her. But not liking to refuse, she said, It is further than the other cliff. Yes, but you can ride. And with you too. No, I'll walk. A duplicate of her original arrangement with Stephen. Some fatality must be hanging over her head, but she ceased objecting. Very well, Harry, I'll ride, she said meekly. A quarter of an hour later she was in this saddle, but how different the mood from that of the former time. She had indeed given up her position as queen of the less to be the vassal of the greater. There was no showing off now, no scampering out of sight with pansy, to perplex and tire her companion. No saucy remarks on la belle dame sans merci. Elfride was burdened with the very intensity of her love. Knight did most of the talking along the journey. Elfride silently listened and entirely resigned herself to the motions of the ambling horse upon which she sat, alternately rising and sinking gently, like a seabird upon a sea-wave. When they had reached a limit of a quadruped's possibilities of walking, Knight tenderly lifted her from the saddle, tied the horse, and rambled on with her to the seat in the rock. Knight sat down and drew Elfride deftly beside him, and they looked over the sea. Two or three degrees above that melancholy and eternally leveled line, the ocean horizon, hung a sun of brass, with no visible rays, in a sky of ashen hue. It was a sky the sun did not illuminate her in kindle, as is usual at sunsets. This sheet of sky was met by the salt mass of grey water, flecked here and there with white, a waft of dampness occasionally rose to their faces, which was probably rarefied spray from the blows of the sea upon the foot of the cliff. Elfride wished it could be a longer time ago that she had sat there with Stephen as her lover, and agreed to be his wife. The significant closeness of that time to the present was another item to add to the list of passionate fears which were chronic with her now. Yet Knight was very tender this evening, and sustained her closeness as they sat. Not a word had been uttered by either since sitting down, when Knight said musingly, looking still afar. I wonder if any lovers in past years ever sat here with arms locked, as we do now. Probably they have, for the place seems formed for a seat. Her recollection of a well-known pair who had, and the much talked-of loss which had ensued therefrom, and how the young man had been sent back to look for the missing article, led Elfride to glance down to her side, and behind her back. Many people who lose a trinket involuntarily give a momentary look for it in passing the spot, ever so long afterwards. They did not often find it. Elfride, in turning her head, saw something shine weakly from a crevice in the rocky Seville. Only for a few minutes during the day did the sun light the alcove to its innermost rifts and slits. But these were the minutes now, and as level raised did Elfride at a good, or evil turn of revealing the lost ornament. Elfride's thoughts instantly reverted to the words she had unintentionally uttered upon what had been going on when the yearning was lost, and she was immediately seized with a misgiving that night on seeing the object would be reminded of her words. Her instinctive act, therefore, was to secure it privately. It was so deep in the crack that Elfride could not pull it out of her hand, though she made several surreptitious trials. What are you doing, Elfie? said Knight, noticing her attempts and looking behind them likewise. She had relinquished the endeavour, but too late. Knight peered into the joint from which her hand had been withdrawn, and saw what she had seen. He instantly took a pen-eye from his pocket, and by dint of probing and scraping, brought the yearning out upon open ground. It is not your surely, he inquired. Yes, it is, she said quietly. Well, that is the most extraordinary thing, that we should find it like this. Knight then remembered more circumstances. What? Is it the one you have told me of? Yes. The unfortunate remark of hers at the kiss came to his mind, if eyes were ever an index to be trusted. Trying to repress the words he yet spoke on the subject, more to obtain assurance than what it seemed to imply, was not true than from a wish to pry into bygones. Were you really engaged to be married to that lover? He said, looking straight forward at a sea again. Yes, but not exactly. Yet I think I was. Oh, Elfride, engaged to be married, he murmured. It would have been called a secret engagement, I suppose, but don't look so disappointed, don't blame me. No, no. Why do you say no, no, in such a way? Sweetly enough, but so barely. Knight made no direct reply to this. Elfride, I told you once, he said, following out his thoughts, that I never kissed a woman as a sweetheart until I kissed you. Kiss is not much, I suppose, and it happens to few young people to be able to avoid all blandishments and attentions except from the one day afterwards marry. But I have a peculiar weakness, Elfride, and because I have led a peculiar life I must suffer for it, I suppose. I had hoped, well, what I had known right to hope and connection with you, you naturally granted your former lover the privileges you grant me. A yes came from her like the last sad whisper of a breeze. And he used to kiss you, of course he did. Yes. And perhaps you allowed him a more free manner in his love-making than I have shown in mine. No, I did not. This was rather more alertly spoken. But he adopted it without being allowed. Yes. How much I have made of you, Elfride, and how I have kept aloof, said Knight in deep and shaken tones, so many days and hours as I have hoped in you, I have feared to kiss you more than those two times, and he made no scruples to. She crept closer to him and trembled as if it cold. Her dread that the whole story with random additions would become known to him caused her manner to be so agitated that Knight was alarmed and perplexed into stillness. The actual innocence which made her think so fearfully of what, as the world goes, was not a great matter, magnified her apparent guilt. It may have said to Knight that a woman who was so flurried in the preliminaries must have a dreadful sequel to her tale. I know, continued Knight, with an indescribable drag of manner and intonation, I know I am absurdly scrupulous about you, that I want you to exclusively mine. In your past before you knew me, from your very cradle, I wanted to think you had been mine. I would make you mine by main force, Elfride. He went on vehemently. I can't help this jealousy over you. It is my nature, and it must be so, and I hate the fact that you have been caressed before. Yes, I hate it. She drew a long deep breath which was a half sob. Knight's face was hard, and he never looked at her at all, still fixing his gaze far out to sea, which the sun had now resigned to the shade. In high places it is not long from sunset to night, dusk being in a measure banished, and, though only evening where they sat, it had been twilight in the valleys for half an hour. Upon the dull expanse of the sea, there gradually intensified itself into existence the gleam of a distant light ship. When that lover first kissed you, Elfride, was it in such a place as this? Yes, it was. You don't tell me anything but what I wring out of you. Why is that? Why have you suppressed all mention of this when casual confidence of mine should have suggested confidence in return? On board the Juliet, why were you so secret? It seemed like being made a fool of Elfride to think that when I was teaching you how desirable it was that we should have no secrets from each other, you were assenting in words, but an act contradicting me. Confidence would have been so much more promising for our happiness. If you had had confidence in me and told me willingly, I should be different. But you suppress everything, and I shall question you. Did you live at Endelstow at that time? Yes, she said faintly. Where were you when he first kissed you? Sitting in this seat. Ah, I thought so, said Knight, rising and facing her. And that accounts for everything, the exclamation which you explained deceitfully and all. Forgive the harsh word, Elfride, forgive it. He smiled a surface smile as he continued. What a poor mortal I am to play second fiddle in everything, and to be deluded by fibs. Oh, don't say it, don't, Harry. Where did he kiss you, besides here? Sitting on a tomb in the churchyard and other places, she answered with slow recklessness. Never mind, never mind, he exclaimed, unseeing her tears and perturbation. I don't want to grieve you, I don't care. But Knight did care. It makes no difference, you know, he continued, seeing she did not reply. I feel cold, said Elfride. Shall we go home? Yes, it is late in the year to sit long out of doors. We ought to be off this ledge before it gets too dark to let us see our footing. I daresay the horse is impatient. Knight spoke the mirrors commonplace to her now. He had hoped to the last moment that she would have volunteered the whole story of her first attachment. It grew more and more distasteful to him that she should have a secret of this nature. Such entire confidence as he had pictured as about to exist between himself and the innocent wife, who had known no lover's tone save his, was this its beginning? He lifted her upon her horse, and they went along constrainedly. The poison of suspicion was doing its work well. An incident occurred on this homeward journey which was long remembered by both, as adding shade to shadow. Knight could not keep from his mind the words of Adam's reproach to Eve in paradise lost, and at last whispered them to himself. Fooled and beguiled, by him thou, I by thee. What did you say? Elfride inquired timorously. It was only a quotation. They had now dropped into a hollow, and the church tower made its appearance against the pale evening sky, its lower part being hidden by some intervening trees. Elfride, being denied an answer, was looking at the tower and trying to think of some contrasting quotation she might use to regain his tenderness. After a little thought she said in winning tones, Thou hast been my hope, and a strong tower for me against the enemy. They passed on. A few minutes later three or four birds were seen to fly out of the tower. The strong tower moves, said Knight, with surprise. A corner of the square mass swayed forward, sank and vanished. A loud rumble followed, and a cloud of dust arose where all had previously