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\IR OF BLUE EYES 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 BY 
 
 THOMAS HARDY 
 
 HOR OF "under the GREENWOOD TR): f ." "DESPERATE REMEDIES.," ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 
 
 ■ ' ■ Street, corner Mission Place 
 
r^ 
 
 TROWS 
 
 rniMTma and bookbindinq cowfaw, 
 
 NEW YORIC 
 
 W MORSE STErHEW 
 
1- J■^"r /:ju.- 
 vo. 
 
 '^m 
 
 riAli'^ 
 
 NAMES OF THE PERSONS. 
 
 Elfride Swancourt, a young lady. 
 
 Stephen Smith, an architect. 
 
 Henry Knight, a reviewer and essayist. 
 
 Christopher Swancourt, a clergyman. 
 
 Spenser Hugo Luxellian, a lord. 
 
 Helen, Lady Luxellian, his wife. 
 
 Mary and Kate, tvjo little girls, 
 
 Charlotte Troyton, a rich widoiv. 
 
 Lord Liixellian^s master-masofi. 
 
 The master-mason'' s wife. 
 
 A dazed 7?tan-servant. 
 
 An imperturbable groom. 
 
 Other servants^ a landlady^ sexton^ clowns^ ^c. ^c. 
 
 Scene : Chiefly near the coast of a western county ; a> 
 casionally in London, 
 
 \ 
 
 \ 
 
A Pair of- Blue Eyes. 
 
 * ix violet in the youth of primy nature. 
 Forward not permanent, sweet not lasting. 
 The perfume and suppliance of a minute — 
 No more." 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 * A FAIR VESTAL, THRONED IN THE WEST.' 
 
 CONCERNING the beings categorized above it may b€ 
 premised that of the aim and meaning of their ap- 
 pearance upon the earth, of what, in its highest sense, they 
 came into the world to do — if much, if little, or whether to 
 be only lookers-on and to do nothing at all — no analysis 
 will be given. Even from their social life — a congeries of 
 significant phenomena — we sip but a sweet or bitter here 
 and there in flying along. In other words, on the subject 
 only of some nodes in the orbits of their lives is it the 
 province of this narrative to be diffuse. 
 
 Though the whole material and vehicle of the story is 
 here before us in parvo^ who shall put limits to the possible 
 extent of good, bad, or indifferent circumstances that, in 
 connection with these few persons and this narrow scene, 
 may have arisen, declined, and been finally deposited in the 
 Past as mere matter for inspection by eyes who know or 
 care where to find it ? If the reader has taken the trouble 
 to look down the list with anything like kindly curiosity, 
 and given a minute of his time to the idle imagination of 
 why such a company was ever brought together by Fate. 
 Chance, Law, or Providence, so much the better. He will 
 perceive from their general standing, that three or four of 
 
2 • ''-A PAIR OK'^LUE EYES. 
 
 them may"hkveil;^fii?,/ja'p^ble characters, whose emotional 
 experiences deserve record. 
 
 Elfride Swancourt is reading a romance. 
 
 She is sitting alone in the drawing-room of a remote 
 country vicarage, hoping for a kindly ending to the story, 
 or, as it is put in homely phrase, that it may end well. 
 
 It happened that she was to be disappointed. The title 
 of the novel it is not worth while to give, but it detailed in 
 its conclusion the saddest contretemps that ever lingered in a 
 gentle and responsive reader's mind since fiction has taken 
 a turn — for better or for worse — for analyzing rather than 
 depicting character and emotion. 
 
 Elfride was just dismissing the second volume — its 
 crimson covers making one pale pink hand that clasped 
 them as intensely white by their contrast as the pallid leaf 
 anderlying the other caused that to tinge itself almost rosy. 
 She read on with a pulse which, as each leaf was turned, 
 quickened with misgiving. She began to suspect the trick 
 of the issue, and dreaded it — as an inexorable fate with 
 regard to the imaginary beings therein concerned — as she 
 dreaded a wasp's sting in regard to herself 
 
 She takes up the third volume, and o^ens it. The list 
 of contents was disclosed, in which the author had, some- 
 what indiscreetly, too plainly revealed the sorrow that was 
 impending. Elfride was too honest a reader to resolve her 
 suspense into a more endurable certainty by taking a sur- 
 reptitious glance at the end, yet too much of a woman to 
 be satisfied with going straight on. Her eye strayed to the 
 contents page to scan it, and so help her prognostication. 
 No, even that was hardly fair : she would not look. She 
 put her little palm over the relentless chapter-headings — to 
 lift it after all, and look under at the suspicious group of 
 terse phrases which meant so much to the initiated. Mis- 
 giving increased like Genevieve's at her lover's ditty of the 
 Miserable Knight. Her heart still librating between hope 
 and fear, fear permanently prevailed. Her hero died. 
 
 Elfride smothered an inward sigh and murmured, 
 " What a weak thing I am ! " 
 
 She never forgot that novel, and those minutes of sad- 
 ness. Not that the story was the most powerful she had 
 
A PAIR Or BLUE EYES. 3 
 
 ever read j not that those tears were the bitterest that had 
 ever flowed. But for this reason : that it was the last time 
 it. her life that her emotions were ever wound to any height 
 by circumstances which never transpired; that the loves 
 and woes, expectations and despairs, of imaginary beings 
 were ever able so much to emulate her own experiences as 
 to make a perceptible difftrence to her state of mind for a 
 whole afternoon. 
 
 Thus it will be seen that Elfride was at this time a 
 young creature whose emotions lay very near the surface : 
 their nature more particularly, and as modified by tht 
 creeping hours of time, example will illustrate. 
 
 Personally she was the combination of very interesting 
 particulars, whose rarity, however, lay in the combination 
 itself rather than in the individual elements combined. 
 Will it be necessary to thrust her forward in the garish day- 
 light, and describe her points as categorically as Cleopatra's 
 messenger described Octavia's ? Hardly. It might vul- 
 garize her, and rob her of some of the sweetness which the 
 stolen glimpses only that will for the present be taken may 
 serve to heighten. For instance, the height of her forehead ; 
 the shape of her nose. These things may never be learnt 
 to the very last page of this narrative. 
 
 There is, however, something more than the respect 
 and love of her biographer to prompt this reticence. As a 
 matter of fact, you did not see the form and substance of 
 her features when conversing with her ; and this charming 
 power of preventing a material study of her externals by an 
 interlocutor originated not in the invisible cloak of a well- 
 formed manner (for her manner was childish and scarcely 
 formed), but in the attractive crudeness of the remarks 
 themselves. She had lived all her life in retirement — the 
 monsirari digito of idle men had not flattered her, and at the 
 age of nineteen or twenty she was no farther on in social 
 consciousness than an urban young lady of fifteen. 
 
 One point in her, however, you did notice : that was 
 
 her eyes. In them was seen a sublimation of all of her \ 
 
 it was not necessary to look farther : there she lived. 
 
 These eyes were blue ; heavenly blue. 
 
 At least heavenly blue in High Parnassian. But at the 
 
 risk of lapsing into that unpleasant sin, realism in narrative 
 
4 A PAIR OF BL UE E YES, 
 
 art, let it be said in sly prose that her eyes were, more tru- 
 ly, blue as autumn distance — blue as the blue we see be- 
 tween the retreating mouldings of hills and woody slopes on 
 a sunny September morning. A misty and shady blue, 
 that had no beginning or surface, and was looked into rather 
 than at. 
 
 Of the two, indeed, perhaps this earthly blue is the 
 more beautiful. 
 
 As to her Presence, it was not powerful ; it was weak. 
 Some women can make their personality pervade the atmos- 
 phere of a whole banqueting ball ; Elfride's was no more 
 pervasive than that of a kitten. 
 
 Notice, as Elfride's own, the thoughtfulness which ap- 
 pears in the face of the Madonna delle Sedia, without its 
 rapture : the warmth and spirit of the type of woman's fea- 
 ture most common to the beauties — mortal and immor- 
 tal — of Rubens, without their prominence of fleshly tone. 
 The characteristic expression of the female faces of Correg- 
 gio— that of the yearning human thoughts that lie too deep 
 for tears — was hers sometimes, but seldom under ordinary 
 conditions. 
 
 Four hours after the above-named romantic concern for 
 a hero of fiction, Elfride was standing, in the character of 
 hostess, face to face with a man she had never seen be- 
 fore — moreover, looking at him with a Miranda-like curios- 
 ity and interest that she had never yet bestowed on a 
 mortal. 
 
 The meaning and reasons of the meeting will disclose 
 themselves amid the following details. 
 
 On this particular day her father, the vicar of the parish, 
 and a widower, was suffering from an attack of gout. After 
 finishing her book, Elfride became restless, and several 
 times left the room, ascended the staircase, and knocked 
 at her father's bed-room door. 
 
 " Come in ! " was always answered in a hearty farmer- 
 like voice from the inside. 
 
 '' Papa," she said on one occasion to the fine, red-faced, 
 handsome man of forty, who puffing and fizzling like a burst- 
 ing bottle, lay on the bed wrapped in a dressing-gown, and 
 every now and then enunciating, in spite of himself, about 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 5 
 
 one letter of some word or words that were almost oaths ; 
 " papa will you not come down stairs this evening ? " She 
 spoke distinctly : he was rather deaf. 
 
 " Afraid not — eh-h-h ! — very much afraid I shall not, 
 Elfride. Piph-ph-ph ! I can't bear even a handkerchief 
 upon this deuced toe of mine, much less a stocking or slip- 
 per — piph-ph-ph ! There 'tis again ! No, I sha'n't get up 
 till to-morrow." 
 
 " Then I hope this London man won't come ; for I 
 don't know what I should do, papa." 
 
 '* Well, it would be awkward, certainly." 
 
 " I should hardly think he would come to-day." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because the wind blows so." 
 
 "Wind! What ideas you have, Elfride! Who ever 
 heard of wind stopping a man from doing his business ? 
 The idea of this toe of mine coming on so suddenly 1 . . . 
 If he should come, you must send him up to me, I suppose, 
 and then give him some supper and put him to bed in some 
 way. Dear me, what a nuisance all this is 1 " 
 
 " Must he have dinner?" 
 
 " Too heavy for a tired man at the end of a tedious 
 journey." 
 
 "Tea, then?" _ 
 
 " Not substantial enough." 
 
 " High tea, then ? There is cold fowl, rabbit-pie, some 
 pasties, and things of that kind." 
 
 " Yes, high tea." 
 
 " Must I pour out his tea, papa ? " 
 
 " Of course ; you are the mistress of the house." 
 
 "What, sit there all the time with a stranger, just as if 
 I knew him, and not anybody to introduce us ? " 
 
 " Nonsense, child, about introducing ; you know better 
 than that. A practical professional man, tired and hungry, 
 who has been travelling ever since daylight this morning, 
 will hardly be inclined to talk and air courtesies to-night. 
 He wants food and shelter, and you must see that he has it, 
 simply because I am suddenly laid-up and cannot. There 
 is nothing so dreadful in that, I hope ? You get all kinds 
 of stuff into your head from reading so many of those 
 novels." 
 
6 A PAIR CF BLUE EYES. 
 
 " O, no; there is nothing dreadful in it when it becomes 
 plainly a case of necessity like this. But, you see, you are 
 always there when people come to dinner, even if we know 
 them ; and this is some strange London man of the world, 
 who will think it odd, perhaps." 
 
 " Very well ; let him." 
 
 " Is he Mr. Hewby's partner ? " 
 
 " I should scarcely think so : he may be." 
 
 " How old is he, I wonder ? " 
 
 " That I cannot tell. You will find the copy of my 
 letter to Mr. Hewby, and his answer, upon the table in the 
 study. You may read them, and then you'll know as much 
 as I do about our visitor." 
 
 " I have read them." 
 
 " Well what 's the use of asking questions, then ? They 
 contain all I know. Ugh-h-h ! . . . Od plague you, you 
 young scamp ! don't put anything there ! I can't bear the 
 weight of a fly." 
 
 " O, I am sorry, papa. I forgot ; I thought you might 
 be cold," she said, hastily removing the rug she had thrown 
 upon the feet of the sufferer ; and, waiting till she saw that 
 consciousness of her offence had passed from his face, she 
 withdrew from the room, and retired again down stairs. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 *^ 'twas on the evening of a winter's day." 
 
 WHEN two or three additional hours had merged 
 afternoon in the evening of the same day, some 
 moving outlines might have been observed against the sky, 
 on the summit of a wild lone hill in this district. They 
 circumscribed two men, having at present the aspect of sil- 
 houettes, sitting in a dog-cart and pushing along in the 
 teeth of the wind. Scarcely a solitary house or man had 
 been visible along the whole dreary distance of open coun- 
 try they were traversing ; and now that night had begun to 
 fall, the faint twilight, which still gave an idea of the land- 
 scape to their observation, was enlivened by the quiet ap- 
 pearance of the planet Jupiter, momentarily gleaming in in- 
 tenser brilliancy in the constellation Gemini, and by Sirius 
 shedding his rays in rivalry from his position over their 
 shoulders. The only lights apparent on earth were some 
 spots of dull red, glowing here and there upon the distant 
 hills, which, as the driver of the vehicle gratuitously remark- 
 ed to the hirer, were smouldering fires for the consumption 
 of peat and gorse-roots, where the common was being 
 broken up for agricultural purposes. The wind prevailed 
 with but little abatement from its daytime boisterousness, 
 three or four small clouds, delicate and pale, creeping along 
 under the sky southward to the Channel. 
 
 Twelve of the fourteen miles intervening between the 
 railway terminus and the end of their journey had been 
 gone over, when they began to pass along the brink of a 
 valley some miles in extent, wherein the wintry skeletons 
 of a more luxuriant vegetation than had hitherto surround- 
 ed them proclaimed an increased richness of soil, which 
 showed signs of far more careful enclosure and management 
 than had any slopes they had yet passed. A little farther, 
 
S A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 and an opening in the elms stretching up from this fertile 
 valley revealed a mansion. 
 
 " That's Endelstovv House, Lord Luxellian's," said the 
 driver. 
 
 "Endelstow House, Lord Luxellian's," repeated the 
 other mechanically. He then turned himself sideways, and 
 keenly scrutinized the almost invisible house with an inter- 
 est which the indistinct picture itself seemed far from ade- 
 quate to create. "Yes, that's Lord Luxellian's," he said 
 yet again after a while, as he still looked in the same 
 direction. 
 
 " What, be we going there ? " 
 
 " No ; Endelstow Vicarage, as I have told you." 
 
 " I thought you m't have altered your mind, sir, as ye 
 have stared that way at nothing so long." 
 
 " O, no ; I am interested in the house, that's all." 
 
 " Most people be, as the saying is." 
 
 " Not in the sense that I am." 
 
 " O ! . . Well his family is no better than my own, *a 
 b'lieve." 
 
 "How is that?" 
 
 " Hedgers and ditchers by rights. But once in ancient 
 times one of 'em, when he was at work, changed clothes 
 with King Charles the Second, and saved the king's life. 
 King Charles came up to him like a common man, and said 
 off-hand, ' Man in the smock-frock, my name is Charles 
 the Second, and that's the truth on't. Will ye lend me your 
 clothes V 'I don't mind if I do,' said hedger Luxellian j 
 and they changed there and then. ' Now, mind ye,' King 
 Charles the Second said, like a common man, as he rode 
 away, ' if ever I come to the crown, you come to court, 
 knock at the door, and say out bold, ' Is King Charles the 
 Second at home ? ' Tell your name, and they shall let you 
 in, and you shall be made a lord.' Now, that was very 
 nice of Master Charley." 
 
 " Very nice, indeed." 
 
 " Well, as the saying is, the king came to the throne ; 
 and some years after that, away went hedger Luxellian, 
 knocked at the king's door, and asked if King Charles the 
 Second was in. 'No, he isn't,' they said. 'Then, is 
 Charles the Third .? ' said hedger Luxellian. ' Yes,' said 
 
A PAIR OF BL UE E YES. ^ 
 
 a young fellow standing by like a common man, only he had 
 a crown on, ' my name is Charles the Third.' And — " 
 
 " I really fancy that must be a mistake. I don't recol- 
 lect anything in history about Charles the Third," said the 
 other, in a, tone of mild remonstrance. 
 
 " O, that's righ:: enough, as the saying is ; he was a rather 
 queer-tempered man, if you remember." 
 
 " Very well ; go on." 
 
 " And by hook or by crook, hedger LuxelliaTi was made 
 a lord, and everything went on well till some time after, 
 when he got into a most terrible row with King Charles the 
 Fourth—" 
 
 " Stop ! I can't stand Charles the Fourth. Upon my 
 word, that's too much." 
 
 " Why ? There was a George the Fourth, wasn't there ? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " Well, Charleses be as common as Georges. 'Tis perfect 
 madness to break up a man's story in the way you do." 
 
 "There isn't a man in England would put up with Charles 
 the Fourth, even from the lips of his dearest friend. I only 
 look Charles the Third out of civility to you." 
 
 " Now, look here : take Charles the Third, and say no 
 more about it, and I'll knock out Charles the Fourth alto- 
 gether. There, that's fair .... Ah, well, as the saying is. 
 'Tis the funniest world ever I lived in — upon my life 'tis. 
 Ah, that such should be ! " 
 
 The dusk had thickened into darkness while they thus 
 conversed, and the outline and surface of the mansion grad- 
 ually disappeared. The windows, which had before been 
 as black blots on a lighter surface of wall, became illumin- 
 ated, and were transfigured into squares of light on the gen- 
 eral dark surface of the night landscape as it absorbed the 
 outlines of the edifice into its gloomy monotony. 
 
 Not another word was spoken for some time, ar J they 
 climbed a hill, then another hill piled on the summ t of the 
 first. An additional mile of plateau, from which could be 
 discerned two lighthouses on the coast they were nearing, 
 reposing on the horizon with a calm lustre of benignity, and 
 another oasis was reached. A little dell lay like a nest at 
 their feet, towards which the driver pulled the horse at a 
 sharp angle, and descended a steep slope which dived un- 
 
jQ A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 der the trees like a rabbits' burrow. They sank lower and 
 lower. 
 
 " Endelstow Vicarage is inside here," continued the man 
 with the reins. " This part about here is West Endelstow ; 
 Lord Luxellian's is East Endelstow, and has a church to it- 
 self. Pa'son Swancourt is the pa'son of both, and bobs 
 backward and forward. Ah, well ! 'tis a funny world. 'A 
 believe there was once a quarry where this house stands. 
 The man who built it in past time scraped all the glebe for 
 earth to put round the vicarage, and laid out a little para- 
 dise of flowers arid trees in the soil he had got together in 
 this way, while the fields he scraped have been good for 
 nothing ever since." 
 
 " How long has the present incumbent been here ? " 
 
 " Maybe about a year, or a year and a half: 'tisn't two 
 years ; for they don't scandalize him yet ; and, as a rule, a 
 parish begins to scandalize the pa'son at the end of two 
 years among 'em familiar. But he's a very nice party. 
 Ay, pa'son Swancourt d'know me pretty well from often 
 driving over ; and 1 d'know pa'son Swancourt." 
 
 They emerged from the bower, swept round in a curve, 
 and the chimneys and gables of the vicarage became darkly 
 visible. Not a light showed anywhere. They alighted ; 
 the man felt his way into the porch, and rang the bell. 
 
 At the end of three or four minutes, spent in patient 
 waiting without hearing any sounds of a response, the 
 stranger advanced and repeated the call in a more de- 
 cided manner. He then fancied he heard footsteps in 
 the hall, and sundry movements of the door-knob, but 
 nobody appeared. 
 
 "Perhaps they beant at home," sighed the driver.. 
 " And I promised myself a bit of supper in pa'son Swan- 
 court's kitchen. Sich lovely mate-pize, and figged keakes. 
 and cider, and drops o' cordial that they do keep here ! " 
 
 " All right, naibours ! Be ye rich men or be ye poor 
 men, that ye nmst needs come to the world's end at this 
 time o' night ? " exclaimed a cracked voice at this instant ; 
 and, turning their heads, they saw a rickety individual 
 shambling round from the back door with a horn lantern 
 dangling from his hand. 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. I I 
 
 "Time o' night, 'a brieve! and the clock only gone 
 seven of 'em. Show a light, and let us in, William Worm.'' 
 
 " O, that you, Robert Lickpan ? " 
 
 " Nobody else, ^Villiam Worm." 
 
 " And is the visiting man a-come ? " 
 
 " Yes," said the stranger. " Is Mr. Swancourt at home ? " 
 
 "That 'a is, sir. And would ye mind coming round 
 by ihe back way? The front door is got stuck wi' the wet, 
 as he will do sometimes ; and the Turk can't open en. I 
 know I am only a poor wambling man that 'ill never pay 
 the Lord for my making, sir ; but I can show the way in, 
 sir." 
 
 The new arrival followed his guide through a little door 
 in a wall, and then promenaded a scullery and a kitchen, 
 along which he passed with eyes rigidly fixed in advance, 
 an inbred horror of prying forbidding him to gaze around 
 apartments that formed the back side of the household 
 tapestry. Entering the hall, he was about to be shown to 
 his room, when from the inner lobby of the front entrance, 
 whither she had gone to learn the cause of the delay, sailed 
 forth the form of Elfride. Her start of amazement at the 
 sight of the visitor coming forth from under the stairs proved 
 that she had not been expecting this surprising flank 
 movement, which had been originated entirely by the in- 
 genuity of William Worm. 
 
 She appeared in the prettiest of all feminine guises, that 
 is to say, in a demi-toilette dress, with plenty of curly hair 
 tumbling down about her shoulders. An expression of 
 uneasiness pervaded her countenance ; and altogether she 
 scarcely appeared woman enough for the situation. The 
 visitor removed his hat, and the first words were spoken ; 
 Elfride meanwhile looking with a great deal of interest not 
 unmixed with awe at the person towards whom she was to 
 do the duties of hospitality. 
 
 "I am Mr. Smith," said the stranger, in a musical 
 voice. 
 
 " I am Miss Swancourt," said Elfride. 
 
 Her constraint was over. The great contrast between 
 the reality she beheld before her, and the dark, taciturn, 
 sharp, elderly man of business who had lurked in her imagi- 
 nalion — a man with clothes smelling of city smoke, skin 
 
£2 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 sallow from Vv^ant of sun, and talk flavored with epigram — 
 was such a relief to her that Elfride smiled, almost laughed, 
 in the new comer's face. 
 
 Stephen Smith, who has hitherto been hidden from us 
 by the darkness, was at this time of his life but a youth in 
 appearance, and barely a man in years. Judging from his 
 look, London was the last place in the world that one 
 would have imagined to be the scene of his activities: such 
 a face surely could not be nourished amid smoke and mud 
 and fog and dust ; such an open countenance could never 
 even have seen anything of " the weariness, the fever, and 
 the fret" of Babylon the second. 
 
 His complexion was as fine as Elfride's own ; the pink 
 of his cheeks as delicate. His mouth as perfect as Cupid's 
 bow in form, and as cherry-red in color as hers. Bright 
 curly hair ; bright sparkling blue-grey eyes ; a boy's blush 
 and manner; neither whisker nor moustache, unless a 
 little light-brown fur on his upper lip deserved the latter 
 title : this composed the London professional man, the 
 prospect of whose advent had so troubled Elfride. 
 
 Elfride hastened to say she was sorry to tell him that 
 Mr. Swancourt was not able to receive him that evening, 
 and gave the reason why. Mr. Smith replied, in a voice 
 boyish by nature and manly by art, that he was very sorry 
 to hear this news ; but that as far as his reception was 
 concerned, it did not matter in the least. 
 
 Stephen was shown up to his room. In his absence 
 Elfride stealthily glided into her father's. 
 
 *' He's come, papa. Such a 5'oung man for a business 
 man?'' 
 
 " O, indeed ! " 
 
 "His face is — ^q\\— pretty; just like mine." 
 
 *' H'm ! what next ? " 
 
 " Nothing ; that's all I know of him yet. It is rather 
 aice, is it not ? " 
 
 '•Well, we shall see that when we know him better. 
 Go down and give the poor fellow something to eat and 
 drink, for heaven's sake. And when he has done eating, 
 say I should like to have a few words with him, if he doesn't 
 mind coming up here." 
 
 The you Ag lady glided down stairs again, and while she 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. I3 
 
 awaits young Smith's entry, the letter referring to his visit 
 had better be given. 
 
 1. MR. SWANCOURT TO MR. HEWBY. 
 
 " Endelstow Vicarage, Feb. 18—. 
 
 *< Sir, — We are thinking of restoring the tower and aisle of the 
 church in this parish ; and Lord Luxellian, the patron of the living 
 has mentioned your name as that of a trustworthy architect whom it 
 would be desirable to ask to superintend the work. 
 
 " I am exceedingly ignorant of the necessary preliminary steps. 
 Probably, however, the first is that (should you be, as Lord Luxellian 
 says you are, disposed to assist us) yourself or some member of your 
 staff should see the building, and report thereupon for the satisfaction 
 of parishioners and others. 
 
 " The spot is a very remote one : we have no railway within four- 
 teen miles ; and the nearest place for putting up at — called a town, 
 though merely a large village — is Stranton, two miles farther on ; so 
 that it would be most convenient for you to stay at the vicarage — 
 which I am glad to place at your disposal — instead of pushing on to 
 the hotel at Stranton, and coming back again in the morning. 
 
 " Any day of the next week that you like to name for the visit will 
 find us quite ready to receive you. — Yours very truly, 
 
 " Christopher Swancourt." 
 
 2. MR. HEWBY TO MR. SWANCOURT. 
 
 •' Percy-place, Charing-cross, 
 " Feb. 20. 18—. 
 
 " Rev. Sir,— Agreeably to your request of the i8th instant, I 
 have arranged to survey and make drawings of the aisle and tower of 
 your parish church, and of the dilapidations which have been suffered 
 to accrue thereto, with a view to its restoration. 
 
 ** My assistant, Mr. Stephen Smith, will leave London by the 
 early train to-morrow morning for the purpose. Many thanks for your 
 proposal to accommodate him. He will take advantage of your offer, 
 and will probably reach your house at some hour of the evening. 
 You may put every confidence in him, and may rely upon his discern- 
 ment in the matter of church architecture. 
 
 " Trusting that the plans for the restoration which I shall prepare 
 from the details of his survey will prove satisfactory to yourself and 
 Lord Luxellian, I am, rev. sir, yours faithfully, 
 
 • Walter Hewby.* 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 "MELODIOUS BIRDS SING MADRIGALS." 
 
 THAT first repast in Endelstow Vicarage was a very 
 agreeable one to young Stephen Smith. The table 
 was spread, as Elfride had suggested to her father, with the 
 materials for the heterogeneous meal called high tea — a 
 class of refection welcome to all when away from men and 
 towns, and particularly attractive to youthful palates. The 
 table was prettiiy decked with winter flowers and leaves, 
 amid which the eye was greeted by chops, chicken, pie, etc., 
 and two huge pasties overhanging the sides of the dish v/ith 
 a cheerful aspect of abundance. 
 
 At the end, towards the fireplace, appeared the tea-ser- 
 vice, of old-fashioned Worcester porcelain, and behind this 
 arose the slight form of Elfride, attempting to add matronly 
 dignity to the movement of pouring out tea, and to have a 
 weighty and concerned look in matters of marmalade, hon- 
 ey, and clotted cream. Having made her own meal before 
 he arrived, she found to her embarrassment that there was 
 nothing left for her to do but talk when not assisting him. 
 She asked him if he would excuse her finishing a letter she 
 had been writing at a side-table, and after sitting down to it, 
 tingled with a sense of being grossly rude. However, seeing 
 that he noticed nothing personally wrong in her, and that 
 he too was embarrassed when she attentively watched his 
 cup to refill it, she became better at ease ; and when fur- 
 thermore he accidentally kicked the leg of the table, and 
 then nearly upset his teacup, just as schoolboys did, she 
 felt herself mistress of the situation, and could talk very 
 well. In a few minutes ingenuousness and a common term 
 of years obliterated all recollection that they were strangers 
 just met. Stephen began to wax eloquent on extremely 
 slight experiences connected with his professional pursuits ; 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 15 
 
 and she, having no experiences to fall back upon, recounted 
 with much animation stories that had been related to her by 
 her father, which would have astonished him had he heard 
 with what fidelity of action and tone they were rendered. 
 Upon the whole, a very interesting picture of Sweet-and- 
 Twenty was on view that evening in Mr. Swancourt's house. 
 
 Ultimately Stephen had to go up stairs and talk loud to 
 the vicar, receiving from him between his puffs a great many 
 apologies for calling him so unceremoniously to a stranger's 
 bedroom. " But," continued Mr. Swanccurt, *' I felt that I 
 wanted to say a few words to you before the morning on the 
 business of your visit. One's patience gets exhausted by 
 staying a prisoner in bed all day through a sudden freak of 
 one's enemy — new to me, though — for I have known very 
 little of gout as yet. However, he's gone to my other toe in 
 a very mild manner, and I expect he'll slink off altogether 
 by the morning. I hope you have been well attended to 
 down stairs ? " 
 
 "Perfectly. And though it is unfortunate, and I am 
 sorry to see you laid up, I beg you will not take the slight- 
 est notice of my being in the house the while." 
 
 " I will not. But I shall be down to-morrow. My 
 daughter is an excellent doctor. A dose or two of her mild 
 mixtures will fetch me round quicker than all the doctors' 
 stuff in the world. Well, now about the church business. 
 Take a seat, do. We can't afford to stand upon ceremony 
 in these parts, as you see, and for this reason, that a civil- 
 ized human being seldom stays long with us ; and so we 
 cannot waste time in approaching him, or he will be gone 
 before we have had the pleasure of close acquaintance. 
 This tower of ours is, as you will notice, entirely gone be- 
 yond the possibility of restoration ; but the church itself is 
 well enough. You should see some of the churches in this 
 county. Floors rotten : ivy lining the walls." 
 
 " Dear me ! " 
 
 " O, that's nothing. The congregation of a neighbor of 
 mine, whenever a storm of rain comes on during service, 
 open their umbrellas and hold them up till the dripping 
 ceases from the roof. Now, if you will kindly bring me 
 tliose papers and letters you see lying on the table, I will 
 show you how far we have got." 
 
1 6 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 Stephen crossed the room to fetch them, and the vicai 
 seemed to notice more particularly the shm figure of his vis- 
 itor. 
 
 " I suppose 3'ou are quite competent ? " he said. 
 
 " Quite," said the young man, coloring slightly. 
 
 " You are very young, I fancy — I should say you are not 
 more than nineteen } " 
 
 *' I am nearly twenty-one." 
 
 ** Exactly half my age ; I am forty-two." 
 
 " By the way," said Mr. Swancourt, after some conver- 
 sation, " you said your whole name was Stephen Fitzmau- 
 rice, and that your family came originally from Caxbury. 
 Since I have been speaking, it has occurred to me that I 
 know something of them. You belong to a well-known an- 
 cient county family — not ordinary Smiths in the least." 
 
 '* I don't think we have any of their blood in our veins." 
 
 " Nonsense ! you must. Hand me the Landed Ge?itry. 
 Now, let me see. There, Stephen Fitzmaurice Smith — he 
 lies in St. Mary's Church, doesn't he t Well out of that fam- 
 ily sprang the Leaseworthy Smiths, and collaterally came 
 General Sir Stephen Fitzmaurice Smith of Caxbury — " 
 
 " Yes ; I have seen his monument there," shouted Ste- 
 phen. " But there is no connection between his family and 
 mine : there cannot be." 
 
 " There is none, possibly, to your knowledge. But looli 
 at this, my dear sir," said the vicar, striking his fist upon the 
 bedpost for emphasis. " Here are you, Stephen Fitzmaurice 
 Smith, living in London, but born at Caxbury. Here in this 
 book is a genealogical tree ol the Stephen Fitzmaurice 
 Smiths of Caxbury Manor. You may be only a family of 
 professional men now — I am not inquisitive : T don't ask 
 questions of thcyt kind; it is not in me to do so — but it is 
 plain as the nose in your face that there's your origin ! And 
 Mr. Smith, I congratulate you upon your blood; blue blood, 
 sir ; and upon my life, a very desirable color, as the world 
 goes." 
 
 "I wish you could congratulate me upon some more 
 tangible quality," said the younger man, sadly no less than 
 modestly. 
 
 '' Nonsense 1 that will come with time. You are young : 
 all your life is before you Now look — see how far back in 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. I^ 
 
 the mists of antiquity my own family of Swancourt have a 
 root. Here, you see," he continued, turning to the page, 
 " is Geoffrey, the one among my ancestors who lost a ba- 
 rony because he would cut his joke. Ah, it's the sort of us ! 
 But the story is too long to tell now. Ay, I'm a poor man 
 — a poor gentleman, in fact : those I would be friends with 
 won't be friends with me ; those who are willing to be friends 
 with me I am above being friends with. Beyond dining 
 with a neighboring incumbent or two, and an occasional chat 
 — sometimes dinner — with Lord Luxellian, I am in absolute 
 solitude — absolute." 
 
 " You have your studies, your books, and your — daugh- 
 ter." 
 
 " O, yes, yes ; and I don't complain of poverty. Canto 
 coram latrone. Well, Mr. Smith, don't let me detain you 
 any longer in a sick room. Ha ! that reminds me of a 
 story I once heard in my younger days." Here the vicar 
 began a series of small private laughs, and Stephen looked 
 inquiry. " O, no, no j it is too bad — too bad to tell I " con- 
 tinued Mr. Swancourt in undertones of grim mirth. " Well, 
 go down stairs ; my daughter must do the best she can with 
 you this evening. Ask her to sing to you — she plays and 
 sings very nicely. Good-night ; 1 feel as if 1 had known 
 you for five or six years. I'll ring for somebody to show 
 you down." 
 
 " Never mind," said Stephen, " I can find the way ; " 
 and he went down stairs, thinking of the delightful freedom 
 of manner in the remoter counties in comparison with the 
 reserve of London. 
 
 ;' I forgot to tell you papa was rather deaf," said Elfride 
 anxiously, when Stephen entered the little drawing-room. 
 
 " Never mind ; I know all about it, and we are great 
 friends," the man of business replied enthusiastically. 
 " And, Miss Swancourt, will you kindly sing to me ? " 
 
 To Miss Swancourt this request seemed, what in fact it 
 was, exceptionally point-blank ; though she guessed that 
 her papa had some hand in framing it, knowing, rather to 
 her cost, of his unceremonious way of utilizing her for the 
 benefit of dull sojourners. At the same time, as Mr. Smith's 
 manner was too frank to provoke criticism, and his age too 
 
1 3 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 little to inspire fear, she was ready — not to say pleased-— 
 to accede. Selecting from the canterbury some old family 
 ditties, that in years gone by had been played and sung by 
 her mother, Elfride sat down to the pianoforte, and began 
 ' 'Twas on the evening of a winter's day,' in a pretty con- 
 tralto voice. 
 
 " Do you like that old thing, Mr. Smith ? " she said at 
 the end. 
 
 *' Yes, I do much," said Stephen — words he would have 
 uttered, and sincerely, to anything on earth, from glee to re- 
 quiem, that she might have chosen. 
 
 "You shall have a little one by De Leyre, that was 
 given me by a young French lady who was staying at En- 
 delstow House : 
 
 " Je I'ai plante, je I'ai vu naitre, 
 Ce beau rosier ou les oiseaux," etc. ; 
 
 and then I shall want to give you my own favorite for the 
 very last, Shelley's ' When the lamp is shattered,' as set to 
 music by my poor mother. I so much like singing to any- 
 body who really cares to hear me." 
 
 Every woman who makes a permanent impression on a 
 man is afterwards recalled to his mind's eye as she appear- 
 ed in one particular scene, which seems ordained to be her 
 special medium of manifestation throughout the pages of 
 his memory. As the patron Saint has her attitude and ac- 
 cessories in mediaeval illumination, so the Sweet Heart may 
 be said to have hers upon the table of her true Love's fan- 
 cy, without which she is rarely introduced there except by 
 effort ; and this though she may, on farther acquaintance, 
 have been observed in many other phases which one would 
 imagine to be far more appropriate to love's young dream. 
 
 Miss Elfride's image chose the form in which she was 
 beheld during these minutes of singing for her permanent 
 attitude ot visitation to Stephen's eyes during his sleeping 
 and waking hours in after days. The profile is seen of a 
 young woman in a pale grey silk dress with trimmings of 
 swan's-down, and opening down to a point in front like a 
 waistcoat — presumably demi-toilette ; the cool color con- 
 trasting admirably with the warm bloom of her neck and 
 face. The furthermost candle on the piano comes immedi- 
 
J PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 1 9 
 
 ately in a line with her head, and half invisible itself, forms 
 the accidentally frizzed hair into a nebulous haze of light, 
 surrounding her crown like an aureola. Her hands are in 
 their place on the keys, her lips parted, and trilling forth, 
 in a tender dhninuendo^ the closing words of the sad apos- 
 trophe : 
 
 " O Love, who bewailest 
 
 The frailty of all things here, 
 Why choose you the frailest 
 
 For your cradle, your home, and your bier! ** 
 
 Her head is forward a little, and her eyes directed keenly 
 upward to the top of the page of music confronting her. 
 Then comes a rapid look into Stephen's face, and a still 
 more rapid look back again to her business, her face having 
 dropped its sadness, and acquired a certain expression of 
 mischievous archness the while; which lingered there for 
 some time, but was never developed into a positive smile' 
 of flirtation. 
 
 Stephen suddenly shifted his position from her right 
 hand to her left, where there was just room enough for an 
 ottoman to stand between the piano and the corner of the 
 room. Into this nook he squeezed himself, and gazed wist- 
 fully up into Elfride'3 face. So long and so earnestly gazed 
 he, that her cheek deepened to a more and more crimson 
 tint as each Une was added to her song. Concluding, and 
 pausing motionless after the last word for a minute or two, 
 she ventured to look at him again. His features wore an 
 expression of unutterable happiness. 
 
 " You don't hear many songs, do you, Mr. Smith, to 
 take so much notice of these of mine ? " 
 
 " Perhaps it was the means and vehicle of the song that 
 I was noticing: I mean, yourself," he answered gently. 
 
 "Now, Mr. Smith!" 
 
