A Pair of Blue Eyes. Thomas Hardy
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the place from which the sound seemed to proceed – among the huge laurestines, about the tufts of pampas grasses, amid the variegated hollies, under the weeping wych-elm – nobody was there. Returning indoors she called ‘Unity!’
‘She is gone to her aunt’s, to spend the evening,’ said Mr. Swancourt, thrusting his head out of his study door, and letting the light of his candles stream upon Elfride’s face – less revealing than, as it seemed to herself, creating the blush of uneasy perplexity that was burning upon her cheek.
‘I didn’t know you were indoors, papa,’ she said with surprise. ‘Surely no light was shining from the window when I was on the lawn?’ and she looked and saw that the shutters were still open.
‘Oh yes, I am in,’ he said indifferently. ‘What did you want Unity for? I think she laid supper before she went out.’
‘Did she? – I have not been to see – I didn’t want her for that.’
Elfride scarcely knew, now that a definite reason was required, what that reason was. Her mind for a moment strayed to another subject, unimportant as it seemed. The red ember of a match was lying inside the fender, which explained that why she had seen no rays from the window was because the candles had only just been lighted.
‘I’ll come directly,’ said the vicar. ‘I thought you were out somewhere with Mr. Smith.’
Even the inexperienced Elfride could not help thinking that her father must be wonderfully blind if he failed to perceive what was the nascent consequence of herself and Stephen being so unceremoniously left together; wonderfully careless, if he saw it and did not think about it; wonderfully good, if, as seemed to her by far the most probable supposition, he saw it and thought about it and approved of it. These reflections were cut short by the appearance of Stephen just outside the porch, silvered about the head and shoulders with touches of moonlight, that had begun to creep through the trees.
‘Has your trouble anything to do with a kiss on the lawn?’ she asked abruptly, almost passionately.
‘Kiss on the lawn?’
‘Yes!’ she said, imperiously now.
‘I didn’t comprehend your meaning, nor do I now exactly. I certainly have kissed nobody on the lawn, if that is really what you want to know, Elfride.’
‘You know nothing about such a performance?’
‘Nothing whatever. What makes you ask?’
‘Don’t press me to tell; it is nothing of importance. And, Stephen, you have not yet spoken to papa about our engagement?’
‘No,’ he said regretfully, ‘I could not find him directly; and then I went on thinking so much of what you said about objections, refusals – bitter words possibly – ending our happiness, that I resolved to put it off till to-morrow; that gives us one more day of delight – delight of a tremulous kind.’
‘Yes; but it would be improper to be silent too long, I think,’ she said in a delicate voice, which implied that her face had grown warm. ‘I want him to know we love, Stephen. Why did you adopt as your own my thought of delay?’
‘I will explain; but I want to tell you of my secret first – to tell you now. It is two or three hours yet to bedtime. Let us walk up the hill to the church.’
Elfride passively assented, and they went from the lawn by a side wicket, and ascended into the open expanse of moonlight which streamed around the lonely edifice on the summit of the hill.
The door was locked. They turned from the porch, and walked hand in hand to find a resting-place in the churchyard. Stephen chose a flat tomb, showing itself to be newer and whiter than those around it, and sitting down himself, gently drew her hand towards him.
‘No, not there,’ she said.
‘Why not here?’
‘A mere fancy; but never mind.’ And she sat down.
‘Elfie, will you love me, in spite of everything that may be said against me?’
‘O Stephen, what makes you repeat that so continually and so sadly? You know I will. Yes, indeed,’ she said, drawing closer, ‘whatever may be said of you – and nothing bad can be – I will cling to you just the same. Your ways shall be my ways until I die.’
‘Did you ever think what my parents might be, or what society I originally moved in?’
‘No, not particularly. I have observed one or two little points in your manners which are rather quaint – no more. I suppose you have moved in the ordinary society of professional people.’
‘Supposing I have not – that none of my family have a profession except me?’
‘I don’t mind. What you are only concerns me.’
‘Where do you think I went to school – I mean, to what kind of school?’
‘Dr. Somebody’s academy,’ she said simply.
‘No. To a dame school originally, then to a national school.’
‘Only to those! Well, I love you just as much, Stephen, dear Stephen,’ she murmured tenderly, ‘I do indeed. And why should you tell me these things so impressively? What do they matter to me?’
He held her closer and proceeded:
‘What do you think my father is – does for his living, that is to say?’
‘He practises some profession or calling, I suppose.’
‘No; he is a mason.’
‘A Freemason?’
‘No; a cottager and journeyman mason.’
Elfride said nothing at first. After a while she whispered:
‘That is a strange idea to me. But never mind; what does it matter?’
‘But aren’t you angry with me for not telling you before?’
‘No, not at all. Is your mother alive?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is she a nice lady?’
‘Very – the best mother in the world. Her people had been well-to-do yeomen for centuries, but she was only a dairymaid.’
‘O Stephen!’ came from her in whispered exclamation.
‘She continued to attend to a dairy long after my father married her,’ pursued Stephen, without further hesitation. ‘And I remember very well how, when I was very young, I used to go to the milking, look on at the skimming, sleep through the churning, and make believe I helped her. Ah, that was a happy time enough!’
‘No, never – not happy.’
‘Yes, it was.’
‘I don’t see how happiness could be where the drudgery of dairy-work had to be done for a living – the hands red and chapped, and the shoes clogged…Stephen, I do own that it seems odd to regard you in the light of – of – having been so rough in your youth, and done menial things of that kind.’ (Stephen withdrew an inch or two from her side.) ‘But I DO LOVE YOU just the same,’ she continued, getting closer under his shoulder again, ‘and I don’t care anything about the past; and I see that you are all the worthier for having pushed on in the world in such a way.’
‘It is not my worthiness; it is Knight’s, who pushed me.’
‘Ah, always he – always he!’
‘Yes, and properly so. Now, Elfride, you see the reason of his teaching me by letter. I knew him years before he went to Oxford, but I had not got far enough in my reading for him to entertain the idea of helping me in classics till he left home. Then I was sent away from the village, and we very seldom met; but he kept up this system of tuition by correspondence with the greatest regularity. I will tell you all the story, but not now. There is nothing more to say now, beyond giving places, persons, and dates.’ His voice became timidly slow at this point.
‘No; don’t take trouble to say more. You are