been so clear. The— The church restores have done it, said Elfride. At this minute Mr. Swancourt was seen approaching them. He came up with a bustling demeanour, apparently much engrossed by some business in hand. We have got the church tower down, he exclaimed. It came rather quicker than we had intended it should. The first idea was to take it down stone by stone, you know. In doing this, the crack widened considerably. And it was not believed safe for the men to stand upon the walls any longer. Then we decided to undermine it, and three men set to work in the weakest corner this afternoon. They had left off for the evening and tended to give the final blow tomorrow morning, and had been home about half an hour when down it came. A very successful job, a very fine job indeed. But he was a tough old fellow in spite of the crack. Here Mr. Swancourt wiped from his face the perspiration his excitement had caused him. Poor old tower, said Elfride. Yes, I am sorry for it, said Knight. It was an interesting piece of antiquity, a local record of local art. Ah, but my dear sir, we shall have a new one, expostulated Mr. Swancourt. A splendid tower, designed by a first-rate London man, in the new style of Gothic art, and full of Christian feeling. Indeed, said Knight. Oh, yes, not in the barbarous clumsy architecture of this neighbourhood. You see nothing so rough and pagan anywhere else in England. When the men are gone, I would advise you to go and see the church before anything further is done to it. You can now sit in the chancel and look down the nave through the West Arch, and through that far out to sea. In fact, said Mr. Swancourt significantly, if a wedding were performed at the altar tomorrow morning, it might be witness from the deck of a ship on a voyage to the South Seas with good glass. However, after dinner, when the moon is arisen, go up and see it for yourselves. Knight assented with feverish readiness. He had decided within the last few minutes that he could not rest another night without further talk with Elfride upon the subject which now divided him. He was determined to know all, and relieve his disquiet in some way. Elfride would gladly have escaped further converse alone with him that night, but it seemed inevitable. Just after sunrise they left the house. How little any expectation of the moonlight prospect, which was the ostensible reason for the pilgrimage, had to do with Knight's real motive in getting the gentle girl again upon his arm. Elfride, no less than himself, knew well. Hines A pair of blue eyes, by Thomas Hardy, Chapter 32 Had I whisked before I kissed? It was now October and the night air was chill. After looking to see that she was well wrapped up, Knight took her along the hillside path they had ascended so many times in each other's company, when doubt was a thing unknown. On reaching the church they found that one side of the tower was, as the vigour had stated, entirely removed, and lying in the shape of rubbish at their feet. The tower on its eastern side still was firm, and might have withstood the shock of storms and the siege of battering years for many a generation, even now. They entered by the side door, went eastward, and sat down by the altar steps. The heavy arch spanning the junction of the tower and nave formed tonight a black frame to a distant, misty view, stretching far westward. Just outside the arch came the heap of fallen stones, then a portion of moonlit churchyard, then the wide and convex sea behind. It was a coup d'oeil which had never been possible since the medieval masons first attached the old tower to the older church it dignified, and hence must be supposed to have had an interest apart from that of simple moonlight on ancient wall and sea and shore. Any mention of which has, by this time it is to be feared, become one of the cuckoo cries, which are heard but not regarded. Rays of crimson, blue and purple shone upon the twain from the east window behind them, wherein saints and angels vile with each other, in primitive surroundings of landscape and sky, and threw upon the pavement at the sitter's feet a softer reproduction of the same translucent hues, amid which the shadows of the two living heads of night and elfrede were opaque and prominent blots. Presently the moon became covered by a cloud and the iridescence died away. There it is gone, said Knight. I have been thinking elfrede, that this place we sit on is where we may hope to kneel together soon, but I am restless and uneasy, and you know why. Before she replied the moonlight returned again, irradiating that portion of churchyard within her view. It brightened the near part first, and against the background which the cloud shadow had not yet uncovered, stood, brightest of all, a white tomb, the tomb of young Jetway. Knight, still alive on the subject of elfrede's secret, thought of her words concerning the kiss that had once had occurred on a tomb in this churchyard. Elfride, he said, with a superficial archeness, which did not half cover an undercurrent of approach. Do you know, I think you might have told me voluntarily about the past, of kisses and betrothing, without giving me so much uneasiness and trouble. Was that the tomb you alluded to, as having sat on with him? She waited an instant. Yes, she said. The correctness of his random shot startled Knight, though considering that almost all the other memorials in the churchyard were upright headstones upon which nobody could possibly sit, it was not so wonderful. Elfride did not even now go on with the explanation her exacting lover wished to have, and her reticence began to irritate him as before. He was inclined to read her a lecture. Why don't you tell me all, he said, somewhat indignantly. Elfride, there is not a single subject upon which I feel more strongly than upon this, that everything ought to be cleared up between two persons before they become husband and wife. See how desirable and why such a course is, in order to avoid disagreeable contingencies in the form of discoveries afterwards. For Elfride, a secret of no importance at all, may be made the basis of some fatal misunderstanding, only because it is discovered, and not confessed. They say there never was a couple of whom one had not some secret the other never knew of, or was intended to know. This may or may not be true, but if it be true, some have been happy, in spite rather than in consequence of it. If a man were to see another man looking significantly at his wife, and she were blushing crimson and appearing startled, do you think he would be so well satisfied with, for instance, her truthful explanation that once, to her great annoyance, she accidentally fainted into his arms, as if she had said it voluntarily long ago, before the circumstance occurred which forced it from her. Suppose that admiral you spoke of in connection with the tomb yonder should turn up and bother me. It would embitter our lives, if I were then half in the dark as I am now. Knight spoke the latter sentences with growing force. It cannot be, she said. Why not? he asked sharply. Elfride was distressed to find him in sosterna mode, and she trembled. In a confusion of ideas, probably not intending a willful prevarication, she answered hurriedly. If he is dead, how can you meet him? He is dead. Oh, that is different altogether, said Knight immensely relieved. But let me say, what did you say about that tomb and him? That's his tomb, she continued faintly. What? was he who lies buried there the man who was your lover? Knight asked in a distinct voice. Yes, and I didn't love him or encourage him. But you let him kiss you, you said so, you know, Elfride. She made no reply. Why, said Knight recollecting circumstances by degrees, you surely said you were in some degree engaged to him. And of course you were, if he kissed you. And now you say you never encouraged him. And I have been fancying, you said, I am almost sure you did, that you were sitting with him on that tomb. Good God! he cried, suddenly starting up in anger. Are you telling me untruths? Why should you play with me like this? I'll have the right of it. Elfride, we shall never be happy. There's a blight upon us, or me or you, and it must be cleared off before we marry. Knight moved away impetuously as if to leave her. She jumped up and clutched his arm. Don't go, Harry, don't. Tell me then, said Knight sternly, and remember this, no more fibs or upon my soul I shall hate you. Heavens, that I should come to this, to be made a fool of by a girl's untruths. Don't, don't treat me so cruelly. Oh, Harry, Harry, have pity and withdraw those dreadful words. I am truthful by nature, I am, and I don't know how I came to make you misunderstand, but I was frightened. She quivered so in her perturbation that she shook him with her. Did you say you were sitting on that tomb? He asked, moodily. Yes, and it was true. Then how, in the name of heaven, can a man sit upon his own tomb? That was another man. Forgive me, Harry, won't you? What? A lover in the tomb and a lover on it? Oh, oh, yes. Then there were two before me. I suppose so. Now, don't be a silly woman which you're supposing. I hate all that, said Knight contemptuously almost. Well, we learn strange things. I don't know what I might have done. No man can say into what shape circumstances may warp him. But I hardly think I should have had the conscience to accept the favors of a new lover, while sitting over the poor remains of the old one, upon my soul I don't. Knight in moody meditation continued looking towards the tomb, which stood staring them in the face like an avenging ghost. But you wronged me, oh, so grievously, she cried. I did not meditate any such thing, believe me, Harry. I did not. It only happened so, quite of itself. Well, I suppose you didn't intend such a thing, he said. Nobody ever does, he sadly continued. And him in the grave I never once loved. I suppose the second lover and you, as you sat there, vowed to be faithful to each other for ever. Elfride only replied by quick heavy breaths, showing she was on the brink of a sob. You don't choose to be anything but reserve, then, he said imperatively. Of course we did, she responded. Of course you seem to treat the subject very lightly. It is past and is nothing to us now. Elfride, it is a nothing which, though it may make a careless man laugh, cannot but make a genuine one grieve. It is a very gnawing pain. Tell me straight through all of