 " It is perfectly true ; I don't hear much singing. You 
 mistake what I am, I fancy. Because I come as a stranger 
 to a secluded spot, you think I must needs come from a 
 life of bustle, and know the latest movements of the day. 
 But I don't. My life is as quiet as yours, and more soli- 
 tary : solitary as death." 
 
 " The death which comes from a plethora of lif?" Bu 
 
20 A PAIR OF BL UE E YES. 
 
 seriously, I can quite see that you are not the least what 1 
 thought you would be before I saw you. You are not crit- 
 ical, or experienced, or — much to mind. That's why I 
 don't mind singing airs to you that I only half know." 
 Finding that by this confession she had vexed him in a way 
 she did not intend to, she added naively, " I mean, Mr. 
 Smith, that you are better, not worse, for being only young 
 and not very experienced. You don't think my life here 
 so very tame and dull, 1 know." 
 
 "I*do not, indeed," he said with fervor. " It must be 
 delightfully poetical and sparkling and fresh and — " 
 
 " There you go, Mr. Smith ! Well, men of another 
 kind, when I can get them to be honest enough to own the 
 truth, think just the reverse ; that my life must be a dread- 
 ful bore in its normal state, though pleasant for the excep- 
 tional few days they pass here." 
 
 "I could live here always ! " he said, and with such 
 tone and look of unconscious revelation that Elfride wa% 
 startled to find that her harmonies had fired a small Troy, 
 in the shape of Stephen's heart. She said quickly : 
 
 " But you can't live here always." 
 
 "O, no." And he drew himself in with the sensitive- 
 ness of a snail. 
 
 Elfride's emotions were sudden as his in kindling, but 
 the least of woman's lesser infirmities — love of admiration 
 — caused an inflammable disposition on his part, so exactly 
 similar to her own, to appear as meritorious in him as 
 modesty made her own seem faulty in her. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " where heaves the turf in many a 
 mould'ring heap." 
 
 FOR reasons of his own, Stephen Smith was stirring a 
 short time after dawn the next morning. From the 
 window of his room he could see, first, two bold escarpments 
 sloping down together like the letter V. Towards the 
 bottom, like liquid in a funnel, appeared the sea, grey and 
 small. On the brow of one hill, of rather greater altitude 
 than its neighbor, stood the church which was to be the 
 scene of his operations. The lonely edifice was black and 
 bare, cutting up into the sky from the very tip of the hill. 
 It had a square mouldering tower, owning neither battle 
 ment nor pinnacle, and seemed a monolithic termination, 
 of one substance with the ridge, rather than a structure 
 raised thereon. Round the church a low wall ; over-top- 
 ping the wall, in general level, was the graveyard ; not as 
 a graveyard usually is, a fragment of landscape with its due 
 variety of chiaro-oscuro, but a mere profile against the sky, 
 serrated with the outlines of graves and a very few memorial 
 stones. Not a tree could exist up there ; nothing but the 
 monotonous grey-green grass. 
 
 Five minutes after this casual survey was made, his 
 bedroom was empty, and its occupant had vanished quietly 
 from the house. 
 
 At the end of two hours he was again in the room, 
 looking warm and glowing. He now pursued the artistic 
 details of dressing, which on his first rising had been 
 entirely omitted. And a very pretty fellow he looked, after 
 that mysterious morning scamper. His mouth was a 
 triumph of the class. It was the cleanly-cut, exquisitely 
 pursed-up mouth of William Pitt, as represented in the well 
 
22 A PAIR OF BL UE E YES. 
 
 or little knov/n bust by Nollekens — a mouth which is in 
 itself a young man's fortune, if properly exercised. His 
 round chin, where its upper part turned inward, still con- 
 tinued its perfect and full curve, seeming to press in to a 
 point the bottom of his nether lip at their place of junction. 
 Once he murmured the name of Elfride. Ah, there 
 she was ! On the lawn in a plain dress, without hat or 
 bonnet, running with a boy's velocity, superadded to a 
 girl's lightness, after a tame rabbit she was endeavoring 
 to capture, her strategic intonations of coaxing words 
 alternating with desperate rushes so much out of keeping 
 with them, that the hollowness of such expressions was 
 but too evident to her pet, who darted and dodged in 
 carefully-timed counterpart. 
 
 The scene down there was altogether different from that 
 of the hills. A thicket of shrubs and trees enclosed this 
 favored spot from the wildness without ; even at this time 
 of the year the grass was luxuriant there. No wind blew 
 inside the protecting belt of evergreens, wasting its force 
 upon the higher and stronger trees forming the outer 
 margin of the grove. 
 
 Then he heard a heavy person scuffling about in slippers, 
 and calling, " Mr. Smith ! " Smith proceeded to the study, 
 and found Mr. Swancourt. The young man expressed his 
 gladness to see his host down stairs. 
 
 " O, yes ; I knew I should soon be right again. I have 
 not made the acquaintance of gout for more than two years, 
 and it generally goes off the second night. Well, where 
 have you been this morning? I saw you come in just now, 
 1 think?" 
 
 *' Yes ; I have been for a walk." 
 ^ "Start early?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Very early, I think?" 
 
 " Yes, it was rather early." 
 
 "Which way did you go? To the sea, I suppose, 
 Everybody goes sea- ward." 
 
 " No ; I followed up the river as far as the park wall." 
 
 " You are different from your kind. Well, I suppose 
 such a wild place is a noveltv, and so tempted you out of 
 bed?" 
 
A FAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 23 
 
 " Not altogether a novelty. I like the place." 
 
 "You must, you must, to go cock-watching the morning 
 after a journey of fourteen or sixteen hours. But there's 
 no accounting for taste, and I am glad to see that yours is 
 no meaner. After breakfast, but not before, I shall be 
 good for a ten miles' walk, Master Smith." 
 
 Certainly there seemed nothing exaggerated in that 
 assertion. Mr. Swancourt by daylight showed himself to 
 be a man who, in common with the other two people under 
 his roof, had really strong claims to be considered hand- 
 some, — handsome, that is, in the sense in which the moon 
 is bright; the ravines and valleys which, on a close inspec- 
 tion, are seen to diversify its surface being left out of the 
 argument. The face of a tint that was not deepened upon 
 his cheeks nor lightened upon his forehead, but uniform 
 throughout; the usual neutral salmon-color of a man who 
 feeds well — not to say too well — and does not think hard ; 
 every pore being in visible working order. His tout ensem- 
 ble was that of a highly-improved class of farmer, dressed 
 up in the wrong clothes ; that of a firm-standing perpendic- 
 ular man, whose fall would have been backwards in direc- 
 tion if he had ever lost his balance. 
 
 The vicar's background was at present what a vicar's 
 background should be, his study. Here the consistency 
 ends. All along the chimney-piece were ranged bottles of 
 horse, pig, and cow medicines, and against the wall was a 
 high table, made up of the fragments of an old oak lych- 
 gate. Upon this stood stuffed specimens of owls, divers, 
 and gulls, and over them bunches of wheat and barley ears, 
 labelled with the date of the year that produced them. 
 Some cases and shelves, more or less laden with books, the 
 prominent titles of which were Dr. Brown's Notes on the 
 Romans, Dr. Smith's Notes on the Corinthians^ and Dr. 
 Robinson's Notes on the Galatians^ Ephesians, and Fhilippi' 
 ^;/j-, just saved the character of the place, in spite of a girl's 
 dolFs-house standing above them, a marine aquarium in the 
 window, and Elfride's hat hanging on its corner. 
 
 " Business, business ! " said Mr. Swancourt after break- 
 fast. He began to find it necessary to act the part of a 
 fly-wheel to the somewhat irregular forces of his visitor. 
 They prepared to go to the church ; the vicar, on 
 
24 
 
 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 second thoughts, mounting his coal-black mare, to avoid 
 exerting his foot too much at starting. Stephen said he 
 should want a man to assist him. " Worm ! " the vicar 
 shouted. 
 
 A minute or two after a voice was heard round the cor- 
 ner of the building mumbling, " Ah, I used to be strong 
 enough, but 'tis altered now ! Well, there, I'm as indepen- 
 dent as one here and there, even if they do write 'squire 
 after their names." 
 
 " What's the matter ? " said the vicar, as William Worm 
 appeared ; when the remarks were repeated to him. 
 
 " Worm says some very true things sometimes," Mr. 
 Swancourt said, turning to Stephen. " Now as regards 
 that word * esquire.' Why, Mr. Smith, that word * esquire ' 
 is gone to the dogs, — used on the letters of every jackanapes 
 who has a black coat. Anything else, Worm ? " 
 
 " Ay, the folk have begun frying again." 
 
 "Dear me ! I'm sorry to hear that." 
 
 "Yes," Worm said groaningly to Stephen, "I've got 
 such a noise in my head that there's no living night nor day, 
 *Tis just for all the world like people frying fish: fry, 
 fry, fry, all day long in my poor head, till I don't know 
 whe'r I'm here or yonder. There, God A'mighty will find 
 it out sooner or later, I hope, and relieve me." 
 
 " Now, my deafness," said Mr. Swancourt impressively, 
 "is a dead silence ; but William Worm's is that of people 
 frying fish in his head. Very remarkable, isn't it? " 
 
 " I can hear the frying-pan a fizzing as naterel as life," 
 said Worm corroboratively. 
 
 ** Yes, it is remarkable," said Mr. Smith. 
 
 " Very peculiar, very peculiar," echoed the vicar ; and 
 they all then followed the path up the hill, bounded on each 
 side by a little stone wall, from which gleamed fragments of 
 quartz and blood-red marbles, apparently of inestimable 
 value, in their setting of brown alluvium. Stephen walked 
 with the dignity of a man close to the horse's head, Worm 
 stumbled along a stone's throw in the rear, and Elfride was 
 nowhere in particular, yet everywhere ; sometimes in front, 
 sometimes behind, sometimes at the sides, hovering about 
 the procession like a butterfly ; not definitely engaged in 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 25 
 
 travelling, yet somehow chiming in at points with the gen- 
 eral progress. 
 
 The vicar explained things as he went on : The fact is, 
 Mr. Smith, I didn't want this bother of church restoration 
 at all, but it was necessary to do something in self-defence, 
 
 on account of those d dissenters : I use the word in its 
 
 scriptural meaning, of course, not as an expletive." 
 
 " How very odd that such should be necessary ! " said 
 Stephen. 
 
 " Odd ? That's nothing to how it is in the parish of 
 Twinkley. Both the churchwardens are — ; there, I won't 
 say what they are ; and the clerk and the sexton as well." 
 
 " How very strange ! " said Stephen. 
 
 "Strange? My dear sir, that's nothing to how it is in 
 the parish of Sinnerton. However, as to our own parish, I 
 hope we shall make some progress soon." 
 
 "You must trust to circumstances." 
 
 ' * Th-ere are no circumstances to trust to. We may as 
 well trust in Providence if we trust at all. But, here we are. 
 A wild place, isn't it ? But I like it on such days as these." 
 
 The churchyard was entered on this side by a stone 
 stile, over which having clambered, you remained still on 
 the wild hill, the within not being so divided from the with- 
 out as to obliterate the sense of open freedom. A de- 
 lightful place to be buried in, postulating that delight can 
 accompany a man to his tomb under any circumstances. 
 There was nothing horrible in this churchyard, in the shape 
 of tight mounds bonded with sticks, which shout imprison- 
 ment in 5'our ears rather than whisper rest ; or trim garden- 
 flowers, which only raise images of people in new black 
 crape and white handkerchiefs coming to tend them ; or 
 wheel-marks, which remind us of hearses and mourning 
 coaches ; or cypress-bushes, which make a parade of sor* 
 row ; or coffin-boards and bones lying behind trees, show- 
 ing that we are only lease-holders of our graves. Noj 
 n:}thing but long, wild, untutored grass, diversifying the 
 forms of the mounds it covered, — themselves irregularly- 
 shaped, with no eye to effect ; the impressive presence of 
 the old mountain that all this was a part of being no»vhere 
 excluded by disguising art. Outside were similar slopes 
 and similar grass ; and ihei the serene impassive sea, visi- 
 
26 A PAIR OF BLUE EVES. 
 
 ble to a width of half the horizon, and meeting the eye with 
 the effect of a vast concave, like the interior of a blue ves- 
 sel. Detached rusty rocks stood upright near the shore, a 
 collar of foam girding their bases, repeating in its whiteness 
 the plumage of a countless multitude of gulls, restlessly 
 hovering about their tops. 
 
 " Now, Worm ! " said Mr. Swancourt sharply ; and 
 Worm started into an attitude of attention at once to re- 
 ceive orders. Stephen and himself were then left in pos- 
 session, and the work went on till early in the afternoon, 
 when dinner was announced by Unity, of the vicarage kitch- 
 en, running up the hill without a bonnet. 
 
 Elfride did not make her appearance inside the building 
 till late in the afternoon, and came then by special invitation 
 ftom Stephen during dinner. She looked so intensely liv- 
 ing and full of movement as she came Into the old silent 
 place, that young Smith's vrorld began to be lit by ' the pur- 
 ple light' in all its definiteness. Worm was got rid of by 
 sending him to measure the height of the tower. 
 
 What could she do but come close — so close that a min 
 ute arc of her skirt touched his foot — and ask him how he 
 was getting on with hissketclies, and set herself to learn the 
 principles of practical mensuration as applied to irregular 
 buildings? Then she must ascend the pulpit to re imagine 
 for the hundredth time how it must seem to be a preacher. 
 
 Has the reader ever seen a winsome girl in a pulpit? 
 Perhaps not. Nor has the writer; but he knows somebody 
 who has, and who can never forget that sight. 
 
 Elfride leant over the side. 
 
 "Don't you tell papa, will you, Mr. Smith, if I tell you 
 something ? " she said with a sudden impulse to make a 
 confidence. 
 
 " O, no, that I won't," said Mr. Smith, staring up. 
 
 ** Well, I w-rite papa's se.^ons for him very often, and 
 he preaches them better than he does his own ; and then 
 afterwards he talks to people and to me about what he said 
 in his sermon to-day, and forcets that I wrote it for him^ 
 Isn't it absurd ? " 
 
 " How clever you must be ! " said Stephen. " I couldn't 
 write a sermon fcr the world." 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 27 
 
 " O, it's easy enough," she said, descending from the 
 pulpit and coming close to him to explain more vividly. 
 'You do it like this. Did you ever play a game of forfeits 
 called ' When is it? where is it ? what is it?'" 
 
 " No, never." 
 
 " Ah, that's a pity, because writing a sermon is very 
 much like playing that game. You take the text. You 
 think why is it ? what is it ? and so on. You put that down 
 under " Collectively." Then you proceed to the First, Sec- 
 ondly, and Thirdly. Papa won't have Fourthlys — says they 
 are all my eye. Then you have a final Collectively, several 
 pages of this being put in great black brackets, writing 
 opposite, " Leave this out if the farmers are falling asleep.''^ 
 Then comes your In Conclusion, then A Few Words, And 
 I Have Done. Well, all this time you have put on the 
 back of each page, Keep your voice down'^ — I mean," she 
 added, correcting herself, ''that's how I do in papa's ser- 
 mon-book, because otherwise he gets louder and louder, till 
 at last he shouts like a farmer up a-field. O, papa is so 
 funny in some things ! " 
 
 Then, after this childish burst of confidence, she was 
 frightened, being v/arned by womanly instinct, which for 
 the moment her ardor had outrun, that she had been too 
 forward towards a comparative stranger. 
 
 Elfride saw her father then, and went away into the 
 wind, being caught by a gust as she ascended the church- 
 yard slope, in which gust she had the motions, without the 
 motives, of a hoiden ; the grace, without the self-conscious- 
 ness, of a pirouetter. She conversed for a minute or two 
 with her father, and proceeded homeward, Mr. Swancourt 
 coming on to the church to Stephen. The wind had fresh- 
 ened his warm complexion as it freshens the glow of st 
 brand. He was in a mood of jollity, and watched Elfride 
 dov/n the hill with a smile. 
 
 " You little flyaway ! you look wild enough now," he 
 said, and turned to Stephen. " But she's not a wild child 
 at all, Mr. Smith. As steady as you ; and that you are 
 steady I see from your diligence here." 
 
 " I think Miss Swancourt very clever," Stephen ob- 
 spjved. 
 
 " Yes, she is ; certainly she is," said papa, turning hia 
 
23 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 \oice as much as possible to the neutral tone of dismter- 
 ested criticism. " Now, Smith, I'll tell you something ; 
 but she mustn't know it for the world — not for the world, 
 mind, for she insists upon keeping it a dead secret. Why, 
 she writes my sennojis for me often, and a very good job she 
 makes of them." 
 
 " She can do anything." 
 
 " She can do that. The little rascal has the very trick 
 of the trade. But, mind you, Smith, not a word about it to 
 her, not a single word." 
 
 **Not a word," said Smith. 
 
 " Look there," said Mr. Swancourt. " What do you 
 think of my roofing ? " He pointed with his walking-stick 
 at the chancel roof. 
 
 " Did you do that, sir ? " 
 
 "Yes, I worked in shirt-sleeves all the time that was go- 
 ing on. I pulled down the old rafters, fixed the new ones, 
 put on the battens, slated the roof, all with my own hands, 
 Worm being my assistant. We worked like slaves, didn't 
 we. Worm ? " 
 
 " Ay, sure, we did ; harder than some here and there — 
 hee, hee ! " said William Worm, cropping up from some- 
 where. " Like slaves, 'a b'lieve — hee, hee? And weren't 
 ye foaming mad, sir, when the nails wouldn't go straight ! 
 Mighty I! There, 'tisn't so bad to cuss and keep it in, as it 
 is to cuss and let it out, is it, sir ? " 
 
 " Well— why ? " 
 
 " Because you, sir, when ye were a-putting on the roof, 
 only used to cuss in your mind, which is, I suppose, no 
 harm at all." 
 
 "I don't think you know what goes on in rpy mind. 
 Worm." 
 
 " O, doan't I, sir — hee-hee ! Maybe I'm but a poor 
 wambling thing, sir, and can't read much ; but I can spell 
 as well as some here and there. Doan't ye mird, sir, that 
 blusterous night when ye asked me to hold the candle to 
 ye in yon workshop, when you were making a new qV jSx for 
 the chancel ? " 
 
 "Yes; what of that?" 
 
 "I stood with the candle, and you said you liked com- 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 29 
 
 pan}^ if 'twas only a dog or cat — maning me ; and the 
 chair wouldn't do nohow." 
 
 *' Ah, I remember." 
 
 " No ; the chair vv'ouldn't do nohow. 'A was very well 
 to look at ; but, Lord ! — " 
 
 *' Worm, how often have I corrected you for irreverent 
 speaking ? " 
 
 " — 'A v/as very well to look at, but you couldn't sit in 
 the chair nohow. 'Twas'all a-twist wi' the chair, like the 
 letter Z, directly you sat down upon the chair. * Get up, 
 Worm,' says you, when you seed the chair go all a-sway 
 wi' me. Up you took the chair, and flung en like fire and 
 brimstone to t'other end of your shop — all in a passion. 
 * Dame the chair ! ' says I. ' Just what I was thinking,' 
 says you, sir. ' I could see it in your face, sir,' says I, 
 ' and I hope you and the Lord will forgie me for saying 
 what you wouldn't.' To save your life you couldn't help 
 laughing, sir, at a poor wambler reading your thoughts so 
 plain. Ay, I'm as wise as one here and there." 
 
 " I thought you had better have a practical man to go 
 over the church and tower with you," Mr. Swancourt said 
 to Stephen the following morning, '*so I got Lord Luxel- 
 lian's permission to send for a man when you came. I 
 told him to be there at ten o'clock. He's a very intelligent 
 man, and he will tell you all you want to know about the 
 state of the walls, etc." 
 
 Elfride did not like to be seen again at the church with 
 Stephen. " I will watch for your appearance at the top of 
 the tower," she said laughingly. " I shall see your rigure 
 against the sky." 
 
 '' And when I am up there I'll wave my handkerchief 
 to you, Miss Swancourt," said Stephen, showing the pleas- 
 ure he felt. " In twelve minutes from this present moment," 
 he said, looking at his watch, " I'll be at the summit and 
 look out for you." 
 
 She went round to the corner of the shrubbery, whence 
 she could watch him down the slope leading to the foot of 
 the hill on which the church stood. There she saw waiting 
 for him a white spot — a mason in his working clothes. 
 Stephen met this man and stopped. 
 
30 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 To her surprise, instead of their moving on the church- 
 yard, they both leisurely sat down upon a stone close by 
 their meeting-place, and remained as if in deep conversa- 
 tion. Elfride looked at the time ; nine of the twelve min- 
 utes had passed, and Stephen showed no signs of moving. 
 More minutes passed — she grew cold with waiting, and shiv« 
 ered. It was not till the end of a quarter of an hour that 
 they began to slowly wend up the hill at a snail's pace. 
 
 " Rude and unmannerly ! " she said to herself, coloring 
 with pique. " Anybody would think he was in love with 
 that horrid mason instead of with — " The sentence re- 
 mained unspoken, though not unthought. 
 
 She returned to the porch. 
 
 " Is the man you sent for a lazy, sit-still, do-nothing 
 kind of man .? " she inquired of her father. 
 
 "No," he said, surprised ; "quite the reverse. He is 
 Lord Luxellian's master-mason, John Smith." 
 
 " O," said Elfride indifferently, and returned towards 
 her bleak station, and waited, and shivered again. It was 
 a trifle, after all — a childish thing — looking out from a 
 tower and waving a handkerchief. But her new friend had 
 promised, and why should he tease her so ? The effect of 
 a blow is as much in proportion to the texture of the object 
 struck as to the blow's momentum ; and she had such a su- 
 perlative capacity for being wounded that little hits struck 
 her hard. 
 
 It was not till the end of half an hour that two figures 
 were seen within the parapet of the dreary old pile, motion- 
 less as bitterns on a ruined mosque. Even then he was 
 not true enough to perform what he was so courteous to 
 promise, and he vanished without making a sign. 
 
 He returned at midday. Elfride looked vexed when 
 unconscious that his eyes were upon her ; when conscious, 
 severe. However, her attitude of coldness had long out- 
 lived the coldness itself, and she could no longer utter 
 feigned words of indifference. 
 
 " Ah, you weren't kind to keep me waiting in the cold^ 
 and break your promise," she said at last reproachfully, in 
 tones too low for her father's powers of hearing. 
 
 "Forgive, forgive mel" said Stephen, with dismay 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 31 
 
 " I had forgotten — quite forgotten ! Something prevented 
 my remembering." 
 
 " Any farther explanation ? " said Miss Capricious, 
 pouting. 
 
 He 'vas silent for a few minutes, and looked askance. 
 
 '* >' 'ae," he said, with the accent of one who concealed 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 "bosom'd high in tufted trees." 
 
 IT was breakfast time. 
 As seen from the vicarage dining-room, which took 
 a warm tone of light from the fire, the weather and scene 
 outside seemed to have stereotyped itself in unrelieved 
 shades of grey. The long-armed trees and shrubs of juniper, 
 cedar, and pine varieties were greyish-black ; those of the 
 broad-leaved sort, together with the herbage, were greyish- 
 green ; the eternal hills and tower behind them were grey- 
 ish-brown ; the sky dropping behind all, grey of the purest 
 melancholy. 
 
 Yet in spite of this sombre artistic effect, the morning 
 was not one which tended to lower the spirits. It was even 
 cheering. For it did not rain, nor was rain likely to fall for 
 many days to come. 
 
 When in an English country house, our different frac- 
 tions of consciousness are reduced to their lowest terms, 
 rain or no rain is after all found to be the J>rimupi 7nobile 
 of mood, apart from great afflictions; and mental conclu- 
 sions affecting our humors at such times, which seem drav/n 
 from independent incidents, are really but extreme corol- 
 laries of one of those atmospheric conditions. 
 
 Elfride had turned from the table towards the fire, and 
 was idly elevating a hand-screen before her face, when she 
 heard the click of a little gate outside. 
 
 " Ah, here's the postman ! " she said, as a shuffling 
 active man came through an opening in the shrubbery and 
 across the lawn. She vanished, and met him in the porch, 
 afterwards coming in with her hands behind her back. 
 
 " How many are there.'' Three for papa, one for Mr. 
 Smith, none for Miss Swanccurt. And, papi, look heiCi 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 33 
 
 one of yours is from — who do you think r — Lord Luxellian. 
 And it has something hard in it — a lump of something. 
 I've been feeling it through the envelope, and can't think 
 what it is." 
 
 " What does Lord Luxellian write for, I wonder ? " Mr. 
 Swancourt had said simultaneously with her words. He 
 handed Stephen his letter, and took his own, putting on his 
 countenance a higher class of look than was customary, as 
 became a poor gentleman w^ho was going to read a letter 
 from a lord. 
 
 Stephen read his missive with a countenance quite the 
 reverse of the vicar's. 
 
 " Percy-place, Thursday Evening. 
 " Dear Smith, — Old H. is in a towering rage wiih you for being 
 so long about the church sketches. Swears you are more trouble than 
 you are worth. He says I am to write and say you are to stay no 
 longer on any consideration — that he would have done it all in three 
 hours very easily. I told him that you were not like an experienced 
 hand, which he seemed to forget, but it did not make much diffei-ence. 
 However, between you and me privately, if I were you I would not 
 alarm myself for a day or so, if I were not inclined to return. I 
 would make out the week and finish my spree. He will bk)W up just 
 fts much if you appear here on Friday as if you keep away till Monday 
 morning. — ^Yours very truly, 
 
 "SiMPKiNS Jenkins.' 
 
 "Dear me — very awkward!" said Stephen, rather en 
 Fair, and confused with the kind of confusion that assails an 
 under-strapper when he has been enlarged by accident to 
 the dimensions of a superior, and is somewhat rudely pared 
 down to his original size. 
 
 " What is awkward ? " said Miss Swancourt. 
 
 Smith by this time recovered his equanimity, and with 
 it the professional dignity of an experienced architect. 
 
 " Important business demands my immediate presence 
 in London, I regret to say," he replied. 
 
 " What ! Must you go at once ? " said Mr. Swancourt, 
 looking over the edge of his letter. *' Important business? 
 A young fellow like you to have important business ! " 
 
 "The truth is," said Stephen, blushing, and rather 
 ashamed of having pretended even so slightly to an impor- 
 tance which did not rightly belong to him, — " the truth is, 
 
34 ^ PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 Mr. Hewby has sent to say I am to come home j and I 
 must obey him." 
 
 " I see ; I see. It is politic to do so, you mean. Now 
 I can see more than you think. You are to be his partner. 
 I booked you for that directly I read his letter to me the 
 other day, the way h'*, spoke of you. He thinks a great deal 
 of you, Mr. Smith, or he wouldn't be so anxious for your 
 return." 
 
 Unpleasant to Stephen such remarks as these could not 
 be ; to have the expectancy of partnership with one of the 
 largest-practicing architects in London thrust upon him was 
 cheering, however untenable he felt the idea to be. He 
 saw that, whatever Mr. Hewby might think, Mr. Swancouri 
 certainly thought much of him to entertain such an idea on 
 such slender ground as to be absolutely no ground at all. 
 And then, unaccountably, his speaking face exhibited a 
 cloud of sadness, that thought of the ordinary remoteness 
 of any such contingency could hardly have sufficed to cause. 
 
 Elfride was struck with that look of his ; even Mr. 
 Svvancourt noticed it. 
 
 "Well," he said cheerfully, "never mind that now. You 
 must come again on your own account ; not on business. 
 Come to see me as a visitor, you know — say in your holi- 
 days — all you town men have holidays like schoolboys. 
 When are they ? " 
 
 " In August, I believe." 
 
 " Very well ; come in August ; and then you need not 
 hurry away so. I am glad to get somebody decent to talk 
 to, or at, in this outlandish ultima thuk. But, by-the-by, I 
 have something to say — ^you won't go to day ? " 
 
 " No ; I need not," said Stephen hesitatingly. " I am 
 not obliged to go till Saturday." 
 
 "Very well, then, that brings me to what I am going to 
 propose. This is a letter from Lord Luxellian. I think 
 you heard me speak of him as the resident landowner in 
 this district, and patron of this Hving ? " 
 
 " I — know of him." 
 
 " He is in London now. It seems that he has run up 
 on business for a day or two, and taken Lady Luxellian 
 with hira. He has written to ask me to go to his house, 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. ^r 
 
 and search for a paper among his private memoranda, 
 which he forgot to take with him." 
 
 " What did he send in the letter ? " inquires Elfride. 
 
 " The key of a private desk in which the papers are. He 
 doesn't like to trust such a matter to anybody else. I have 
 (lone such things for him before. And what I propose is, 
 that we make an afternoon of it — all three of us. Go for a 
 drive to Targan Bay, come home by way of Endelstow 
 House; and while I am looking over the documents you 
 can ramble about the rooms where you like. I have the 
 run of the house at any time, you know. The building, 
 though nothing but a mass of gables outside, has a splendid 
 hall, staircase, and gallery within j and there are a few 
 good pictures." 
 
 "Yes," said Stephen. 
 
 *' Have you seen it, then ? " 
 
 " I saw it as I came, by," he said hastily. 
 
 " O, yes ; but I was alluding to the interior. And the 
 church — St. Eval's — is much older than our St. Agnes's 
 here. I do duty in that and this alternately, you know. 
 The fact is, I ought to have some help ; riding across that 
 park for two miles on a wet morning is not at all the thing. 
 If my constitution were not well seasoned, as thank God it 
 is," — here Mr. Swancourt looked down his front, as if his 
 constitution were visible there, — " I should be coughing 
 and barking all the year round. And when the familv goes 
 away, there are only about three servants to preach to when I 
 get there. Well, that shall be the arrangement, then. El- 
 fride, you will like to go .^ " 
 
 Elfride assented ; and the little breakfast-party separa- 
 ted. Stephen rose to go and take a few final measurements 
 at the church, the vicar following him to the door with a 
 mysterious expression of inquiry on his face. 
 
 " You'll put up wdth our not having family prayer this 
 morning, I hope," he whispered. 
 
 " Yes ; quite so," said Stephen. 
 
 *' To tell you the truth," he continued in the same un- 
 dertone, *' we don't make a regular thing of it ; but when 
 we have strangers visiting us, I am strongly of opinion that 
 it is the proper thing to do, and I always do it. I am very 
 strict on that point. But you, Smith, there is something in 
 
36 A PAIR OF BL UE EYES. 
 
 your face which makes me feel quite at home ; no non* 
 sense about you, in short. Ah, it reminds me of a splen- 
 did story I used to hear when I was a helter-skelter young 
 fellow — such a story ! But', — here the vicar shook his head 
 self-forbiddingly, and grimly laughed. 
 
 " Was it a good story.? " said young Smith, smiling too. 
 
 " O, yes ; but 'tis too bad— too bad ! Could'nt tell it 
 to you for the world ! " 
 
 Stephen went across the lawn, hearing the vicar chuck 
 ling privately at the recollection as he withdrew. 
 
 They started at three o'clock. 7'he grey morning had 
 resolved itself into an afternoon bright with a pale 
 pervasive sunlight, without the sun itself being visible. 
 Lightly they trotted along — the wheels nearly silent, the 
 horse's hoofs clapping, almost ringing, upon the hard white 
 turnpike road as it followed the \&v&\ ridge in a perfectly 
 straight line, seeming to be absorbed ultimately by the 
 white of the sky. 
 
 Targan Bay — which had the merit of being easily got 
 at — was duly visited. They then swept round by innumer- 
 able lanes, in which not twenty consecutive yards were 
 either straight or level, to the domain of Lord Luxellian. 
 A woman with a double chin and thick neck, like Queen 
 Anne by Dahl, threw open the lodge gate, a little boy stand- 
 ing behind her. 
 
 " I'll give him something, poor little fellow," said El- 
 fride, pulling out her purse and hastily opening it. From 
 the interior of her purse a host of bits of paper, like a flock 
 of white birds, floated into the air, and were blown about 
 in all directions. 
 
 " Well, to be sure ! " said Stephen, with a slight laugh. 
 
 "What the dickens is all that.?" said Mr. Svvancourt 
 '• Never halves of bank-notes, Elfride ? " 
 
 Elfride looked annoyed and guilty. *'They are only 
 something of mine, papa," she faltered, while Stephen leaped 
 out, and assisted by the lodge-keeper's little boy, crept 
 about round the wheels and horse's hoofs till the pa- 
 pers were all gathered together again. He handed them 
 back to her, and re-mounted. 
 
 " I suppose you are wondering what those scraps were ? " 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 37 
 
 she said, as they bowled along up the sycamore avenue. 
 " And so I may as well tell you. They are notes for a ro- 
 mance I am writing." 
 
 She could not help coloring at the confession, much as 
 she tried to avoid it. 
 
 *' A story, do you mean ? " said Stephen, Mr. Swancourt 
 half listening, and catching a word of the conversation now 
 and then. 
 
 " Yes ; the Court of Kelly on Castle; a romance of the 
 fifteenth century. Such writing is out of date now, I know \ 
 but I like doing it." 
 
 " A romance carried in a purse ! If a highwayman were 
 to rob you, he would be taken in." 
 
 '' Yes ; that's my way of carrying manuscript. The rea- 
 son is, that I mostly write bits of it on scraps of paper vvhen 
 I am on horseback ; and I put them there for convenience. 
 
 "What are you going to do with your romance when 
 you have written it.?" said Stephen. 
 
 " I don't know," she replied, and turned her head to 
 look at the prospect. 
 
 For by this time they had reached the precincts of En- 
 delstow House. Driving through an ancient gateway of 
 dun-colored stone, spanned by the high-shouldered Tudor 
 arch, they found themselves in a spacious court, closed by 
 a fagade on each of its three sides. The substantial por- 
 tions of the existing building dated from the reign of Hen- 
 ry Vin. ; but the picturesque and sheltered spot had 
 been the site of an erection of a much earlier date. A li- 
 cence to crenellate mansum infr-a majierium suiim was 
 granted by Edvvard H. to " Hugo Luxellen, chivaler ;" but 
 though the faint outline of the ditch and mound was visible 
 at points, no sign of the original buildings remained. 
 
 The windows on all sides were long and many-mullion- 
 ed ; the roof lines broken up by dormer lights of the same 
 pattern. The apex stones of these dormers, together with 
 those of the gables, were surmounted by grotesque figures 
 in rampant, passant, and couch ant variety. Tall octagonal 
 and twisted chimneys thrust themselves high up into the 
 sky, surpassed in height, however, by some poplars and 
 sycamores at the back, which showed their gently rocking 
 summits over ridge and parapet. In the corners of the 
 
38 
 
 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 court, polygonal bays, whose surfaces were entirely occa- 
 pied by buttresses and windows, broke into the squareness 
 of the enclosure ; and a far-projecting oriel, springing from 
 a fantastic series of mouldings, overhung the archway of the 
 chief entrance to the house. 
 
 As Mr. Swancourt had remarked, he had the freedom 
 of the mansion in the absence of its owner. Upon a state- 
 ment of his errand, they were all admitted to the library 
 and left entirely to themselves. Mr. Swancourt was soon 
 up to his eyes in the examination of a heap of papers he 
 had taken from the cabinet described by his correspondent. 
 Stephen and Elfride had nothing to do but to wander 
 about till her father was ready. 
 
 Elfride entered the gallery, and Stephen followed her 
 without seeming to. It was a long, sombre apartment, 
 enriched with fittings a century or so later in style than the 
 walls of the mansion. Pilasters of Renaissance workman- 
 ship supported a cornice from which sprang a curved ceil- 
 ing, panelled in the awkward twists and curls of the period. 
 The old Gothic quarries still remained in the upper por- 
 tion of the large window at the end, though they had made 
 way for a more modern form of glazing elsewhere. 
 
 Stephen was at one end of the gallery looking towards 
 Elfride, who stood in the midst, beginning to feel some- 
 what depressed by the society of Luxellian shades of cada- 
 verous complexion transfixed by Holbein, Kneller, and Lely, 
 and seeming to gaze at and through her in a moralizing 
 mood. The silence, which was almost a spell upon them, 
 was broken by the sudden opening of a door at the far end. 
 
 Out bounded a pair of little girls, lightly yet warmly 
 dressed. Their ^yes were sparkling ; their hair swinging 
 about and around ; their red mouths laughing with unal- 
 loyed gladness. 
 
 " Ah, Miss Swancourt ! dearest Elfie ! we heard you. 
 Are you going to stay here ? You are our little mamma, 
 are you not — our big mamma is gone to London," said one. 
 
 "Let me tiss you," said the other, in appearance very 
 much like the first, but to a smaller pattern. 
 
 Their pink cheeks and yellow bair were speedily inter- 
 mingled with the folds of Elfride's dre^F ;, sdt ctiejn stoocx^d 
 and tenderly embraced them bolk 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. ^g 
 
 "Such an odd thing," said Elfride, smiling, and turning 
 to Stephen. " They have taken it into their heads lately to 
 call me ' little mamma,' because 1 am very fond of them, 
 and wore a dress the other day something like one of Lady 
 Luxellian's." 
 
 These two young creatures were the Honorable Mary 
 and the Honorable Kate — scarcely appearing large enough 
 as yet to bear the weight of such ponderous prefixes. They 
 were the only two children of Lord and Lady Luxellian, 
 and, as it proved, had been left at home during their pa- 
 rents' temporary absence, in the custody of nurse and 
 governess. Lord Luxellian was doatingly fond of the chil- 
 dren : rather indifferent towards his wife, since she had 
 begun to show an inclination not to please him by giving 
 him a boy. 
 
 All children instinctively ran after Elfride, looking 
 upon her more as an unusually nice large specimen of their 
 own tribe than as a grown-up elder. It had now become 
 an established rule, that whenever she met them — indoors 
 or out-of-doors, weekdays or Sundays — they were to be 
 severally pressed against her face and bosom for the space 
 of a quarter of a minute, and otherwise made much of on 
 the delightful system of cumulative epithet and caress to 
 which unpracticed girls will occasionally abandon them- 
 selves. 
 
 A look of misgiving by the youngsters towards the dooi 
 by which they had entered, directed attention to a maid 
 servant, appearing from the same quarter to put an end to 
 this sweet freedom of the poor Honorables Mary and Kate. 
 
 " I wish you lived here, Miss Swancourt ! " piped one, 
 like a melancholy bullfinch. 
 