it. Never, oh, Harry, how can you expect it when so little of it makes you so harsh with me? Now, Elfride, listen to this. You know that what you have told only jars the subtler fancies in one after all. The feeling I have about it would be called, and is, mere sentimentality. And I don't want you to suppose that an ordinary previous engagement of a straightforward kind would make any practical difference in my love, or my wish to make you my wife. But you seem to have more to tell, and that's where the wrong is. Is there more? Not much more, she wearily answered. Night preserved the grave's silence for a minute. Not much more, he said at last. I should tink not indeed. His voice assumed a low and steady pitch. Elfride, you must not mind my saying a strange sounding thing, for say it I shall. It is this, that if there were much more to add to an account, which already includes all the particulars that a broken marriage engagement could possibly include with propriety, it must be some exceptional thing which might make it impossible for me, or anyone else, to love you and to marry you. Night's disturbed mood led him much further than he would have gone in a quieter moment. And, even as it was, had she been assertive to any degree, he would not have been so preemptory, and had she been a stronger character, more practical and less imaginative, she would have made more use of her position in his heart to influence him. But the confiding tenderness which had won him, is ever accompanied by a sort of self-committal to the stream of events, leading every such woman to trust more to the kindness of fate for good results than to any argument of her own. Well, well, he murmured cynically. I won't say it's your fault. It is my ill luck, I suppose. I had no real right to question you, and everybody would say it was presuming. But when we have misunderstood, we feel injured by the subject of our misunderstanding. You never said you had had nobody else here making love to you, so why should I blame you? Elfride, I beg your pardon. No, no, I would rather have your anger than that cool, aggrieved politeness. Do drop that, Harry. Why should you inflict that upon me? It reduces me to the level of a mere acquaintance. You do that with me. Why not confidence for confidence? Yes, but I didn't ask you a single question with regard to your past. I didn't wish to know about it. All I cared for was that wherever you came from, whatever you had done, whoever you had loved, you were mine at last. Harry, if originally you had known I had loved, would you never have cared for me? I won't quite say that, though I own that the idea of your inexperienced state had a great charm for me. But I think this, that if I had known there was any phase of your past love, you would refuse to reveal if I asked to know it, I should never have loved you. As Frida sobbed bitterly, am I such a mere characterless toy as to have no attraction in me apart from freshness? Have my brains? You said I was clever and ingenious in my thoughts, and isn't that anything? Have I not some beauty? I think I have a little, and I know I have, yes, I do. You have praised my voice and my manner and my accomplishments, yet all these together are so much rubbish because I accidentally saw a man before you. Oh, come, Elfrida, accidentally saw a man is very cool. You loved him, remember? And loved him a little. And refuse now to answer the simple question how it ended. Do you refuse still, Elfrida? You have no right to question me so, you said so. It isn't fair. Trust me as I trust you. That's not at all. I shall not love you if you're so cruel. It is cruel to me to argue like this. Perhaps it is. Yes, it is. I was carried away by my feeling for you. Heaven knows that I don't mean to, but I have loved you so that I have used you badly. I don't mind it, Harry. She instantly answered, creeping up and nestling against him. And I will not think at all that you use me, Hartley, if you will forgive me, and not be vexed with me any more. I do wish I had been exactly as you thought I was, but I could not help it, you know. If I had only known you had been coming, what an unnery I would have lived in to have been good enough for you. Well, never mind, said Knight, and he turned to go. He endeavored to speak sportively as they went. Diogenes Laertius says that philosophers use voluntarily to deprive themselves of sight to be uninterrupted in their meditations. Men becoming lovers ought to do the same thing. Why? But never mind, I don't want to know. Don't speak leconically to me, she said with deprecation. Why? Because they would never then be distracted by discovering their idol with second hand. She looked down and sighed, and they passed out of the crumbling old place and slowly crossed through the churchyard entrance. Knight was not himself, and he could not pretend to be. She had not told all. He supported her lightly over this style, and was practically as attentive as a lover could be. But they had passed away a glory, and the dream was not as it had been of yore. Perhaps Knight was not shaped by nature for a marrying man. Perhaps his lifelong constraint towards women, which he had attributed to accident, was not chance after all, but the natural result of instinctive acts so minute as to be undesernable even by himself. Or whether the rough dispelling of any bright illusion, however imaginative, depreciates the real and unexaggerated brightness which apportains to its basis, one cannot say. Certain it was that Knight's disappointment at finding himself second or third in a field, at Elfride's momentary equivoke, and at her reluctance to be candid brought him to the verge of cynicism. A habit of Knight's was not immediately occupied with Elfride. To walk by himself for half an hour or so between dinner and bedtime had become familiar to his friends at Endelstow, Elfride herself among them. When he had helped her over this style, she said gently, If you wish to take your usual turn on the hail, Harry, I can run down to the house alone. Thank you, Elfride, then I think I will. Her form diminished to blackness in the moonlight at night after remaining upon the churchyard style a few minutes longer turned back again towards the building. His usual course now was to light a cigar or pipe and indulge in a quiet meditation, but tonight his mind was too tense to be think itself of such a solace. He merely walked around to the side of the fallen tower and sat himself down upon some of the large stones which had composed it until this day, when the chain of circumstances originated by Stephen Smith, while in the employ of Mr. Huebe, the London man of art, had brought about its overthrow. Pondering on the possible episodes of Elfride's past, and on how he had supposed her to have had no past justifying the name, he sat and regarded the white tomb of young Jethway, now close in front of him. The sea, though comparatively placid, could as usual be heard from this point along the whole distance between promontories to the right and left, floundering and entangling itself along the insulated stacks of rock which dotted the water's edge, the miserable skeletons of tortured old cliffs that would not even yet succumb to the wear and tear of the tides. As the change from thoughts, not of a very cheerful kind, Knight attempted exertion. He stood up and prepared to ascend to the summit of the ruinous heap of stones, from which a more extended outlook was obtainable than from the ground. He stretched out his arm to seize the projecting aris of a larger block than ordinary, and so to help himself up, when his hand lighted plump upon his substance differing in the greatest possible degree from what he had expected to seize, hard stone. It was stringy and entangled and trailed upon the stone. The deep shadow from the aisle wall prevented his seeing anything here distinctly, and he began guessing as a necessity. There is a tressy species of moss or lichen, he said to himself, but it lay loosely over the stone. It is a tuft of grass, he said, but it lacked the roughness and humidity of the finest grass. There is a mason's whitewash brush. Such brushes, he remembered, were more bristly, and however much used in repairing a structure would not be required in pulling one down. He said, it must be a thready silk fringe. He felt further in. It was somewhat warm. Knight instantly felt somewhat cold. To find the coldness of inanimate matter where you expect warmth is startling enough, but a colder temperature than that of the body being rather to rule than the exception in common substances, it hardly conveys such a shock to the system as finding warmth where utter frigidity is anticipated. God only knows what it is, he said. He felt further, and in the course of a minute put his hand upon a human head. The head was warm but motionless. The thready mass was the hair of the head, long and straggling, showing that the head was a woman's. Knight, in his perplexity, stood still for a moment and collected his thoughts. The vicar's account of the fall of the tower was that the workmen had been undermining it all day, and had left in the evening intending to give the finishing stroke the next morning. Half an hour after they had gone, the undermined angle came down. The woman, who was half buried, as it seemed, must have been beneath it at the moment of the fall. Knight leapt up and began endeavouring to remove the rubbish with his hands. The heap overlying the body was for the most part fine and dusty, but in immense quantity. It would be a saving of time to run for assistance. He crossed to the churchyard wall and hastened down the hill. A little way down, an intersecting road passed over a small ridge, which now showed up darkly against the moon, and this road here formed a kind of notch in the skyline. At the moment that knight arrived at the crossing, he beheld a man on this eminence, coming towards him. Knight turned aside and met the stranger. There has been an accident at the church, said Knight, without preface. The tower has fallen on somebody who has been lying there ever since. Will you come and help? That I will, said the man. It is a woman, said Knight, as they hurried back. And I think we too are enough to extricate her. Do you know of a shovel? The grave digging shovels are about somewhere. They used to stay in the tower. And there must be some belonging to the workmen. They searched about, and in an angle of the porch, found three carefully stowed away. Going around to the west end, Knight signified the spot of the tragedy. We ought to have brought a lantern, he exclaimed. But we may be able to do it out. He set to work, removing the super incumbent mass. The other man, who looked on somewhat healthlessly at first, now followed the example of Knight's activity, and removed the larger stones which were mingled with the rubbish. But, with all their effort, it was quite ten minutes before the body of the unfortunate creature could be extricated. They lifted her as carefully as they could, breathlessly carried her to Felix Jethway's tomb, which was only a few steps westward, and later thereon. Is she dead indeed? said the stranger. She appears to be, said Knight. Which is the nearest house, the vicarage, I suppose? Yes, but since we shall have to call a surgeon from Castle Botterl, I think it would be better to carry her in that direction, instead of away from the town. And is it not much further to the first house we come to going that way, than to the vicarage or to the crags? Not much, the stranger replied. Suppose we take her there, then? And I think the best way to do it would be thus, if you don't mind joining hands with me. Not in the least, I am glad to assist. Making a kind of cradle by clasping the hands crosswise under the inanimate woman, they lifted her, and walked on side by side, down a path indicated by the stranger, who appeared to know the locality well. I have been sitting in the church for nearly an hour, Knight resumed, when they were out of the churchyard. Afterwards I walked round to the site of the fallen tower, and so found her. It is painful to think I unconsciously wasted so much time, in the very presence of a perishing, flying soul. The tower fell at dusk, did it not? Quite two hours ago, I think. Yes, she must have been there alone. What could have been her object in visiting the churchyard then? It is difficult to say. The stranger looked inquiringly into the reclining face of the motionless form they bore. Would you turn her head round a moment, so that the light shines on her face? He said. They turned her face to the moon, and the man looked closer into her features. Why, I know her! he exclaimed. Who is she? Mrs. Jethway, and the cottage we are taking her to, is her own. She is a widow, and I was speaking to her only this afternoon. I was at Castle Butler's post office, and she came there to post a letter. Poor soul! Let us hurry on. Hold my wrist a little tighter. Was not that tomb we laid her on the tomb of her only son? Yes, it was. Yes, I see it now. She was there to visit the tomb. Since the death of that son she has been a desolate, desponding woman, always bewailing him. She was a farmer's wife, very well educated, a governess originally, I believe. Knight's heart was moved to sympathy. His own fortune seemed in some strange way to be interwoven with those of this Jethway family, through the influence of Elfrida over himself, and the unfortunate son of that house. He made no reply, and they still walked on. She begins to feel heavy, said the stranger, breaking the silence. Yes, she does, said Knight, and after another pause added. I think I have met you before, though where I cannot recollect. May I ask who you are? Oh, yes, I am Lord Luxelian. Who are you? I am a visitor at the crags, Mr Knight. I have heard of you, Mr Knight. And I have you, Lord Luxelian. I am glad to meet you. I may say the same. I am familiar with your name and print, and I with yours. Is this the house? Yes. The door was locked. Knight, reflecting a moment, sets the pocket of the lifeless woman, and found therein a large key which, on being applied to the door, opened it easily. The fire was out, but the moonlight entered the quarried window and made patterns upon the floor. The rays enabled him to see that the room into which they had entered was pretty well furnished, it being the same room that Elfride had visited alone two or three evenings earlier. They deposited their steel burden on an old-fashioned couch which stood against the wall, and Knight searched about for a lamp or candle. He found a candle on the shelf, lighted it, and placed it on the table. Both Knight and Lord Luxelian examined the pale countenance attentively, and both were nearly convinced that there was no hope. No marks of violence were visible in the casual examination they made. I think that as I know where Dr Ganson lives, said Lord Luxelian, I had better run for him whilst you stay here. Knight agreed to this. Lord Luxelian went off, and his hurrying footsteps died away. Knight continued bending over the body, and a few minutes longer of careful scrutiny, perfectly satisfied him that the woman was far beyond the reach of the lancet and the drug. Her extremities were already beginning to get stiff and cold. Knight covered her face and sat down. The minutes went by. The essayist remained musing on all the occurrences of the night. His eyes were directed upon the table, and he had seen for some time that writing materials were spread upon it. He now noticed these more particularly. There were an ink-stand, pen, blotting-book, and note-paper. Several sheets of paper were thrust aside from the rest, upon which letters had been begun and relinquished, as if their form had not been satisfactory to the writer. A stick of black sealing-wax and seal were there too, as if the ordinary fastening had not been considered sufficiently secure. The abandoned sheets of paper lying as they did to open upon the table made it possible, as he sat, to read the few words written on each. One ran thus. Sir, as a woman who was once blessed with a dear son of her own, I implore you to accept a warning. Another? Sir, if you will deign to receive warning from a stranger before it is too late to order your course, listen to... The third. Sir, with this letter I enclose to you another which, unaided by any explanation for me, tells a startling tale. I wish, however, to add a few words to make your delusion yet more clear to you. It was plain that after these renounced beginnings a fourth letter had been written and dispatched, which had been deemed a proper one. Upon the table were two drops of sealing-wax, the stick from which they were taken having been laid down, overhanging the edge of the table, the end of it drooped, showing that the wax was placed there whilst warm. There was the chair in which the writer had sat, the impression of the letter's address upon the blotting paper, and the poor widow who had caused these results lying dead hard by. Knight had seen enough to lead him to the conclusion that Mrs. Jethway, having matter of great importance to communicate to some friend or acquaintance, had written him a very careful letter. And gone herself to post it, that she had not returned to the house from that time of leaving it, till Lord Luxellian and himself had brought her back dead. The unutterable melancholy of the whole scene, as he waited on, silent and alone, did not altogether clash with the mood of night, even though he was the effianced of a fair and winning girl, and though so lately he had been in her company. While sitting on the remains of the demolished tower, he had defined a new sensation, that the lengthened course of an action he had been lately indulging in on Elfride's account, might probably not be good for him as a man who had worked to do. It could quickly be put to an end by hastening on his marriage with her. Knight, in his own opinion, was one who had missed his mark by excessive aiming. Having now, to a great extent, given up ideal ambitions, he wished earnestly to direct his powers to his wife, wished earnestly to direct his powers to a more practical channel, and thus correct the introspective tendencies which had never brought himself much happiness, or done his fellow-creatures any great good. To make a start in his new direction by marriage, which since knowing Elfride had been so entrancing an idea, was less exquisite tonight, that the curtailment of his illusion regarding her had something to do with the reaction, and with the return of his old sentiments on wasting time, is more than probable. Though Knight's heart had so greatly mastered him, the mastery was not so complete as to be easily maintained in the face of a moderate intellectual revival. His reverie was broken by the sound of wheels, and a horse's tramp. The door opened to admit the surgeon, Lord Excellion, and a Mr. Cool coroner for the division, who had been attending at Castle Botterall that very day, and was having an after-dinner chat with the doctor when Lord Luxellion arrived. Next came two female nurses and some idlers. Mr. Granson, after a cursory examination, pronounced the woman dead from suffocation, induced by intense pressure on the respiratory organs, and arranged until May that the inquiry should take place on the following morning before the return of the coroner to St. Lawrence's. Shortly afterwards, the House of the Widows deserted by all its living occupants, and she abode in death as she had in her life during the past two years, entirely alone. End of Chapter 33 A pair of blue-wise, Chapter 34. This is the Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, not to volunteer, please visit Librivox. Please visit Librivox.org. Recording by Tye Hines. A pair of blue-wise by Thomas Hardy, Chapter 34. Yea, happy shall be he that rewarded thee, as thou hast served us. Sixteen hours had passed. Knight was entering the Lady's Budwar at the crags, upon his return from attending the inquest touching the death of Mrs. Jethway. Elfrida was not in the apartment. Mrs. Swancourt made a few inquiries concerning the verdict and collateral circumstances. Then she said, The postman came this morning, the minute after you left the house. There was only one letter for you, and I have it here. She took a letter from the lid of her work-box, and handed it to him. Knight took the missive abstractedly, but, struck by its appearance, murmured a few words and left the room. The letter was fastened with a black seal, and the handwriting in which it was addressed had lain under his eyes long and prominently, only the evening before. Knight was greatly agitated, and looked about for a spot where he might be secure from interruption. It was a season of heavy jewels, which lay on the hermitage in shady places all the day long. Nevertheless, he entered a small patch of neglected grass-plat, enclosed by the shrubbery, and