 " So do I," piped the other, like a rather more melan- 
 choly bullfinch. " Mamma can't play with us so nicely as 
 you do. I don't think she ever learnt playing when she 
 was little. When shall we come to see you?" 
 
 *' As soon as you like, dears." 
 
 "And sleep at your house all night? That's what I 
 mean by coming to see you. I don't care to see people 
 with hats and bonnets on, and standing up and walking 
 about" 
 
40 
 
 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 *' As soon as we can get mamma's permission you shall 
 come and stay as long as ever you like. Good-bye ! " 
 
 The prisoners were then led off, Elfride again turning 
 her attention to her guest, whom she had left standing at 
 the remote end of the gallery. On looking around for him 
 he was nowhere to be seen. Elfride stepped down to the 
 library, thinking he might have rejoined her father there. 
 But Mr. Swancourt, now cheerfully illuminated by a pair 
 of candles, was still alone, untying packets of letters and 
 papers, and tying them up again. 
 
 As Elfride did not stand on a sufficiently intimate foot- 
 ing with the object of her interest to justify her, as a proper 
 young lady, to commence the active search for him that 
 youthful impulsiveness prompted, and as nevertheless, 
 for a nascent reason connected with the divinely-cut lips 
 of his, she did not like him to be absent from her side, she 
 wandered desultorily back to the oak staircase, pouting 
 and casting her eyes about in hope of discerning liis boy- 
 ish figure. 
 
 Though daylight still prevailed in the rooms, the cor- 
 ridors were in a depth of shadow — chill, sad, and silent ; 
 and it was only by looking along them towards light spaces 
 beyond that anything or anybody could be discerned there- 
 in. One of these light spots she found to be caused by a 
 side-door with glass panels in the upper part. Elfride 
 opened it, and found herself confronting a secondary or 
 inner lawn, separated from the principal lawn front by a 
 shrubbery. 
 
 And now she saw a perplexing sight. At right-angles 
 to the face of the wing she had emerged from, and within 
 a few feet of the door, jutted out another wing of the man- 
 sion, lower and with less architectural character. Imme- 
 diately opposite to her, in the wall of this wing, was a large 
 broad window, having its blind drawn down, and illumina- 
 ted by a light in the room it screened. 
 
 On the blind was a shadow from somebody close inside 
 it — a person in profile. The profile was unmistakably that 
 of Stephen. It was just possible to see that his aims were 
 uplifted, and that his hands held an article of some kind. 
 Then another shadow appeared — also in profile — and 
 came close to him. This was the shadow of a womaa 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 41 
 
 She turned her back towards Stephen : he lifted and held 
 out what now proved to be a shawl or mantle — placed it 
 carefully — so carefully — round the lady ; disappeared ; re- 
 appeared j reappeared in her front — fastened the mantle. 
 Did he then kiss her ? Surely not. Yet the motion 77iight 
 have been a kiss. Then both shadows swelled to colossal 
 dimensions — grew distorted — vanished. 
 
 Two minutes elapsed. 
 
 " Ah, Miss Swancourt ! 1 am so glad to find you. I 
 was looking for you," said a voice at her elbow — Stephen'3 
 voice. She stepped into the passage. 
 
 " Do you know any of the members of this establish* 
 inent? " said she. 
 
 " Not a single one : how should I ? " he replied 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 "FARE THEE WEEL A WHILE." 
 
 SIMULTANEOUSLY with the conclusion of Stephen's 
 remark, the sound of the closing of an external door 
 in their immediate neighborhood reached Elfride's ears. 
 It came from the further side of the wing containing the 
 illuminated room. She then discerned, by the aid of the 
 dusky departing light, a figure, whose sex was undistinguish- 
 able, walking down the gravelled path by the parterre to- 
 wards the river. The figure grew fainter, and vanished 
 under the trees. 
 
 Mr. Swancourt's voice was heard calling out their names 
 from a distant corridor in the body of the'building. They 
 retraced their steps, and found him with his coat buttoned 
 up and his hat on, awaiting their advent in a mood of self- 
 satisfaction at having brought his search to a successful 
 close. The carriage was brought round, and without 
 farther delay the trio drove away from the mansion, under 
 the echoing gateway arch, and along by the leafless syca- 
 mores, as the stars began to kindle their trembling lights 
 behind the maze of branches and twigs. 
 
 No words were spoken either by youth or maiden. Her 
 unpracticed mind was completely occupied in fathoming its 
 recent acquisition relative to her companion. The young 
 man who had inspired her with such novelty of mood in 
 relation to himself, having come directly from London on 
 business to her father, having been brought by chance to 
 Endelstow House, had, by some means or other, acquired 
 the privilege of approaching some lady he had found 
 therein, and honoring her hy pc/lts soins of a marked kind, 
 — all in the space of half an hour. 
 
 What room were they standing in? thought Elfride. 
 As nearly as she could guess, it was Lord Luxellian's 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 43 
 
 business-room, or office. What people were in the house ? 
 None but the governess and servants, as far as she knew, 
 and of these he had professed a total ignorance. Had the 
 person she had indistinctly seen leaving the house anything 
 to do with the performance ? It Vv'as impossible to say 
 without appealing to the culprit himself, and that she would 
 never do. The more Elfride reflected, the more certain 
 did it appear that the meeting was a chance rencounter, 
 and not an appointment. After passing again to the ulti- 
 mate inquiry as to the individuality of the female, Elfride 
 at once assumed that she could not be an inferior. Stephen 
 Smith was not the man to care about passages-at-love with 
 women beneath him. Though gentle, ambition was visible 
 in his kindling eyes ; he evidently hoped for much ; hoped 
 indefinitely, but extensively. Elfride was puzzled, and, 
 being puzzled, was, by a natural sequence of girlish sensa- 
 tions, vexed with him. No more pleasure came in recogniz- 
 ing that, from liking to attract him, she was getting on to 
 love him, boyish as he was, and innocent as he had seemed. 
 
 They reached the bridge which formed a link between 
 the eastern and western halves of the parish. Situated in 
 a valley that was bounded outwardly by the sea, it formed 
 a point of depression from which the road ascended with 
 great steepness to West Endelstow and the vicarage. 
 There was no absolute necessity for either of them to 
 alight, but as it was the vicar's custom after a long journey 
 to humor the horse in making this winding ascent, Elfride, 
 moved by an imitative instinct, suddenly jumped out when 
 Pleasant had just begun to adopt the deliberate stalk he 
 associated with this portion of the road. 
 
 The young man seemed glad of any excuse for breaking 
 the silence. " Why, Miss Swancourt, what a risky thing to 
 do ! " he exclaimed, immediately following her example by 
 jumping down on the other side. 
 
 " O no, not at all," replied miss coldly ; the shadov^ 
 phenomenon at Endelstow House still paramount within 
 her. 
 
 Stephen walked along by himself for two or three 
 minutes, wrapped in the rigid reserve dictated by her tone. 
 Then apparently thinking that it was only for girls to pout, 
 he came serenely round to her side, and offered his drnx. 
 
44 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 with Castilian gallantry, to assist her in ascending the 
 remaining three-quarters of the steep. 
 
 Here was a temptation : it was the first time in her life 
 that Elfride had been treated as a grown-up woman in this 
 way — offered an arm in a manner impl3dng that she had 
 a right to refuse it. Till to-night she had never received 
 masculine attentions beyond those which might be con- 
 tained in such homely remarks as " Elfride, give me your 
 hand," " Elfride, take hold of my arm," from her father. 
 Her callow heart made an epoch of the incident; she 
 considered her array of feelings, for and against. Collec- 
 tively they were for taking this offered arm. ; the single one 
 of pique determined her to punish Stephen by refusing. 
 
 " No, thank you, Mr. Smith ; I can get along better by 
 myself." 
 
 It was Elfride's first fragile attempt at browbeating a 
 lover. Fearing more the issue of such an undertaking, 
 than what a gentle young man might think of her wayward 
 ness, she immediately afterwards determined to please her 
 self by reversing her statement. 
 
 " On second thoughts, I will take it," she said. 
 
 They slowly wended their way up the hill, a few yards 
 behind the carriage. " How silent you are, Miss Swan- 
 court!" Stephen observed. 
 
 " Perhaps I think you silent, too," she returned. 
 
 " I may have reason to be." 
 
 " Scarcely ; it is sadness that makes people silent, and 
 you can have none." 
 
 " You don't know : I have a trouble ; though some 
 might think it less a trouble than a dilemma." 
 
 " What is it .'' " she asked impulsively. 
 
 Stephen hesitated. "I might tell," he said j "at the 
 same time perhaps it is as well — " 
 
 She let go his arm and imperatively pushed it from her, 
 tossing her head. She has just learnt that a good deal of 
 dignity is lost by asking a question to which an answer is 
 refused, even ever so politely ; for though politeness does 
 good service in cases of requisition and compromise, it buc 
 little helps a direct refusal. " I don't wish to know any- 
 thing of it ; I don't wish it," she went on. "The carriage 
 IS waiting for us at the top of the hill ; we must get in ; " 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 4S 
 
 and Elfride flitted to the front. " Papa, here is your El- 
 fride ! " she exclaimed to the dusky figure of the old gentle- 
 man, as she sprang up and sank by his side without deign- 
 ing to accept aid from Stephen. 
 
 " Ah, yes 1 " uttered the vicar in artificially alert tones, 
 awaking from a most profound sleep, and suddenly pre- 
 paring to ahght. 
 
 " Why, what are you doing, papa ! We are not home 
 yet." 
 
 " O no, no ; of course not ; we are not at home yet," 
 Mr. Swancourt said very hastily, endeavoring to dodge 
 back to his original position with the air of a man who had 
 not moved at all. " The fact is I was so lost in deep medi- 
 tation that I forgot whereabouts we were." And in a 
 minute the vicar was snoring again. 
 
 That evening, being tiie last, seemed to throw an excep- 
 tional shade of sadness over Stephen Smith, and the 
 repeated injunctions of the vicar, that he was to come and 
 revisit them in the summer, apparently tended less to raise 
 bis spirits than to unearth 'some misgiving. 
 
 He left them in the grey light of dawn, while the colors 
 of earth were sombre, and the sun was yet hidden in the 
 east. Elfride had fidgeted all night in her litde bed lest 
 none of the household should be awake soon enough to 
 start him, and also iest she might miss seeing again the 
 bright eyes and curly hair, to which their owner's possession 
 of a hidden mystery added a deeper tinge of romance. To 
 some extent — so soon does womanly interest take a solici- 
 tous turn — she felt herself resjwnsible for his safe conduct. 
 They breakfasted before daylight ; Mr. Swancourt, being 
 more and more taken with his guest's ingenuous appear- 
 ance, having determined to rise early and bid him a friend- 
 ly farewell. It was, however, rather to the vicar's astonish- 
 ment that he saw Elfride walk in to the breakfast-table, 
 candle in hand. 
 
 While William Worm performed his toilet (during which 
 performance the inmates of the vicarage were always in the 
 habit of waiting with exemplary patience), Elfride wandered 
 desultorily to the sum.mer-house. Stephen followed her 
 thither. The copse-covered valley was visible from this 
 
46 
 
 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 position, a mist now lying all along its length, hiding the 
 stream which trickled through it, though the observers them- 
 selves were in clear air. 
 
 They stood close together, leaning over the rustic bal- 
 ustrading which bounded the arbor on the outward side, 
 and formed the crest of a steep slope beneath.^ Elfride 
 constrainedly pointed out some features of the distant up- 
 lands rising irregularly opposite. But the artistic eye was, 
 either from nature or circumstance, very faint in Stephen 
 now, and he only half attended to her description, as if he 
 spared time from some other thought going on within him. 
 
 "Well, good-bye," he said suddenly; " I must never see 
 you again, I suppose, Miss Swancourt, in spite of invita- 
 tions." 
 
 His genuine tribulation played directly upon the delicate 
 chords of her nature. She could afford to forgive him for a 
 concealment or two. Moreover the shyness which would 
 not allow him to look her in the face lent bravery to her 
 own eyes and tongue. 
 
 " O ^ come again, Mr. Smith ! " she said prettily. 
 
 " I should delight in it ; but it would be better if I do 
 not." 
 
 « Why ? " 
 
 " Certain circumstances in connection with me make it 
 undesirable. Not on my account ; on yours." 
 
 " Goodness ! As if anything in connection with you 
 could hurt me," she said with serene supremacy ; but seeing 
 that this plan of treatment was inappropriate, she tuned a 
 smaller note. " Ah, I know why you will not come. You 
 don't want to. You'll go home to London and to all the stir- 
 ring people there, and will never want to see us any more.'* 
 
 *' You know I have no such reason." 
 
 " And go on writing letters to the lady you are engaged 
 to, just as before." 
 
 "What does that mean? I am not engaged." 
 
 "You wrote a letter to a Miss Somebody ; I saw it in 
 the letter-rack." 
 
 " Pooh ! an elderly woman who keeps a stationer*s 
 shop ; and it was to tell her to keep my newspaper till I 
 get back." 
 
 " You needn't have explained ; it was not my busi 
 
A PAIR i.y BLUE EYES. 47 
 
 ness at all." Miss Elfride was rather relieved to hear that 
 statement, nevertheless. " And you won't come again to 
 see papa ? " she insisted. 
 
 '' I should like to — and to see you again, but — " 
 
 "Will you reveal to me that matter you hide?" she 
 Interrupted petulantly. 
 
 " No j not now." 
 
 She could not but go on, graceless as it might seem. 
 
 " Tell me this," she importuned, with a trembling mouth. 
 " Does any meeting of yours with a lady at Endelstow 
 House clash with — any interest you may take in me ?" 
 
 He started a little. '' It does not," he said emphatical- 
 ly ; and looked into the pupils of her eyes with the confi- 
 dence that only honesty can give, and even that to youth 
 alone. 
 
 The explanation had not come, but a gloom left her. 
 She could not but believe that utterance. Whatever enig- 
 ma might lie in the shadow on the blind, it was not an 
 enigma of underhand passion. 
 
 She turned towards the house, entering it through the 
 conservatory. Stephen went round to the front door. 
 Mr. Swancourt was standing on the step in his slippers. 
 Worm was adjusting a buckle in the harness, and murmur- 
 ing about his poor head ; and everything was ready for 
 Stephen's departure. 
 
 " You named August for your visit. August it shall be ; 
 that is, if you care for the society of such a fossilized Tory," 
 said Mr. Swancourt. 
 
 Mr. Smith only responded hesitatingly, that he should 
 like to come again. 
 
 " You said you would, and you must," insisted Elfride, 
 comkig to the door and speaking under her father's arm. 
 
 Whatever reason the youth may have had for not wish- 
 ing to enter the house as a guest, it no longer predominated. 
 He promised, and bade them adieu, and got into the pony 
 carriage, which crept up the slope and bore him out of 
 their sight. 
 
 "I never was so much taken with anybody in my life 
 as I am with that young fellow — never I I cannot under- 
 stand it — can't understand it anyhow," said Mr. Swancourt 
 quite energetically to himself; and went indoors. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 " NO MORE OF ME YOU KNEW, MY LOVE." 
 
 THE history of the first wooing of our impressionable 
 young heroine being to a great extent preliminary to 
 the main story, we hurry through it as rapidly as possible. 
 In order, however, that the future position maybe adequate- 
 ly understood, it is necessary to give the facts of the case 
 seriatim. 
 
 Stephen Smith revisited Endelstow Vicarage, agreeably 
 to his promise. He had a genuine artistic reason for com- 
 ing, though no such reason seemed to be required. Six- 
 and-lhirty old seat-ends, of exquisite fifteenth-century work- 
 manship, were rapidly decaying in an aisle of the church; 
 and it became politic to make drawings of their worm-eaten 
 contours ere they were battered past recognition in the tur^ 
 moil of the so-called restoration. 
 
 He entered the house at sunset, and th« world was 
 pleasant again to the two fair-haired ones. A momentary 
 pang of disappointment had nevertheless pass'id through 
 Elfride when she casually discovered that he had not come 
 that minute post-haste from London, but had reached the 
 neighborhood the previous evening. Surprise would have 
 accompanied the feeling, had she not remembered that sev- 
 eral tourists were haunting the coast at this season, and 
 that Stephen might have chosen to do hkewise. 
 
 They did little besides chat that evening, Mr. Swan- 
 court beginning to question his visitor, closely yet pater- 
 nally, and in good part, on his hopes and prospects from the 
 profession lie had embraced. Stephen gave vague answers. 
 The next day it rained. In the evening, when twenty-four 
 hours of Elfride had completely rekindled her admirer's 
 ardor, a game of chess was proposed between them. 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 49 
 
 The game had its value in helping on the developments 
 of theii future. 
 
 Elfride soon perceived that her opponent was but a 
 learner. She next noticed that he had a very odd way of 
 handling the pieces when castling or taking a man. Ante- 
 cedently she would have supposed that the same perform- 
 ance must be gone through by all players in the same man- 
 ner ; she was taught by his differing action that all ordina- 
 ry players, who learn the game by sight, unconsciously 
 touch the men in a stereotyped way. This impression of 
 indescribable oddness in Stephen's touch culminated in 
 speech when she saw him, at the taking of one of her bish- 
 ops, push it aside with the taking man instead of lifdng it 
 as a preliminary to the move. 
 
 "How strangely you handle the men, Mr. Smith?" 
 
 *' Do I ? I am sorry for that." 
 
 " O no — don't be sorry ; it is not a matter great enough 
 for sorrow. But who taught you to play .? " 
 
 " Nobody, Miss Swancourt," he said respectfully. "1 
 learnt from a book lent by my friend Mr. Knight, the no- 
 blest man in the world." 
 
 " But you have seen people play t " 
 
 " I have never seen the playing of a single game. This 
 is the first time I ever had the opportunity of playing with 
 a living opponent. I have worked out many games from 
 books, and studied the reasons of the different moves, but 
 that is all." 
 
 This was a full explanation of his mannerism ; but the 
 fact that a man with a desire for chess should have grown 
 up without being able to see or engage in a game astonish- 
 ed her not a little. She pondered on the circumstance 
 for some time, looking into vacancy and hindering the 
 play. 
 
 Mr. Swancourt was sitting with his eyes fixed on the 
 board, but apparently thinking of other things. Half to 
 himself he said, pending the move of Elfride : 
 
 "*Quae finis aut quod me manet stipendium ? ' " 
 
 Stephen replied instantly: 
 
 " ' Effare : jussas cum fide poenas luam.' " 
 
 " Excellent — prompt — gratifying ! " said Mr. Swancourt 
 with feeling, bringing down his hand upon the table, and 
 
50 
 
 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 making three pawns and a knight dance over their borders 
 by the shaking. " I was musing on those words as appli- 
 cable to a strange course I am steering — but enough of 
 that. I am delighted with you, Mr. Smith, for it is so sel- 
 dom in this desert that I meet with a man who is gentle- 
 man and scholar enough to continue a quotation, however 
 trite it may be." 
 
 " I also apply the words to myself," said Stephen 
 quietly. 
 
 " You ? The last man in the world to do that, I should 
 have thought." 
 
 " Come," murmured Elfride poutingly, and insinuating 
 herself between them, " tell me all about it. Come, con- 
 strue, construe ! " 
 
 Stephen looked steadfastly into her face, and said slow- 
 ly, and in a voice full of a sad meaning that seemed pain- 
 fully premature in one so young: 
 
 ** Qua3 finis What will be the e?id, aut or quod stipendium 
 what fine manet me awaits me? Effare Speak out ; luam 
 I will pay, cum fide with faith, jussas poenas the penalty en- 
 joined y 
 
 The vicar, who had listened with a critical compression 
 of the lips to this schoolboy recitation, and by reason of his 
 imperfect hearing had missed the marked realism of Ste- 
 phen's tone in the English words, now said hesitatingly : 
 " By the by, Mr. Smith (I know you'll excuse my curiosity), 
 though your translation was unexceptionably correct and 
 close, you have a way of pronouncing your Latin which to 
 me seems most peculiar. Not that the pronunciation of a 
 dead language is of much importance ; yet your accents and 
 quantities have a grotesque sound to my ears. I thought first 
 that you had acquired your way of breathing the vowels 
 from some of the northern colleges ; but it cannot be so 
 with the quantities. What I was going to ask was, if your 
 instructor in the classics could possibly have been an Ox- 
 ford or Cambridge man ? " 
 
 " Yes ; he was an Oxford man — Fellow of St. Cyp- 
 rian's." 
 
 " Really ? " 
 
 " O yes ; there's no doubt about it." 
 
 "The oddest thing ever I heard of! " said Mr. Swan* 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 51 
 
 court, starting with astonishment. " That the pupil of such 
 a man — " 
 
 " The best and cleverest man in England I " cried Ste- 
 phen enthusiastically. 
 
 " — That the pupil of such a man should pronounce Lat- 
 in in the way you pronounce it beats all I ever heard. 
 How long did he instruct you ? " 
 
 " Four years." 
 
 " Four years ! " 
 
 " It is not so strange when I explain," Stephen hastened 
 to say. " It was done in this way — by letter. I sent him 
 exercises and construing twice a week, and twice a week 
 he sent them back to me corrected, with marginal notes of 
 instruction. That is how I learnt my Latin and Greek, 
 such as it is. He is not responsible for my scanning. He 
 has never heard me scan a line." 
 
 "A novel case, and a singular instance of patience?" 
 cried the vicar. 
 
 " On his part, not on mine. -Ah, Henry Knight is one 
 in a thousand ! I remember his speaking to me on this 
 very subject of pronunciation. He says that, much to his 
 regret, he sees a time coming when every man will pro- 
 nounce even the common words of his own tongue as seems 
 right in his own eyes, and be thought none the worse for 
 it ; that the speaking age is passing away, to make room 
 for the writing age." 
 
 Both Elfride and her father had waited attentively to 
 hear Stephen go on to what would have been the most 
 interesting part of the story, namely, what circumstances 
 could have necessitated such an unusual method of educa- 
 tion. But no farther explanation was volunteered ; and 
 they saw, by the young man's manner of concentrating 
 himself upon the chess-board, that he was anxious to drop 
 the subject. 
 
 The game proceeded. Elfride played by rote ; Stephen 
 by thought. It was the cruellest thing to checkmate him 
 after so much labor, she considered. What was she dis- 
 honest enough to do in her compassion ? To let him check- 
 mate her. A second game followed ; and being herself 
 absohitely indifferent as to the result (her playing was 
 above the average among women, and she knew it), she 
 
52 
 
 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 allowed him to give checkmate again. A final game, in 
 which she adopted the Muzio gambit, as her opening, was 
 terminated by Elfride's victory at the twelfth move. 
 
 Stephen looked up suspiciously. His heart was throb- 
 bing even more excitedly than was hers, which itself had 
 quickened when she seriously set to work on this last occa- 
 sion. Mr. Swancourt had left the room. 
 
 "You have been trifling with me till now!" he ex- 
 claimed, his face flushing. " You did not play your best in 
 the first two games ?" 
 
 Elfride's guilt showed in her face. Stephen became the 
 picture of vexation and sadness, which, relishable for a 
 moment, caused her the next instant to regret the mistake 
 she had made. 
 
 " Mr. Smith, forgive me ! " she said sweetly. " I see 
 now, though I did not at first, that what I have done seems 
 like contempt for your skill. But indeed I did not mean it 
 in that sense. I could not, upon my conscience, win a 
 victory in those first and second games over one who fought 
 at such a disadvantage and so manfully." 
 
 He drew a long breath, and murmured bitterly, " Ah, 
 you are cleverer than me. You can do everything — I can 
 do nothing! O, Miss Swancourt!" he burst out wildly, 
 his heart swelling in his throat, and tears creeping into his 
 eyes, " I must tell you how I love you ! All these months 
 of my absence I have worshipped you." 
 
 He leaped from his seat like the impulsive lad that he 
 was, slid round to her side, and almost before she suspected 
 it his arm was round her waist, and the two sets of curls 
 intermingled. 
 
 So entirely new was full-blown love to Elfride, that she 
 trembled as much from the novelty of the emotion as from 
 the emotion itself. 
 
 Then she suddenly withdrew herself and stood upright, 
 vexed that she had submitted unresistingly even to his 
 momentary pressure. She resolved to consider this demon- 
 stration as premature. 
 
 " You must not begin such things as those," she said 
 with coquettish hauteur of a very transparent nature. 
 "And — you must not do so again — and papa is coming." 
 
 *' Let me kiss you — only a little one," he said, with his 
 
A PAIR OF BL UE E YES. 
 
 53 
 
 usual timidity, and without reading the factitiousness of 
 her manner. 
 
 " No ; not one." 
 
 " Only on your cheek ? " 
 f "No." 
 
 "Forehead?" 
 
 " Certainly not." 
 
 "You care for somebody else, then? Ah, I thought 
 so!" 
 
 "I am sure I do not." 
 
 " Nor for me either ? " 
 
 " How can I tell 1 " she said simply, the simplicity lying 
 merely in the broad outlines of her manner and speech. 
 There were the semitone of voice and half-hidden expres- 
 sion of eyes which tell the initiated how very fragile is the 
 ice of reserve at these times. 
 
 Footsteps were heard. Mr. Swancourt then entered 
 the room, and their private colloquy ended. 
 
 The day after this partial revelation, Mr. Swancourt 
 proposed a drive to Tidmouth Beach, a distance of three 
 or four miles. 
 
 Half an hour before the time of departure a crash was 
 heard in the back yard, and presently Worm came in, say- 
 ing partly to the world in general, partly to himself, and 
 slightly to his auditors : 
 
 " Ay, ay, sure ! That frying of fish will be the end of 
 William Worm. They be at it again this morning — same 
 as ever — fizz, fizz, fizz ! " 
 
 " Your head bad again. Worm t " said Mr. Swancourt. 
 " What was that noise we heard in the yard t " 
 
 " Ay, sir, a weak wambling man am I ; and the frying 
 have been going on in my poor head all through the long 
 night and this morning as usual ; and I was so dazed wi' it 
 that down fell a piece of leg-wood across the shaft of the 
 pony-shay, and splintered it off*. 'Ay,' says I, ' I feel it as 
 if 'twas my own shay ; and though I've done it, and parish- 
 pay is my lot if I go from here, perhaps I am as indepen- 
 dent as one here and there.' " 
 
 " Dear me, the shaft of the carriage broken ! " synthet- 
 ized Elfride. She was disappointed : Stephen doubly so. 
 
54 
 
 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 The vicar showed more warmth of temper than the acci 
 dent seemed to demand, much to Stephen's uneasiness and 
 rather to his surprise. He had not supposed so much 
 latent sternness could co-exist with Mr. Swancourt's frank- 
 ness and good nature. 
 
 "You shall not be disappointed," said the vicar at 
 length. " It is almost too long a distance for you to walk. 
 El hide can trot down on her pon)', and you shall have my 
 old nag, Smith." 
 
 Elfride exclaimed triumphantly, "You have never seen 
 me on horseback — O, you must ! " She looked at Stephen 
 and read his thoughts in his face. " Ah, you don't ride, 
 Mr. Smith ? " 
 
 "I am sorry to say I don't." 
 
 "Fancy a gentleman not able to ride ! " said she rather 
 pertly. 
 
 The vicar came to his rescue. " That's common 
 enough ; he has had other lessons to learn. Now, I re- 
 commend this plan: let Elfride ride on horseback, and you, 
 Mr. Smith, walk beside her." 
 
 The arrangement was welcomed with secret delight by 
 Stephen. It seemed to combine in itself all the advantages 
 of a long slow ramble with Elfride, without the contingent 
 possibility of the enjoyment being spoilt by her becoming 
 weary. The pony was saddled and brought round. 
 
 " Now, Mr. Smith," said the lady imperatively, coming 
 down stairs, and appearing in her riding-habit, as she 
 always did in a change of dress, like a new edition of a 
 delightful volume, " you have a task to perform to-day. 
 These ear-rings are my very favorite darling ones ; but the 
 worst of it is that they have such short hooks that they are 
 liable to be dropped if I toss my head about much, and 
 when I am riding I can't give my mind to them. It would 
 be doing me knight-service if you keep your eyes fixed 
 upon them and remember them every minute of the day, 
 and tell me directly I drop one. They have had such 
 hair-breadth escapes, haven't thc}^. Unity.'"' she continueo 
 to the parlor-maid, who was standing at the door. 
 
 " Yes, miss, that they have ! " said Unity, with round 
 tJi/ed commiseration. 
 
A tAIR OF BL UE E YES. 5 5 
 
 ** Once 'twas in the lane that I found one of them," pur- 
 jSued Elfride reflectively. 
 
 " And then 'twas by the gate into Eighteen Acres," Uni- 
 ty chimed in. 
 
 " And then 'twas on the carpet in my own room," re- 
 joined Elfride merrily. 
 
 " And then 'twas dangling on the embroidery of your 
 petticoat, miss ; and then 'twas down your back, miss, 
 wasn't i'; ? And O, what a way you was in, miss, wasn't 
 you ? my ! until you found it ! " 
 
 Stephen took Elfride's slight foot upon his hand : " One, 
 two, three, and up ! " she said. 
 
 Unfortunately not so. He staggered and lifted, and the 
 horse edged round ; and Elfride was ultimately deposited 
 upon the ground rather more forcibly than was pleasant. 
 Smith looked all contrition. 
 
 " Never mind," said the vicar encouragingly ; " try 
 again ! 'Tis a little accomplishment that requires some 
 practice, although it looks so easy. Stand closer to the 
 horse's head, Mr. Smith." 
 
 '' Indeed I sha'n't let him try again," said she, with a 
 microscopic look of indignation. "Worm, come here, and 
 assist me to mount." Worm stepped forward, and she was 
 in the saddle in a trice. 
 
 Then they moved on, going for some distance in silence, 
 the hot air of the valley being occasionally brushed from 
 their faces by a cool breeze, which wended its way along 
 ravines leading up from the sea. 
 
 " I suppose," said Stephen, " that a man who can neither 
 sit in a saddle himself nor help another person into one 
 seems a useless incumbrance; but, Miss Swancourt, I'll 
 learn to do it all for your sake; I will, indeed." 
 
 " What is so unusual in you," she said, in the didactic 
 tone justifiable in a horsewoman's address to a benighted 
 walker, "is that your knowledge of certain things should be 
 combined with your ignorance of certain other things." 
 
 Stephen lifted his eyes earnestly to hers. 
 
 " You know," he said, " it is simply because there are so 
 many other things to be learnt in this wide world that I 
 didn't trouble about that particular bit of knowledge-. I 
 thought it would be useless to me ; but I don't think so 
 
56 ^ PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 now. I will learn riding, and all connected with it, because 
 then vou would like me better. Do you like me much less 
 for this?" 
 
 She looked sideways at him with critical meditation ten- 
 derly rendered. 
 
 " Do I seem like La Belle Da??te sans merciV^ she be- 
 gan suddenly, without replying to his question. " Fancy 
 yourself saying, Mr. Smith: 
 
 " I sat her on my pacing steed, 
 
 And nothing else saw all day long, 
 For sicJelong would she bend, and sing 
 A fairy's song. 
 
 She found me roots of relish sweet. 
 And honey wild, and manna dew;*' 
 
 and that's all she did." 
 
 " No, no," said the young man archly, though with ft 
 rising color. 
 
 "'And sure in language strange she said, 
 I love thee true.'" 
 
 " Not at all," she rejoined quickly. " See how I can 
 gallop. Now, Pansy, off!" And Elfride started; and 
 Stephen beheld her light figure contracting to the dimen- 
 sions of a bird as she sank into the distance — her hair flow- 
 ing behind. He walked on in the same direction, and for 
 a considerable time could see no signs of her returning. 
 Dull as a flower without the sun, he sat down upon a stone, 
 and not for fifteen minutes was any sound of horse or rider 
 to be heard. Then Elfride and Pansy appeared on the hill 
 in a round trot. 
 
 " Such a delightful scamper as we have had ! " she said, 
 her face flushed and her eyes sparkling. She turned the 
 horse's head, Stephen arose, and they went on again. 
 
 " Well, what have you to say to me, Mr. Smith, after my 
 long absence?" 
 
 " Do you remember a question you could not exactly 
 answer last night — whether I was more to you than anybody 
 else?" said he. 
 
 " I cannot exactly answer now, either." 
 
A PAIR Ot BLUE EYES. 57 
 
 « Why can't you ? " 
 
 " Because I don't know if /am more to you than any 
 one else." 
 
 " Yes, indeed, you are ! " he exclaimed, in a voice of 
 intensest appreciation, at the same time gliding round and 
 looking into her face. 
 
 " Eyes in eyes," he said playfully ; and she blushingly 
 obeyed, looking back into his. 
 
 " And why not lips on lips ? " said Stephen daringly. 
 
 " No, certainly not. Anybody might look ; and it wou'd 
 be death to me. You may kiss my hand if you like." 
 
 He expressed by a look that to kiss a hand through a 
 glove, and that a riding-glove, was not a great treat undei 
 the circumstances. 
 
 " There, then ; I'll take my glove off. Isn't it a pretty 
 white hand ? Ah, you don't want to kiss it, and you shall 
 not now! " 
 
 " If I do not, may I never kiss again, you severe Elfride I 
 You know I think more of you than 1 can tell ; that you are 
 my queen. I would die for you, Elfride ! " 
 
 A rapid red again filled her cheeks, and she looked at 
 him meditatively. What a proud moment it was for Elfride 
 then ! She was ruling a heart with absolute despotism for 
 the first time in her life. 
 
 Stephen stealthily pounced upon her hand. 
 
 " No ; I won't, I won't," she said intractably ; "and you 
 shouldn't take me by surprise." 
 
 There ensued a mild form of tussle for absolute posses- 
 sion of the much-coveted hand, in which the boisterousness 
 of boy and girl was far more prominent than the dignity of 
 man and woman. Then Pansy became restless. Elfride 
 recovered her position and remembered herself. 
 
 " You make me behave in not a nice way at all ! " she 
 exclaimed, in a tone neither pleased nor angry, but partak- 
 ing of both. "I ought not to have allowed such a romp. 
 We are too old now for that sort of thing." 
 
 " I hope you don't think me too — too much of a creep- 
 ing-round sort of man," said he, in a penitent tone, conscious 
 that he too had lost a little dignity by the proceeding. 
 
 " You are too familiar ; and I can't have it ! Consider- 
 ing the shortness of the time we have known each other, Mr. 
 -,* 
 
58 
 
 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 Smith, you take too much upon you. You think I am a 
 country girl, and it doesn't matter how you behave to me ! " 
 
 "I assure you. Miss Svvancourt, that I had no idea of 
 freak in my mind. I wanted to imprint a sweet serious kiss 
 upon your hand ; and that's all." 
 
 " Now, that's creeping round again ! And you mustn't 
 look into my eyes so," she said, playfully shaking her head 
 at him, and trotting on a few paces in advance. Thus she 
 led the way out of the lane and across some fields in the 
 direction of the cliffs. At the boundary of the fields near- 
 est the sea she expressed a wish to dismount. The horse 
 was tied to a post, and they both followed an irregular path, 
 which ultimately terminated upon a flat ledge passing round 
 the face of the huge blue-black rock at a height about mid- 
 way between the sea and the topmost verge. There, far 
 beneath and before them, lay the everlasting stretch of 
 ocean ; there, upon detached rocks, were the white scream- 
 ing gulls, seeming ever intending to settle, and yet always 
 passing on. Right and left ranked the toothed and zigzag 
 line of storm-torn heights, forming the series which culmi 
 nated in the one beneath their feet. 
 
 Behind the youth and maiden was a tempting alcove and 
 seat, formed naturally in the solid beetling mass, and wide 
 enough to admit two or three persons. Elfride sat down, 
 and Stephen sat beside her. 
 
 " I am afraid it is hardly proper of us to be here, 
 either," she said, half inquiringly. " We have not known 
 each other long enough for this kind of thing, have v/e? '* 
 
 " O yes," he replied judicially ; " quite long enough." 
 
 " How do you know ? " 
 
 " It is not length of time, but the manner in which oui 
 minutes beat, that makes enough or not enough in acquaint- 
 anceship." 
 
 *' Yes, I see that. But I wish papa suspected or knew 
 what a very tiew thing I am doing. He does not think of 
 it at all." 
 
 " Darling Elfie, I wish we could be married 1 It is 
 jvrong for me to say it — I know it is — before you know 
 more ; but I wish we might be, all the same. Do you love 
 me deeply, deeply ? " 
 
 " No," she said, in a fluster. 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 5^ 
 
 At this point-blank denial, Stephen turned his face away 
 decisively, and presen/ed an ominous silence j the only ob- 
 jects of interest on earth for him being apparently the three 
 or four score sea-birds circling in the air afar off. 
 
 " I didn't mean to stop you quite," she faltered, with 
 some alarm ; and seeing that he still remained silent, she 
 added, more anxiously, " If you say that again, perhaps, I 
 will not be quite — quite so obstinate — if — if you don't like 
 me to be." 
 
 " O, my Elfride ! " he exclaimed, and kissed her. ^ 
 
 It was Elfride's first kiss. And so awkward and unused 
 was she ; full of striving — no relenting. None of those ap- 
 parent struggles to get out of the trap which only result in 
 getting farther in. No final attitude of receptivity. No 
 easy close of shoulder to shoulder, hand upon hand, face 
 upon face, and in spite of coyness, the lips in the right place 
 at the supreme moment. That graceful though apparently 
 accidental falling into position, which many have noticed as 
 precipitating the end and making sweethearts the sweeter, 
 was not here. Why ? Because experience was absent. A 
 woman must have had many kisses before she kisses well. 
 
 In fact, the art of tendering the lips for thes'2 amatory 
 salutes is based upon principles the same as those laid 
 down in treatises on legerdemain for performing the trick 
 called Forcing a Card. The card is to be shifted nimbly, 
 withdrawn, edged under, and withal not to be offered till 
 the moment the unsuspecting person's hand reaches the 
 pack ; this forcing forward to be done so modestly and yet 
 so coaxingly, that the person trifled with imagines he is 
 really choosing what is in fact thrust into his hand. 
 
 Well, there were none of these facilities now : and Ste- 
 phen was conscious of it — first with a momentary regret 
 that his kiss should be spoilt by her confused manner of 
 receiving it, and then with the pleasant perception that her 
 awkwardness was her charm. 
 