there perused the letter which he had opened on his way thither. The handwriting, the seal, the paper, the introductory words, all had told on the instant that the letter had come to him from the hands of the widow Jethway, now dead and cold. He had instantly understood that the unfinished notes which caught his eye yesterday night were intended for nobody but himself. He had remembered some of the words of Elfride and her sleep on the steamer, that somebody was not to tell him of something, or it would be her ruin, a circumstance hitherto deemed so trivial and meaningless that he had well nigh forgotten it. All these things infused into him an emotion, intense in power, and supremely distressing in quality. The paper in his hand quivered as he read. The valley endled still. Sir, a woman who has not much in the world to lose by any censure this act may bring upon her, wishes to give you some hints concerning a lady you love. If you will deign to accept a warning before it is too late, you will notice what your correspondent has to say. You are deceived. Can such a woman as this be worthy? One who encouraged an honest jute to lover then slighted him so that he died. One who next took a man of no birth as a lover, who was forbidden the house by her father. One who secretly left home to be married to that man, met him 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 to address him as her husband. One who wrote the enclosed letter to ask me, who better than anybody else knows the story, to keep the scandal 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 the death of my son. Gertrude Jethway The letter enclosed was the note and pencil that Elfride had written in Mrs. Jethway's cottage. Dear Mrs. Jethway, I have been to visit you. I wanted much to see you, but I cannot wait any longer. I came to beg you not to execute the threats you have repeated to me. Do not I beseech you, Mrs. Jethway, let anyone know I ran away from home. It would ruin 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 rolled rapidly on nearing the shrubbery in which he stood, raising it almost to a level with the first floor of the crags. Elfride's dressing-room lay in the salient angle in this direction, and it was lighted by two windows in such a position that, from night-standing place, his sight passed through both windows and raked the room. Elfride was there. She was pausing between the two windows looking at her figure in the chival glass. She regarded herself long and attentively in front, turned, flung back her head, and observed the reflection over her shoulder. Nobody can predicate as to her object or fancy. She may have done the deed in the very abstraction of deep sadness. She may have been moaning from the bottom of her heart. How unhappy am I? But the impression produced on Knight was not a good one. He dropped his eyes moodily. The dead woman's letter had a virtue in the accident of its juncture far beyond any it intrinsically exhibited. Circumstance lent to evil words a ring of pitiless justice echoing from the grave. Knight could not endure their possession. He tore the letter into fragments. He heard a brushing among the bushes behind, and turning his head he saw Elfride following him. The fair girl looked in his face with a wistful smile of hope, too forcibly hopeful to displace the firmly established dread beneath it. His severe words of the previous night still sat heavy upon her. I saw you from my window, Harry, she said timidly. Did you will make her feet wet? He observed as one death. I don't mind it. There is danger in getting feet wet. Yes. Harry, what is the matter? Oh, nothing. Shall I resume the serious conversation I had with you last night? No, perhaps not. Perhaps I had better not. Oh, I cannot tell. How wretched it all is. Ah, I wish you were your own dear self again, and had kissed me when I came up. Why didn't you ask me for one? Why don't you now? To free and manner by half, he heard murmur the voice within him. 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. I should think you might with advantage have shown tact enough to keep back that word kiss, considering those you have accepted. She became very pale, and a rigid and desolate character took possession of her face. The face was so delicate and tender in appearance now, that one could fancy the pressure of her finger upon it would cause a livid spot. Night walked on, and her freedom with him, silent and unopposing. He opened the gate, and they entered a path across a stubble field. Perhaps I untrewed upon you, she said as he closed the gate. Shall I go away? No. Listen to me, Alfreda. Night'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 the predecessor of mine, tell it now. It is better that I know it now, even though the knowledge should part us, than that I should discover it in time to come. And suspicions have been awakened in me. I think I will not say how, because I despise the means. The discovery of any mystery of your past would embitter our lives. Night waited with a slow manner of calmness. His eyes were sad and imperative. They went further along the path. Will you forgive me if I tell you all? She exclaimed intriguingly. I can't promise. So much depends upon what you have to tell. Alfreda 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 Night with rising anger. Or are you not? What have I done to you that I should be put off like this? Be caught like a bird in a spring, everything intended to be hidden from me? Why is it, Alfreda? That's what I ask you. In their agitation they had left the path, and were wondering, among the wet and obstructive stubble, without knowing or hating it. What have I done? she faltered. What? How can you ask what when you know so well? You know that I have designed it to be kept in ignorance of something attaching to you, which, had I known of it, might have altered my conduct, and yet you say what? She drooped visibly and made no answer. Not that I believe in malicious letter writers and whispers, not I. I don't know whether I do or don't. Upon my soul I can't tell. I know this. A religion was building itself upon you in my heart. I looked into your eyes, and thought I saw their truth and innocence as pure and perfect as ever embodied by God in the flesh of woman. Perfect truth is too much to expect, but ordinary truth I will have are nothing at all. Just say, then, is the matter you keep back of the gravest importance, or is it not? I don't understand all your meaning. If I have hidden anything from you, it is because I loved you so, and I feared, feared to lose you. Since you were not given to confidence, I want to ask you some plain questions. How about 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 I cannot even combat it without knowing definitely what it is. It may not refer to you entirely, or even at all. Knight trifled in the very bitterness of his feeling. In the time of the French Revolution, Pariso, a ballet master, was beheaded by mistake for Parisot, a captain of the King's Guard. I wish there was another E. Swan Court in the neighbourhood. Look at this. He handed her the letter she had written and left on the table at Mrs. Jethways. She looked over it vacantly. It is not so much as it seems, she pleaded. It seems wickedly deceptive to look at now, but it had a much more natural origin than you think. My sole wish was not to endanger our love. Oh, Harry, that was all my idea. It was not much harm. Yes, yes, but independently of the poor miserable creature's remarks, it seems to imply something wrong. Oh, what remarks? Those she wrote me, now torn to pieces. Elfride, did you run away with the man you loved? That was the damnable statement. Has such an accusation life in it, really, truly, Elfride? Yes, she whispered. Night's countenance sank. To be married to him came huskily from 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 ever deliberately try to marry him in secret? No, not deliberately, but you did do it. A feeble red passed over her face. Yes, she said. And after that, did you write to him as your husband, and he addressed 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 little dignity that she continued. I would gladly have told you, for I knew, and know I had done wrong. But I dared not. I loved you too well. 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 first will not allow the verdict of perfection they're pronounced upon their sweethearts or wives, to be disturbed by God's own testimony to the contrary, will, once suspecting their purity, morally hang them upon evidence they would be ashamed to admit in judging a dog. The reluctance to tell which arose from Elfride's simplicity in thinking herself so much more culpable than she really was had been doing fatal work in night's mind. The man, of many ideas, now that his first dream of impossible things was over, vibrated too far in the contrary direction, and her every movement of feature, every tremor, every confused word, was taken as so much proof of her unworthiness. Elfride, we must bid good-bye to compliment, said Knight. We must do without politeness now, look into my face, and as you believe in God above, tell me truly one thing more. Were you away alone with him? Yes. Did you return home the same day on which you left it? No. The world fell like a bolt, and the very land and sky seemed to suffer. Knight turned aside. Meantime, Elfride's countenance wore a look indicating utter despair of being able to explain matters so that it would seem no more than they really were. A despair which not only relinquishes the hope of direct explanation, but rarely gives up all collateral chances of extenuation. The scene was engraved for years under Retina of Knight's eye, the dead brown stubble, the weeds among it, the distant belt of beaches shutting out the view of the house. The leaves of which were 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 them was told by the luck 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 the unreality of his words must be unquestionable. You are not an earnest. I know, I hope you are not. Surely I belong to you, and you are going to keep me for yours. Elfride, I have been speaking too roughly to you. I have said what I ought only have thought. I like you, and let me give you a word of advice. Marry your man as soon as you can. However weary of each other you may feel, you belong to each other, and I am not going to step between you. Do you think I would? Do you think