 " And you do care for me and love me ? " said he. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Very much?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And I mustn't ask you if you'll wait for me, and be 
 my wife some day ? " 
 
5o ^ P^i^ OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 " Why not ? " she said naively. 
 
 "There is reason why, my Elfride." 
 
 " Not any one that I know of." 
 
 "Suppose there is something connected with me which 
 makes it ahnost impossible for you to agree to be my wife, 
 oi for your father to countenance such an idea." 
 
 " Nothing shall make me cease to love you ; no blemish 
 can be found upon your personal nature. That is pure and 
 generous, I know ; and having that, how can I be cold to 
 you ? " 
 
 " And shall nothing else affect us — shall nothing beyond 
 my nature be a part of my quality in your eyes, Elfie ? " 
 
 " Nothing whatever," she said, with a breath of relief. 
 *' Is that all? some outside circumstance? What do I 
 care ? " 
 
 " You can hardly judge, dear, till you know what has to 
 be judged. For that, we will stop till we get home. I be- 
 lieve in you, but I cannot feel bright." 
 
 " Love is new, and fresh to us as the dew ; and we are 
 together. As the lovers' world goes, this is a great deal. 
 Stephen, I fancy I see the difference between me and you 
 — between men and women generally, perhaps. I am con- 
 tent to build happiness on any accidental basis that may lie 
 near at hand ; you are for making a world to suit your hap- 
 piness." 
 
 " Elfride, you sometimes say things which make you 
 seem suddenly to become five years older than you are, or 
 than I am ; and that remark is one. I couldn't think so oid 
 as that, try how I might. . . . And no lover has ever had 
 you, or kissed you before ? " 
 
 *' Never." 
 
 " I knew that ; you were so unused. You ride well, but 
 you don't kiss nicely at all ; and I was told once, by my 
 friend Knight, that that is an excellent fault in woman." 
 
 " Now, come ; I must mount again, or we shall not be 
 home by dinner-time." And they returned to where Pansy 
 stood tethered. " Instead of entrusting my weight to a 
 young man's unstable palm," she continued gayly, "■ I prefei 
 a surer ' upping-stock ' (as the villagers call it), in the form 
 of a gate. There — now I am myself again." 
 
 They proceeded homeward, at the same walking pace. 
 
4 PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 6l 
 
 Her blitheness won Stephen out of his thoughtful ness, 
 and each forgot everything but the tone of the moment. 
 " Mr. Smith what did you love me for.?" she said, after a 
 long musing look at a flying birdl 
 
 "I don't know," he replied idly. 
 
 " O yes, you do,'' insisted Elfride. 
 
 " Perhaps, for your eyes." 
 
 " What of them ? — now don't vex me by a light answer. 
 What of my eyes ? " 
 
 " O, nothing to be mentioned. They are indifferently 
 good." 
 
 " Come, Stephen, I won't have that. What did you love 
 me for .? " 
 
 " It might have been for your mouth." 
 
 " Well, what about my mouth ? " 
 
 " I thought it was a passable mouth enough — " 
 
 " That's not very comforting." 
 
 " — With a pretty pout and sweet lips; but actually, 
 nothing more than what everybodv has." 
 
 " Don't make up things out of your head as you go on, 
 there's a dear Stephen. Now — what — did — you — love — 
 me — for ? " 
 
 " Perhaps, 'twas for your neck and hair ; though I am 
 not sure : or for your idle blood, that did nothing but wan- 
 der away from your cheeks and back again ; but I am not 
 sure. Or your hands and arms, that tliey eclipsed all other 
 hands and arms ; or your feet, that they played about under 
 your dress like little mice ; or your tongue, that it was of a 
 dear delicate tone. But I am not altogether sure." 
 
 ^ " Ah, that's pretty to say ; but I don't care for your love, 
 if it made a mere flat picture of me in that way, and not be- 
 ing sure, and such cold reasoning ; but what you felt I was, 
 you know, Stephen" (at this a stealthy laugh ana frisky look 
 into his face), " when you said to yourself, ' I'll certainly 
 'ove that young lady.'" 
 
 " 1 never said it." 
 
 " When you said to yourself, then, ' I never will love that 
 young lady.' " 
 
 " I didn't say that, either." 
 
 " Then vas it, ' 1 suppose I must love that young 
 \ady?'" 
 
62 ^ PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 " No." 
 
 "What then?" 
 
 " 'Twas much more fluctuating — not so definite.** 
 
 "Tell me; do, do." 
 
 " It was that I ought not to think about you if I loved 
 you truly." 
 
 " Ah, that I don't understand. There's no getting it out 
 of you. I'll not ask you ever any more — never more — to 
 say out of the deep reality of your heart what you loved me 
 for." 
 
 ''Sweet tantalizer, what's the use? It comes to this sole 
 simple thing : That at one time I had never seen you, and 
 I didn't love you ; that then I saw you, and I did love you. 
 Is that enough ? " 
 
 " Yes ; 1 will make it do. . . I know, I think, what I love 
 you for. You are nice-looking, of course ; but I didn't 
 mean for that. It is because you are so docile and gentle." 
 
 " Those are not quite the correct qualities for a man to 
 be loved for," said Stephen, in rather a dissatisfied tone of 
 self-criticism. " Well, never mind. I must ask your papa 
 to allow us to be engaged directly we get in-doors. It will be 
 for a long time, Elfie." 
 
 " I like it the better. . . Stephen, don't mention it till to- 
 morrow." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because, if he should object — I don't think he will ; 
 but if he should — we shall have a day longer of happiness 
 from our ignorance. . . Well, what are you thinking of so 
 deeply ? " 
 
 " I was thinking how my dear friend Knight would enjoy 
 this scene. I wish he could come here." 
 
 " You seem very much engrossed with him," she answer- 
 ed, with a jealous little toss. " He must be an interesting 
 man to take up so much of your attention." 
 
 " Interesting ! " said Stephen, his face glowing with his 
 fervor j " noble -, you ought to say." 
 
 " O yes, yes ; I forgot," she said, half satirically. " The 
 noblest man in England, as you told us last night." 
 
 " He is a fine fellow, laugh as ^om will, Miss Elfie." 
 
 " I know he is your hero. But what does he do ? any 
 thing?" 
 
A PATR OF BLUE EYES. 5^ 
 
 "lie writes." 
 
 "What does he write? I have never heard of his name." 
 
 *' Because his personality, and that of several others like 
 him, is absorbed into a huge WE, namely, the impalpable 
 entity called the Present — a social a?id literary Review:'' 
 
 '' Is he only a reviewer ? " 
 
 " Only, Elfie ! Why I can tell you it is a fine thing to be 
 on the staff of the Frese?it. Finer than being a novelist, 
 considerably." 
 
 " That's a hit at me, and my poor Court o Kellyon Cas- 
 tle:' 
 
 " No; Elfride," he whispered; "I didn't mean that. I 
 mean that he is really a literary man of some eminence, 
 and not altogether a reviewer. He writes things of a higher 
 class than reviews, though he reviews a book occasionally. 
 His ordinary productions are social and ethical essays — all 
 that the Present contains which is not literary reviewing." 
 
 " I admit he must be talented if he writes for the Present, 
 We have it sent to us irregularly. I want papa to be a sub- 
 scriber, but he's so Conservative. Now the next point in 
 this Mr. Knight — I suppose he is a very good man ? " 
 
 " An excellent man. I shall try to be his intimate friend 
 some day." 
 
 " But aren't you now ? " 
 
 *' No ; not so much as that," replied Stephen, as if such 
 a supposition were extravagant. " You see, it was in this 
 way — he came originally from the same place as I, and 
 taught me things ; but I am not intimate with him. Sha'n't 
 I be glad when I get richer and better educated, and hob 
 and nob with him ! " Stephen's eye sparkled. 
 
 A pout began to shape itself upon Elfride's soft lips. 
 "You think always of him, and like him better than you do 
 me." 
 
 " No, indeed, Elfride. The feeling is different quite. But 
 I do like him, and he deserves even more affection from 
 me than I give." 
 
 " You are not nice now, and you make me as jealous as 
 possible;" she exclaimed perversely. "I know you will 
 never speak to any third person of me so warmly as you do 
 to me of him." 
 
 " But you don't understand, Elfie," he said, with an anx» 
 
64 ^ PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 ions movement. " You shall know him some day. He is so 
 brilliant — no it isn't exactly brilliant; so thoughtful — nor 
 does thoughtful express him — that it would charm you to 
 talk to him. He's a most desirable friend and that isn't 
 half I could say.*" 
 
 " I don't care how good he is ; I don't want to know 
 him, because he comes between me and you. You think of 
 him night and day, ever so much more than of an} body 
 else ; and when you are thinking of him, I am shut out of 
 your mind." 
 
 " No, dear Elfride ; I love you dearly." 
 
 •' And I don't like you to tell me so warmly about him 
 when you are in the middle of loving me. Stephen, sup- 
 pose that I and this man Knight of yours were both drown- 
 ing, and you could only save one of us — " 
 
 " Yes — the stupid old proposition — which would " I 
 save ? " 
 
 " Well, which ? Not me." 
 
 " Both of you," he said, pressing her pendent hand. 
 
 " No, that won't do ; only one of us." 
 
 "I cannot say; I don't know. It is disagreeable — - 
 quite a horrid idea to have to handle." 
 
 " A-ha, I know. You would save him, and let me 
 drown, drown, drown ; and I don't care about your love." 
 
 She had endeavored to give a playful tone to her words, 
 but the latter speech was rather forced in its gayety. 
 
 At this point in the discussion she trotted off to turn a 
 corner which was avoided by the footpath, the road and the 
 path uniting at a point a little farther on. On again making 
 her appearance she continually managed to look in a direc- 
 tion away from him, and left him in the cold shade of her 
 displeasure. Stephen was soon beaten at this game of in- 
 difference. He went round and entered the range of her 
 vision. 
 
 " Are you offended, Elfie .? Why can't you talk ? " 
 
 " Save me, then, and let that Mr. Clever of yours drown. 
 I hate him. Now, which would you ?" 
 
 -'■ Really, Elfride, you should not press such a hard 
 question. It is absurd to ask it" 
 
 " Then I won't be alone with you any more. Unkind, 
 lo wound me so ? " 
 
A FAIR OF BL UE E VES. 65 
 
 "Come, Elfie, let's make it up and be friends." 
 *' Say you would save me, then, and let him drown.''' 
 " I would save you — and him too." 
 " And let him drown. Come, or you don't love me ! " 
 "And let him drown," he ejaculated despairingly. 
 " There ; now I am yours ! " she said, and a woman's 
 flush of triumph lit her eyes. 
 
 " Only one ear-ring, miss, as I'm alive ! " said Unity 
 on their entering the hall. 
 
 With a face expressive of wretched misgiving, Elfride's 
 hand flew like an arrow to her ear. 
 
 " There ! " she exclaimed to Stephen, looking at him 
 with eyes full of reproach. 
 
 "I quite forgot, indeed. If I had only remembered ! " 
 he answered, with a conscience-stricken face. 
 
 She wheeled herself round, and turned into the shrub- 
 bery. Stephen followed. 
 
 " If you had told ine to watch anything, Stephen, I 
 should have religiously done it," she capriciously went on, 
 as soon as she heard him behind her. 
 
 " Forgetting is forgivable." 
 
 " Well, you will find it, if you want me to respect you 
 and be engaged to you when we hav^e asked papa." She 
 considered a moment, and added more seriously, " I know 
 now where I dropped it, Stephen. It was on the clifl". I 
 remember a faint sensation of some change about rae, but 
 I was too absent to think of it then. And that's where it 
 is now, and you must go and look there." 
 
 " I'll go at once." 
 
 And he strode away up the valley, under a broiling sun 
 -?:id amid the death-like silence of early afternoon. He 
 a:Dcended, with giddy-paced haste, the windy range of rocks 
 to where they had sat, felt and peered about the stones 
 and crannies, but Elfride's stray jewel was nowhere to be 
 seen. Next Stephen slowly retraced his steps, and, pans- 
 ing at a cross-road to reflect awhile, he left the plateau 
 and struck downwards across some fields, in the direction 
 of Endelstow House. He walked along the path by the 
 river without the slightest hesitation as to its bearing, 
 apparently quite familiar with every inch of the ground 
 
65 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 As the shadows began to lengthen and the sunlight to 
 mellow, he passed through two wicket-gates, and drew near 
 the outskirts of Endelstow Park. The river now ran along 
 under the park .wall, previous to entering the grove itself^ 
 a little farther on. 
 
 Here stood a cottage, between the wall and the stream, 
 on a slightly elevated spot of ground, round which the 
 river took a turn. The characteristic feature of this snug 
 habitation was its one chimney in the gable end, its square- 
 ness of form disguised by a huge cloak of ivy, which had 
 grown so luxuriantly and extended so far from its base, 
 as to increase the apparent bulk of the chimney to the 
 dimensions of a tower. Some little distance from the 
 back of the house rose the park boundary, and over this 
 were to be seen the sycamores of the grove, making slow 
 inclinations to the just-awakening air. 
 
 Stephen crossed the little wood bridge in front, went 
 up to the cottage door, and opened it without knock or 
 signal of any kind. 
 
 Exclamations of welcome burst from some person or 
 persons when the door was thrust ajar, followed by the 
 scrape of chairs on a stone floor, as if pushed back by 
 their occupyers in rising from a table. The door was closed 
 again, and nothing could now be heard from within, save a 
 lively chatter and the rattle of plates. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 " ALLEN-A-DALE IS NO BARON OR LORD 
 
 ») 
 
 ^ T^HE mists were creeping out of pools and swamps foi 
 X their pilgrimages of the night when Stephen came 
 up to the front door of the vicarage. Elfride was standing 
 on the step, illuminated by a lemon-hued expanse of west- 
 ern sky. 
 
 *' You never have been all this time looking for that 
 ear-ring ! " she said anxiously. 
 
 " O no ; and I have not found it." 
 
 " Never mind. Though I am much vexed j they are 
 my prettiest. But, Stephen, what ever have you been 
 doing — where have you been ? I have been so uneasy. I 
 feared for you, knowing not an inch of the country. I 
 thought, suppose he has fallen over the cliff! But now 
 I am inclined to scold you for frightening me so.'' 
 
 "I must speak to your papa now," he said, rather 
 abruptly ; " I have so much to say to him — and to you, 
 Elfride." 
 
 " Will what you have to say endanger this nice time of 
 ours, and is it that same shadowy secret you allude to so 
 frequently, and will it make me unhappy?" 
 
 "Possibly." 
 
 She breathed heavily, and looked around as if for a 
 prompter. 
 
 " Put it off till to-morrow," she said. 
 
 He involuntarily sighed, too. 
 
 "No; it must come to-night. Where is your father, 
 Elfride?" 
 
 *' Somewhere in the kitchen-garden, I think," she re- 
 plied. " That is his favorite evening retreat. I will leave 
 you now. Say all that's to be said—do all there is to be 
 
(58 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 done. Think of me waiting anxiously for the end." And 
 she re-entered the house. 
 
 She wailed in the drawing-room, watching the lights 
 sink to shadows, the shadows sink to darkness, until her 
 impatience to know what had transpired in the garden 
 could no longer be controlled. She passed round the 
 shrubbery, unlatched the garden-door, and skimmed with 
 her keen eyes the whole twilighted space that the four 
 walls enclosed and sheltered : they were not there. She 
 mounted a little ladder, which had been used for gathering 
 fruit, and looked over the wall into the field. This field 
 extended to the limits of the glebe, which was enclosed on 
 that side by a privet-hedge. Under the hedge was Mr. 
 Swancourt, walking up and down, and talking aloud — ■ 
 to himself, as it sounded at first. No : another voice 
 shouted occasional replies ; and this interlocutor seemed 
 to be on the other side of the hedge. The voice, though 
 soft in quality, was not Stephen's. 
 
 The speaker must have been in the long-neglected 
 garden of an old manor-house hard by, which, together 
 with a small estate attached, had lately been purchased by 
 a person named Troyton, whom Elfride had never seen. 
 Her father might have struck up an acquaintanceship with 
 some member of that family through the privet-hedge, or a 
 stranger to the neighborhood might have wandered thither. 
 
 Weil, there was no necessity for disturbing him. And 
 it seemed that, after all, Stephen had not yet made his 
 desired communication to her father. Again she went 
 in-doors, wondering where Stephen could be. For want 
 of something better to do, she went up stairs to her own 
 little room. Here she sat down at the open window, and, 
 leaning with her elbow on the table and her cheek upon 
 her hand, she fell into meditation. 
 
 It was a hot and still August night. Every disturbance 
 of the silence which rose to the dignity of a noise could be 
 heard for miles, and the merest sound for a long distance. 
 So she remained, thinking of Stephen, and wishing he had 
 not deprived her of his company to no purpose, as it ap- 
 peared. How delicate and sensitive he was, she retiected ; 
 and yet he was man enough to have a private myster}', 
 which considerably elevated him in her eyes. Thus, look 
 
A FAIR 01^" BLUE EYES. 69 
 
 ing at things with an inward vision, she lost consciousness 
 of the flight of time. 
 
 Strange conjunctions of circumstances, particularly those 
 of a trivial every-day kind, are so frequent in an ordinary 
 life, that we grow used to their unaccountableness, and for- 
 get the question whether the very long odds against such 
 juxtaposition is not almost a disproof of it being a matter 
 of change at all. What occurred to Elfride at this moment 
 was a case in point. She was vividly imagining, for the 
 twentieth time, the kiss of the morning, and putting her lips 
 together in the position another such a one would demand, 
 when she heard the identical operation completely perform- 
 ed on the lawn, immediately beneath her window. 
 
 A kiss — not of the quiet and stealthy kind, but decisive, 
 loud, and smart. 
 
 Her face flushed, and she looked out, but to no purpose. 
 The dark rim of the upland drew a keen sad line against 
 the pale glow of the sky, unbroken except where a younf 
 cedar on the lawn, that had outgrown its fellow tree.- 
 shot its pointed head across the horizon, piercing the firm.-a 
 mental lustre like a sting. 
 
 It was just possible that, had any persons been standing 
 on the grassy portions of the lawn, Elfride might have' seen 
 their dusky forms. But the shrubs, which once had merely 
 dotted the glade, had now grown bushy and large, tiU they 
 hid at least half the enclosure containing them. The kiss- 
 ing pair might have been behind some of these ; at any 
 rate, nobody was in sight 
 
 Had no enigma ever been connected with her lover by 
 his hints and absences, Elfride would never have thought 
 of admitting into her mind a suspicion that he might be 
 concerned in the' foregoing enactment. But the reservations 
 he at present insisted on, while they added to the mysterr 
 without which perhaps she would never have seriously lovea 
 him at all, were calculated to nourish doubts of all kinds, 
 and with a slow flush of jealousy she asked herself, might 
 he not be the culprit ? 
 
 Elfride glided down stairs on tip-toe, and out to the 
 precise spot un which she had parted from Stephen to ena- 
 ble him to speak privately to her father. Thence she wan- 
 dered into all the nooks around the place from which the 
 
JO A FAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 sound seemed to proceed — among the huge laurestins 
 
 about the tufts of pampas-grasses, amid the variegated hoi 
 lies, under the weeping wych-elm — nobody was there 
 Returning in-doors she called, " Unity." 
 
 " She has 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 ihan, as it seemed to herself, creating 
 the blush of uneasy perplexity that was burning upon her 
 cheeli. 
 
 " I didn't knov/ you were in-doors, 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. 
 
 " O, 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 definitive 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 ; wonder- 
 fully careless, if he saw it and did not think about it 3 
 wonderfully good, if, as seemed to her by far the most prob- 
 able 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 ? " 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 7 1 
 
 "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 direct- 
 ly ; 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 tremu- 
 lous 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 bed- 
 time. 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 continual- 
 ly and so sadly ? You know I will. Yes, indeed," she said, 
 drawing closer, " whatever may be said of you — and noth- 
 
72 
 
 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 ing bad can be — I will cling to you just the same. Yom 
 ways shall be my ways until T. die." 
 
 " Did you ever think what my parents might be, or 
 what society I originally moved in t " 
 
 " No, not particularly. I have observed one or two lit- 
 tle 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 } " 
 
 " Doctor 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, Ste 
 phen, dear Stephen," she murmured tenderly, " I do indeed. 
 And why should you tell me these things so impressively ^ 
 What do they matter to me 1 " 
 
 He held her closer, and proceeded. 
 
 " What do you think my father is — does for nis living, 
 that is to say ? " 
 
 " He practices 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 whis- 
 pered : 
 
 " 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 be- 
 fore ? " 
 
 " No, not at all. Is your mother alive ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Is she a nice lady ? " 
 
 " Very — the best motlier in the world. She was a dai- 
 rymaid." 
 
 " O, Stephen ? " came from her in whispered exclamation. 
 
 " She continued to attend to a dairy long after my 
 Vather married her," pursued Stephen, without further hesi- 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 73 
 
 tation. *' And I remember very well how, when I was very 
 young, I used to go to the milking, look on at the skim- 
 ming, sleep through the churning, and make believe 1 help- 
 ed 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 drudg- 
 ery of dairy-work had to be done for a hving — 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 1 do love you just the same," she con- 
 tinued, getting close 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 him — always him ! " 
 
 " Yes, and properly so. Now, Elfride, you see the rea- 
 son of his teaching me by letter. 1 knew him years before 
 he went to Oxford, but I had not got far enough in my read- 
 ing 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 tu- 
 ition 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 trouble to say more. You are a dear hon- 
 est fellow to say so much as you have ; and it is not so dread- 
 ful either. We hear of lots of London millionaires who went 
 up to London with their tools at their back, and half a 
 crown in their pockets. That sort of origin is getting so 
 respected," she continued cheerfully, " that it is acquiring 
 some of the odor of Norman ancestry." 
 
 " Ah, if I had made my fortune I shouldn't raind. But 
 I am only a possible maker of it as yet." 
 
 " It is quiie enough. And so this is what your trouble 
 was ? " 
 
74 
 
 A PAIR OF BL UE E YES. 
 
 " I thought I was doing wrong in letting you love me 
 without telling my story ; and yet I feared to do so, Elfie. 
 I dreaded to lose you, and I was cowardly on that account." 
 
 " How plain everything about you seems after this ex- 
 planation ! Your peculiarities in chess-playing, the pro- 
 nunciation papa noticed in your Latin, your odd mixture 
 of book-knowledge with ignorance of ordinary social ac- 
 complishments, are accounted for in a moment. And has 
 this anything to do with what I saw at Lord Luxellian's ? " 
 
 " What did you see ? " 
 
 " I saw the shadow of yourself putting a cloak round a 
 lady. I was at the side door ; you two were in a room with 
 the window towards me. You came to me a moment 
 later." 
 
 " She was my mother.'* 
 
 "Your mother (here! I have been imagining her and 
 your father living far away." 
 
 " Elfride," said Stephen, " I was going to tell you the 
 remainder to-morrow — [ have been keeping it back — I 
 must tell it now, after all. The remainder of my revelation 
 refers to where my parents are. Where do you think they 
 live ? You know them — by sight at any rate." 
 
 "/ know them ! " she cried, in unbounded amazement, 
 
 " Yes. My father is John Smith, Lord Luxellian's 
 master-mason, who lives under the park wall by the river." 
 
 " O, Stephen, can it be ! " 
 
 " He built — or assisted at the building of the house you 
 live in, years ago. He put up those stone gate piers at the 
 lodge-entrance to Lord Luxellian's park. My grandfather 
 planted the trees that belt-in your lawn ; my grandmother 
 — who worked in the fields with him- -held each tree up- 
 right while he filled in the earth : they told me so when I 
 was a child. He was the sexton, too, and dug many of the 
 graves around us." 
 
 " And was your unaccountable vanishing on the first 
 morning of your arrival, and again this afternoon, a run to 
 see your father and mother } I understand now ; no won- 
 der you seemed to know the way about the village ! " 
 
 " No wonder. But remember, I have not lived here 
 since I was nine years old. I then went to live with my 
 uncle, a blacksmith near Exeter, in order to be able to at- 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 75 
 
 terijd a national school as a day scholar ; there was none in 
 this remote part then. It was there I met with my friend 
 Knight. And when I was fifteen and had been fairly edu- 
 cated by the schoolmaster — and more particularly by 
 Knight — I was put as a pupil in an architect's office in 
 that city, because I was skilful in the use of the pencil. 
 This was done, partly by the efforts of Knight, and partly 
 through the interest of Lord Luxellian, who likes my father, 
 and thinks a great deal of him. There I staid till six 
 months ago, when I obtained a situation as improver, as it 
 is called, in a London office. That's all of me." 
 
 "To think you, the London visitor, the town man, 
 should have been born here, and have known this village 
 so many years before I did. How strange — how very 
 strange it seems to me ! " 
 
 " My mother curtseyed to you and your father last Sun- 
 day," said Stephen, with a pained smile at the thought of 
 the incongruity. *'And your papa said to her, T am glad 
 to see you so regular at church, Jmie.'' " 
 
 " I remember it. But I have nevej spoken to her. 
 We have only been here eighteen months, and the parish 
 is so large." 
 
 " Contrast with this," said Stephen, with a miserable 
 laugh, " your father's belief in my * blue blood,' which is 
 still prevalent in his mind. The first night I came, he in- 
 sisted upon proving my descent from one of the most 
 ancient west-county families, on account of my second 
 Christian name ; when the truth is, it was given me be- 
 cause ray grandfather was assistant-gardener in the Fitz- 
 maurice Smith family for thirty years. Having seen your 
 face, my darling, I had not heart to contradict him, and 
 tell what would have cut me off from a friendly knowledge 
 of you." 
 
 She sighed deeply. "Yes, I see now how this in- 
 equality may be made a trouble to us," she murmured, 
 and continued in a low sad whisper, " I wouldn't have 
 minded if they had lived far away. Papa might have con- 
 sented to an engagement between us if your connection 
 had been with villagers a hundred miles off; remoteness 
 softens family contrasts. But he will not like — Q 
 Stephen, Stephen ! what can 1 do ?" 
 
76 ^ PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 " Do ? " he said tentatively, yet with sadness. " Give 
 me up ; let me go back to London, and think no more of 
 me." 
 
 " No, no ; I cannot give you up ! This hopelessness 
 in our affairs makes me care more for you. ... I see what 
 did not strike me at first Stephen, why do we trouble ? 
 Why should papa object ? An architect m London is an 
 architect in London. Who inquires there .'* Nobody. 
 We shall live there, shall we not? Why need we be so 
 alarmed ? " 
 
 "And, Elfie," said Stephen, his hopes kindling with 
 hers, " Knight thinks nothing of my being only a cot- 
 tager's son. He says I am as worthy of his friendship as 
 if I were a lord's. And if I am worthy of his friendship, I 
 am worthy of you, am I not, Elfride .? " 
 
 " I not only have never loved anybody but you," she 
 said, instead of giving an answer, " but 1 have not even 
 formed a strong friendship, such as you have for Knight. 
 I wish you hadn't." 
 
 "Now, Elfride, you know better," he said wooingly. 
 "And did you really never have any sweetheart at all?" 
 
 " None that was ever recognized by me as such." 
 
 " But did nobody ever love you ? " 
 
 '* Yes — a man did once ; very much, he said." 
 
 " How long ago ? " 
 
 "O, a long time." 
 
 " How long, dearest ? " 
 
 "A twelvemonth." 
 
 "That's not very long." 
 
 "I said long, not very long." 
 
 " And did he want to marry you ? " 
 
 " I believe he did. But I didn't see anything in him. 
 He was not good enough, even if I had loved him." 
 
 " May I ask what he was ? " 
 
 " A farmer." 
 
 " A farmer not good enough — how much better than 
 my family ! " Stephen murmured. 
 
 " Where is he now ? " he continued to Elfride. 
 
 " Here J' 
 
 " Here ! What do you mean by that ? " 
 
 " i mean that he is here." 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 77 
 
 " Where here ? '' 
 
 " Under us. He is under this tomb. He is dead, 
 and we are sitting on his grave." 
 
 " Elfie," said the young man, standing up and moving 
 away, " how solemn and sad that revelation seems ! It 
 quite depresses me for the moment." 
 
 " Stephen, I didn't wish to sit here ; but you would do 
 so." 
 
 " You never encouraged him ? " 
 
 " Never by look, word, or sign," she said solemnly. 
 " He died of consumption, and was buried the day you 
 first came." 
 
 '' Let us go away. I don't like standing hy. him, even 
 if you never loved him. He was before me." 
 
 " Love makes you unreasonable," she murmured, fol- 
 lowing Stephen at the distance of a few steps. " Perhaps 
 I ought t3 have told you before we sat down. Yes ; let 
 us go." 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ** HER FATHER DID FUME.'' 
 
 OPPRESSED, in spite of themselves, by a foresight 
 of impending complications, Elfride and Stephen 
 returned down the hill hand in hand. At the door they 
 paused wistfully, Hke children late at school. 
 
 Women accept their destiny more readily than men. 
 Elfride had now resigned herself to the overwhelming idea 
 of her lover's sorry antecedents ; Stephen had not forgot- 
 ten the trifling grievance that Elfride had known earlier 
 admiration than his own. 
 
 " What was that young man's name ?" he inquired. 
 
 " Jethway ; a widow's only son." 
 
 " I remember the family." 
 
 " She hates me now. She says I killed him." 
 
 Stephen mused, and they entered the porch. 
 
 *' Stephen, I only love you," she tremulously whispered. 
 
 •He pressed her fingers, and the trifling shadow passed 
 away, to admit again the mutual and more tangible trouble. 
 
 The study appeared to be the only room lighted up. 
 They entered, each with a demeanor intended to conceal 
 the unconcealable fact that reciprocal love was the dominant 
 chord. Elfride perceived a man, sitting with his back to- 
 wards herself, talking to her father. She would have 
 retired, but Mr. Swancourt had seen her. 
 
 "Come in," he said; "it is only Martin Cannister, 
 come for a copy of the register for poor Mrs. Jethway." 
 
 Martin Cannister, the sexton, was rather a favorite with 
 Elfride. He used to absorb her attention by telling her of 
 his strange experiences in digging up after long years the 
 bodies of persons he had known, and recognizing them by 
 some little sign, though in reality he had never recognized 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. -9 
 
 any. He had shrewd small eyes, "ivl a great wealth of 
 double chin, which compensated iv, ^ome measure for con- 
 siderable poverty of nose. 
 
 The appearance of a slip of paper in Cannister's hand, 
 and some shillings lying on the table in front of him, 
 denoted that the business had been transacted, and the 
 tenor of their conversation went to show that a summary 
 of village news was now engaging the attention of parish- 
 ioner and parson. 
 
 Mr. Cannister stood up and touched his forehead over 
 his eye with his finger, in respectful salutation of Elfride, 
 gave half as much salute to Stephen (whom he, in common 
 with other villagers, had never for a moment recognized), 
 then sat down again and resumed his discourse. 
 
 " Where had I got on to, sir.? " 
 
 " To driving the pile," said Mr. Swancourt. 
 
 " The pile 'twas. So, as 1 was saying, Nat was driving 
 the pile in this manner, as I might say." Here Mr. Can- 
 nister held his walking-stick scrupulously vertical with his 
 left hand, and struck a blov/ with great force on the knob 
 of the stick with his right. " John was steadying the pile 
 so, as I might say." Here he gave the stick a slight shake, 
 and looked firmly in the various eyes around to see that 
 before proceeding further his listeners well grasped the 
 subject at that stage. "Well, when Nat had struck some 
 half-dozen blows more upon the pile, 'a stopped for a 
 second or two. John, thinking he had done striking, put 
 his hand upon the top o' the pile to gie en a pull, and see 
 if 'a were firm in the ground." Mr. Cannister spread his 
 hand over the top of the stick, completely covering it with 
 his palm. " Well, so to speak, Nat hadn't maned to stop 
 striking, and when John had put his hand upon the pile, 
 the beetle — " 
 
 " O, dreadful ! " said Elfride. 
 
 "The beetle was already coming down, you see, sir. 
 Nat just caught sight of his hand, but couldn't stop the 
 blow in time. Down came the beetle upon poor John 
 Smith's hand, and squashed en to a pummy." 
 
 " Dear me, dear me ! poor fellow ! " said the vicar, with 
 an intonation like the Groans of the Wounded in a piano 
 forte performance of the ' Battle of Prague.* 
 
go A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 "John Smith the master-mason?" cried Stephen hur- 
 riedly. 
 
 " Ay, no other ; and a better-hearted man God A'mighty 
 never made." 
 
 " Is he so much hurt ? " 
 
 "I have heard," said Mr. Svvancourt, not noticing Ste- 
 phen, " that he has a son in London — a very promising 
 young fellow — who has been helped forward a little by 
 Lord Luxellian." 
 
 "Is he really so much hurt?" repeated Stephen.' 
 
 " A beetle couldn't hurt very little. Well, sir, good- 
 night t' ye ; and ye, sir ; and you, miss, I'm sure/' 
 
 Mr. Cannister had been making unnoticeable motions 
 of withdrawal, and by the time this farewell remark came 
 from his lips he was just outside the door of the room. 
 He tramped along the hall, staid more than a minute 
 endeavoring to close the door properly, and then was lost 
 to their hearing. 
 
 Stephen had meanwhile turned and said to the vicar : 
 
 " Please excuse me this evening. I must leave. John 
 Smith is my father." 
 
 The rector did not comprehend at first- 
 
 " What did you say ? " he inquired. 
 
 " John Smith is my father,'- said Stephen deliberately. 
 
 A surplus tinge of redness rose from Mr. Swancourt's 
 neck and came round over his face, the lines of his features 
 became more firmly defined, and his lips seemed to get 
 thinner. It was evident that a series of little circumstan- 
 ces, hitherto unheeded, were now fitting themselves together, 
 and forming a lucid picture in Mr. Swancourt's mind in 
 such a manner as to render useless farther explanation on 
 Stephen's part. 
 
 " Indeed," the vicar said, in a voice dry and without in- 
 flection. 
 
 This being a word which depends entirely upon its tone 
 for its meaning, Mr. Swancourt's enunciation was equivalent 
 to no expression at all. 
 
 " I have to go now," said Stephen, with an agitated bear- 
 ing, and a movement as if he scarcely knew whether he 
 ought to run off or stay longer. "On my return, sir, will 
 you kindly grant me a few minutes' private conversation.-"' 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 8 I 
 
 " Certainly. Though antecedently it does not seem pos- 
 sible that there can be anything of the nature of private busi- 
 ness between us." 
 
 Mr. Swancourt put on his straw hat, crossed the draw- 
 ing-room, into which the moonlight was shining, and stepped 
 out of the French windov/ into the verandah. It required 
 no farther effort to perceive what, indeed, reasoning might 
 have foretold as the natural color of a mind whose pleasures 
 were taken amid genealogies, good dinners, and patrician 
 reminiscences, that Mr. Swancourt's prejudices were too 
 strong for his generosity, and that Stephen's moments as 
 friend and equal were numbered, or had even now ceased. 
 
 Stephen moved forward as if he would follow the vicar, 
 then as if he would not, and in absolute perplexity whither 
 to turn himself, went awkwardly to the door. Elfride fol- 
 lowed lingeringly behind him. Before he had receded two 
 yards from the doorstep, Unity, and Ann the housemaid, 
 came home from their visit to the village. 
 
 " Have you heard anything about John Smith ? The 
 accident is not so bad as was reported, is it ? " said Elfride 
 intuitively. 
 
 " O, no j the doctor say it is only a bad bruise." 
 
 " I thought so ! " cried Elfride gladly. 
 
 " He say that, although Nat believe he did not check 
 the beetle as it came down, he must have done so without 
 knowing it — checked it very considerable too ; for the full 
 blow would have knocked his hand abroad, and in reality 
 it is only made black-and-blue like. 
 , " How thankful I am ! " said Stephen. 
 
 The perplexed Unity looked at him with her mouth 
 rather than with her eyes. 
 
 " That will do, Unity," said Elfride magisterially ; and 
 the two maids passed on. 
 
 •' Elfride, do you forgive me?" said Stephen, with a 
 faint smile. "No man is fair in love;" and he took her 
 fingers lightly in his own. 
 
 With her head thrown sideways in the Greuze attitude, 
 she looked a tender reproach at his doubt, and pressed his 
 hand. Stephen returned the pressure threefold, then hasti- 
 ly went off to his father's cottage by the wall of Endelstow 
 Park. 
 
32 ^ PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 " Elfride, what have you to say to this ? " inquired her 
 father, coming up immediately Stephen had retired. 
 
 With feminine quickness she grasped at any straw that 
 would enable her to plead his cause. " He had told me of 
 it," she faltered ; " so that it is not a discovery in spite of 
 him. He was just coming in to tell you." 
 
 " Coming to tell ! Why hadn't he already told t I ob- 
 ject as much, if not more, to his underhand concealment 
 of this, than I do to the fact itself It looks very much 
 like his making a fool of me, and of you too. You and he 
 have been about together, and corresponding together in a 
 way I don't at all approve of— in a most unseemly way. 
 You should have known how improper such conduct is. A 
 woman can't be too careful not to be seen alone with I don't 
 mow who." 
 
 " You saw us, papa, and have never said a word." 
 " My fault, of course ; my fault. What the deuce could 
 I be thinking of. He, a villager's son ; and we, S wancourts. 
 We have been coming to nothing for centuries, and now I 
 believe we have got there. What shall I next invite here, I 
 wonder!" 
 
 Elfride began to cry at this very unpropitious aspect of 
 affairs. " O papa, papa, forgive me and him. We care so 
 much for one another, papa— O, so much ! And what he 
 was going to ask you is, if you will allow of an engagement 
 between us till he is a gendeman as good as you. We are 
 not in a hurry, dear papa ; we don't want in the least to 
 marry now ; not until he is richer. Only will you let us be 
 engaged, because I love him so, and he loves me ! " 
 
 Mr. Swancourt's feelings were a little touched by this 
 appeal, and he was annoyed that such should be the case. 
 "Certainly not!" he replied. He pronounced the inhibi- 
 tion lengthily and sonorously, so that the " not " sounded like 
 " n-o-o-o-t ! " 
 
 *' No, no, no ; don't say it ! " 
 
 " Foh ! A fine story. It is not enough that I have 
 been deluded and disgraced by having him here — the son of 
 one of my village peasants— but now I am to make him my 
 son-in-law ! Heavens above us, are you mad, Elfride .? " ^ 
 " You have seen his letters come to me ever since his 
 first visit, papa, and you knew ihey were a sort of~love let- 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 83 
 
 ters ; and since he has been here you have let him be alone 
 with me almost entirely ; and you guessed, you must have 
 guessed, what we were thinking of, and doing, and you didn't 
 stop him. Next to love-making comes love-winning, and 
 you knew it would come to that, papa." 
 