I could for a moment? If you cannot marry him now, and another makes you his wife, do not reveal this secret to him after marriage if you do not before. Honesty would be damnation then. Beware of his expression, she exclaimed. No, no, I will not be a wife unless I am yours, and I must be yours. If we had married. But you don't mean that you will go away and leave me, and not be anything more to me? Oh, you don't! Convulsive sobs took all the nerve out of her utterance. She checked them, and continued to look in his face for the ray of hope that was 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. Goodbye. He spoke to farewell as if it were but for the day, lightly as he had spoken such temporary farewells many times before, and she seemed to understand it as such. Knight had not the power to tell her plainly that he was going forever. He hardly knew for certain that he was, whether he should rush back again upon the current of an irresistible emotion, or whether he could sufficiently conquer himself and her in him to establish that parting as a supreme farewell, and present himself to the world again as no woman's. Ten minutes later he had left the house, leaving directions that if he did not return in the evening, his luggage was to be sent to his chambers in London, whence he intended to ride to Mr. Swancourt as to the reasons of his sudden departure. He descended the valley, and could not forbear turning his head. He saw the stubble field, and a slight girlish figure in the midst of it, up against the sky. Elfride, docile as ever, had hardly moved a step, for he had said, Remain. He looked and saw her again. He saw her for weeks and months. He withdrew his eyes from the scene, swept his hand across them as if to brush away the sight, breathed a low groan, and went on. End of Chapter 34 A pair of blue eyes, Chapter 35 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information on the volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tye Hines A pair of blue eyes, by Thomas Hardy, Chapter 35 And wilt thou lead me thus, say nay, say nay. The scene shifts to night's chambers and beads in. It was late in the evening of the day following his departure from Endelstow. A drizzling rain descended upon London, forming a humid and dreary halo over every well-lighted street. The rain had not yet been prevalent long enough to give two rapid vehicles that clear and distinct rattle, which follows the thorough washing of the stones by a drenching rain. But it was sufficient to make footway and roadway slippery, adhesive and clogging, to both feet and wheels. Night was standing by the fire, looking into its expiring embers, previously to emerging from his door for a dreary journey home to Richmond. His hat was on, and the gas turned off. The blind of the window overlooking the alley was not drawn down, and with the light from beneath, which shone over the ceiling of the room, came, in place of the usual babble, only the reduced platter and quick speech, which were the result of necessity rather than choice. Whilst he stood thus, waiting for the expiration of a few minutes that were wanting to the time for his catching the train, a light tapping upon the door mingled with the other sounds that reached his ears. It was so faint at first that the outer noises were almost sufficient to drown it. Finding it repeated, night crossed the lobby, crowded with books and rubbish, and opened the door. A woman, closely muffled up but visibly a fragile build, was standing on the landing under the gas light. She sprang forward, flung her arms round night's neck, and uttered a low cry. Oh, Harry! Harry, you are killing me! I could not help coming. Don't send me away, don't. Forgive your Elfride for coming. I love you so. Night's agitation and astonishment massed him for a few moments. Elfride! he cried. What does this mean? What have you done? Do not hurt me and punish me. Oh, do not. I could not help coming. It was killing me. Last night when you did not come back, I could not bear it. I could not. Only let me be with you and see your face, Harry. I don't ask for more. Her eyelids were hot, heavy, and thick with excessive weeping, and the delicate red rose of her cheeks was disfigured and inflamed by the constant chafing of the handkerchief in wiping her many tears. Who is with you? Have you come alone? He hurriedly inquired. Yes. When you did not come home last night, I sat up hoping you would come, and the night was all agony, and I waited on and on, and you did not come. Then, when it was morning, and your letter said you were gone, I could not endure it, and I ran away from them to St. Lawrence's and came by train, and I have been all day travelling to you, and you won't make me go away again, will you, Harry? Because I shall always love you till I die. Yet it is wrong for you to stay. Oh, Elfride, what have you committed yourself to? It is ruin to your good name to run to me like this. Has not your first experience been sufficient to keep you from these things? My name? Harry, I shall die soon, and what good will my name be to me then? Oh, could I but be the man and you the woman? I would not leave you for such a little fault as mine. Do not think it was so violating in me to run away with him. Ah, how I wish you could have run away with twenty women before you knew me, that I might show you I would think it no fault, but be glad to get you after them all, so that I had you. If you only knew me through and through, how true I am, Harry. Cannot I be yours? Say you love me just the same, and don't let me be separated from you again, will you? I cannot bear it, all the long hours and days and nights going on, and you not there, but away because you hate me. Not hate you, Elfride. He said gently, and supported her with his arm. But you cannot stay here now, just at present, I mean. I suppose I must not. I wish I might. I am afraid that, if you lose sight of me, something dark will happen and we shall not meet again. Harry, if I am not good enough to be your wife, I wish I could be your servant and live with you, and not be sent away never to see you again. I don't mind what it is except that. No, I cannot send you away. I cannot. God knows what dark future may arise out of this evening's work, but I cannot send you away. You must sit down, and I will endeavour to collect my thoughts, and see what had better be done. At that moment, a loud knocking at the house door was heard by both, accompanied by a hurried ring of the bell that echoed from Attic to Basement. The door was quickly opened, and after a few hasty words of converse in the hall, heavy footsteps descended the stairs. The face of Mr. Swancourt, flushed, grieved and stern, appeared around the landing of the staircase. He came higher up, and stood beside them. Glancing over and past night with silent indignation, he turned to the trembling girl. Oh, Elfride, I have found you at last. Are these your tricks, madame? When will you get rid of your idiocies and conduct yourself like a decent woman? Is my family name and house to be disgraced by acts that would be a scandal to a washerwoman's daughter? Come along, madame. Come. She is so weary, said Knight in a voice of intensest anguish. Mr. Swancourt, don't be harsh with her. Let me beg you to be tender with her and love her. To you, sir, said Mr. Swancourt, turning to him as if by the sheer pressure of circumstances, I have little to say. I can only remark that the sooner I can retire from your presence, the better I shall be pleased. Why, you could not conduct your courtship of my daughter like an honest man I do not know. Why, she, a foolish and experienced girl, should have been tempted to this piece of folly I do not know. Even if she had not known better than to leave her home, you might have, I should think. It is not his fault. He did not tempt me, papa. I came. If you wished the marriage to be broken off, why didn't you say so plainly? If you never intended to marry, why could you not leave her alone? Upon my soul it grates me to the heart to be obliged to think so ill of a man I thought my friend. Knight, soul, sick and weary of his life, did not arouse himself to utter a word and reply. How she did defend himself when his defence was the accusation of Elfride? On that account he felt a miserable satisfaction in letting her father go on thinking and speaking wrongfully. It was a faint ray of pleasure, straying into the great gluminess of his brain to think that the vicar might never know, but that he, as her lover, tempted her away, which seemed to be the form Mr. Swancourt's misapprehension had taken. Now, are you coming? said Mr. Swancourt to her again. He took her unresisting hand, drew it within his arm, and let her down the stairs. Night's eyes followed her, the last moment begetting in him a frantic hope that she would turn her head. She passed on and never looked back. He heard the door open, close again. The wheels of a cab grazed the curbstone, a murmur to direction followed. The door was slammed together, and the wheels moved, and they rolled away. From that hour of her reappearance a dreadful conflict raged within the breast of Henry Knight. His instinct, emotion, effectiveness, or whatever it may be called, urged him to stand forward, seize upon Elfride, and be her cherisher and protector through life. Then came the devastating thought that Elfride's childlike unreasoning, and indiscreet act in flying to him, only proved that the proprieties must be a dead letter with her. That the unreserve, which was really artlessness without ballast, meant indifference to decorum, and what so likely has that such a woman had been deceived in the past. He said to himself in a mood of bitter cynicism, the suspicious, discreet woman who imagines dark and evil things of all her fellow creatures, is far too shrewd to be deluded by man. Trusting beings like Elfride are the women who fall. Hours and days went by, and Knight remained inactive. Lengthening time, which made fainter the heart-awakening power of her presence, strengthened the mental ability to reason her down. Elfride loved him, he knew, and he could not leave off loving her, but marry her he would not. If she could but be again his own Elfride, the woman she had seemed to be, but that woman was dead and buried, and he knew her no more. And how could he marry this Elfride? One who, if he had originally seen her as she was, would have been barely an interesting pitiable acquaintance in his eyes no more. It conquered his heart to think he was confronted by the closest instance of a worse state of things than any he had assumed in the pleasant social philosophy and satire of his essays. The moral rightness of this man's life was worthy of all praise, but in spite of some intellectual acumen Knight had in him a modicum of that wrong-headedness, which is mostly found in scrupulously honest people. With him, truth seemed too clean and pure an abstraction to be so hopelessly churned in with error as practical persons find it. Having now seen himself mistaken in supposing Elfride to be peerless, nothing on earth could make him believe she was not so very bad after all. He lingered in town of Fort Knight, doing little else than vibrate between passions and opinions. One idea remained intact, that it was better himself than Elfride should not meet. When he surveyed the volumes on his shelves, few of which had been open since Elfride first took possession of his heart, their untouched and orderly arrangement reproached them as an apostate from the old faith of his youth and early manhood. He had deserted those never-failing friends, so they seemed to say, for an unstable delight in a ductile woman which had ended all in bitterness. The spirit of self-denial verging on asceticism, which had ever animated Knight in old times, announced itself as having departed with a birth of love, with it having gone the self-respect which had compensated for the lack of self-gratification. Poor Elfride, instead of holding as formally a place in the religion, began to assume the hue of a temptation. Perhaps it was human and correctly natural that Knight never once thought whether he did not owe her a little sacrifice for her own cherry devotion in saving his life. With the consciousness of having thus, like Anthony, kissed away kingdoms and provinces, he next considered how he had revealed his higher secrets and intentions to her, and unreserved he would never have allowed himself with any man living. How was it that he had not been able to refrain from telling her of adumbrations, heretofore locked in the closest strongholds of his mind? Knight's was a robust intellect which could escape outside the atmosphere of heart, and perceived that his own love, as well as other peoples, could be reduced by change of scene and circumstances. At the same time, the perception was a superimposed sorrow. Oh, last regret, regret can die. But being convinced that the debt of his regret was the best thing for him, he did not long shrink from attempting it. He closed his chambers, suspended his connection with editors, and left London for the continent. Here we will leave him to wander without purpose, beyond the nominal one of encouraging obliviousness of Elfride. End of Chapter 35 A pair of blue eyes Chapter 36 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information on the volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tyge Hines A pair of blue eyes by Thomas Hardy Chapter 36 The pennies the jewel that beautifies her I can't think what's come unto these St. Lawrence's people at all at all With their oudie do's you mean? Aye, with their oudie do's and shaken hands asking me in and tender inquiries to you, John. These words formed part of a conversation between John Smith and his wife on a Saturday evening in the spring which followed Knight's departure from England. Stephen had long since returned to India, and the persevering couple themselves had migrated from Nord Luxellian's Park at Endelstow to a comfortable roadside dwelling about a mile out of St. Lawrence's, where John had opened a small stone and slate-yard in his own name. We came here six months ago, continued Mrs. Smith. Though I had paid ready money so many years in the town, my friskier shopkeepers would only speak over the counter, meet him in the street half an hour after, and they treat me with staring ignorance of my face. Looked through your ears, through a glass window. Yes, the brazen ones would. The quiet and cool ones would glance over the top of my head, past my side over my shoulder, but never meet my eye. The gentle modest would turn their faces south if I were coming east, flit down a passage if I were about to have the pavement with them. There was the spruce young bookseller would play the same tricks, the butcher's daughters, the upholsterer's young men, and in glove when doing business out of sight with you, but caring nothing for an old woman when playing the gentile away from all signs of their trade. Threw enough, Maria. Well, today it is all different. I now sooner got to market, and Mrs. Jokes rushed up to me in the eyes of the town and said, My dear Mrs. Smith, now you must be tired with your walk. Come in and have some lunch, I insist upon it, knowing you so many years as I have. Don't you remember when we used to go looking for old feathers together in the castle ruins? Well, there's no knowing what you might need, so I answered the woman civilly. I hadn't got to the corner before that thriving young lawyer, sweet, who's quite the dandy, ran after me out of breath. Mrs. Smith, he says, excuse my rudeness, but there's a bramble on the tail of your dress which you've dragged in from the country. Allow me to pull it off for you. If you'll believe me, this was in the very front of the town hall. What's the meaning of such sudden love for an old woman? I can't say, unless there's repentance. Repentance? Was there ever such a fool as you, John? Did anybody ever repent with money in his pocket in fifty years to live? Now, I've been thinking too, said John, passing over the query as hardly pertinent. That I've had more loving kindness from folks today than I've ever had before since we moved here. Why, old Alderman Tope walked out to the middle of the street where I was to shake hands with me, so he did. Having on my working clothes, I thought it was odd. Aye, and then there was young Warrington. Who's he? Where the man in Hildstree, who plays in cell flutes, trumpets, and fiddles, and grand pianors? He was talk of the eggless carry, that very small, bachelor man with money in the funds. I was going by, I'm sure, without thinking or expecting a nod for men of that glib kidney when in my working clothes. You always will go poking into town in your working clothes, beg you to change how I will till no use. Well, however, I was on my working clothes. Warrington saw me. Ah, Mr. Smith, a fine morning. Excellent weather for building, says he, out as loud and friendly as if I'd met him in some deep hollow where he could get nobody else to speak to at all. It was odd, for Warrington is one of the very ringleaders of that fast class. At that moment a tap came to the door. The door was immediately opened by Mrs. Smith in person. You'll excuse as I'm sure, Mrs. Smith, but this beautiful spring weather was too much for us. Yes, we could stay in no longer, and I took Mrs. Truin upon my arm directly, we'd had a cup of tea, and out we came. And seeing your beautiful crocuses in such bloom, we've taken the liberty to enter. We'll step round the garden, if you don't mind. Not at all, said Mrs. Smith, and I walked round the garden. She lifted her hands in amazement, directly the backs were turned. Goodness, send us grace! It would be day, said her husband. Actually, Mr. Truin, the bank manager and his wife. John Smith, staggered in mind, went out of doors and looked over the garden gate to collect his ideas. He had not been there two minutes when wheels were heard, and the carriage and pair rolled along the road. A distinguished-looking lady with the demeanour of a duchess reclined within. When opposite Smith's gate, she turned her head and instantly commanded the coachman to stop. Ah, Mr. Smith, I'm glad to see you looking so well. I cannot help stopping a moment to congratulate you and Mrs. Smith upon the happiness you must enjoy. Joseph, you may drive on. And the carriage rolled away towards St. Lawrence's. Out rushed Mrs. Smith from behind a laurel bush where she had stood pondering. Just going to touch my attour, said John, just for all the world as I would have to poor Lady Luxelian years ago. Lord, who is she? The public house-woman, what's her name? Mrs. Mrs. at the Falcon? Public house-woman, the clumsiness of the Smith family. You might have said the landlady of the Falcon Hotel, since we're in for politeness. The people are ridiculous enough, but give them their due. The possibility is that Mrs. Smith was getting mollified in spite of herself by these remarkably friendly phenomena among the people of St. Lawrence's. And, in just a sedem, it was quite desirable that she should do so. The interest which the unpracticed ones of this town expressed so grotesquely was genuine of its kind, and equal in intrinsic worth to the more polished smiles of larger communities. By this time Mr. and Mrs. Truin were returning from the garden. I'd ask him flat, whispered John to his wife. I'd say, we be in a fog. You'll excuse my asking a question, Mr. and Mrs. Truin. How is it you all be so friendly today? Hey, it would sound right and sensible, wouldn't it? Not a word! Good mercy! Where will the man have manners? It must be a proud moment for you, I'm sure, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, to have a son so celebrated, said the bank manager advancing. Ah, to Stephen, I knew it, said Mrs. Smith triumphantly to herself. We don't know particulars, said John. Not no. No. Wait, it's all over town. Our worthy mayor alluded to it in his speech at the dinner last night of every man his own maker-club. And what about Stephen, urged Mrs. Smith? Well, your son has been fated by deputed governors and parsi-princes, and nobody knows who in India. He's hand-in-love with Nabobs, and is to design a large palace and cathedral and hospitals, colleges, halls, and fortifications, but the general consent of the ruling-powers, Christian and Pagan alike. To assure to come to the boy, said Mr. Smith unassumingly, Tis in yesterday's St. Lawrence's Chronicle, an hour-worthy mayor in the chair, introduced and subjected to his speech last night in a masterly manner. Tis very good of the worthy mayor in the chair, I'm sure, said Stephen's mother. I hope the boy'll have the sense to keep what he's got, but, as for men, they are a simple sex. Some woman will hook him. Well, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, the evening closes in, and we must be going. And remember