 The vicar parried this common-sense thrust. " I know 
 — since you press me so — I know I did guess some childish 
 attachment might arise between you ; I own I did not take 
 much trouble to prevent it, but I have not particularly coun- 
 tenanced it ; and, Elfride, how can you expect that I should 
 now ; It is impossible ; no father in England would hear 
 of such a thing." 
 
 " But he is the same man, papa; the same in every par- 
 ticular, and how can he be less fit for me than he was be- 
 fore?" 
 
 " He appeared a young man with well-to-do friends, and 
 a little property ; but having neither, he is another man." 
 
 "You inquired nothing about him? " 
 
 " I went by Hewby's introduction. He should have told 
 me. So should the young man himself; of course he should. 
 I consider it a most dishonorable thing to come into a man's 
 house Uke a treacherous I don't know what." 
 
 " But he was afraid to tell you, and so should I have 
 been. He loved me too well to like to run the risk. And 
 as to speaking of his friends, on his first visit, I don't see 
 why he should have done so at all. He came here on busi- 
 ness : it was no affair of ours who his parents were. And 
 then he knew that if he told you he would never be asked 
 here, and would perhaps never see me again. And he 
 wanted to see me. Who can blame him for trying, by any 
 means, to stay near me — the girl he loves ? All is fair in love. 
 I have heard you say so yourself, papa ; and you yourself 
 would have done just as he has — so would any man." 
 
 " And any man, on discovering what I have discovered, 
 would also do as I do, and mend my mistake ; that is, get 
 shot of him again, as soon as the laws of hospitality will 
 allow." But Mr. Swancourt then remembered he was a 
 Christian. " 1 would not, for the world, seem to turn him 
 out of doors," he added ; " but I think he will have the 
 tact to see that he cannot stay ^ong after this with good 
 taste." 
 
84 
 
 A PAIR OF BL UE E YES. 
 
 " He will, because he's a gentleman. See how graceful 
 his manners are," Elfride went on ; though perhaps Ste- 
 phen's manners, like the feats of Euryalus, owed their 
 attractiveness in her eyes rather to the attractiveness of his 
 person than to their own excellence. 
 
 " Ay ; anybody can be what you call graceful, if he 
 lives a little time in a city, and keeps his eyes open. And 
 he might have picked up his gentlemanliness by going to 
 the galleries of theatres, and watching stage drawing-room 
 manners. He reminds me of one of the worst stories I 
 ever heard in my life." 
 
 " What story was that ? " 
 
 " O no, no ! I wouldn't tell you such an improper mat- 
 ter for the world!" 
 
 " If his father and mother had lived in the north or 
 east of England," gallantly persisted Elfride, though her 
 sobs began to interrupt her articulation, " anywhere but 
 here — you — would have — only regarded — him^ and not 
 them. His station — would have — been what — his profes- 
 sion makes it,— and not fixed by — his father's humble posi- 
 tion — at all ; whom he never lives with — now. And it is 
 clever and — honorable — of him, to be the best of his family." 
 
 " Yes. ' Let a beast be lord of beasts, and his crib 
 shall stand at the king's mess.' " 
 
 " You insult me, papa ! " she burst out. " You do, you 
 do ! He is my own Stephen, he is ! " 
 
 " That may or may not be true, Elfride," returned her 
 father, again uncomfortably agitated in spite of himself. 
 " You confuse future probabilities with present facts, — 
 what the young man may be with what he is. We must 
 look at what he is, not what an improbable degree of suc- 
 cess in his profession may make him. The case is this : 
 the son of a working-man in my parish— a youth who has 
 not yet advanced so far into life as to have any income of 
 his own deserving the name, and therefore of his father's 
 degree as regards station — wants to be engaged to you. 
 His family are living in precisely the same spot in England 
 as yours, so throughout this county — which is the world to 
 us — you would always be known as the wife of Jack Smith 
 the mason's son, and not under any circumstances as the 
 ivife of a London professional man. It is the drawback, 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 85 
 
 not the compensating fact, that is talked of always. There, 
 say no more. You may argue all night, and prove what 
 you will ; I'll stick to my words." 
 
 Elfride looked silently and hopelessly out of the win- 
 dow with large heavy eyes and wet cheeks. 
 
 " I call it great temerity — and long to call it audacity — 
 in Hewby," resumed her father. "1 never heard such a 
 thing — giving such a hobbledehoy native of this place such 
 an introduction to me as he did. Naturally you were 
 deceived as well as I was. I don't blame you at all, so 
 far." He went and searched for Mr. Hewby's original 
 letter. " Here's what he said to me : ' Rev. Sir, — Agree- 
 ably to your request of the i8th instant, I have arranged to 
 survey and make drawings,' et caetera. ' My assistant, 
 Mr. Stephen Smith' — assistant, you see, he called him, and 
 naturally I understood it to mean a sort of partner. Why 
 didn't he say 'clerk.?'" 
 
 " They never call them clerks in that profession, be- 
 cause they do not write. Stephen — Mr. Smith — told me 
 so. So that Mr. Hewby simply used the accepted word." 
 
 " Let me speak, please, Elfride ! ' My assistant, Mr. 
 Stephen Smith, will leave London by the early train to- 
 morrow morning . . . uiany thanks for your proposal to 
 accommodate hhn . . . you may put every confidence in him, 
 and may rely upon his discernment in the matter of church 
 architecture.' Well, I repeat that Hewby ought to be 
 ashamed of himself for making so much of a poor lad of 
 that sort." 
 
 " Professional men in London," Elfride murmured, 
 " don't know anything about their clerks' fathers and 
 mothers. They have assistants who come to their offices 
 and shops for years, and hardly even know where they live. 
 What they can do — what profits they can bring the firm — 
 that's all London men care about. And that is helped in 
 him by his faculty of being uniformly pleasant." 
 
 " Uniform pleasantness is rather a defect than a faculty. 
 ft shows that a man hasn't sense enough to know whom to 
 despise.^ 
 
 '' It shows that he acts by faith and not by sight, as 
 those you claim succession from directed." 
 
 " That's some more of what he's been telling you, I 
 
86 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 suppose. Yes, I was inclined to suspect him, because he 
 didn't care about sauces of any kind. 1 always did doubt 
 a man's being a gentleman if his palate had no acquired 
 tastes. An unedified palate is the irrepressible cloven foot 
 of the upstart. The idea of my bringing out a bottle of 
 my '40 Martinez — only eleven of them left now — to a man 
 who didn't know it from eighteen-penny ! Then the Latin 
 line he gave to end my quotation ; it was very cut-and- 
 dried, very ; or I, who haven't looked into a classical 
 author for the last eighteen years, shouldn't have remem- 
 bered it. Well, Elfride, you had better go to your room ; 
 you'll get over this bit of tomfoolery in time." 
 
 " No, no, no, papa," she moaned. For of all the mis- 
 eries attaching to miserable love, the worst is the misery 
 of thinking that the passion which is the cause of them all 
 may cease. 
 
 " Elfride," said her father, with rough friendliness, " I 
 have an excellent scheme on hand, which I cannot tell 
 you of now. A scheme to benefit you and me. It has 
 been thrust upon me for some little time — yes, thrust upon 
 me — but I didn't dream of its value till this afternoon, 
 when the revelation came. I should be most unwise to 
 refuse to entertain it." 
 
 " [ don't like that word," she returned wearily. " You 
 have lost so much already by schemes. Is it those wretch- 
 ed mines again ? " 
 
 " No ; not a mining scheme." 
 
 " Railways ? " 
 
 "Nor railways. It is like those mysterious offers we 
 see advertised, by which any gentleman with no brains 
 at all may make so much a week without risk, trouble, or 
 soiling his fingers. However, I am intending to say noth- 
 ing till it is settled, though I will just say thus much, that 
 you soon may have other fish to fry than to think of Ste- 
 phen Smith. Remember, I have no wish to be angry, but 
 friendly, to the young man ; for your sake I'll regard him 
 as a friend in a certain sense. But this is enough ; in a 
 few days you will be quite my way of thinking. There, 
 now go to your bedroom. Unity shall bring you up some 
 supper. I wish you not to be here when he comes back." 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 "BENEATH THE SHELTER OF AN AGED TREE.'' 
 
 STEPHEN retraced his steps towards the cottage he 
 had visited only two or three hours previously. He 
 drew near and under the rich foliage growing about the 
 outskirts of Endelstow Park, the spotty lights and shades 
 from the shining moon maintaining a race over his head 
 and down his back in an endless gambol. When he 
 crossed the plank bridge and entered the garden-gate, he 
 saw an illuminated figure coming from the enclosed plot 
 towards the house on the other side. It was his father, 
 with his hand in a sling, taking a general moonlight view 
 of the garden, and particularly of a plot of the youngest of 
 young turnips, previous to closing the cottage for the night. 
 
 He saluted his son with customary force. " Hallo, Ste- 
 phen ! We should ha' been in bed in another ten minutes. 
 Come to see what's the matter wi' me, I suppose, my 
 lad ? " 
 
 The doctor had been and gone, and the hand hnd been 
 pronounced as injured but slightly, though it would of 
 course have been considered a far more serious case if Mr, 
 Smith had been a richer man. Stephen's anxious inquiry 
 drew forth expressions of regret at the inconvenience that 
 would be occasioned by doing nothing for the next two 
 days, rather than of concern for the pain of the accident. 
 Together they entered the house. 
 
 John Smith — brown as autumn as to skin, white as 
 winter as to clothes — was a satisfactory specimen of the 
 village artificer in stone. In common with most rural 
 mechanics, he had too much individuality to be a typical 
 "workingman" — the resultant from that constant pjibble- 
 \ike attrition with his kind, only to be experienced in huge 
 
^3 ^ PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 towns, which metamorphoses the unit Self into a decimal 
 fraction of the unit Class. 
 
 There was not the specialty in his labor which distin- 
 guishes the handicraftsmen of towns. Though only a ma- 
 son, strictly speaking, he was not above handling a brick, 
 if bricks were the order of the day ; or a slate or tile, if a 
 roof had to be covered before the wet weather set in, and 
 nobody was near who could do it better. Indeed, on one 
 or two occasions in the depth of winter, when frost peremp- 
 torily forbids all use of the trowel, making foundations to 
 settle, stones to fly, and mortar to crumble, he had taken 
 to felling and sawing trees. Moreover, he had practiced 
 gardening in his own plot for so many years, that on an 
 emergency he might have made a living by that calling. 
 
 Probably the countryman was not such an accom- 
 plished artificer in a particular direction as his town breth- 
 ren in the trades. But he was, in truth, like the clumsy 
 pin-maker who made the whole pin, despised by Adam 
 Smith and respected by Macaulay, much more the artist 
 than they. 
 
 Appearing now in-doors, by the light of the candle, his 
 stalwart healthiness \\as a sight to see. His beard was 
 ciose and knotted as that of a chiselled Hercules ; his 
 shirt-sleeves were partly rolled up, his waistcoat unbutton- 
 ed ; the difference in hue between the snowy linen and the 
 ruddy arms and face contrasting like the white of an ^g% 
 and its yolk. Mrs. Smith, on hearing them enter, advanced 
 from the pantry. 
 
 Mrs. Smith was a matron whose countenance addressed 
 itself to the mind rather than to the eye, though not exclu- 
 sively. She retained her personal freshness even now, in 
 the prosy afternoon-time of her life ; but what her features 
 were primarily indicative of was a sound common sense be- 
 hind them ; and as a whole, she appeared to carry with her 
 a sort of argumentative commentary on her own existence. 
 
 The details of the accident were then rehearsed by 
 Stephen's father, in the dramatic manner also common to 
 Martin Cannister, other individuals of the neighborhood, 
 and the rural world generally. Mrs. Smith threw in her 
 sentiments between the acts, as Coryphaeus of the tragedy, 
 to make the description complete. The story at last came 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. Sc) 
 
 to an end, as the longest will, and Stephen directed the 
 conversation into another channel. 
 
 " Well, mother, they know everything about me now,'' 
 he said quietly. 
 
 " Well done ! " replied his father ; " now my mind's ai 
 peace." 
 
 " 1 blame myself — I never shall forgive myself— for not 
 telling them before," continued the young man. 
 
 Mrs. Smith at this point abstracted her mind frcm the 
 former subject. " I don't see what you have to grieve about, 
 Stephen," she said. " People who accidentally get thick 
 don't, as a first heat, tell the history of their families." 
 
 " Ye've done no wrong, certainly," said his father. 
 
 " No ; but I should have spoken sooner. There's more 
 m this visit of mine than you think — a good deal more." 
 
 " Not more than / think," Mrs. Smith replied, looking 
 triumphantly at him. Stephen blushed ; and his father 
 fooked from one to the other in a state of utter incompre- 
 hension, 
 
 " She's a pretty piece enough," Mrs. Smith continued, 
 '* and very lady-like and clever too. But though she's very 
 well fit for you as far as that is, vJiy, mercy 'pon me, what 
 ever do you want any woman at all for yet .'' " 
 
 John made his naturally sliort mouth a long one, and 
 wrinkled his forehead. " That's the way the wind d'blow, 
 is it .-* " he said. 
 
 " Mother," exclaimed Stephen, " how absurdly you 
 speak ! Criticising whether she's fit for me or no, as if 
 there were room for doubt on the matter ! Why, to marry 
 her would be the great blessing of my life — socially and 
 practically, as well as in other respects. No such good for- 
 tune as that, I'm -afraid ; she's too far above me. Her fami- 
 ly doesn't want such country lads as 1 in it." 
 
 '' Then if they don't want you, I'd see them dead corpses 
 before I'd jine 'em, and go to better families who do want 
 you." 
 
 '• Ah, yes ; but 1 could never put up with the distaste 
 of being welcomed among such people as you mean, while 
 I could get indifference among such people as hers." 
 
 " What crazy twist o' thinking woot come to next ? " said 
 bis mother. *' And come to that, she's not a bit too high 
 
QQ A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 for you, or you too low for her. See how careful T be to 
 keep myself up. I'm sure I never stop for more than a 
 minule together to talk to any journeyman's people ; and I 
 never invite anybody to our party o' Christmases who 
 baint in business for themselves. And I talk to several 
 toppermost carriage people that come to my lord's without 
 saying mem or sir to 'em, and they take it as quiet as 
 lambs." 
 
 " You curtseyed to the vicar, mother ; and I wish you 
 hadn't." 
 
 " But it was before he called me by my Christian name, 
 or he would have got very little curtseying from me ! " said 
 Mrs. Smith, bridling and sparkling with vexation. " You 
 go on at me, Stephen, as if I were your worst enemy ! 
 What else could I do wi' the man to get rid of him, banging 
 it into me and your father by side and by seam, about what 
 happened when he was a young fellow at college, and I 
 don't know what-all ; the tongue o'en flopping round his 
 mouth like a mop-rag round a dairy. That 'a did, didn' the, 
 John .? " 
 
 " That's about the size o't,' replied her husband. 
 " Every woman now-a-days," resumed Mrs. Smith, " if 
 she marry at all, must expect a father-in-law of a rank lower 
 than her father. The men have gone up so, and the women 
 have stood still. Every man you meet is more the dand 
 than his father ; and you are just level wi' her." 
 " That's what she thinks herself" 
 " It only shows her sense. I knew she was after ye, 
 Stephen." 
 
 *' After me ! Good gracious, what next ! " 
 " And I really must say again that you ought not to be 
 in such a hurry, and wai*- for a few years. You might go 
 higher still then." 
 
 " The fact is, mother," said Stephen impatiently, " you 
 don't know anything about it. I shall never go higher, 
 because I don't want to, nor should I if I lived to be a 
 hundred. As to you saying that she's after me, I don't 
 like such a remark about her, for it implies a scheming 
 woman, and a man worth scheming for, both of which are 
 not only untrue, but ludicrously untrue, of this case. Isn't 
 it so, father ? " 
 
A PAIR OF BL UE E YES. g l 
 
 "I'm afeared I don't understand the matter well 
 enough to gie my opinion," said his father, in the tone of 
 the fox who had a cold and could not smell. 
 
 " She couldn't have been very backward anyhow, con- 
 sidering the short time you have known her," said his 
 mother. "Well, I think that five years hence you'll be 
 plenty young enough to think of such things. And really 
 she can very well afford to wait, and will too, take my 
 word. Living down in an out-step place like this, I am 
 sure she ought to be very thankful that you took notice of 
 her. She'd most likely have died an old maid if you 
 hadn't turned up." 
 
 " All nonsense," said Stephen, but not aloud. 
 " A nice little thing she is," Mrs. Smith went on, in a 
 more complaisant tone, now that Stephen had been talked 
 down ; " there's not a word to say against her, I'll own. 
 I see her sometimes decked out like a horse going to Bin- 
 egar fair, and I admire her for't. A perfect little lady. 
 But people can't help their thoughts, and if she'd learnt to 
 make figures instead of letters when she was at school, 
 'twould have been better for her pocket ; for as I said, 
 there never were worse times for such as she than now." 
 
 " Now, now, mother," said Stephen, with smiling dep- 
 recation. 
 
 " But T will," said his mother, with asperity. " I don't 
 read the papers for nothing, and I know men all move up 
 a stage by marriage. Men of her class, that is, parsons, 
 marry squires' daughters ; squires marry lords' daughters ; 
 lords marry dukes' daughters; dukes marry queens' 
 daughters. All stages of gentlemen mate a stage higher ; 
 and the lowest stage of gentlewomen are left single, or 
 marry out of their class." 
 
 "But you said just now, dear mamma — " retorted 
 Stephen, unable to resist the temptation of showing his 
 mother her inconsistency. Then he paused. 
 
 " Well, what did I say ? " And Mrs. Smith prepared 
 her hps for a new campaign. 
 
 " Stephen, regretting that he had begun, since a vol- 
 cano might be the consequence, was obliged to go on. 
 " You said I wasn't out of her class just before." 
 *' Yes, there, there ! That's you ; that's my own flesh 
 
C)2 ^ PAIR OF BLUE RYES. 
 
 and blood. I'll warrant that you'll pick holes in every- 
 thing your mother says if you can, Stephen. You are just 
 lil<e your father for that ; take anybody's part but mine. 
 While I am speaking and talking and trying and slaving 
 away for your good, you are waiting to catch me out in 
 that way. So you are in her class, but 'tis what her peo- 
 ple would call marrying out of her class. Don't be so 
 quarrelsome, Stephen ! '\ 
 
 Stephen preserved a discreet silence, in which he was 
 imitated by his father, and for several minutes nothing was 
 heard but the ticking of the green-faced case-clock against 
 the wall. 
 
 " I'm sure," added Mrs. Smith, in a more philosophic 
 tone, and as a terminative speech, "if there'd been so 
 much trouble to get a husband in my time as there is in 
 these days — when you must make a god-a'-mighty of a 
 man to get en to hae ye — I'd have eat dirt wi' a ladle 
 before I'd ever have lowered my dignity to marry, or 
 there's no bread in nine loaves." 
 
 The discussion now dropped, and as it was getting 
 late, Stephen bade his parents farewell for the evening, 
 his mother none the less warmly for their sparring ; for 
 although Mrs. Smith and Stephen were always contend- 
 ing, they were never at enmity. 
 
 "And possibly," said Stephen, "I may leave here 
 altogether to-morrow ; I don't know. So that if I shouldn't 
 call again before returning to London, don't be alarmed, 
 will you ? " 
 
 " But didn't you come for a fortnight ? " said his 
 mother. " And haven't you a month's holiday altogether ? 
 They are going to turn you out, then ? " 
 
 " Not at all. I may stay longer ; I may go. If I go, 
 you had better say nothing about my having been here, for 
 her sake. At what time of the morning does the carrier 
 pass Endelstow-lane ? " 
 
 " Seven o'clock." 
 
 And then he left them. His thoughts were, that 
 should the vicar permit him to become engaged, to hope 
 for an engagement, or in any way to think of his beloved 
 Elfride, he might stay longer. Should he be forbidden to 
 think of any such thing, he resolved to go at once. And 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 93 
 
 the latter, even to young hopefulness, seemed the more 
 probable alternative. 
 
 Stephen walked back to the vicarage through the 
 meadows, as he had come, surrounded by the soft musical 
 purl of the water through little weirs, the modest light of 
 the moon, the freshening smell of the dews outspread 
 around. It was a time when mere seeing is meditation, 
 and meditation peace. Stephen was hardly philosopher 
 enough to avail himself of Nature's offer. His constitu- 
 tion was made up of very simple particulars ; one which, 
 rare in the spring-time of civilizations, seems to grow 
 abundant as a nation gets older, individuality fades, and 
 education spreads; that is, his brain had extraordinary 
 receptive powers, and not an atom of creativeness. 
 Quickly acquiring any kind of knowledge he saw around 
 him, and having a plastic adaptability more common in 
 woman than in man, he changed color like a chameleon as 
 the society he found himself in assumed a higher and 
 more artificial tone. He had not an original idea, and yet 
 there was scarcely an idea to which, under proper train- 
 ing, he could not have added a respectable correlative. 
 
 He saw nothing outside himself to-night ; and what he 
 saw within was a weariness to his flesh. Yet to a dispas- 
 sionate observer, his pretentions to Elfride, though rather 
 premature, were far from absurd, as marriages go, unless 
 the accidental proximity of poor but honest parents could 
 be said to make them so. 
 
 The clock struck eleven when he entered the house. 
 Elfride had been waiting with scarcely a movement since 
 he had left. Before he had spoken to her she caught 
 sight of him passing into the study Vv^ith her father. She 
 saw that he had by some means obtained the private in- 
 terview he desired. 
 
 A nervous headache had been growing on the excita- 
 ble girl during the absence of Stephen, and now she could 
 do nothing beyond going up again to her room as she had 
 done before. Instead of lying down, she sat again in the 
 darkness without closing the door, and listened with a 
 beating heart to every sound from down stairs. The ser- 
 vants had gone to bed. She ultimately heard the two 
 men come from the study and cross to the dining-rooni, 
 
94 ^ PA^R OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 where supper had been lingering for more than an hour. 
 The door was left open, and she found that the meal, such 
 as it was, passed off between her father and her lover with- 
 out any remark, save commonplaces as to cucumbers and 
 melons, their wholesomeness and culture, uttered in a stiff 
 and formal way. It seemed to prefigure failure. 
 
 Shortly afterwards Stephen came up stairs to his bed- 
 room, and was almost immediately followed by her father, 
 who also retired for the night. Not inclined to get a light, 
 she partly undressed and sat on the bed, where she re- 
 mained in pained thought for some time, possibly an hour. 
 Then rising to close her door previous to fully unrobing, 
 she saw a streak of light shining across the landing. Her 
 father's door was closed, and he could be heard snoring 
 regularly. The light came from Stephen's room, and the 
 slight sounds also coming thence emphatically denoted 
 what he was doing. In the perfect silence she could hear 
 the closing of a lid and the clicking of a lock — he was fas 
 tening his hat-box. Then the buckling of straps and the 
 click of another key, — that was from his portmanteau. 
 With trebled foreboding she opened her door softly, and 
 went towards his. One sensation pervaded her to distrac- 
 tion. Stephen, her handsome youth and darling, was going 
 away, and she might never see him again except in secret 
 and in sadness — perhaps never more. At any rate, she 
 could no longer wait till the morning to hear the result of 
 the interview, as she had intended. She flung her dressing- 
 gown around her, tapped lightly at his door, and whispeied, 
 " Stephen ! " 
 
 He came instantly, opened the door and stepped out. 
 
 " Tell me ; are we to hope 1 " 
 - He replied in a broken whisper, and a tear approached 
 its outlet, though none fell. 
 
 " I am not to think of such a preposterous thing — that's 
 what he said. And I am going to-morrow. I should have 
 called you up to bid you good-bye." 
 
 " But he didn't say you were to go — O, Stephen, he 
 didn't say that?" 
 
 " No j not in words. But I cannot stay." 
 
 "O, don't, don't go! Do come and let us talk. Let 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 95 
 
 us come down to the drawing-room for a few minutes ; he 
 will hear us here." 
 
 She preceded him down the staircase with the taper 
 light in her hand, looking unnaturally tall and thin in the 
 long dove-colored dressing-gown she wore. She did not 
 stop to think of the propriety or otherwise of this midnight 
 interviev>^ under such circumstances. She thought that 
 the tragedy of her life was beginning, and, for the first 
 time almost, felt that her existence might have a grave 
 side, the shade of which enveloped and rendered invisible 
 the delicate gradations of custom and punctilio. Elfride 
 softly opened the drawing-room door and they both went 
 in. When she had placed the candle on the table, he 
 enclosed her with his arms, dried her eyes with his hand- 
 kerchief, and kissed their lids. 
 
 " Stephen, it is over — happy love is over ; and there is 
 no more sunshine now ! " 
 
 " I will make a fortune, and come to you, and have you. 
 Yes, I will." 
 
 '* Papa will never hear of it — never, never ! You don't 
 know him. I do. He is either biased in favor of a thing, 
 or prejudiced against it. Argument is powerless against 
 either feeling." 
 
 " No ; I won't think of him so," said Stephen. " If I 
 appear before him some time hence as a man of established 
 name, he will accept me — I know he will. He is not a 
 wicked man." 
 
 "No; he is not wicked. But you say *some time 
 hence,' as if it were no time. To you, among bustle and 
 excitements, it will be comparatively a short time perhaps ; 
 O, to me it will be its real length trebled ! Every summer 
 will be a year — autumn a year — winter a year ! O, Stephen ; 
 and you may forget me ! " 
 
 Forget : that was, and is, the real sting of waiting to 
 mimosa-hearted woman. The remark awoke in Stephen 
 the converse fear. "You too may be persuaded to give 
 me up, when time has made me fainter in your memory. 
 For remember, your love for me must be nourished in 
 secret ; there will be no long visits from me to support you. 
 Circumstances will always tend to obliterate me." 
 
 " Stephen," she said, filled with her own misgivings, 
 
96 
 
 A PAIR OF BL UE E YES. 
 
 and unheeding his last words, ' there are beautiful women 
 where you live — of course I know there are — and they may 
 win you away from me." Her tears came visibly as she 
 drew a mental picture of his faithlessness. " And it won't 
 be your fault," she continued, looking into the candle with 
 doleful eyes. " No. You will think that our family don't 
 want you, and get to include me with them. And there 
 will be a vacancy in your heart, and some ethers will be let 
 in." 
 
 " I could not, I would not. Elfie, do not be so full of 
 forebodings." 
 
 " O, yes, they will," she replied. " And you will look 
 at them, not caring at first, and then you will look and be 
 interested, and after a while you will think, ' Ah, they know 
 all about city life, and assemblies, and coteries, and the 
 manners of the titled, and poor little Elfie, with all the fuss 
 that's made about her having me, doesn't know about any- 
 thing but a little house and a few cliffs and a space of sea, 
 far away.' And then you'll be more interested in them, 
 and they'll make you have them instead of me, on purpose 
 to be cruel to me because I am silly, and they are clever 
 and hate me. And I hate them too ; yes, I do ! " 
 
 Her impulsive words had power to impress him at any 
 rate with the recognition of the uncertainty ot all that is 
 not accomplished. And, worse than that general feeling, 
 there of course remained the sadness which arose from the 
 special features of his own case. However remote a 
 desired issue may be, the mere fact of having entered the 
 groove which leads to it, cheers to some extent with a sense 
 of accomplishment. Had Mr. Swancourt consented to an 
 engagement of no less length than ten years, Stephen 
 would have been comparatively cheerful in waiting ; they 
 would have felt that they were somewhere on the road to 
 Cupid's garden. But, with a possibility of a shorter- proba- 
 tion, they had not as yet any prospect of a beginning ; 
 the zero of hope had yet to be reached. Mr. Swan- 
 court would have to revoke his formidable words before 
 the waiting for marriage could even set in. And this was 
 despair. 
 
 '' I wish we could marry now," murmured Stephen, a« 
 an impossible fancy. 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 97 
 
 " So do 1/ said she, also, as if regarding an idle dream. 
 " *Tis the only thing that ever does sweet-hearts good." 
 
 *' Secretly would do, would it not, Elfie? " 
 
 " Yes, secretly would do ; secretly would indeed be the 
 best," she said, and went on reflectively : " All we want is 
 to render it absolutely impossible for any future circum- 
 stance to upset our future intention of being happy together ; 
 not to begin being happy now." 
 
 " Exactly," he murmured, in a voice and manner the 
 counterpart of hers. " To marry and part secretly, and live 
 on as we are living now ; merely to put it out of anybody's 
 power to force you away from me, dearest." 
 
 " Or you away from me, Stephen." 
 
 " Or me from you. It is possible to conceive a force 
 of circumstance strong enough to make any woman in the 
 world marry against her will : no conceivable pressure, up to 
 torture or starvation, can make a woman once married to 
 her lover anybody else's wife." 
 
 Now up to this point the idea of an immediate secret 
 marriage had been held by both as an untenable hypothesis 
 wherewith simply to beguile a miserable moment. During 
 a pause which followed Stephen's last remark a fascinating 
 perception, then an alluring conviction, flashed along the 
 brain of both. The perception was that an immediate mar- 
 riage could be contrived ; the conviction that such an act, in 
 spite of its daring, its fathomless results, its deceptiveness, 
 would be preferred by each to the life they must lead under 
 any other conditions. 
 
 The youth spoke first, and his voice trembled with the 
 magnitude of the conception he was cherishing. " How 
 strong we should feel, Elfride ! going on our separate 
 courses as before, without the fear of ultimate separation 1 
 O, Elfride, think of it ; think of it ! " 
 
 It is certain that the young girl's love for Stephen re- 
 ceived a fanning from her father's opposition which made 
 it blaze with a dozen times the intensity it would have regis- 
 tered if left alone. Never were conditions more favorable 
 for developing a girl's first passing fancy for a handsome 
 boyish face — a fancy rooted in inexperience and nourished 
 by seclusion — into a wild unreflecting passion fervid enough 
 for anything. All the elements of such a development were 
 
98 
 
 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 there, the chief one being hopelessness — a necessary ingre- 
 dient always to perfect the mixture of feelings united under 
 the name of loving to distraction. 
 
 " We would tell papa soon, would we not ? " she inquired 
 timidly. " Nobody else need know. He would then be 
 convinced that hearts cannot be played with ; love encour- 
 aged be ready to grow, love discouraged be ready to die, 
 at a moment's notice. Stephen, do you not think that if 
 marriages against a parent's consent are ever justifiable, 
 they are when young people have been favored up to a 
 point, as we have, and then have had that favor suddenly 
 withdrawn ? " 
 
 " Yes. It is not as if we had from the beginning acted in 
 opposition to your papa's wishes. Only think, Elfie, how 
 pleasant he was towards me but six hours ago ! He liked 
 me, praised me, never objected to my being alone with you." 
 
 " I believe he must like you now," she cried. " And if 
 he found that you irremediably belonged to me, he would 
 own it, and help you. O, Stephen, Stephen," she burst out 
 again, as the remembrance of his packing came afresh to 
 her mind, " I cannot bear you going away like this ! It is 
 too dreadful. All I have been expecting miserably killed 
 within me like this ! " 
 
 Stephen flushed hot with impulse. " I will not be a 
 doubt to you — thought of you shall not be a misery to me ! " 
 he said. " We will be wife and husband before we part for 
 long ! " 
 
 She hid her face on his shoulder. "Anything to make 
 sure I " she whispered. 
 
 " I did not like to propose it immediately," continued 
 Stephen. " It seemed to me — it seems to me now — like 
 trying to catch you — a girl better in tiie world than I." 
 
 " Not that indeed ! and am I better in worldly station 1 
 What's the use of have beens ? We may have been some- 
 thing once ; we are nothing now." 
 
 Then they whispered long and earnestly together ; 
 Stephen hesitatingly proposing this and that plan, Elfride 
 modifying them, with quick breathings, and hectic flush, and 
 unnaturally bright eyes. It was two o'clock before an 
 arrangement was finally concluded. 
 
 She then told him to leave her, giving him his light to 
 
A PAIR Of r>LUE EYES. gg 
 
 go up to his own room. They parted with an agreement 
 not to meet again in the morning. After his door had been 
 some time closed he heard her softly ghding into net 
 chamber. 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 <* JOURNEYS END IN LOVERS' MEETING." 
 
 STEPHEN lay watching the Great Bear; Elfride lay 
 regarding a monotonous parallelogram of window- 
 blind. Neither slept that night. 
 
 Early the next morning — that is to say, four hours after 
 their stolen interview, and just as the earliest servant was 
 heard moving about — Stephen Smith went down stairs, port- 
 manteau in hand. Throughout the night he had intended 
 to see Mr. Swancourt again, but the sharp rebuff of the pre- 
 vious evening rendered such an interview particularly dis- 
 tasteful. Perhaps there was another and less honest reason. 
 He decided to put it off. Whatever of moral timidity or 
 obliquity may have lain in such a decision, nu perception 
 of it was strong enough to detain him. He wrote a note 
 in his room, which stated simply that he did not feel happy 
 in the house after Mr. Swancourt's sudden veto on what 
 he had favored a few hours before ; but that he hoped a 
 time would come, and that soon, when his original feelings 
 of pleasure as Mr. Swancourt's guest might be recovered. 
 
 He expected to find the down-stairs rooms wearing the 
 grey and cheerless aspect that early morning gives to every- 
 thing out of the sun. lie found in the dining-room a 
 breakfast laid, of which somebody had just partaken. 
 
 Stephen gave the maid-servant his note of adieu. She 
 stated that Mr. Swancourt rose early that morning, and 
 made an early breakfast. He was not going away that she 
 knew of. 
 
 Stephen partook of a remnant cup of coffee, left the 
 house of his Love, and turned into the lane. It was so 
 early that the shaded places still smelt like night-time, and 
 the sunny spots had hardly felt the sun. The horizontal 
 rays made every shallow dip in the ground to show as a 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. VOi 
 
 well-marked hollow. Even the channel of the path was 
 enough to throw shade, and the very stones of the road 
 cast tapering dashes of darkness westward, as long as 
 Jael's tent-nail. 
 
 At a spot not more than a hundred yards from the 
 vicar's residence, the lane leading thence crossed the high- 
 road. Stephen reached the point of intersection, stood still 
 and listened. Nothing could be heard save the lengthy 
 murmuring-line of the sea upon the adjacent shore. He 
 looked at his watch, and then mounted a gate, upon which 
 he seated himself, to await the arrival of the carrier. While 
 he sat he heard wheels coming in two directions. 
 
 The vehicle approaching on his right he soon recognized 
 as the carrier's. There were the accompanying sounds of 
 the owner's voice and the smack of his whip, distinct in the 
 still morning air, by which he encouraged his horses up the 
 hill. The other set of wheels sounded from the lane Ste- 
 phen had just traversed. On closer observation, he perceiv- 
 ed that they were moving from the precincts of the ancient 
 manor-house adjoining the vicarage grounds. A carriage 
 then left the entrance-gates of the house, and wheeling 
 round came fully in sight. It was a plain travelling car- 
 riage, with a small quantity of luggage, apparently a lady's. 
 The vehicle came to the junction of the four ways half a 
 minute before the carrier reached the same spot, and cross- 
 ed directly in his front, proceeding by the lane on the other 
 side. 
 
 Inside the carriage Stephen could just discern an el- 
 derly lady with a younger woman, who seemed to be her 
 maid. The road they had taken led to Stratleigh, a small 
 watering-place eighteen miles north. 
 
 He heard the manor-house gates swing again, and look- 
 ing up saw another person leaving them, and walking off 
 in the direction of the vicarage gates. ' Ah, would that 1 
 were moving that way ! ' felt he, parenthetically. The 
 gentleman was tall, and resembled Mr. Swancourt in out- 
 line and attire. He opened the vicarage gate and went in. 
 Mr. Swancourt, then, it certainly was. Instead of remain- 
 ing in bed that morning, Mr. Swancourt must have taken 
 it into his head to see his new neighbor off on a journey. 
 
 The carrier's conveyance had pulled up, and Stephen 
 
ICa . '^ PAIR OF SLUE EYES, 
 
 now handed in his portmanteau and mounted the shafts. 
 *' Who is that lady in the carriage ? " he inquired indiffer- 
 ently of the carrier. 
 
 " That, sir, is Mrs. Troyton, a widder wi' a mint o* 
 money. She's the owner of all that part of Endelstow 
 that is not Lord Luxellian's. Only been here a short time 
 — in short, since she came into it by law. The owner for- 
 merly was a terrible mysterious party — never lived here — 
 hardly ever was seen here except in the month of Septem- 
 ber." 
 
 The horses were started again, and noise rendered far- 
 ther discourse a matter of too great exertion. Stephen 
 crept inside under the tilt, and was soon lost in reverie. 
 
 Three hours and a half of straining up hills and jog- 
 ging down brought them to St. Kirr's, the market-town and 
 railway-station nearest to Endelstow, and the place from 
 which Stephen Smith had journeyed over the downs on the^ 
 to him, memorable winter evening at the beginning of the 
 same year. The carrier's van was so timed as to meet a 
 passing up-train, which Stephen entered. Two or three 
 hours' railway travel through vertical cuttings in metamor- 
 phic rock, through oak copses rich and green, stretching 
 over slopes and down delightful valleys, glens, and ravines 
 sparkling with water, like many-rilled Ida, and he plunged 
 imid the hundred and fifty thousand people comprising 
 the town of Plymouth. 
 
 There being some time upon his hands, he left his lug- 
 gage at the cloak-room, and went on foot along Bedford- 
 street to the nearest church. Here Stephen wandered 
 among the multifarious tombstones and looked in at the 
 chancel window, dreaming of something that was likely to 
 transpire by the altar there in the course of the coming 
 month. He turned away and ascended the Hoe, viewed 
 the magnificent stretch of sea and massive promontories 
 of land, but without particularly discerning one feature of 
 the varied perspective. He still saw that inner prospec' 
 —the event he hoped for in yonder church. The wide 
 Sound, the Breakwater, the light-house on far-off Eddy- 
 stone, the dark steam-vessels, brigs, barks, and schooners, 
 either floating stilly or gliding with tiniest motion, were as 
 the dream then ; the dreamed-of event was as the reality. 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 103 
 
 Soon Stephen went down from the Hoe, and returned 
 i\ the direction whence he had come. 
 
 That day was an irksome time at Endelstow vicarage. 
 Neither father nor daughter alluded to the departure of 
 Stephen. Mr. Swancourt's manner towards her partook of 
 ihe compunctious kindness that only arises from a mis- 
 giving as to the justice of some previous act. 
 
 Either from lack of the capacity to grasp the whole 
 coup d' ml, or from a natural endowment for certain kinds 
 of stoicism, women are cooler than men in critical situa- 
 tions of the passive form. Probably, in Elfride's case at 
 least, it was blindness to the greater contingencies of the 
 future she was preparing for herself, which enabled her to 
 ask her father in a quiet voice if he could give her a holi- 
 day soon, to ride to St. Kirr's and go on to Plymouth. 
 
 Now, she had only once before gone alone to Plymouth, 
 and that was in consequence of some unavoidable difficulty. 
 Being a country-girl, and a good, not to say a wild horse- 
 woman, it had been her delight to canter, without the ghost 
 of an attendant, over the twelve or fourteen miles of hard 
 road intervening between their home and the station at St. 
 Kirr's, put up the horse, and go on the remainder of the 
 distance by train, returning in the same manner in the 
 evening. It was then resolved that, though she had suc- 
 cessfully accomplished this journey once, it was not to be 
 repeated without some attendance. 
 
 But Elfride must not be confounded with ordinary young 
 lady equestrians. The circumstances of her lonely and 
 narrow life made it imperative that in trotting about the 
 neighborhood she must trot alone, or else not at all. 
 Usage soon rendered this perfectly natural to herself Her 
 father, who had had other experiences, did not much like 
 the idea of a Swancourt, whose pedigree could be as dis- 
 tinctly traced as a thread in a skein of silk scampering 
 over the hills like a farmer's dr.ughter, even though he 
 could habitually neglect her. But v/hat with his not being 
 able to afford her a regular attendant, and his inveterate 
 habit of letting anything be to save himself trouble, the 
 circumstance grew customary. And so there arose a 
 chronic notion in the villap^ers' minds that all ladies rode 
 
104 "^ ^^^^ ^^ BLUE EYES. 
 
 without an attendant, like Miss Swancourt, except a few 
 who were sometimes visiting at Lord Luxellian's. 
 
 " I don't like your going to Plymouth alone, particularly 
 going to St. Kirr's on horseback. Why not drive, and take 
 the man ? " 
 
 " It is not nice to be so overlooked.*' Worm's com- 
 pany would not seriously have interfered with her plans, 
 but it was her humor to go without him. 
 
 " When do you want to go ? " said her father. 
 
 She only answered, " Soon." 
 
 " I will consider," he said. 
 
 Only a few days elapsed before she asked again. A 
 letter had reached her from Stephen. It had been timed 
 to come on that day by special arrangement between them. 
 In it he named the earliest morning on which he could 
 meet her in Plymouth. Her father had been on a journey 
 to Stratleigh, and returned in unusual buoyancy of spirit. 
 It was a good opportunity ; and, since the dismissal of 
 Stephen, her father had been generally in a mood to make 
 small concessions, that he might steer clear of large ones 
 connected with that outcast lover of hers. 
 
 " Next Thursday week I am going from home in a dif- 
 ferent direction," said her father. " In fact, I shall leave 
 home the night before. You might choose the same day, 
 for they wish to take up the carpets, or some such thing, I 
 think. As I said, I don't like you to be seen in a town on 
 horseback alone ; but go if you will." 
 
 Thursday week. Her father had named the very day 
 that Stephen also had named that morning as the earliest 
 on which it would be of any use to meet her ; that was, 
 about fifteen days from the day on which he had left En- 
 delstow. Fifteen days — that fragment of duration which 
 has acquired such an interesting individuality from its con- 
 nection with the English marriage-law. 
 
 She involuntarily looked at her father so strangely, that 
 on becoming conscious of the look she paled with embar- 
 rassment. Her father, too, looked confused. What v/as 
 he thinking of? 
 
 There seemed to be a special facility offered her by a 
 power external to herself in the circumstance that Mr. 
 Swancourt had proposed to leave honie the night previous 
 
A FAIR OF BLUE EYES. I05 
 
 to her wished-for day. Her father seldom took long jour- 
 neys ; seldom slept from home except perhaps on the night 
 following a remote Visitation. Well, she would not inquire 
 too curiously into the reason of the, opportunity, nor did he, 
 as would have been natural, proceed to explain it of his own 
 accord. In matters of fact there had hitherto been no re- 
 serve between them, though they were not usually confiden- 
 tial in its full sense. But the divergence of their emotions 
 on Stephen's account had produced an estrangement which 
 just at present went even to the extent of reticence on the 
 most ordinary household topics. 
 
 Elfride was almost unconsciously relieved, persuading 
 herself that her father's reserve on his business justified 
 her in secrecy as regarded her own — a secrecy which was 
 necessarily a foregone decision with her. So anxious is a 
 young conscience to discover a palliative, that the ex post 
 facto nature of a reason is of no account in excluding it. 
 
 The intervening fortnight was spent by her mostly 
 in walking by herself among the shrubs and trees, indulging 
 sometimes in sanguine anticipations ; more, far more, fre- 
 quently, in misgivings. All her flowers seemed dull of 
 hue ; her pets seemed to look wistfully into her eyes, as if 
 they no longer stood in the same friendly relation to her as 
 formerly. She wore melancholy jewelry, gazed at sunsets, 
 and talked to old men and women. It was the first time 
 that she had had an inner and private world apart from the 
 visible one about her. She wished her papa, instead of 
 neglecting her even more than usual, would make some ad- 
 vance — just one word ; she would then tell all, and risk 
 Stephen's displeasure. Thus brought round to the youth 
 again, she saw him in her fancy, standing, touching her, his 
 eyes full of sad affection, hopelessly renouncing his attempt 
 because she had renounced hers 3 and she could not 
 recede- 
 On the Wednesday she was to receive another letter. 
 She had resolved to let her father see the arrival of this 
 one, be the consequences what they might : the dread of 
 losing her lover by this deed of honesty prevented her act- 
 ing upon the resolve. Five minutes before the postman's 
 expected arrival, she slipped out, and down the lane to 
 meet him. She met him immediately upon turning a sharp 
 
jq5 a pair of blue eyes, 
 
 angle, which hid her from view in the direction of the vicar- 
 age. The man smilingly handed one missive, and was go- 
 ing on to hand another, a circular from some tradesman. 
 
 " No," she said ; " take that on to the house." 
 
 " Why, miss, you are doing what your father has done 
 for the last fortnight." 
 
 She did not comprehend. 
 
 " Why, come to this corner, and take a letter of me 
 every morning, all writ in the same handwriting, and let- 
 ting any others for him go on to the house." And on the 
 postman went. 
 
 No sooner had he turned the corner behind her back 
 than she heard her father meet and address the man. She 
 had saved her letter by two minutes. Her father audibly 
 went through precisely the same performance as she had 
 just been guilty of herself. 
 
 This stealthy conduct of his was, to say the least, pe- 
 culiar. 
 
 Given an impulsive inconsequent girl, neglected as to 
 her inner life by her only parent, and the following forces 
 alive within her ; to determine a resultant : 
 
 First love, acted upon by a deadly fear of separation 
 from its object. 
 
 Inexperience, guiding onward a frantic wish to prevent 
 the above-named issue. 
 
 Misgivings as to propriety, met by hope of ultimate ex- 
 oneration. 
 
 Indignation at parental inconsistency in first encourag- 
 ing, then forbidding. 
 
 A chilling sense of disobedience, overpowered by a con- 
 scientious inability to brook a breaking of plighted faith 
 with a man who, in essentials, had remained unaltered 
 from the beginning. 
 
 A blessed hope that opposition would turn an erroneous 
 judgment. 
 
 A bright faith that things would mend thereby, and wind 
 up well. 
 
 Probably the result would, after all, have been nil, had 
 not the following few remarks been made one day at break- 
 fast. 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. XO7 
 
 Her father was in his old hearty spirits. He smiled to 
 himself at stories too bad to tell, and called Elfride a lit- 
 tle scamp for surreptitiously preserving some blind kittens 
 that ought to have been drowned. After this expression, 
 she said to him suddenly : 
 
 " If Mr. Smidi had been already in the family, you would 
 not have been made wretched by discovering he had pooi 
 relations ? " 
 
 " Do you mean in the family by marriage ? " he replied 
 inattentively, and condnuing to peel his egg. 
 
 " The accumulating scarlet told that was her meaning 
 as much as the affirmative reply. 
 
 " I should have put up with it, no doubt," Mr. Swan- 
 court observed. 
 
 " So that you would not have been driven into hopeless 
 melancholy, but have made the best of him ? " 
 
 Elfride's erratic mind had from her youth upwards been 
 constantly in the habit of perplexing her father by hypothet- 
 ical questions, based on absurd conditions. The presenf 
 seemed to be cast so precisely in the mould of previous 
 ones that, not being given to syntheses of circumstance, he 
 answered it with customary complacency. 
 
 " If he were allied to us irretrievably, of course I, or any 
 sensible man, should accept conditions that could not be 
 altered ; certainly not be hopelessly melancholy about it. 1 
 don't believe anything in the world would make me hopelessly 
 melancholy. And don't let anything make you so, either.' 
 
 " I won't papa," she cried, with a serene brightness that 
 pleased him. 
 
 Certainly Mr. Swancourt must have been far from 
 thinking that the brightness came from an exhilarating in- 
 tention to hold back no longer from the mad action she had 
 planned. 
 
 In the evening he drove away towards Stratleigh, quite 
 alone. It was an unusual course for him. At the door 
 Elfride had been again almost impelled by her feelings to 
 pour out all. 
 
 " Why are you going to Stratleigh, papa ? " she said, and 
 looked at him longingly. 
 
 " I will tell you to-morrow when I come back," he said 
 merrily ; " not before then, Elfride. Thou wilt not utter 
 
108 ^ -P^/^ OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 what thou dost not know, and so far will I trust thee, gentle 
 Elfride." 
 
 She was repressed and hurt. 
 
 " I will tell you my errand to Plymouth, too, when I 
 come back," she murmured. 
 
 He went away. His merriment made her intention seem 
 the lighter, as his indifference made her more resolved to do 
 as she liked. 
 
 It was a familiar September sunset, dark-blue fragments 
 )f cloud upon an orange-yellow sky. These sunsets used to 
 lempt her to walk towards them, as any beautiful thing 
 lempts a near approach. She went through the field tc the 
 privet hedge, clambered into the middle of it, and reclined 
 upon the thick boughs. After looking westward for a con- 
 siderable time, she blamed herself for not looking eastward 
 to where Stephen was, and turned round. Ultimately her 
 eyes fell upon the ground. 
 
 A peculiarity was observable beneath her. A green field 
 spiviad itself on each side of the hedge, one belongitig to 
 the glebe, the other a part of the land attached to the manor- 
 house adjoining. On the vicarage side she saw a little foot- 
 path, the distinctive and altogether exceptional feature of 
 which consisted in its being only about ten yards long, and 
 terminating abruptly at each end. 
 
 A footpath, suddenly beginning and suddenly ending, 
 coming from nowhere and leading nowhere, she had never 
 seen before. 
 
 Yes, she had, on second thoughts. She had seen ex- 
 actly such a path* trodden in the front of barracks by the 
 sentry. 
 
 And this recollection explained the origin of the path 
 here. Her father had trodden it by passing up and down, 
 as she had once seen him doing. 
 
 Sitting on the hedge as she was, her eyes commanded a 
 view of both sides of it. And a few minutes later, Elfride 
 looked over to the manor side. 
 
 Here was another sentry path. It was like the first in 
 length, and it began and ended exactly opposite the begin- 
 ning and ending of its neighbor, but it was thinner, and less 
 distinct. 
 
 1 wo reasons existed for the difference. This one might 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 109 
 
 have been trodden by a similar weight of tread to the other, 
 exercised a less number of times ; or it might have been 
 walked just as frequently, but by lighter feet. 
 
 Probably a gentleman from Scotland-yard, had he been 
 passing at the time, might have considered the latter alter- 
 native as the more probable. Elfride thought otherwise, so 
 far as she thought at all. But her own great To-Morrow 
 was now imminent ; all thoughts inspired by casual sights 
 of the eye were only allowed to exercise themselves in infe- 
 rior corners of her brain, previous to being banished alto- 
 gether. 
 
 Elfride was at length compelled to reason practically 
 upon her undertaking. AH her definite perceptions there- 
 on, v/hen the emotion accompanying them v/as abstracted, 
 amounted to no more than these : 
 
 " Say an hour and three-quarters to ride to St. Kirr's. 
 
 " Say half an hour at the Falcon to change my dress. 
 
 " Say two hours waiting for some train and getting to 
 Plymouth. 
 
 " Say an hour to spare before twelve o'clock. 
 
 " Total time from leaving Endelstow till twelve o'clock, 
 five hours ; therefore I shall have to start at seven." 
 
 No surprise or sense of unwontedness entered the minds 
 of the servants at her early ride. The monotony of life we 
 associate v/ith people of small incomes in districts out of 
 the sound of the railway whistle, has one exception, which 
 puts into shade the experience of dwellers about the great 
 centres of population— that is, in travelKng. Every jour- 
 ney there, is more or less an ad-venture ; adventurous hours 
 are necessarily chosen for the most commonplace outing. 
 Miss Elfride had to leave early — that was all. 
 
 Elfride never went out on horseback but she brought 
 home something — something found, or something bought. 
 If she trotted to town or village, her burden was books. 
 If to hills, woods, or the seashore, it was wonderful mosses, 
 abnormal twigs, a handkerchief of wet shells or sea- weed. 
 
 Once, on a muddy day, when Pansy was walking with 
 her down the street of Stranton village, on a fair-day, a 
 packet in front of her and a packet under her arm, an acci- 
 dent befel the packets, and they slipped down. On one 
 
no 
 
 ^ PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 side of her, three volumes of fiction lay kissing the mud . 
 on the other, numerous skeins of polychrome wools lay 
 absorbing it. Unpleasant female faces smiled through 
 windows at the mishap, the men all looked round, and a 
 boy, who was minding a gingerbread stall while the owner 
 had gone to get drunk, laughed loudly. The blue eyes 
 turned to sapphires, and the cheeks crimsoned with 
 vexation. 
 
 After that misadventure she set her wits to work, and 
 was ingenious enough to invent an arrangement of small 
 straps about the saddle, by which a great deal could be 
 safely carried thereon, in a small compass. Here she now 
 spread out and fastened a plain dark walking-dress and a 
 few other trifles of apparel. Worm opened the gate for her, 
 and she vanished away. 
 
 One of the brightest mornings of late summer shone 
 upon her. The heather was at its purplest, the furze at its 
 yellowest, the grasshoppers chirped loud enough for animals, 
 the snakes hissed like little engines, and Elfride at first felt 
 lively. Sitting at ease upon Pansy, in her orthodox riding- 
 habit and nondescript hat, she looked what she felt. But 
 the mercury of these days had a trick of falling unexpect- 
 edly. First, only for one minute in ten had she a sense of 
 depression. Then a large cloud, that had been hanging in 
 the north like a black fleece, came and placed itself between 
 herself and the sun. It helped on what was already inevi- 
 table, and she sank into a uniformity of sadness. 
 
 She turned in the saddle and looked back. They were 
 now on an open table-land, whose altitude still gave her a 
 view of the sea by Endelstow. She looked longingly at that 
 spot. 
 
 During this little revulsion of feeling. Pansy had been 
 still advancing, and Elfride felt it would be absurd to turn 
 her little mare's head the other way. " Still," she thought, 
 " if I had a mamma at home I would go back ! " 
 
 And, making one of those stealthy movements by which 
 women let their hearts juggle with their brains, she did put 
 the horse's head about, as if unconsciously, and went at a 
 hand-gallop towards home for more than a mile. By this 
 time, from the inveterate habit of valuing what we have re- 
 nounced directly the alternative is chosen, the thought of 
 
A PAIR OF BL UE E YES. I \ i 
 
 her forsaken Stephen recalled her, and she turned about, 
 and cantered on to St. Kirr's again. 
 
 This miserable strife of thought now began to rage in 
 all its wildness. Overwrought and trembling, she dropped 
 the rein upon Pansy's shoulders, and vowed she would be 
 led whither the horse should take her. 
 
 Pansy slackened her pace to a walk, and walked on with 
 her agitated burden for three or four minutes. At the ex- 
 piration of this time they had come to a little by-way on the 
 right, leading down a slope to a pool of water. The pony 
 stopped, loolced towards the pool, and then advanced and 
 stooped to drink. 
 
 Elfride looked at her watch and discovered that, if she 
 were going to reach St. Kirr's early enough to change her 
 dress at the Falcon, and get a chance of some early train to 
 Plymouth — there were only two available — it was necessary 
 to proceed at once. 
 
 She was impatient. It seemed as if Pansy would never 
 stop drinking ; and the repose of the pool, the idle motions 
 of the insects and flies upon it, the placid waving of the 
 flags, the leaf skeletons, like Genoese filigree, placidly sleep- 
 ing at the bottom, by their contrast with her own turmoil, 
 made her impatience greater. 
 
 Pansy did turn at last, and went up the slope again to 
 the high-road. The pony came upon it, and stood cross- 
 wise, looking up and down. Elfride's heart throbbed errati- 
 cally, and she thought, " Horses, if left to themselves, make 
 for where they are best fed. Pansy will go home." 
 
 Pansy turned and walked on towards St. Kirr's. 
 
 Pansy at home, during summer, had little but grass to 
 live on. After a run to St. Kirr's she alv;ays had a feed of 
 corn to support her on the return journey. Therefore, 
 being now more than halfway, she preferred St. Kirr's. 
 
 But Elfride did not remember this now. All she cared 
 to recognize was a dreamy fancy that to-day's rash action 
 was not her own. She was convulsed with feeling. It 
 seemed indispensable now to adhere to the programme. So 
 strangely involved are motives that, more than by her prom- 
 ise to Stephen, more even than by her love, she was forced 
 on by a sense of the necessity of keeping faith with herself, 
 as promised in the inane vow of ten minutes ago. 
 
112 
 
 A FAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 She hesitated no longer. Pansy went, like the steed of 
 Adonis, as if she told the steps. Presently the quaint ga- 
 bles and jumbled roofs of St. Kirr's were spread beneath 
 her, and going down the hill she entered the courtyard of the 
 Falcon. Mrs, Buckle, the landlady, came to the door to 
 meet her. 
 
 The Swancourts were well known here. The transition 
 from equestrian to the ordinary guise of railway travellers 
 had been more than once performed by father and daughter 
 in this establishment. 
 
 In less than a quarter of an hour Elfride emerged from 
 the door in her walking-dress, and went to the railway. 
 She had not told Mrs. Buckle anything as to her intentions, 
 and was supposed to be gone out shopping. 
 
 An hour and forty minutes later, and she was in Ste- 
 phen's arms at the Plymouth station. Not upon the plat- 
 form — in the secret retreat of a deserted waiting-room. 
 
 Stephen's face boded ill. He was pale and despondent. 
 
 *' What is the matter.? " she asked. 
 
 "We cannot be married here to-day, my Elfie ! I ought 
 to have known it and staid here. In my ignorance I did 
 not. I have the licence, but it can only be used in my 
 parish in London. I only came down last night, as you 
 know." 
 
 *' What ever shall wc do ? " she said blankly. 
 
 " There's only one thing we can do, darling." 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 " Go on to London by a train just starting, and be mar- 
 ried there to-morrow." 
 
 " Passengers for the 1 1.5 up train take their seats ! " said 
 a guard's voice on the platform. 
 
 " Will you go, Elfride ? " 
 
 " I will." 
 
 In three minutes the train had moved off, bearirg awajf 
 with it Stephen and Elfride. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 ** ADIEU ! SHE CRIES, AND WAVED HER LILY HAND. ' 
 
 THE few tattered clouds of the morning enlarged and 
 united, the sun withdrew behind them to emerge no 
 more that day, and the evening drew to a close in drifts of 
 rain. The water-drops beat like duck-shot against the 
 window of the railway carriage containing Stephen and 
 Elfride. 
 
 The journey from Plymouth to Paddington, by even the 
 most headlong express, allows quite enough leisure for 
 passion of any sort to cool. Elfride's excitement had 
 passed off, and she sat in a kind of stupor during the latter 
 half of the journey. She was aroused by the clanging of 
 the maze of rails over which they wended their way at the 
 entrance to the station. 
 
 *' Is this London ?" she said. 
 
 " Yes, darling," said Stephen, in a tone of assurance he 
 was far from feeling. To him, no less than to her, the 
 reality so greatly differed from the prefiguring. 
 
 She peered out as well as the window, beaded with 
 drops, would allow her, and saw only the lamps which had 
 just been lit, blinking in the wet atmosphere, and rows of 
 hideous zinc chimney-pipes in dim relief against the sky. 
 She writhed uneasily, as when a thought is swelling in the 
 mind which must cause much pain at its deliverance in 
 words. Elfride had known no more about the stings of 
 evil report than the native wild-fowl knew of the effects of 
 Crusoe's first shot. Now she saw a little farther, and a 
 little farther still. 
 
 The train stopped. Stephen relinquished the soft hand 
 he had held all the day, and proceeded to assist her on to 
 the platform. 
 
 This act of alightmg upon sl/ange ground seemed all 
 
114 ^ ^"^^^ OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 that was wanted to complete a resolution within her. She 
 looked at her betrothed with despairing eyes. 
 
 " O, Stephen," she exclaimed, " I am so miserable ! I 
 must go home again — I must— I must! Forgive my 
 wretched vacillation. I don't like it here — nor myself— 
 nor you ? " 
 
 Stephen looked b^^wildered, and did not speak. 
 
 " Will you allow ne to go home .? " she implored. *' I 
 won't trouble you tc go with me. I will not be any weight 
 upon you; only sa- you will agree to my returning; that 
 you will not hate me for it, Stephen ! It is better that I 
 should return again ; indeed it is, Stephen." 
 
 " But we can't return now," he said, in a deprecatory 
 tone. 
 
 " I must ! I will ! " 
 
 " How ? When do you want to go ? " 
 
 " Now. Can we go at once ? " 
 
 The lad looked hopelessly along the platform. " If you 
 must go, and think it wrong to remain, dearest," said he 
 sadly, "you shall. You shall do whatever you like, my 
 Elfride. But would you in reality rather go now than 
 stay till to-morrow, and go as my wife } " 
 
 "Yes, yes — much — anything to go now. I must; I 
 must ! " she cried. 
 
 " We ought to have done one of two things," he an- 
 swered gloomily. "Never to have started, or not to have 
 returned without being married. I don't like to say it, 
 Elfride — indeed I don't ; but you must be told this, that 
 going back unmarried may compromise your good name in 
 the eyes of people who may hear of it." 
 
 " They will not ; and I must go." 
 
 " O Elfride, Elfride ; I am to blame for bringing you 
 away ! " 
 
 "Not at all. I am the elder." 
 
 " By a month ; and what's that? But never mind that 
 now." He looked around. " Is there a train for Ply- 
 mouth to-night?" he inquired of a guard. The guard 
 passed on and did not speak. 
 
 " Is there a train for Plymouth to-night ? " said Elfride 
 to another. 
 
 "Yes, miss; the 8.10— leaves in ten minutes. You 
 
A PAIR OF BL UK E YES. 1 1 5 
 
 have come to the wrong platform ; it is the other side. 
 Change at Bristol into the night mail. Down that stair- 
 case, and under the line." 
 
 They ran down the staircase — Elfride first — to the 
 booking-office, and into a carriage with an official standing 
 beside the door. " Show your tickets, please" — they are 
 locked in — men about the platform accelerate their veloci- 
 ties till they fly up and down like shuttles in a loom — a 
 whistle — the waving of a flag — a human cry — a steam groan 
 — and away they go to Plymouth again, just catching these 
 words, as they glide away : 
 
 "Those two youngsters had a near run for it, and no 
 mistake ! " 
 
 Elfride found her breath. 
 
 *' And have you come too, Stephen ? Why did you ? ' 
 
 " I shall not leave you till I see you safe at St. Kirr's. 
 Do not think worse of me than I am, Elfride." 
 
 And then they rattled along through the night. The 
 weather cleared, and the stars shone in upon them. Their 
 two or three fellow-passengers sat for most of the time 
 with closed eyes. Stephen sometimes slept ; Elfride alone 
 was wakeful and palpitating hour after hour. 
 
 The day began to break, and revealed that they were 
 by the sea. Red rocks overhung them, and, receding 
 into distance, grew livid in the blue-grey atmosphere. The 
 sun rose, and sent penetrating shafts of light in upon their 
 weary faces. Another hour, and the world began to be 
 busy. They waited yet a little, and the train slackened its 
 speed in view of the platform at St. Kirr's. 
 
 She shivered, and mused sadly. 
 
 " I did not see all the consequences," she said, " Ap- 
 pearances are wofully against me. If anybody finds me 
 out, I am, I suppose, disgraced." 
 
 " Then appearances will speak falsely ; and how can that 
 matter, even if they do ? I shall be your husband sooner or 
 later, for certain, and so prove your purity." 
 
 '* Stephen, once in London I ought to have married 
 you," she said firmly. " It was my only safe defence. I 
 see more things now than I did yesterday. My only re- 
 maining chance is not to be discovered ; and that we must 
 fight for most desperately." 
 
.l6 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 They stepped out. Elfride pulled a thick veil over hei 
 fece. 
 
 A woman with red and scaly eyelids and glistening eyes 
 was sitting on a bench just inside the office-door. She 
 fixed her eyes upon Elfride with an expression whose force 
 it was impossible to doubt, but the meaning of which was 
 not clear; then upon the carriage they had left She 
 seemed to read a strange story in the scene. Elfride shrank 
 back, and turned the other way. 
 
 '-'■ Who is that woman ? " said Stephen. " She looked 
 hard at you." 
 
 '* Mrs. Jethwa}^ — a widow, and mother of that young 
 man whose tomb we sat on the other night. Stephen, she 
 is my enemy. Would that God had had mercy enough 
 upon me to have hidden this from her I " 
 
 "Do not talk so hopelessly," he remonstrated. "I 
 don't think she recognized us." 
 
 " I pray that she did not." 
 
 He put on a more vigorous mood. 
 
 " Now we will go and get some breakfast." 
 
 " No, no ! " she begged. " I cannot eat. I must get 
 back to Endelstow." 
 
 Elfride was as if she had grown years older that Stephen 
 now. 
 
 " But you have had nothing since last night but that 
 cup of tea at Bristol." 
 
 " I can't eat, Stephen." 
 
 " Wine and biscuit ? " 
 
 *'No." 
 
 " Nor tea, nor coffee ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " A glass of water ? " 
 No. I want something that makes people strong and 
 energetic for the present, that borrows the strength of to- 
 morrow for use to-day, and leaves to-morrow without any 
 at all for that matter ; or even that would take all life away 
 to-morrow, so long as it enabled me to get home again now. 
 Brandy, that's what I want. That woman's eyes have eaten 
 my heart away ! " 
 
 " You are wild , and you grieve me, darling. Must i* 
 be brandy?" 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. II7 
 
 "Yes, if you please." 
 
 " How much ? " 
 
 " I don't know. I have never drunk more than a table* 
 spoonful. Don't get it at the Falcon." 
 
 He left her in the fields, and went to the nearest inn in 
 that direction. Presently he returned with a small flask 
 nearly full, and some slices of bread-and-butter, thin as 
 wafers, in a paper-bag. Elfride took a sip or two. 
 
 " It goes into my eyes," she said wearily. " I can't take 
 any more. Yes, I will ; I will close my eyes. Ah, it goes 
 to them by an inside route. I don't want it, throw it 
 away." 
 
 However, she could eat, and did eat. Her chief atten- 
 tion was concentrated upon how to get the horse from the 
 Falcon stables without suspicion. Stephen was not allowed 
 to accompany her into the town. She acted now upon 
 conclusions reached without any aid from him : his power 
 over her seemed to have departed. 
 
 " You had better not be seen with me, even here where I 
 am so little known. We have begun stealthily as thieves, 
 and we must end stealthily as thieves, at all hazards. Until 
 papa has been told by me myself, a discovery would be ter- 
 rible." 
 
 Walking and gloomily talking thus they waited till 
 nearly nine o'clock, at which time Elfride thought she might 
 call at the Falcon without creating much surprise. Behind 
 the railway-station was the river, spanned by an old Tudor 
 bridge, whence the road diverged in two directions, one 
 skirting the suburbs of the town, and winding round again 
 into the high road to Endelstow. Beside this road Stephen 
 sat, and awaited her return from the Falcon. 
 
 He sat as one in a dream, perfectly motionless, watch- 
 ing the checkered lights and shades on the tree-trunks, the 
 children playing opposite the school previous to entering 
 for the morning lesson, the reapers in a field afar off. The 
 certainty of possession had not come, and there was noth- 
 ing to mitigate the heart-sickness that increased with the 
 thought of the parting now so near. 
 
 At length she came trotting round to him, in appearance 
 much as on the romantic morning of their visit to the cliff, 
 but shorn of the radiance which glistened about her then. 
 
Il8 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 However, her comparative immunity from farther risk and 
 trouble Iiad considerably composed her. Elfride's capacity 
 for being wounded was only surpassed by her capacity for 
 healing, which rightly or wrongly is by some considered an 
 index of transientness of feeling in general. 
 
 " Elfride, what did they say at the Falcon ? " 
 
 " Nothing. Nobody seemed curious about me. They 
 knew I went to Plymouth, and I have staid there a night now 
 and then with Miss Bicknell. I rather calculated upon that." 
 
 And now parting arose like a death before them, for it 
 was imperative that she should start at once. Stephen 
 walked beside her for nearly a mile. During the walk he 
 said sadly : 
 
 *' Elfride, four-and-twenty hours have passed, and the 
 thing is not done." 
 
 " But you have insured that it should be done." 
 
 "How have I?" 
 
 " O, Stephen, you ask how ! Do you think I could 
 marry another man on earth after having gone thus far with 
 you ? Have I not shown beyond possibility of doubt that 
 I can be nobody else's ? Have I not irretrievably commit- 
 ted myself? — pride has stood for nothing in the face of my 
 great love. You misunderstood my turning back, and I 
 cannot explain it. It was wrong to go with you at all ; and 
 though it would have been worse to go farther, it would 
 have been better policy, perhaps. Be assured of this, that 
 whenever you have a home for me — however poor and 
 humble — and come and claim me, I am ready." She added 
 bitterly, "When my father knows of this day's work, he 
 may be only too glad to let me go." 
 
 " Perhaps he may, then, insist upon our marriage at 
 once ! " Stephen answered, seeing no other ray of hope in 
 the very focus of her remorse. " I hope he may, even if we 
 had still to part till I am ready for you, as we intended." 
 
 Elfride did not reply. 
 
 " You don't seem the same woman, Elfie, that you were 
 yesterday." 
 
 " Nor am I. But good-bye. Go back now." And she 
 reined the horse for parting. " O, Stephen," she cried, "I 
 feel so weak. I don't know how to meet him. Cannot 
 you, after all, come back with me ?" 
 
A PAIR OF BL UE E YES. I ig 
 
 '« Shall I come ? " 
 
 Elfride paused to think. 
 
 " No ; it will not do. It is my utter foolishness that 
 makes me say such words. But he will send for you." 
 
 " Say to him," continued Stephen, " that we did this in 
 the absolute despair of our minds. Tell him we don't wish 
 him to favor us — only to deal justly with us. If he says 
 marry now, so much the better. If not, say that all may 
 be put. right by his promise to allow me to have you when 
 I am good enough for you — which may be soon. Say I 
 have nothing to offer him in exchange for his treasure — the 
 more sorry I ; but all the love, and all the life, and all the 
 labor of an honest man shall be yours. As to when this 
 had better be told, I leave you to judge." 
 
 His words made her cheerful enough to toy with her 
 position. 
 
 " And if ill report should come, Stephen," she said, 
 smiling, "why, the orange tree must save me, as it saved 
 virgins in St. George's time, from the poisonous breath of 
 the dragon. There, forgive me for forwardness : I am 
 going." 
 
 Then this boy and girl beguiled themselves with words 
 of half parting only. 
 
 " Own wifie, God bless you till we meet again 1 " 
 
 "Till we meet again, good-b3^e." 
 
 And the pony went on, and she spoke to him no more. 
 He saw her figure diminish and her blue veil grow giey^ — 
 saw it with the agonizing sensations of a slow death. 
 
 After thus parting from a man than whom she knew 
 none greater as yet, Elfride rode rapidly onwards, a teat 
 being occasionally shaken from her eye into the road. 
 What yesterday had seemed so desirable, so promising, 
 even trifling, had now acquired the complexion of a tragedy. 
 
 She saw the rocks and sea in the neighborhood of 
 Endelstow, and heaved a sigh of relief. 
 
 When she passed a field behind the vicarage she heard 
 the voices of Unity and William Worm. They were hanging 
 a carpet upon a line. Unity was uttering a sentence that 
 concluded with " when Miss Elfride comes." 
 
 " When d' ye expect her ? '* 
 
I20 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 " Not till evening now. She's safe enough at Miss 
 Bicknell's, bless ye." 
 
 Elfride went round to the door. She did not knock or 
 ring ; and seeing nobody to take the horse, Elfride led her 
 round to the yard, slipped off the bridle and saddle, drove 
 her round to the paddock, and turned her in. Then Elfride 
 crept in-doors, and looked into all the ground-floor rooms. 
 Her father was not there. 
 
 On the mantel piece of the drawing-room stood a le-tter 
 addressed to her in his handwriting. She took it and read 
 it as she went up stairs to change her habit. 
 
 " Stratleigh, Thursday. 
 " Dear Elfride, — On second thoughts I will not return to-day, but 
 only come as far as Wadcombe. I shall be at home by to-morrow 
 afternoon, and bring a friend with me. — Yours in haste, C. S." 
 
 After making a quick toilet she felt more revived, 
 though still suffering from a headache. On going out of 
 the door, she met Unity at the top of the stairs. 
 
 " O, Miss Elfride ! I said to myself 'tis her sperrit ! 
 We didn't dream o' you not coming home last night. You 
 didn't say anything about staying." 
 
 " I intended to come home the same evening, but altered 
 my plan. I wished I hadn't afterwards. Papa will be 
 angry, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Better not tell him, miss," said Unity. 
 
 " I do fear to," she murmured. " Unity, would you 
 just begin telling him when he comes home? " 
 
 " What ! and get you into trouble ? " 
 
 " I deserve it." 
 
 "No, indeed, I won't," said Unity. "It is not such a 
 mighty matter, Miss Elfride. I says to myself, master's 
 taking a hollerday, and because he's not been kind lately 
 to IMiss Elfride, she — " 
 
 " Is imitating him. Well, do as you like. And will 
 you now bring me some luncheon ? " 
 
 After satisfying an appetite which the fresh marine air 
 had given her in its victory over an agitated mind, she put 
 on her hat and went to the garden and summer-house. 
 She sat down, and leaned with her head in a corner 
 
 Here she fell asleep. 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 12 1 
 
 Half-awake, she hurriedly looked at the time. She had 
 been there three hours. At the same moment she heard 
 the outer gate swing together, and wheels sweep round the 
 entrance ; some prior noise from the same source having 
 probably been the cause of her awaking. Next her father's 
 voice was heard calling to Worm. 
 
 ' Elfride passed along a walk towards the house behind 
 a belt of shrubs. She heard a tongue holding converse 
 with her father, which was not that of either of the servants. 
 Her father and the stranger were laughing together. Then 
 there was a rustling of silk, and Mr. Swancourt and his 
 companion or companions, to all seeming, entered the door 
 of the house, for nothing more of them was audible. 
 Elfride had turned back to meditate on what friends these 
 could be, when she heard footsteps, and her father exclaim- 
 ing behind her, 
 
 " O, Elfride, here you are ! I hope you got on well ? " 
 
 Elfride's heart smote her, and she did not speak. 
 
 " Come back to the summer-house a minute," continu- 
 ed Mr. Swancourt ; *' I have to tell you of that I promised 
 to." 
 
 They entered the summer-house, and stood leaning 
 over the knotty woodwork of the balustrade. 
 
 "Now," said her father radiantly, "guess what I have 
 to say." He seemed to be regarding his own existence so 
 intently that he took no interest in nor even saw the com- 
 plexion of hers. 
 
 ** I cannot, papa," she said sadly. 
 
 ^'Try, dear." 
 
 " I would rather not, indeed." 
 
 " You are tired. You look worn. The ride was too 
 much for you. Well, this is what I went away for. I went 
 to be married ! " 
 
 " Married ! " she faltered, and could hardly check an 
 involuntary "So did I." A moment after and her resolve 
 to confess perished like a bubble. 
 
 " Yes ; to whom do you think ? Mrs. Troyton, the new 
 owner of the estate over the hedge, and the old manor- 
 house. It was only finally settled between us when I went 
 to Stratleigh a few days ago." He lowered his voice to a 
 sly tone of merriment. " Now, as your step-mother, you'll 
 6 
 
122 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 find she is not much to look at, though a good deal to 
 listen to. She is twenty years older than myself, for one 
 thing." 
 
 " You forget that I know her. She called here once, 
 after we had been and found her away from home." 
 
 " Of course, of course. Well, whatever her looks are, 
 she's as excellent a woman as ever breathed. She has had 
 lately left her as absolute property two thousand five hun- 
 dred a year, besides the devise of this estate — and, by the 
 way, a large legacy came to her in satisfaction of dower, 
 as it is called." 
 
 "Two thousand five hundred a year! " 
 
 " And a large — well, a fair-sized — mansion in town, and 
 a pedigree as long as my walking-stick : though that bears 
 evidence of being rather a raked-up aflfair — done since the 
 family got rich — people do those things now as they build 
 ruins on maiden estates and cast antiques at Birmingham." 
 