this, that every Saturday when you come into market, you were to make our house as your own. There'll always be a cup of tea and saucer for you, as you know there has been for months, though you may have forgotten her. I'm a pain-speaking woman, and what I say, I mean. When the visitors were gone, and the sun had set, and the moon's rays were just beginning to assert themselves upon the walls of the dwelling, John Smith and his wife sat down to the newspaper they had hastily procured from the town. And when the reading was done, they considered how best to meet the new social requirements settling upon them, which Mrs. Smith considered could be done by new furniture and house enlargement alone. And John, mind one thing, she said in conclusion, in writing to Stephen, never by any means mentioned the name of Elfride the Swan Court again. We've left the place and know no more about her except by hearsay. He seems to be getting free of her, and I'm glad for it. It was a cloudy hour for him when he first set eyes upon the girl. That family's been no good to him, first or last, so let him keep their blood to themselves if they want to. He thinks of her, I know, but not so hopelessly. So don't try to know anything about her, and we can't answer his questions. She made eye over his mind, then. That shall be it, said John. End of Chapter 36 A pair of blue eyes, Chapter 37 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tye Hines A pair of blue eyes, by Thomas Hardy, Chapter 37 After many days Night roams out under colour of studying continental antiquities. He paced the lofty aisles of Amion, loitered by Ardenne Abbey, climbed into the strange towers of Laouan, analysed Nuan and Rhyme. Then he went to Schaats, and examined its scaly spires and quaint carving. Then he idled about Coutants. He rode beneath the base of Mont Saint-Michel, and caught the varied skyline of the crumbling edifices encrusting it. San Juan, Ruan knew him for days. So did Vesele, San, and many a hallowed monument besides. Abandoning the inspection of early French art with the same purposeless haste as he has shown in undertaking it, he went further, and lingered about Ferrara, Padua, and Pisa. Saciated with medievalism, he tried the Roman Forum. Next he observed moonlight and starlight effects by the Bay of Naples. He turned to Austria, became enervated and depressed on Hungarian and Bohemian plains, and was refreshed again by breezes under the cleavities of the Carpathians. Then he found himself in Greece. He visited the plain of Marathon and strove to imagine the Persian defeat, to Mars Hill to picture Saint Paul addressing the ancient Athenians, to Thermopylae and Salamis to run through the facts and traditions of the Second Invasion. The result of his endeavours being more or less chaotic. Night grew as weary of these places as of all others. Then he fell to shock of an earthquake in the Ionian islands and went to Venice. Here he shot in gondolas up and down the winding thoroughfare of the Grand Canal, and lointered on Calais and Piazza at night when the lagoones were undisturbed by a ripple, and no sound was to be heard but the stroke of the midnight clock. Afterwards he remained for weeks in the museums, galleries and libraries of Vienna, Berlin and Paris, and thence came home. Time thus rolls us on to a February afternoon, divided by fifteen months from departing of Elfride and her lover in the brown stubble field toward the sea. Two men, obviously not Londoners, and with the touch of foreigners in their luck, met by accident on one of the gravel walks leading across Hyde Park. The younger, more given to looking about him than his fellow, saw and noticed the approach of his senior some time before the latter had raised his eyes from the ground, upon which they were bent in an abstracted gaze that seemed habitual with him. Mr. Knight, indeed it is, exclaimed the younger man. Ah! Stephen Smith, said Knight. Simultaneous operations might now have been observed progressing in both, the result being that an expression less frank and impulsive than the first took possession of their features. It was manifest that the next words uttered were a superficial covering to constraint on both sides. Have you been in England long, said Knight? Only two days, said Smith. India ever since. Nearly ever since. They were making a fuss of you at St. Lawrence's last year. I fancy I saw something of that sort in the papers. Yes, I believe something was said about me. I must congratulate you on your achievements. Thanks, but they are nothing very extraordinary. A natural professional progress where there was no opposition. They followed that want of words which ill always assert itself between nominal friends who find that they have ceased to be real ones and have not yet sunk to the level of mere acquaintance. Each looked up and down the park. Knight may possibly have borne in mind during the intervening months Stephen's manner towards them the last time they had met and may have encouraged his former interest in Stephen's welfare to die out of him as misplaced. Stephen certainly was full of the feelings begotten by the belief that Knight had taken away the woman he loved so well. Stephen Smith then asked a question, adopting a certain recklessness of manner and tone to hide, if possible, the fact that the subject was a much greater one to him than his friend had ever supposed. Are you married? I am not. Knight spoke in an indescribable tone of bitterness that was almost moroseness. And I never shall be, he added decisively. Are you? No, said Stephen, sadly and quietly, like a man in a sick room. Totally ignorant whether or not Knight knew of his own previous claims upon Elfride, he yet resolved to hazard a few more words upon the topic which had an aching fascination for him even now. Then your engagement to Miss Swancourt came to nothing, he said. You remember I met you with her once. Stephen's voice gave way a little here, in defiance of his firmest will to the contrary. Indian affairs had not yet lowered those emotions down to the point of control. It was broken off, came quickly from Knight. Engagements to marry off an end like that, for better or for worse. Yes, so they do, and what have you been doing lately? Doing, though nothing. Where have you been? I can hardly tell you, in the main going about Europe, and it may perhaps interest you to know that I have been a serious study of continental art of the Middle Ages. My notes on each example I visited are at your service. There are of no use to me. I shall be glad with them. Oh, travelling far and near. Not far, said Knight, with moody carelessness. You know, I dare say that sheep occasionally become giddy. Hydatis in the head, it is called, in which their brains become eaten up. And the animal exhibits a strange peculiarity of walking round and round in a circle continually. I have travelled just in the same way, round and round, like a giddy ram. The reckless, bitter and rambling style in which Knight talked, as if rather to vent his images than to convey any ideas to Stephen, struck the young man painfully. His former friend's days had become cankered in some way. Knight was a chained man. He himself had changed much, but not as Knight had changed. Yesterday I came home, continued Knight, without having to the best of my belief imbibe the half-dozen ideas worth retaining. You outhamlet, hamlet and morbidness of mood, said Stephen with regretful frankness. Knight made no reply. Do you know, Stephen continued, I could almost have sworn that you will be married before this time from what I saw. Knight's face grew harder. Could you, he said? Stephen was powerless to forsake the depressing luring subject. Yes, and I simply wonder at it. Whom did you expect me to marry? Her I saw you with. Thank you for that wonder. Did she chilt you? Smith, now one word to you. Knight returned steadily. Don't you ever question me on that subject. I have a reason for making this request mind, and if you do question me you will not get an answer. Oh, I don't for a moment wish to ask what is unpleasant to you, not I. I had a momentary feeling that I should like to explain something on my side and hear a similar explanation on yours, but let it go, let it go, by all means. What would you explain? I lost the woman I was going to marry. You have not married as you intended. We might have compared notes. I have never asked you a word about your case. I know that. And the inference is obvious. Quite so. The truth is, Stephen, I have doggedly resolved never to allude to the matter, for which I have a very good reason. Doubtless as good a reason as you had for not marrying her. You talk insidiously. I had a good one, a miserably good one. Smith's anxiety urged him to venture one more question. Did she not love you enough? He drew his breath in a slow and attenuated stream as he waited in timorous hope for the answer. Stephen, you rather strain ordinary courtesy and pressing questions of that kind after what I have said. I cannot understand you at all. I must go on now. Why, good God! exclaimed Stephen passionately. You talk as if you hadn't at all taken her away from anybody who had better claims to her than you. What do you mean by that? said Knight with a puzzle there. What have you heard? Nothing. I too must go on. Good day. If you will go, said Knight reluctantly now. You must, I suppose. I am sure I cannot understand why you behave so. Nor I, why you do. I have always been grateful to you, and as far as I am concerned we never have become so estranged as we have. And have I ever been anything but well disposed towards you, Stephen? Surely you know that I have not. The system of reserve began with you, you know that. No, no, you altogether mistake our position. You were always from the first reserve to me, though I was confidential to you. That was, I suppose, the natural issue of our differing positions in life. And when I, the pupil, became reserved like you, the master, you did not like it. However, I was going to ask you to come round and see me. Where are you staying? At the Grosvenor Hotel, Pimlico. So am I. That's convenient, not to say odd. Well, I am detained in London for a day or two, then I am going down to see my father and mother, who live at St. Lawrence's now. Will you see me this evening? I may, but I will not promise. I was wishing to be alone for an hour or two, but I shall know where to find you at any rate. Goodbye. End of chapter 37.