 Elfride merely listened and said nothing. 
 
 He continued more quietly and impressively. "Yes, 
 Elfride, she is wealthy in comparison with us, though with 
 few connections. However, she will introduce you to the 
 world a little. We are going to exchange the house in 
 Baker-street for one at South Kensington, for your sake. 
 Everybody is going there now, she says. At Easter we 
 shall fly to town for the usual three months— I shall have a 
 curate of course by that time. Elfride, I am past love, you 
 know, and I honestly confess that I married her for your 
 sake. Why a woman of her standing should have thrown 
 herself away upon me, God knows. But I suppose her age 
 and plainness were too pronounced for a town man. With 
 your good looks, if you now play your cards well, you may 
 marry anybody. Of course, a little contrivance will be 
 necessary ; buit there's nothing to stand between you and a 
 husband with a title, that I can see. Lady Luxellian was 
 only a squire's daughter. Now, don't you see how foolish 
 the old fancy was .^ But come, she is in doors waiting to see 
 you. It is as good as a play, too," continued the vicar, as 
 they walked toward the house. " 1 courted her through the 
 privet hedge yonder : not entirely, you know, but we used 
 to walk there of an evening — nearly every evening at last 
 But I needn't tf^ii vqu details now; everything was terribly 
 
A PATR OF BLUE EYES. 723 
 
 matter-of-fact, I assure you. At last, that day I saw her at 
 Stratleigh, we determined to settle it off-hand." 
 
 " And you never said a word to me," replied Elfride, 
 not reproachfully either in tone or thought. Indeed, her 
 feeling was the very reverse of reproachful. She felt reliev 
 ed and even thankful. Where confidence had not beer 
 given, how could confidence be expected? 
 
 Her father mistook her dispassionateness for a veil oV 
 politeness over a sense of ill-usage. "I am not altogether 
 to blame," he said. " There were two or three reasons for 
 secrecy. One was the recent death of her relative the tes- 
 tator, though that did not apply to you. But remember, 
 Elfride," he continued in a stiffer tone, " you have mixed 
 yourself up so foolishly with those low people, the Smiths 
 — and it was just, too, when Mrs. Troy ton and myself were 
 beginning to understand each other — that I resolved to 
 say nothing even to you. How did I know ho v far you 
 had gone with them and their son .? You t light have 
 made a point of taking tea with them every day lor all that I 
 knew." 
 
 Elfride swallowed her feelings as she bcFt could, and 
 languidly though flatly asked a question. 
 
 " Did you kiss Mrs. Troyton on the law \ about three 
 weeks ago ? That evening I came into the s udy and found 
 you had just had candles in } " 
 
 Mr. Swancourt looked rather red and 3 jashed, as mid- 
 dle-aged lovers are apt to do when caught m the tricks of 
 younger ones. 
 
 "Well, yes; I think I did," he sta' miered ; "just to 
 please her, you know." And then recovering himself he 
 laughed heartily. 
 
 " And was this what your Horatian quotation referred 
 to ? " 
 
 " It was, Elfride." 
 
 They stepped into the drawing-i iom from the veranda. 
 At that moment Mrs. Swancourt came down stairs, and en- 
 tered the same room by the door. 
 
 " Here, Charlotte, is my little Elfride," said Mr. Swan- 
 court, with the increased affection of tone often adopted to- 
 wards relations when newly produced. 
 
 Poor Elfride, not knowing what to do, did nothing at 
 
124 
 
 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 all ; but stood receptive of all that came to her by sight, 
 hearing, and touch. 
 
 Mrs. Swancourt moved forward, took her step-daughter's 
 hand, then kissed her. 
 
 " Ah, darling ! " she exclaimed good humoredly, " you 
 didn't think when you showed a strange old woman over the 
 conservatory a month or two ago, and explained the flowers 
 to her so prettily, that she would so soon be here in new 
 colors. Nor did she, I am sure." 
 
 The new mother had been truthfully enough described by 
 Mr. Swancourt. She was not physically attractive. She 
 was dark — very dark — in complexion, portly in figure, and 
 with a plentiful residuum of hair in the proportion of half a 
 dozen white ones to half a dozen black ones, though the 
 latter were black indeed. No farther observed, she was not 
 a woman to like. But there was more to see. To the 
 most superficial critic it was apparent that she made no 
 attempt to disguise her age. She looked sixty at the first 
 glance, and close acquaintanceship never proved her older. 
 
 Another and still more winning trait was one attaching 
 to the corners of her mouth. Before she made a remark 
 these often twitched gently : not backwards and forwards, 
 the index of nervousness ; not down upon the jaw, the sign 
 of determination ; but palpably upwards, in precisely the 
 curve adopted to represent mirth in the broad caricatures 
 of school-boys. Only this element in her face was expres- 
 sive of anything within the woman, but it was unmistakable. 
 It expressed humor subjective as well as objective — which 
 could survey the peculiarities of self in as whimsical a light 
 as those of other people. 
 
 This is not all of Mrs. Swancourt. She had held out 
 to Elfride hands whose fingers were hterally stiff with rings, 
 signis auroqiie rigentes^ like Helen's robe. These rows of 
 rings were not worn in vanity apparently. They were most- 
 ly antique and dull, though a few were the reverse. 
 
 RIGHT HAND. 
 
 I St. Plainly set oval onyx, representing a devil's head. 
 2nd. Green jasper intaglio, with red veins. 3rd. Entirely 
 gold, bearing figure of a hideous griffin. 4th. A sea-green 
 monster diamond, with small diamonds round it. ' 5 th. 
 
A PAIR OF riLUE EYES. 
 
 125 
 
 Antique cornelian intaglio of dancing figure of a satyr, 6th. 
 An angular band chased with dragons' heads. 7th. A facet- 
 ted carbuncle, accompanied by ten little twinkling dia- 
 monds, etc. 
 
 LEFT HAND. 
 
 ist. A reddish-yellow toadstone. 2nd. A heav^y ring 
 enamelled in colors, and bearing a jacynth. 3rd. An ame- 
 thystine sapphire. 4th. A polished ruby, surrounded by 
 diamonds. 5th. The engraved ring of an abbess. 6th. A 
 gloomy intaglio, etc. 
 
 Beyond this rather quaint array of stone and metal, Mrs. 
 Swancourt wore no ornament whatever. 
 
 Elfride had been favorably impressed with Mrs. Troyton 
 at their meeting about two months earlier ; but to be pleas- 
 ed with a woman as a momentary acquaintance was differ- 
 ent from being taken with her as a step-mother. However, 
 the suspension of feeling was but for a moment. Elfride 
 decided to like her still. 
 
 Mrs. Swancourt was a woman of the world as to knowl- 
 edge, the reverse as to action, as her marriage suggested. 
 Elfride and the lady were soon inextricably involved in 
 conversation, and Mr. Swancourt left them to themselves. 
 
 " And what do you find to do with yourself here ? " Mrs. 
 Swancourt said, after a few remarks about the wedding. 
 " You ride, I know." 
 
 " Yes, I ride. But not much, because papa doesn't like 
 my going alone." 
 
 "You must have an attendant." 
 
 " And I read and write a little." 
 
 " You should write a novel. The regular resource of 
 people who don't go enough into the world to live one, is 
 to write one." 
 
 " I have," said Elfride, looking dubiously at Mrs. Swan- 
 court, as if in doubt whether she would meet with ridicule 
 there. 
 
 " That's right. Now then, what is it about, dear ? " 
 
 *' About — well, it is a romance of the Middle Ages." 
 
 "Knowing nothing of the present age, which every- 
 body knows about, for safety you choose an age knowD 
 
126 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 neither to you nor other people. That's it, eh ? No, no ; 1 
 don't mean it, clear." 
 
 " Well, I have had some opportunities of studying med- 
 iaeval art and manners in the library and private museum at 
 Endelstow House, and I thought I should like to try my 
 hand upon a fiction. I know the time for these tales is 
 past ; but I was interested in it, very much interested." 
 
 " When is it to appear ? " 
 
 " O, never, I suppose." 
 
 "Nonsense, my dear girl. Publish it by all means. 
 All ladies do that sort of thing now ; not for profit, you 
 know, but as a guarantee of mental respectability to their 
 future husbands." 
 
 *' An excellent idea of us ladies." 
 
 " Though I am afraid it rather resembles the melan- 
 choly ruse of throwing loaves over castle v/alls at besiegers, 
 and suggests desperation rather than plenty inside." 
 
 " Did you ever try it ? " 
 
 " No ; I was too far gone even for that." 
 
 " Papa says no publisher will take my book." 
 
 " That remains to be proved. Pll give my word, my 
 dear, that by this time next year it shall be printed." 
 
 " Will you, indeed ? " said Elfride, partially brightening 
 with pleasure, though she was sad enough underneath. 
 " I thought brains were the indispensable, if not the only, 
 qualification for admission to the republic of letters. A 
 mere common-place creature like me will soon be turned 
 out again. 
 
 " O, no ; once you are there you'll be like a drop of 
 water in a piece of rock-crystal — your medium will dignify 
 your commonness." 
 
 " It will be a great satisfaction," Elfride murmured, and 
 thought of Stephen, and wished she could make a great for- 
 tune by writing romances, and marry him and live happily. 
 
 " And then we'll go to London, and then to Paris," 
 said Mrs. Swancourt. " I have been talking to your father 
 about it. But we have first to move into the manor-house, 
 and we think of staying at Torquay while that is going on. 
 Meanwhile, instead of going on a honey-moon scamper by 
 ourselves, we have come home to fetch you, and go all 
 together to Bath for two or three weeks." 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 1 27 
 
 Elfride assented pleasantly, even gladly ; but she saw 
 that, by this marriage, her father and herself had ceased 
 forever to be the close relations they had been up to a few 
 weeks ago. It was impossible now to tell him the tale of 
 her wild elopement with Stephen Smith. 
 
 He was still snugly housed in her heart. His absence 
 had regained for him much of that aureola of saintship 
 which had been nearly abstracted during her reproachful 
 mood on that miserable journey from London. Rapture is 
 often cooled by contact with its cause, especially if under 
 awkward conditions. And that last experience with Ste- 
 phen had done anything but make him shine in her eyes. 
 His very kindness in letting her return was his offence. 
 Elfride had her sex's love of sheer force in a man, however 
 ill-directed ; and at that critical juncture in London, Ste- 
 phen's only chance of retaining the ascendency over her 
 that his face and not his parts had acquired for him, would 
 have been by doing what, for one thing, he was too youth- 
 ful to undertake — that was, dragging her by the wrist to 
 the rails of some altar, and peremptorily marrying her. 
 Decisive action is seen by appreciative minds to be fre- 
 quently objectless, and sometimes fatal ; but decision, 
 however suicidal, has more charm for a woman than the 
 most unequivocal Fabian success. 
 
 However, some of the unpleasant accessories of that 
 occasion were now out of sight again, and Stephen had re* 
 sumed not a few of his fancy colors. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 " HE SET IN ORDER MANY PROVERBS." 
 
 IT is London in October — two months farther on in the 
 story. 
 
 Bede's Inn has this peculiarity, that it faces, receives 
 from, and discharges into a bustling thoroughfare speaking 
 only of wealth and respectability, while its postern abuts 
 on as crowded and poverty-stricken a network of alleys as 
 are to be found anywhere in the metropolis. The moral 
 consequences are, first, that those who occupy chambers in 
 the Inn may see a great deal of shirtless humanity's habits 
 and enjoyments without doing more than look down from 
 a back window ; and second, they may hear wholesome 
 though unpleasant social reminders through the medium 
 of a harsh voice, an unequal footstep, the echo of a blow or 
 a fall, which originates in the person of some drunkard 
 or wife-beater, as he crosses and interferes with the quiet 
 of the square. Characters of this kind frequently pass 
 through the Inn from a little fox-hole of an alley at the 
 back, but they never loiter there. 
 
 It is hardly necessary to state that all the sights and 
 movements proper to the Inn are most orderly. On the 
 fine October evening on which we follow Stephen Smith to 
 this place, a placid porter is sitting on a stool under a 
 sycamore tree in the midst, with a little cane in his hand. 
 We notice the thick coat of soot upon the branches, hang- 
 ing underneath them in flakes, as in the chimney. The 
 blackness of these boughs does not at present improve the 
 tree — nearly forsaken by its leaves as it is — but in the 
 spring their green fresh beauty is made doubly beautiful by 
 the contrast. Within the railings is a flower-garden of re- 
 Sj^ectable dahlias and chrysanthemums, where a man is 
 sweeping the leaves from the grass. 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 129 
 
 Stephen selects a doorway, and ascends an old though 
 wide wooden staircase, with moulded balusters and hand- 
 rail, which in a country manor-house would be considered 
 a noteworthy specimen of Renaissance workmanship. He 
 reaches a door on the first floor, over which is painted, in 
 black letters, " Mr. Henry Knight." The wall is thick, and 
 there is a door at its outer and inner face. The outer one 
 happens to be ajar: Stephen goes to the other, and taps. 
 
 " Come in ! " from distant penetralia. 
 
 First was a small ante-room, divided from the inner 
 apartment by a wainscotted archway two or three yards 
 wide. Across this archway hung a pair of dark-green cur- 
 tains, making a mystery of all within the arch, except the 
 spasmodic scratching of a quill-pen. Here was grouped a 
 chaotic assemblage of articles — mainly old framed prints 
 and paintings — leaning edgewise against the wall, like 
 roofing-slates in a builder's yard. AH the books visible 
 here were folios too big to be stolen — some lying on a 
 heavy oak table in one corner, some on the floor among the 
 pictures, the whole intermingled with old coats, hats, um- 
 brellas, and walking-sticks. 
 
 Stephen pushed aside the curtain, and before him sat a 
 man, writing away as if his life depended upon it — which 
 it did. 
 
 A man of thirty in a speckled coat, with dark-brown 
 hair, curly beard, and crisp moustache : the latter running 
 into the beard on each side of the mouth, and, as usual, 
 hiding the real expression of that organ under a chronic as- 
 pect of impassivity. 
 
 " Ah, my dear fellow, I knew 'twas you," said Knight, 
 looking up with a smile, and holding out his hand. 
 
 Knight's mouth and eyes came to view now. Both fea- 
 tures were good, and had the peculiarity of appearing younger 
 arid fresher than the brow and face they belonged to, which 
 were getting sicklied o'er by the unmistakable pale cast. 
 The mouth had not quite relinquished rotundity of curve 
 for the firm angularities of middle life ; and the eyes, 
 though keen, permeated rather than penetrated : what they 
 had lost of their boytime brightness by a dozen years of 
 hard reading lending a quietness to their gaze which suited 
 them well. 
 
 6* 
 
130 A P^IR OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 A lady would have said there was a smell of tobacco in 
 the room ; a man that there was not. 
 
 Knight did not rise. He looked at a time-piece on the 
 mantel-shelf, then turned again to his letters, pointing to a 
 chair. 
 
 '• Well, I am glad you have come. I only returned to 
 town yesterday : now don't speak, Stephen, for ten min- 
 utes ; I have just that time to the late post. At the eleventh 
 minute, I'm your man." 
 
 Stephen sat down as if this kind of reception was by no 
 means new, and away went Knight's pen, beating up and 
 down like a ship in a storm. 
 
 Cicero called the library the soul of the house ; here 
 the house was all soul. Portions of the floor, and half the 
 wall-space, were taken up by book-shelves ordinary and ex- 
 traordinary ; the remaining parts, together with brackets, 
 side-tables, etc., being occupied by casts, statuettes, me- 
 dallions, and plaques of various descriptions, picked up by 
 the owner in his wanderings through France and Italy. 
 
 One stream only of evening sunlight came into the room 
 from a window quite in the corner, overlooking a court. 
 An aquarium stood in the window. It was a dull parallelo- 
 pipedon enough for living creatures at most hours of the 
 day ; but for a few minutes in the evening, as now, an er- 
 rant kindly ray lighted up and warmed the little world 
 therein when the many-colored zoophytes opened and put 
 forth their arms, the weeds acquired a rich transparency, 
 the shells gleamed of a more golden yellow, and the little 
 community expressed gladness more plainly than in words. 
 
 Within the prescribed ten minutes, Knight flung down 
 his pen, rang for the boy to take the letters to the post, and 
 at the closing of the door exclaimed, " There ; thank God, 
 tiiat's done. Now, Stephen, pull your chair round, and tell 
 me what you have been doing all this time. Have you 
 kept up your Greek ? " 
 
 *' No." 
 
 "How's that.?" 
 
 " I haven't enough spare time." 
 
 " That's nonsense." 
 
 " Well, I have done a great many things, if not that 
 And I have done one extraordinary thing." 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 131 
 
 Knight turned full upon Stephen. " A-ha ! Now then, 
 let me look into your face, put two and two together, and 
 make a shrewd guess." 
 
 Stephen changed to a redder color. 
 
 *'Why, Smith," said Knight, after holding him rigidly 
 by the shoulders, and keenly scrutinizing his countenance 
 for a minute in silence, " you have fallen in love." 
 
 *' Well— the fact is—" 
 
 "Now, out with it." But seeing that Stephen looked 
 rather distressed, he changed to a kindly tone. *' Now, 
 Smith, my lad, you know me well enough by this time, 01 
 you ought to ; and you know very well that if you choose 
 to give me a detailed account of the phenomenon within 
 you, I shall listen ; if you don't, I am the last man in the 
 world to care to hear it." 
 
 " I'll tell thus much ! I have fallen in love, and I want 
 to be married.'^ 
 
 " Knight looked rather ominously as this passed Ste- 
 phens' lips. 
 
 " Don't judge me before you have heard more," cried 
 Stephen anxiously, seeing the change in his friend's coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 " I don't judge. Does your mother know about it ? '* 
 
 " Nothing definite." 
 
 <' Father?" 
 
 " No. But I'll tell you. The young person — " 
 
 *' Come, that's dreadfully ungallant. But perhaps I un- 
 derstand the frame of mind a little, so go on. Your sweet- 
 heart—" ^ 
 
 " She is rather higher in the world than me." 
 
 " As it should be." 
 
 " And her father won't hear of it, as I now stand." 
 
 " Not an uncommon case." 
 
 " And now comes what I want vour advice upon. 
 Something has happened at her house which makes it out 
 of the question for us to ask her father again now. So we 
 are keeping silent. In the meantime an architect in India 
 has just written to Mr. Hewby to ask whether he can find 
 for him a young assistant willing to go over to Bombay to 
 prepare drawings for work formerly done by the engineers. 
 The salary he offers is 350 rupees a month, or about 35/. 
 
132 
 
 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 Hevvby has mentioned it to me, and I have been to Dr. 
 Wray, who says I shall acclimatize without much illness. 
 Now, would you go ? " 
 
 " You mean to say, because it is a possible road to the 
 young lady." 
 
 " Yes ; I was thinking I could go over and make a little 
 money, and then come back and ask for her. I have the 
 option of practicing for myself after a year." 
 
 " Would she be stanch ? " 
 
 " O, yes ! Forever — to the end of her life ! " 
 
 " How do you know ? " 
 
 " Why, how do people know ? Of course she will." 
 
 Knight leaned back in his chair. *' Now, though I 
 know her thoroughly as she exists in your heart, Stephen, 
 I don't know her in the flesh. All I want to ask is, is this 
 idea of going to India based entirely upon a belief in her 
 fidelity ?^" 
 
 " Yes ; I should not go if it were not for her." 
 
 " Well, Stephen, you have put me in rather an awkward 
 position. If I give my true sentiments, I shall hurt your 
 feelings ; if T don't, I shall hurt my own judgment. And 
 remember, I don't know much about women." 
 
 " But you have had sweethearts, although you tell me 
 very little about them." 
 
 "And I only hope you'll continue to prosper till I tell 
 you more." 
 
 Stephen winced at this rap. " I have never formed a 
 deep attachment," continued Knight. " I never have found 
 a woman worth it. Nor have I been once engaged to be 
 married." 
 
 *' You write as if you had been engaged a hundred times, 
 if I may be allowed to say so," said Stephen in an injured 
 tone. 
 
 " Yes, that may be. But, my dear Stephen, it is only 
 those who half know a thing that write about it. Those 
 who know it thoroughly don't take the trouble. All I 
 know about women, or men either, is a mass of generali- 
 ties. I plod along, and occasionally lift my eyes and skim 
 the weltering surface of mankind lying between me and 
 the horizon, as a crow might ; no more." 
 
 Knight stopped as if he had fallen into a train of 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE J^YES. 
 
 133 
 
 thought, and Stephen looked with affectionate awe at a 
 master whose mind he believed could swallow up at one 
 meal all his own head contained. 
 
 There was affective sympathy, but no great intellectual 
 fellowship, between Knight and Stephen Smith. Knight 
 had seen his young friend when the latter was a cherry- 
 cheeked happy boy, had been interested in him, had kept 
 his eye upon him, and generously helped the lad to books, 
 till the mere connection of patronage grew to acquaint- 
 ance, and that ripened to friendship. And so, though 
 Smith was not at all the man Knight would have deliber- 
 ately chosen as a friend — or even for one of a group of a 
 dozen friends — he somehow was his friend. Circum- 
 stances, as usual, did it all. How many of us can say of 
 our most intimate alter ego, leaving alone friends of the 
 outer circle, that he is the man we should have chosen, as 
 the net result after adding up all the points in human 
 nature that we love, and principles we ourselves hold, and 
 subtracting all that we hate ? The man is really some- 
 body we got to know by mere physical juxtaposition long 
 maintained, and was taken into our confidence, and even 
 heart, as a makeshift. 
 
 " And what do you think of her ? " Stephen ventured 
 to say, after a silence. 
 
 " Taking her merits on trust from you," said Knight, 
 " as we do those of the Roman poets, of whom we know 
 nothing but that they lived, I think that she will not stick 
 to you through, say, three years of absence in India." 
 
 " But she will ! " cried Stephen desperately. " She is 
 a girl all delicacy and honor. And no woman of tliat 
 kind, who has committed herself so into a man's hands as 
 she has into mine, could possibly marry another." 
 
 " How has she committed herself? " asked Knight 
 curiously. 
 
 Stephen did not answer. Knight had looked on his 
 love so sceptically that it would not do to say all he had 
 intended by any means. 
 
 " Well, d^n't tell," said Knight. " But you are beg- 
 ging the question, which is, I suppose, inevitable in 
 love?" 
 
 "And I'll tell you another thing," the younger man 
 
124 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 pleaded. " You remember what you said to me once 
 about women receiving a kiss. Don't you ? ^ Why, that 
 instead of our being charmed by the fascination of their 
 bearing at such a time, we should immediately doubt them 
 if their confusion has any grace in it — that aw^kward bun- 
 gling was the true charm at such a time, implying that we 
 are the first who has played such a part with them." 
 
 " It is true, quite," said Knight musingly. 
 
 It often happened that the disciple thus remembered 
 the lessons of the master long after the master himself had 
 forgotten them. 
 
 " Well, that was like her ! " cried Stephen triumph- 
 antl}^ " She was in such a flurry that she didn't know 
 what she was doing." 
 
 " Splendid, splendid ! " said Knight soothingly. " So 
 that all I have to say is, that if you see a good opening in 
 Bombay there's no reason why you should not go without 
 troubling to draw fine distinctions as to reasons. No man 
 fully realizes what opinions he acts upon, or what his 
 actions mean." 
 
 " Yes ; I go to Bombay. I'll write a note here, if you 
 don't mind." 
 
 " Sleep over it — it is the best plan — and write to-raor- 
 row. Meantime, go there to that window and sit down, 
 and look at my Humanity Show. I am going to dine out 
 this evening, and have to dress here out of my portman- 
 teau. I bring up my things Hke this to save the trouble 
 of going down to my place at Richmond and back again." 
 
 Knight then went to the middle of the room and flung 
 open his portmanteau, and Stephen drew near the window. 
 The streak of sunlight had crept upward, edged away, and 
 vanished; the zojphytes slept: a dusky gloom pervaded 
 the room. And now another volume of light shone over 
 the window. 
 
 *' There ! " said Knight, "where is there in England a 
 spectacle to equal that ? I sit there and watch them every 
 night before I go home. Softly open the sash." 
 
 Beneath them was an alley running up to the wall, and 
 thence turning sideways and passing under an arch, so 
 that Knight's back window was immediately over the 
 angle, and commanded a view of the alley lengthwise. 
 
A PAIR OF BL UE E YES. 
 
 135 
 
 Crowds — mostly of women — were surging, bustling, and 
 pacing up and down. Gaslights glared from butchers* 
 stalls, illuminating the lumps of flesh to splotches of 
 orangd and vermilion, like the wild coloring of Turner's 
 later pictuxes, while the purl and babble of tongues of 
 every pitch' and mood was to this human wild wood what 
 the ripple of a brook is to the natural forest. 
 
 Nearly ten minutes passed. Then Knight also came 
 to the window. 
 
 " Well, now, I call a cab and vanish down the street in 
 the direction of Berkeley-square," he said, buttoning his 
 waistcoat, and kicking his morning suit into a corner. 
 Stephen rose to leave. 
 
 " What a heap of literature ! " remarked the young 
 man, taking a final longing survey round the room, as if 
 to abide there forever would be the great pleasure of his 
 life, yet feeling that he had almost outstaid his welcome- 
 while. His eyes rested upon an arm-chair piled full of 
 newspapers, magazines, and bright new volumes in green 
 and red. 
 
 "Yes," said Knight, also looking at them and breath- 
 ing a sigh of weariness ; "something must be done with 
 several of them soon, I suppose. Stephen, you needn't 
 hurry away for a few minutes, you know, if you want to 
 stay ; I am not quite ready. Overhaul those volumes 
 while I put on my coat, and I'll walk a little way with 
 you." 
 
 Stephen sat down beside the arm-chair and began to 
 tumble the books about. Among the rest he found a nov- 
 elette in one volume, The Court of Kellyon Castle. By 
 Ernest Field. 
 
 "Are you going to review this?" inquired Stephen 
 with apparent unconcern, and holding up Elfride's effu 
 sion. 
 
 " Which 1 O, that ! I may — though I don't do much 
 reviewing now. But it is reviewable." 
 
 " How do you mean? " 
 
 Knight never liked to be asked what he meant. 
 " Mean ! I mean that the majority of books published are 
 neither good enough nor bad enough to provoke criticism, 
 and that that book does provoke it." 
 
136 ^ P^If^ OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 " By its goodness or its badness ? " Stephen said, with 
 some anxiety on poor little Elfride's score. 
 
 " Its badness. It seems to be written by some girl in 
 her teens." 
 
 Stephen said not another word. He did not care to 
 speak plainly of Elffide after that unfortunate slip his 
 tongue had made with regard to her having committed 
 herself; and, apart from that, Knight's severe — almost 
 dogged and self-willed — honesty in criticising was unas- 
 sailable by the humble wish of a youthful friend like 
 Stephen. 
 
 Knight was now ready. Turning off the gas, and slam- 
 ming together the door, they vvent down the stairs and into 
 the street. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 "WE FROLIC WHILE 'TIS MAY." 
 
 IT has now to be not only supposed but clearly realized 
 that nearly three-quarters of a year have passed away. 
 In place of the autumnal scenery that formed a setting to 
 the previous enactments, we have now before us the summer 
 of the year following. 
 
 Stephen is in India, slaving away at an office in Bombay ; 
 occasionally going up the country on professional errands, 
 and wondering why people complained so much of the effect 
 of the climate upon their constitutions. Never had a young 
 man a finer start than seemed now to present itself to Ste- 
 phen. It was just in that exceptional heyday of prosperity 
 which shone over Bombay, about ten years ago, that he 
 arrived on the scene. Building and engineering partook 
 of the general impetus. Speculation moved with an accel- 
 erated velocity every successive day, the only disagreeable 
 contingency connected with it being the possibility of a 
 capsize. 
 
 Elfride had never told her father of the four-and-twenly 
 hours' escapade with Stephen, nor had it, to her knowledge, 
 come to his ears by any other route. It was a secret trouble 
 and grief to the girl for a short time, and Stephen's depart- 
 ure was another ingredient in her sorrow. But Elfride 
 possessed special facilities for getting rid of trouble after a 
 decent interval. While a slow nature was imbibing a mis- 
 fortune little by little, she had swallowed the whole agony 
 of it at a draught and was brightening again. She could 
 slough off a sadness and replace it by a hope as easily as a 
 lizard renews a diseased limb. 
 
 And two such excellent distractions had presented them 
 selves. One was bringing out the romance and looking for 
 notices in the papers, which, though they had been signifi 
 
138 ^ J^AIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 cantly short so far, had served to divert her thoughts. The 
 other was migrating from the vicarage to the more commo- 
 dious old house of Mrs. Swancourt overlooking the same 
 valley. Mr. Swancourt at first disliked the idea of trans- 
 plantation to feminine soil, but the obvious advantages of 
 such an accession of dignity reconciled him to the change. 
 So there was a radical " move ; " tiie two ladies staying at 
 Torquay as had been arranged, the vicar going to and fro. 
 
 Mrs. Swancourt considerably enlarged Elfride's ideas in 
 an aristocratic direction, and she began to forgive her father 
 for his politic marriage. Certainly, in a worldly sense, a 
 handsome face at three-and-forty had never served a man in 
 better stead. 
 
 The new house at Kensington was ready, and they were 
 all in town. 
 
 The Hyde-Park shrubs had been transplanted as usual, 
 the chairs ranked in line, the grass edgings trimmed, the 
 roads made to look as if they were suffering from a heavy 
 thunderstorm ; carriages had been called for the easeful, 
 horses for the brisk, and the Drive and Row were again the 
 groove of gayety for an hour. We gaze upon the spectacle, 
 at six o'clock on this midsummer afternoon, in a melon- 
 frame atmosphere and beneath a violet sky. The Swan- 
 court equipage formed one in the stream. 
 
 Mrs. Swancourt was a talker of talk of the incisive kind, 
 which her low musical voice — the only beautiful point in the 
 old woman — prevented from being wearisome. 
 
 " Now," she said to Elfride, who, like ^neas at Car- 
 thage, was full of admiration for the brilliant scene, "you will 
 find that our companionless state will give us, as it does 
 everybody, an extraordinary power in reading the features 
 of our fellow-creatures here. I always am a listener in such 
 places as these — not to the narratives told by my neighbors* 
 tongues, but by their faces — the advantage of which is, that 
 whether I am in Row, Boulevard, Rialto, or Prado, the/ all 
 speak the same language. I may have acquired some skill 
 in this practice through having been an ugly lonely woman 
 for so many years, with nobody to give me information ; a 
 thing you will not consider strange when the parallel case 
 is borne in mind, — how truly people who have no clocks 
 will tell the time of day.'* 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 139 
 
 " Ay, that they will," said Mr. Swancourt corroboratively. 
 "I have known laboring men at Endelstovv and other farms 
 who had framed complete systems of observation for that 
 purpose. By means of shadows, winds, clouds, the move- 
 ments of sheep and oxen, the singing of birds, the crowing 
 of cocks, and a hundred other sights and sounds which peo- 
 ple with watches in their pockets never know the existence 
 of, they are able to pronounce within ten minutes of the 
 hour almost at any required instant. That reminds me of 
 an old story which I'm afraid is too bad — too bad to re- 
 peat." Here the vicar shook his head and laughed in- 
 wardly. 
 
 " Tell it— do I " said the ladies. 
 
 '* I mustn't quite tell it." 
 
 " That's absurd," said Mrs. Swancourt. 
 
 "It was only about a man who, by the same careful sys- 
 tem of observation, was known to deceive persons for more 
 than two years into the belief that he kept a barometer by 
 stealth, so exactly did he foretell all changes in the weather 
 by the braying of his ass and the temper of his wife." 
 
 Elfride laughed. 
 
 " Exactly," said Mrs. Swancourt. "And in just the 
 way that those learnt the signs of nature, I have learnt the 
 language of her illegitimate sister — artificiality ; and the 
 fibbing of eyes, the contempt of nose tips, the indignation 
 of back hair, the laughter of clothes, the cynicism of foot- 
 steps, and the various emotions lying in walking-stick twirls, 
 hat-liftings, the elevation of parasols, the carriage of um- 
 brellas, become as A B C to me." 
 
 "Just look at that daughterVeldest-sister class of mam- 
 ma in the carriage across there," she continued to Elfride, 
 pointing with merely a turn of her eye. " The absorbing 
 iself consciousness of her position that is shown by her coun- 
 tenance is most humiliating to a lover of one's country. You 
 would hardly believe, would you, that members of a fash- 
 ionable world, whose professed zero is far above the highest 
 degree of the humble, could be so ignorant of the element- 
 ary instincts of reticence." 
 
 " How ? " . 
 
 " Why, to bear on their faces, as plainly as on a phylac- 
 tery, the inscription, ' Do, pray, look at the coronet on niv 
 
1^0 ^ PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 panels ; or, * Look at the leaves and pearls in my coronet ;' 
 or, 'Look at the leaves pure and unmixed in mine. I don't 
 say,' they seem to go on saying to the shabby people, ' that 
 I wish you to think us connected with the Norman Conquest 
 of you, wretched Nobody-knows-who,' or whatever the word 
 of the season is for the poorer inhabitants of the country, 
 *but we are, and there is our crest and significant motto.' " 
 
 " O, Mrs. Swancourt!" said Elfride. 
 
 *' But I much prefer the manners of my acquaintance of 
 that class to the way some of us, with no title but much 
 wealth, look at the strugglers for gentility. There's a speci- 
 men — there's another. The glance in them is modified to 
 'O, moneyless ones, this bracelet I wear, weighing three- 
 quarters of a pound, is real gold ! Solid you know — 
 s, o, 1, i, d, — right through the middle and out at the other 
 side.' " 
 
 " Really, Charlotte," said the vicar, " you see as much 
 in faces as Mr. Puff saw in Lord Burleigh's nod." 
 
 Elfride could not but admire the beauty of her fellow- 
 countrywomen, especially since herself and her own few ac- 
 quaintances had always been slightly sunburnt or marked 
 on the back of the hands by a bramble scratch at this time 
 of the year. 
 
 " And what lovely flowers and leaves they wear in their 
 bonnets ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 " O, yes," returned Mrs. Swancourt. " Some of them 
 are even more striking in color than any real ones. Look at 
 that beautiful rose worn by the lady inside the rails. Ele- 
 gant vine-tendrils introduced upon the stem as an improve 
 ment upon prickles, and all growing so naturally just over 
 her ear — I say growing advisedly, for the pink of the petals 
 and the pink of her handsome cheeks are equally from Na- 
 ture's hand to the eyes of the most casual observer." 
 
 " But praise them a little, they do deserve it ! " said gen« 
 erous Elfride. 
 
 " Well, I do. See how the Duchess of waves to and 
 
 fro in her seat, utilizing the sway of her barouche by looking 
 forward only when her head is swung forward, with a pas- 
 sive pride which forbids a resistance to the force of circum- 
 stance. Look at the pretty pout on the mouths of that fam- 
 ily there, retaining no traces of be'ng arranged beforehand, 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 141 
 
 SO well is it done. Look at the demure close of the little fists 
 holding the parasols ; the tiny alert thumb, sticking up erect 
 against the ivory stem as knowing as can be, the satin of 
 the parasol invariably matching the complexion of the face 
 beneath it, yet seemingly by an accident, which makes the 
 thing so attractive. There's the red book lying on the op- 
 posite seat, bespeaking the vast numbers of their acquaint- 
 ance. And I particularly admire the aspect of that abun- 
 dantly-daughtered woman on the other side — I mean her 
 look of unconsciousness that the girls are stared at by the 
 walkers, and above all, the look of the girls themselves — 
 losing their gaze in the depths of handsome men's eyes 
 without appearing to notice whether they are observing mas- 
 culine eyes or the leaves of the trees. There's praise for 
 you. But I am only jesting, child — you know that." 
 
 *' Piph-ph-ph — how warm it is, to be sure ! " said Mr. 
 Swancourt, as if his mind were a long distance from all he 
 saw. " I declare that my watch is so hot that I can scarce- 
 ly bear to touch it to see what the time is, and all the world 
 smells like the inside of a hat." 
 
 " How the men stare at you, Elfride ! " said the eldei 
 lady. " You w^'Il kill me quite, I am afraid." 
 
 " Kill you ? " 
 
 " As a diamond kills an opal in the same setting." 
 
 " I have noticed several ladies and gentlemen looking 
 at me," said Elfride, artlessly showing her pleasure at being 
 observed. 
 
 " My dear, you mustn't say ' gentlemen ' now-a-days," 
 her step-mother answered in the tones of mock dignity that 
 so well became her. " We have handed over ' gentle- 
 men ' to the lower middle class, where the word is still to be 
 heard at tradesmen's balls and provincial tea-parties. It is 
 done with here." 
 
 " What must I say, then ? " 
 
 " Ladies and inen^ always." 
 
 At this moment appeared in the stream of vehicles mov- 
 ing in the contrary direction a chariot presenting in its gen- 
 eral surface the rich indigo hue of a midnight sky, the 
 wheels and margins being picked out in delicate lines of 
 French blue ; the servants' liveries were dark-blue coats 
 and silver lace, and breeches of neutral Indian red. The 
 
142 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 whole concern formed an organic whole, and moved along 
 behind a pair of dark-chestnut geldings, who advanced in 
 an inditTerently zealous trot, very daintily performed, and 
 occasionally shrugged divers points of their veiny surface as 
 if they were rather above the business. 
 
 In this sat a gentleman with no decided characteristics 
 more than that he somewhat resembled a good-natured com- 
 mercial traveller of the superior class. Beside him was a 
 lady with skim-milky eyes and complexion, belonging to the 
 interesting class of women, where that class merges in the 
 sickly, her greatest pleasure being apparently to enjoy noth- 
 ing. Opposite this pair sat two little girls in white hats and 
 blue feathers. 
 
 The lady saw Elfride, smiled and bowed, and touched 
 her husband's elbow, who turned and received Elfride's 
 movement of recognition with a gallant elevation of his hat. 
 Then the two children held up their arms to Elfride, and 
 laughed gleefully. 
 
 " Who is that ? " 
 
 " Why, Lord Luxellian, isn't it?" said Mrs. Swancourt, 
 who, with the vicar, had been seated with her back towards 
 them. 
 
 "Yes," replied Elfride. " He is the one man of those I 
 have seen here whom I consider handsomer than papa." 
 
 " Thank you, dear," said Mr. Swancourt. 
 
 " Yes ; but your father is so much older. When Lord 
 Luxellian gets a little farther on in life, he won't be half so 
 good-looking as our man." 
 
 "Thank you, dear, likewise," said Mr. Swancourt. 
 
 " See," exclaimed Elfride, still looking towards them, 
 " how those little dears want me 1 Actually one of them is 
 crying for me to come." 
 
 " We were talking of bracelets just now. Look at Lady 
 Luxellian's," said Mrs. Swancourt, as the Baroness lifted up 
 her arm to support one of the children. " It is slipping up 
 her arm — too large by half. I hate to see daylight between a 
 bracelet and a wrist; I wonder women haven't better taste.'* 
 
 " It is not on that account, indeed," Elfride expostulated. 
 " It is that her arm has got thin, poor thing. You cannot 
 think how much she has altered in this last twelvemonth." 
 
 The carriages were now near ^ together, and there was 
 
A PAIR OF BL UE E YES. X43 
 
 an exchange of more familiar greetings between the two 
 families. Then the Luxellians crossed over and drew up 
 under the plane-tree, just in the rear of the Swancourts. 
 Lord Luxellian alighted, and came forward with a musical 
 laugh. 
 
 It v/as his attraction, as a man. People liked him for 
 those tones, and forgot that he had no talents. Acquaint- 
 ances remembered Mr. Swancourt by his manner ; they re- 
 membered Stephen Smith by his face, Lord Luxellian by his 
 laugh. 
 
 Mr. Swancourt made some friendly remarks — among 
 other things upon the heat. 
 
 " Yes," said Lord Luxellian, " we were driving by a fur- 
 rier's window this afternoon, and the sight filled us all with 
 such a sense of suffocation that we were glad to get away. 
 Ha-ha ! " He turned to Elfride. " Miss Swancourt, I have 
 hardly seen or spoken to you since your literary feat was 
 made public. I had no idea a child was taking notes 
 down at quiet Endelstovv', or I should certainly have put my- 
 self and friends upon our best behavior. Swancourt, why 
 didn't you give me a hint ! " 
 
 Elfride fluttered, blushed, laughed, said it was nothing 
 to speak of, etc., etc. 
 
 " Well, I think you were rather unfairly treated by the 
 Prese?it ; I certainly do. Writing a heavy review like that 
 upon an elegant trifle like the Court of Kellyon Castle was 
 absurd." 
 
 "What?" said Elfride, opening her eyes. "Was I 
 reviewed in the Present 1 " 
 
 " O, yes ; didn't you see it ? Why, it was four or five 
 months ago." 
 
 " No, I never saw it. How sorry I am ! What a shame 
 of my publishers ; they promised to send me every notice 
 that appeared." 
 
 " Ah, then I am almost afraid I have been giving you 
 disagreeable information, intentionally withheld out of 
 courtesy. Depend upon it, they thought no good would 
 come of sending it, and so would not pain you unneces- 
 sarily." 
 
 "O, no; I am indeed glad you have told me, Lord 
 Luxellian. It is quite a mistaken kindness on their pait 
 
144 
 
 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 Is the review so much against me ? " she inquired tremu- 
 lously. 
 
 " No, no j not that exactly — though I almost forget its 
 exact purport now. It was merely — merely sharp, you 
 know — ungenerous, I might say. But really my memory 
 does not enable me to speak decidedly." 
 
 " We'll drive to the Present office, and get one directly j 
 shall we, papa?" 
 
 " If you are so anxious, dear, we will, or send. But 
 to-morrow will do." 
 
 " And do oblige me in a little matter now, Miss Swan- 
 court," said Lord Luxellian warmly, and looking as if he 
 had brought news that disturbed her. "I am in reality 
 sent here as a special messenger by my littly Polly and 
 Katie to ask you to come into our carriage with them for a 
 short time. I am just going to walk across into Piccadilly, 
 and my wife is left alone with them. I am afraid they are 
 rather spoilt children ; but I have half promised them you 
 shall come." 
 
 The steps were let down, and Elfride was then trans- 
 ferred — to the intense delight of the little honorables, and 
 to the great interest of well-dressed loungers with red 
 skins and long necks, who curiously eyed the performance 
 with their walking-sticks to their lips, occasionally laugh- 
 ing from far down their throats and with their eyes, their 
 mouths not being concerned in the operation at all. Lord 
 Luxellian then told the coachman to drive on, lifted his 
 hat, smiled a smile that missed its mark and alighted on a 
 total stranger, who bowed in bewilderment. Lord Luxellian 
 looked long at Elfride. 
 
 The look was a manly, open, and genuine look of ad- 
 miration ; a momentary tribute of a kind which any honest 
 Englishman might have paid to fairness without being 
 ashamed of the feeling, or permitting it to encroach in the 
 slightest degree upon his emotional obligations as a husband 
 and head of a family. Then Lord Luxellian turned away, 
 and walked musingly to the upper end of the promenade. 
 
 Mr. Swancourt had alighted at the same time with 
 Elfride, crossing over to the Row for a few minutes to 
 speak to a friend he recognized there ; and his wife was 
 thus left sole tenant of the carriage. 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 145 
 
 Now while this little act had been in course of perform- 
 ance, there stood among the promenading spectators a man 
 of somewhat different description from the rest. Behind 
 the general throng, in the rear of (he chairs, and leaning 
 against the trunk of a tree, he looked at Elfride with quiet 
 and critical interest. 
 
 Three points about this unobtrusive person showed 
 promptly to the exercised eye that he was not a Row man 
 pur sang. First, an irrepressible wrinkle or two in the 
 waist of his frock-coat — denoting that he had not damned 
 his tailor sufficiently to drive that tradesman up to the 
 orthodox high-pressure of cunning workmanship. Second, 
 a slight slovenliness of umbrella, occasioned by its owner's 
 habit of resting heavily upon it, and using it as a veritable 
 walking-stick, instead of letting its point touch the ground 
 in the most coquettish of kisses, as is the proper Row man- 
 ner to do. Third, and chief reason, that try how you might, 
 you could scarcely help supposing, on looking at his face, 
 that your eyes were not far from a well-finished mind, 
 instead of the well-finished skin ei prxtera nihil^ which is 
 by rights the Mark of the Row. 
 
 The probability is that, had not Mrs. Swancourt been 
 left alone in her carriage under the tree, this man would 
 have remained in his unobserved seclusion. But seeing 
 her thus, he came round to the front, stooped under the 
 rail, and stood beside the carriage-door. 
 
 Mrs. Swancourt looked reflectively at him for a quarter 
 of a minute, then held out her hand laughingly : 
 
 " Why, Henry Knight — of course it is ! My — second — 
 third — fourth — cousin — what shall I say ? At any rate, 
 my kinsman." 
 
 *' Yes, one of a remnant not yet cut off. I scarcely was 
 certain of you, either, from where I was standing." 
 
 I have not seen you since you first went to Oxford, 
 consider the number of years ! You know, I suppose ol 
 ray marriage?" 
 
 And there sprang up a dialogue concerning family mat- 
 ters of birth, death, and marriage, which it is not neces- 
 sary to detail. Knight presently inquired : 
 
 *' The young lady who changed into the other carriage 
 is, then, your step-daughter t " 
 
 7 
 
1^6 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 "Yes; Elfride. You must know her." 
 
 " And who was the lady in the carriage Elfride entered ; 
 who had an ill-defined and watery look, as if she v/ere only 
 the reflection of herself in a pool ? " 
 
 "Lady Luxellian; very weakly, Elfride says. How> 
 ever, Henry, you1l come and see us, of course. 24 Chev- 
 ron-square. Come this week. We shall only be in town 
 a week or two longer." 
 
 " Let me see. I am compelled to leave for Oxford to- 
 morrow, where I shall be for several days ; so that I must, 
 I fear, lose the pleasure of seeing you in London this year." 
 
 " Then come to Endelstow ; why not return with us .? " 
 
 " I am afraid if I were to come before August I should 
 have to leave again in a day or two. I should be delighted 
 to be with you at the beginning of that month ; and I 
 could stay a nice long time. I have thought of going west- 
 ward all the summer." 
 
 "Very well. Now remember that's a compact. And 
 won't you wait now and see Mr. Swancourt ? He will not 
 be away ten minutes longer." 
 
 " No ; I'll beg to be excused ; for I must get to my 
 chambers again this evening before I go home ; indeed I 
 ought to have been there now — I have such a press of 
 matters to attend to just at present. You will explain to 
 him, please. Good-bye." 
 
 " And let us know the day of your appearance as soon 
 as you can." 
 
 "I wUl." 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 "A WANDERING VOICE." 
 
 SHEER and intelligible griefs are not charmed away by 
 being confined to mere acquaintances. 
 
 The species of trouble which, like a stream, gets shal- 
 lower by the simple operation of widening it in any quarter, 
 is vexation that has for its chief ingredient perplexity. 
 
 On the evening of the day succeeding that of the meet- 
 ing in the Park, Elfride and Mrs. Swancourt were engaged 
 in conversation in the dressing-room of the latter. Such a 
 treatment of such a case was in process of adoption here. 
 
 Elfride had just before received an affectionate letter 
 from Stephen Smith in Bombay, which had been forwarded 
 to her from Endelstow. But since this is not the case 
 referred to, it is not worth while to pry farther into the con- 
 tents of the letter than to discover that, with rash though 
 pardonable confidence in coming times, he addressed her 
 in high spirits as his darling future wife. 
 
 Probably there cannot be instanced a briefer and surer 
 rule-of-thumb test of a man's temperament — sanguine or 
 cautious — than this : did he or does he ante-date the word 
 wife in corresponding with a sweetheart he honestly loves ? 
 
 She had taken this epistle into her own room, read a 
 little of it, then saved the rest for to-morrow, not wishing to 
 be so extravagant as to consume the pleasure all at once. 
 Nevertheless, she could not resist the wish to enjoy yet a 
 little more, so out came the letter again, and in spite of 
 misgivings as to prodigality the whole was devoured. The 
 letter was finally re-perused and placed in her pocket. 
 
 What was this ? Also a newspaper for Elfride, which 
 she had overlooked in her hurry to open the letter. It was 
 the old number of the Present, containing the article upon 
 her book forwarded as had been requested. 
 
1^3 A P^^^ OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 Elfride had hastily read it through, shrunk perceptibly 
 smaller, and had then gone with the paper in her hand to 
 Mrs. Svvancourt's dressing-room, to palliate her vexation 
 by the means above commented upon. 
 
 She was now looking disconsolately out of the window. 
 
 " Never mind, my child," said Mrs. Swancourt, after a 
 careful perusal of the matter indicated. I don't see that 
 the review is such a terrible one after all. Besides, every- 
 body has forgotten about it by this time. I'm sure the 
 opening is good enough for any book ever written. Just 
 listen — it sounds better read aloud than when you pore over 
 it silently : ' The Cou?'t of Kellyon Castle. A romance of 
 the Middle Ages. By Ernest Field. In the belief that 
 we were for a while escaping the monotonous repetition of 
 wearisome details in modern social scenery, analyses of 
 uninteresting character, or the unnatural unfoldings of a 
 sensation plot, we took this volume into our hands with 
 a feeling of pleasure. We were disposed to beguile our- 
 selves with a fancy that some new change might possibly 
 be rung upon donjon keeps, chain and plate armor, deeply- 
 scarred cheeks, tender maidens disguised as pages, to 
 which we had not listened long ago.' Now that's a very 
 good beginning, in my opinion, and one to be proud of 
 having brought out of a man who has never seen you." 
 
 " Ah, yes," murmured Elfride wofully. " But, then, see 
 farther on." 
 
 "Well, the next bit is rather unkind, I must own," said 
 Mrs. Swancourt, and read on. *' ' Instead of this we found 
 ourselves in the hands of some young lady, hardly arrived 
 at years of discretion, to judge by the silly device it has 
 been thought worth while to adopt on the title-page, with 
 the idea of disguising her sex.' " 
 
 " I am not ' silly ! ' " said Elfride indignantly. " He 
 uight have called me anything but that." 
 
 "You are not, indeed. Well; — 'Hands of a young 
 lady . . . whose chapters are simply devoted to impossible 
 tournaments, towers, and escapades, which read like fiat cop- 
 ies of like scenes in the stories of Mr. G. P. R. James, and 
 the most unreal portions of Ivanhoe. The bait is so palpably 
 artificial that the most credulous fancy turns away.' Now, 
 my dear, I don't see over-much to complain of in that. It 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 149 
 
 proves that you were clever enough to make him think of 
 Sir Walter Scott, which is a great deal." 
 
 *■ O, yes ; though I cannot romance myself, I am able 
 to remind him of those who can." Elfride intended to hurl 
 these words sarcastically at her invisible enemy, but as she 
 had no more satirical power than a wood-pigeon, they mere- 
 ly fell in a pretty murmur from lips shaped to a pout. 
 
 " Certainly : and that's something. Your book is good 
 enough to be bad in an ordinary literary manner, and 
 doesn't stand by itself in a melancholy position altogether 
 worse than assailable.— 'That interest in an historical 
 romance may now-a-days have any chance of being sustain- 
 ed, it is indispensable that the reader find himself under 
 the guidance of some nearly extinct species of legendary, 
 who, in addition to an impulse towards antiquarian research 
 and an unvv^eakened faith in the mediaeval halo, shall pos- 
 sess an inventive faculty in which delicacy of sentiment 
 is far overtopped by a po'wer of welding to stirring incident 
 a spirited variety of the elementary human passions.' Well, 
 that long-winded effusion doesn't refer to you at all, Elfride, 
 merely something put in to fill-up. Let me see, when does 
 he come to you again ; . . . not till the very end, actually. 
 Here you are finally polished off: 
 
 " 'But to return to the little work we have used as the 
 text of this article. We are far from altogether disparaging 
 the author's powers. She has a certain versatility that 
 enables her to use with effect a style of narration peculiar to 
 herself, which may be called a murmuring of delicate emo- 
 tional trifles, the particular gift of those to whom the social 
 sympathies of a peaceful time are as daily food. Hence, 
 where matters of domiciliary experience, and the natural 
 touches which make people real, can be introduced without 
 anachronisms too striking, she is occasionally felicitous ; and 
 upon the whole we feel justified in saying that the book will 
 bear looking into for the sake of those portions which have 
 nothing whatever to do with the story.' " 
 
 "Well, I suppose it is intended for satire; but don't 
 think anything more of it now, my dear. It is seven o'clock.*' 
 And Mrs. Swancourt rang for her maid. 
 
 Attack is more piquant than concord. Stephen's letter 
 was concerning nothing but oneness with her : the review 
 
I ^0 ^ P^IK OF BL UE E YES. 
 
 was the ver)' reverse. And a stranger with neither name 
 nor shape, age nor appearance, but a mighty voice, is nat 
 urally rather an interesting novelty to a lady he chooses t 
 address. When Elfride fell asleep that night she was lo'. 
 ing the writer of the letter, but thinking of the writer of thai 
 aiticle. 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 *' THEN FA^XY SHAPES— AS FANCY CAN." 
 
 ON a day about three weeks later, the Swancourt trio 
 were sitting quietly in the drawing-room of The 
 Crags, Mrs. Swancourt's house at Endelstow, chatting, and 
 taking easeful survey of their previous month or two of 
 town — a tangible weariness even to people whose acquaint- 
 ances there might be counted on the fingers. 
 
 A mere season in London with her practiced step-moth- 
 er had so advanced Elfride's perceptions, that her court- 
 ship by Stephen seemed emotionally meagre, and to have 
 drifted back several years into a childish past. In regard- 
 ing our mental experiences, as in visual observation, our 
 own progress reads like a dwindling of that we progress 
 from: 
 
 She was seated on a low chair, looking over her ro- 
 mance with melancholy interest for the first time since she 
 had become acquainted with the remarks of the Fresent 
 thereupon. 
 
 " Still thinking of that reviewer, Elfie ? " 
 
 " Not of him personally ; but I am thinking of his opin- 
 ion. Really, on ^looking into the volume after this long 
 time has elapsed, he seems to have estimated one part of 
 it fairly enough." 
 
 " No, no ; I wouldn't show the white feather now 1 
 Fancy that of all people in the world the writer herself 
 should go over to the enemy. How shall Monmouth's men 
 fight when Monmouth runs away ? " 
 
 " I don't do that. But I think he is right in some of 
 his arguments, though wrong in others. And because he 
 has some claim to my respect I regret all the more that he 
 should think so mistakenly of my motives in one or two in- 
 stances. It is more vexing to be misunderstood than to be 
 
152 
 
 A PAIR OF BL UE E YES. 
 
 misrepresented ; and he misunderstands me. I cannot be 
 easy while a person goes to rest night after night attribut- 
 ing to me intentions I never had." 
 
 *' He doesn't know your name, or anything about you. 
 And he has doubtless forgotten there is such a book in ex- 
 istence by this time." 
 
 " I myself should certainly like him to be put right upon 
 one or two matters," said the vicar, who had hitherto been 
 silent. *' You see, critics go on writing, and are never cor- 
 rected or argued with, and therefore are never improved." 
 
 " Papa," said Elfride brightening, " write to him ! " 
 
 " I would as soon write to him as look at him, for the 
 matter of that," said Mr. Swancourt. 
 
 " Do ! And say, the young person who wrote the book 
 did not adopt a masculine sobriquet in vanity or conceit, 
 but because she was afraid it would be thought presumptu- 
 ous to publish her name, and that she did not mean the 
 story for such as he, but as a sweetener of history for young 
 people, who might thereby acquire a taste for what went on 
 in their own country hundreds of years ago, and be tempt- 
 ed to dive deeper into the subject. O, there is so much to 
 explain; I wish I might write myself!" 
 
 " Now, El fie, I'll tell you what we will do," answered 
 Mr. Swancourt, tickled with a sort of bucolic humor at the 
 idea of criticising the critic. " You shall write a clear ac- 
 count of what he is wrong in, and I will copy i-t and send it 
 as mine." 
 
 " Yes, now directly ! " said Elfride, jumping up. " When 
 will you send it, papa ? " 
 
 *' O, in a day or two, I suppose," he returned. Then 
 the vicar paused and slightly yawned, and in the manner of 
 elderly people, began to relax from his ardor for the under- 
 taking, now that it came to the point. " But, really, it is 
 hardly worth while." 
 
 " O, papa ! " said Elfride, with much disappointment. 
 ** You said you would, and now you won't. That is not 
 fair ! " 
 
 " But how can we send it if we don't know who to send 
 it to?" 
 
 " If you really want to send such a thing, it can easily 
 be done," said Mrs. Swanccurt, coming to her step-daugh- 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 1 53 
 
 ter's rescue. "An envelope addressed, *To the Critic 
 of The Court of Kellyon Castle, care of the Editor of the 
 Fresent^ would find him." 
 
 " Yes, I suppose it would." 
 
 *' Why not write your answer yourself, Elfride ? " Mrs. 
 Swancourt inquired. 
 
 " I might," she said hesitatingly ; " and send it anony- 
 mously : that would be treating him as he has treated me.'* 
 
 '' No use in the world ! " 
 
 "But 1 don't like to let him know my exact name. 
 Suppose I put my initials only ? The less you are known 
 the more you are thought of" 
 
 "Yes ; you might do that." 
 
 Elfride set to work there and then. Her one desire for 
 the last fortnight seemed likely to be realized. As happens 
 with sensitive and secluded minds, a continual dwelling 
 upon the subject had magnified to colossal proportions 
 the space she assumed herself to occupy or to have occu- 
 pied in the occult critic's mind. At noon and at night she 
 had been pestering herself with endeavors to perceive more 
 distinctly his conception of her as a woman, apart from an 
 authoress : whether he really despised her ; whether he 
 thought more or less of her than of ordinary young women 
 who never ventured into the fire of criticism at all. Now 
 she would have the satisfaction of feeling that at any rate 
 he knew her true intent in crossing his path, and annoying 
 him so by her performance, and be taught perhaps to de- 
 spise it a little less. 
 
 Four days later an envelope, directed to Miss Swan- 
 court, in a strange hand, made its appearance from the 
 post-bag. 
 
 " O," said Elfride, her heart sinking within her. " Can 
 it be from that man — a lecture for impertinence ? And actu- 
 ally one for Mrs. Swancourt in the same handwriting ! " 
 She feared to open hers. " Yet how can he know my 
 name ? No ; it is somebody else." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " said her father grimly. " You sent your 
 initials, and the Directory was available. Though he 
 wouldn't have taken the trouble to look there unless he 
 had been thoroughly savage with you. I thought you 
 
 7* 
 
154 ^ PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 wrote with rather more asperity than simple h'terary dis- 
 cussion required." This timely clause was introduced to 
 save the character of the vicar's judgment under any issue 
 of affiirs. 
 
 " Well, here I go," said Elfride, desperately tearing 
 open the seal. 
 
 " To be sure, of course," exclaimed Mrs. Swancourt , 
 and locrking up from her letter, " Christopher, I quite forgot 
 to tell you, when I mentioned that I had seen my distant 
 relative, Harry Knight, that I invited him here for whatever 
 length of time he could spare. And now he says he can 
 come any day in August." 
 
 " Write, and say the first of the month," replied the 
 indiscriminate vicar. 
 
 She read on. " Goodness me — and that isn't all. He 
 is actually the reviewer of Elfride's book. How absurd to 
 be sure ! I had no idea he reviewed novels or had any- 
 thing to do with the JPresent. He is a barrister — and I 
 thought he only wrote in the Quarterlies. Why, Elfride, 
 you have brought about an odd entanglement ! What does 
 he say to you ? " 
 
 Elfride had put down her letter with a dissatisfied flush 
 on her face. " I don't know. The idea of his knowing 
 mf name and all about me ! . . .Why, he says nothing par- 
 ticular, only this: — 
 
 " ' My dear Madam, — Though I am sorry that my 
 remarks should have seemed harsh, it is a pleasure to find 
 that they have been the means of bringing forth such an 
 ingeniously argued reply. Unfortunately, it is so long since 
 I wrote my paper, that my memory does not serve me suffi- 
 ciently to say a single word in my defence, even supposing 
 there remains one to be said, which is doubtful. You will 
 find from a letter I have written to Mrs. Swancourt, thit 
 we are not such strangers to each other as we have been 
 imagining. Possibly, I may have the pleasure of seeing 
 you soon, when any argument you choose to advance shall 
 receive all the attention it deserves.'" 
 
 " That is said satirically — I know it is." 
 
 " O, no, Elfride." 
 
 " And then, his remarks didn't seem harsh — I mean I 
 did not say so " 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. I55 
 
 " He thinks yor are in a frightful temper," said Mr. 
 Swancourt, chuckling in undertones. 
 
 " And he will come and see me, and find the authoress 
 as contemptible in speech as she has been rude in manner. 
 1 do heartily wish I had never written a word to him." 
 
 " Never mind," said Mrs. Swancourt, also laughing in 
 low quiet jerks ; " it will make the meeting such a comical 
 affair, and afford splendid by-play for your father and my- 
 self. The idea of our running our heads against Harry 
 Knight all the time ! T cannot get over that." 
 
 The vicar had immediately recognized the name, as that 
 of Stephen Smith's preceptor and friend ; but having ceased 
 to concern himself in the matter, he ipade no remark to 
 that effect, consistently forbearing to allude to anything 
 which could restore recollection of their (to him) disagree- 
 able mistakes with regard to poor Stephen's lineage and 
 position. Elfride had of course perceived the same thing, 
 which added to the complication of relationship, a mesh 
 that her step-mother knew nothing of. 
 
 The identification scarcely heightened Knight's attrac- 
 tions now, though a twelvemonth ago she would only have 
 cared to see him for the interest he possessed as Stephen's 
 friend. Fortunately for Knight's advent, such a reason 
 for welcome had only begun to be awkward to her at a time 
 when the interest he had acquired on his own account 
 made it no longer necessary. 
 
 These coincidences, in common with all relating to him, 
 tended to keep Elfride's mind upon the stretch concerning 
 Knight. As was her custom when upon the horns of a 
 dilemma, she walked off by herself among the laurel-bushes, 
 and there, standing still and splitting up a leaf without 
 removing it from its stalk, fetched back recollections of 
 Stephen's frequent words in praise of his friend, and wished 
 she had listened more attentively. Then, still pulling the 
 leaf, she would blush at some fancied mortification that 
 would accrue to her from his words when they met, in con- 
 sequence of her rudeness, as she now considered it, in 
 writing to him. 
 
 The next development of her meditations was into the 
 subject of what this man's personal appearance might be 
 
156 A yAlR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 —was he tall ''^r short, dark or fair, gay or grim. She 
 would have askc^id Mrs. Swancourt, but for the risk she 
 migh\t thereby incur of some teasing remark being returned. 
 Ultimately, Elfride would say, " O, what a plague that re- 
 viewer is to me ! " and turn her face to where she imagined 
 India lay, and murmur to herself, " Ah, my little husband, 
 what are you doing now ? Let me see, where are you — 
 south, east, where ? Behind that hill, ever so far behii d ! *' 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 " HER WELCOME, SPOKE IN FALTERING PHRASE.'^ 
 
 tfT^HERE is Henry Knight, I declare!" said Mrs 
 
 j^ Swancourt one day. 
 
 They were gazing from the jutting angle of a wild en- 
 closure not far from the Crags^ which almost overhung the 
 valley already described as leading up from the sea and 
 little port of Stranton. The stony escarpment upon which 
 they stood had the contour of a man's face, and it was 
 covered with furze as with a beard. People in the field 
 above were preserved from an accidental roll down these 
 prominences and hollows by a hedge on the very crest, 
 which was doing that kindly service for Elfride and her 
 mother now. 
 
 Scrambling higher into the hedge and stretching her 
 neck farther over the furze, Elfride beheld the individual 
 signified. He was walking leisurely along the little green 
 path at the bottom, beside the stream, a satchel slung upon 
 his left hip, a stout walking-stick in his hand, and a brown- 
 holland sun-hat upon his head. The satchel was worn and 
 old, and the outer polished surface of the leather was 
 cracked and peeling off. 
 
 Knight having arrived over the hills to Stranton upon 
 the top of a crazy omnibus, preferred to walk the remain- 
 ing two miles up the valley, leaving his luggage to be 
 brought on. 
 
 Behind him a boy wandered helter-skelter, and by that 
 natural law of physics by which lesser bodies gravitate 
 towards the greater, this boy drew near Knight, and trotted 
 like a little dog close at his heels, whistling as he went, 
 with his eyes fi.xed upon Knight's boots as they rose and 
 fell. 
 
 When they had reached a point precisely opposite that 
 
158 A P^^IR OF BL UE E YES. 
 
 in which Mrs. and Miss Swancourt lay in ambush, Kn ght 
 stopped and turned round. 
 
 "Look here, my boy," he said. 
 
 The boy parted his lips, opened his eyes, and answered 
 nothing. 
 
 " Here's sixpence for you, on condition that you don't 
 again come within twenty yards of my heels, all the way 
 up the valley." 
 
 The boy, who apparently had not known he had been 
 looking at Knight's heels at all, took the sixpence mechan- 
 ically, and Knight went on again, wrapped in meditation. 
 
 " A nice voice," Elfride thought j " but what a singular 
 temper ! " 
 
 " Now we must get in-doors before he ascends the slope," 
 said Mrs. Swancourt softly. And they went across by a 
 short cut over a stile, entering the lawn by a side door, and 
 so on to the house. 
 
 Mr. Swancourt had gone into the village Vv'ith the 
 curate, and Elfride felt too nervous to await their visitor's 
 arrival in the drawing-room with Mrs. Swancourt. So that 
 when the elder lady entered, Elfride made some pretence 
 of perceiving a new variety of crimson geranium, and lin- 
 gered behind among the flower-beds. 
 
 There was nothing gained by this, after all, she thought ; 
 and a few minutes after boldly came into the house by the 
 glass side-door. She walked along the corridor, and en- 
 tered the drawing-room. Nobody was there. 
 
 A window at the angle of the room opened directly into 
 an octagonal conservatory, enclosing the corner of the 
 building. From the conservatory came voices in conver- 
 sation — Mrs. Swancourt's and the stranger's. 
 
 She had expected him to talk brilliantly. To her sur- 
 prise he was asking questions in quite a learner's manner, 
 on subjects connected with the flowers and shrubs, that she 
 had known for years. When after the lapse of a few min- 
 utes he spoke at some length, she considered there was a 
 hard square decisiveness in the shape of his sentences, as 
 if, unlike her own and Stephen's, they were not there and 
 then newly constructed, but were drawn forth from a large 
 store ready-made. They were now approaching the win- 
 dow to come in a^rain. 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 15^ 
 
 "That is a flesh-colored variety," said Mrs. Swancourt. 
 " But oleanders, though they are such bulky shrubs, are so 
 very easily wounded as to be unprunable — giants with the 
 sensitiveness of young ladies. O, here is Elfride ! " 
 
 Elfride looked as guilty and crestfallen as Lady Teazle 
 at the fall of the screen. Mrs. Swancourt presented him 
 half comically, and Knight in a minute or two seated hini' 
 self beside the young lady. 
 
 Elfride's smiles of complaisance and hospitality came 
 and went with all the rapidity of confusion ; and to make 
 her still less comfortable, Mrs. Swancourt immediately af- 
 ^ terwards left them together to seek her husband. Mr. 
 Knight, however, did not seem at all incommoded b}' his 
 feelings, and he said with light easefulness, 
 
 " So, Miss Swancourt, I have met you at last. You es- 
 caped me by a few minutes only when we were in London." 
 "Yes, I found that you had seen Mrs. Swancourt" 
 " And reviewer and reviewed are face to face at last," 
 he added mischievously. 
 
 " Yes : though the fact of your being a relative takes 
 off the edge of it. It was strange that you should be one 
 of Mrs. Swancourt's family all the time." Elfride began 
 to recover herself now, and to look into Knight's face. 
 " I was merely anxious to let you know my real meaning in 
 writing the book — extremely anxious." 
 
 " i can quite understand the wish ; and I was gratified 
 that my remarks should have reached home. They very 
 seldom do, I am afraid." 
 
 Elfride drew herself in. Here he was, sticking to his 
 opinions as firmly as if friendship and politeness did not 
 in the least require an immediate renunciation of them, 
 
 " You made me very uneasy and sorry by writing such 
 things," she murmured, suddenly dropping the mere ca- 
 queterie of a fashionable first introduction, and speaking 
 with some of the dudgeon of a child towards a severe school- 
 master. 
 
 "That is rather the object of honest critics in such a 
 case. Not to cause unnecessary sorrow : ' To make you 
 sorry after a proper manner, that ye may receive damage 
 by us in nothing,' as a powerful pen once wrote to the 
 Gentiles. Are you going to write another romance?" 
 
l5o A /'^/v^ OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 '• Write another ! " she said. " That somebody may pen 
 a condemnation and ' nail't wi' Scripture' again, as you do 
 now, Mr. Knight?" 
 
 "You may do better next time," he said laughingly: 
 " I think you will. But I would advi§e you to confine your- 
 self to domestic scenes." 
 
 *' Thank you. But never again." 
 
 " Well, you may be right. That a young lady has taken 
 to writing is not by any means the best thing to hear about 
 her." 
 
 "What is the best?" 
 
 "I prefer not to say." 
 
 " Do you know ? Then do tell me, please." 
 
 " To hear that she has married." 
 
 Elfride hesitated. " And what when she has been mar 
 ried ? " she said at last, partly in order to withdraw her 
 own person from the argument. 
 
 "Then to hear no more about her. It is as Smeaton 
 said of his lighthouse : her greatest real praise, when the 
 novelty of her inaugura.tion has worn off, is that nothing 
 happens to keep the talk of her alive." 
 
 "Yes, I see," said Elfride softly and thoughtfully. 
 " But of course it is different quite with men. Why don't 
 you write novels, Mr. Knight ? " 
 
 " Because I couldn't write one that would interest any- 
 body." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " For several reasons. It requires a skilful omis!sion 
 of your real thoughts to make a novel popular, for one 
 thing." 
 
 " Is that really necessary ? Well, I am sure you could 
 learn to do that with practice," said Elfride with an ex- 
 cathedra air, as became a person who spoke from experi- 
 ence in the art. " You would make a great name for cer- 
 tain," she continued. 
 
 " So many people make a name now-a-days, that it is 
 more distinguished to remain in obscurity." 
 
 "Tell me seriously — apart from the subject — why don't 
 you write a volume instead of loose articles ? " she in- 
 sisted. 
 
 " Since you are pleased to make me talk of myself, I 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EVES. ^^^ 
 
 will tell you seriously,'' said Knight, not less amused at 
 this catechism by his young friend than he was interested 
 in her appearance. " As I have implied, I have not the 
 wish. And if I had the wish, I could not now concentrate 
 sufficiently. We all have only our one cruse of energy 
 given us to make the best of And where that energy has 
 been leaked away week by week, quarter by quarter, as 
 mine has for the last nine or ten years, there is not enough 
 dammed back behind the mill at any given period to sup 
 ply the quantum a complete book on any subject requires. 
 Then there is the self-confidence and waiting power. 
 Where quick results have grown customary, they are fatal 
 to a lively faith in the future." 
 
 " Yes, I comprehend ; and so you choose to write in 
 fragments ? " 
 
 " No, I don't choose to do it in the sense you mean ; 
 choosing from a whole world of professions, all possible. 
 It was by the constraint of accident merely. Not that I 
 object to the accident." 
 
 " Why don't you object — I mean, why do you feel so 
 quiet about things ? " Elfride was half afraid to question 
 him so, but her intense curiosity to see what the inside of 
 literary Mr. Knight was like, kept her going on. Knight 
 certainly did not mind being frank with her. Instances of 
 this trait in men who have warm feelings, but are reticent 
 from habit, may be recalled by all of us. When they find 
 a listener who can by no possibility make use of them, 
 rival them, reserved and even suspicious men of the world 
 become frank, keenly enjoying the inner side of their frank- 
 ness. 
 
 "Why I don't mind the accidental constraint," he re- 
 plied, " is because, in making beginnings, a chance limita- 
 tion of direction is often better than absolute freedom." 
 
 " I see — that is, I should if I quite understood what all 
 these generalities mean." 
 
 " Why, this : That an arbitrary foundation for one's 
 work, which no length of thought can alter, leaves the 
 attention free to fix itself on the work itself, and make the 
 best of it." 
 
 "Lateral compression forcing altitude, as would be 
 said in that tongue," she said mischievously. " And i 
 
1 52 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 suppose where no limit exists, as in the case of a rich man 
 with a wide tas e, who wants to do something, it will be 
 better to choose a limit capriciously than to have none.'' 
 
 " Yes," he said meditatively. " I can go as far as 
 that." 
 
 " Well," resumed Elfride, " I think it better for a man's 
 nature if he does nothing in particular." 
 
 '*' There is such a case as being obliged to." 
 " Yes, yes ; I was speaking of when you are not 
 obliged to for any other reason than delight in the pros- 
 pect of fame. I have thought many times lately that a 
 thin wide-spread happiness, commencing now, and of a 
 piece with the days of your life, is preferable to an antici- 
 pated heap far away in the future, and none now." 
 
 " Why, that's the very thing I said just now as being 
 the principle of all ephemeral doers like myself." 
 
 " O, I am sorry to have parodied you," she said, with 
 some confusion. "Yes, of course. That is what you 
 meant about not trying to be famous." And she added, 
 with the quickness of conviction characteristic of her 
 mind: " There is much littleness in trying to be great. _ A 
 man must think a good deal of himself, and be conceited 
 enough to believe in himself, before he tries at all." 
 
 " But it is soon enough to say there is harm in a man's 
 thinking a good deal of himself when it is proved he has 
 been thinking wrong, and too soon then sometimes. Be- 
 sides, we should not conclude that a man who strives ear- 
 nestly for success does so with a strong sense of his own 
 merit. He may see how little success has to do with 
 merit, and his motive may be his very humility." 
 
 This manner of treating her rather provoked Elfride. 
 No sooner did she agree with him than he ceased to seem 
 to wish it, and took the other side. " Ah," she thougli/ 
 inwardly, " I shall have nothing to do with a man of this 
 kind, though he is our visitor." 
 
 " I think you will find," resumed Knight, pursuing the 
 conversation more for the sake of finishing off his thoughts 
 on the subject than for engaging her attention, " that in ac- 
 tual life it is merely a matter of instinct with men — this try 
 ing to push on. They awake to a recognition that they have, 
 withoJt premeditation, begun to try a little, and they say 
 
A PAIR OF SLUE EVES. 
 
 163 
 
 to themselves, ' Since 1 have tried thus much, I will try a 
 little more.' They go on because tliey have begun." 
 
 Elfride, in her turn, was not particularly attending to 
 his words at this moment. She had, unconsciously to her- 
 self, a way of seizing any point in the remarks of an inter- 
 locutor which interested her, and dwelling upon it, arvi 
 thinking thoughts of her own thereupon, totally oblivions 
 of all that he might say in continuation. On such occa- 
 sions she artlessly surveyed the person speaking, and then 
 there was a time for a painter ! Her eyes seemed to look 
 at you, and past you, as you were then, into your future ; 
 and past your future into your eternity — not reading it, but 
 gazing in an unused, unconscious way — her mind still 
 clinging to its original thought. 
 
 That is how she was lookinQ^ at Knio:ht. 
 
 Suddenly Elfride became conscious of what she was 
 doing, and was painfully confused. 
 
 " What were you so intent upon in me ? " he inquired. 
 
 " As far as I was thinking of you at all, I was thinking 
 how clever you are," she said, with a want of premedita- 
 tion that was striking in its honesty and simplicity. 
 
 Feeling restless now that she had so unwittingly 
 spoken, she arose and stepped to the window, having 
 heard the voices of her father and Mrs. Swancourt coming 
 up below the terrace, " Here they are," she said, going out. 
 Knight walked out upon the lawn behind her. She stood 
 upon the edge of the terrace, close to the stone balustrade, 
 and looked towards the sun, hanging over a glade, just now 
 fair as Tempe's vale, up which her father was walking. 
 
 Knight could not help looking at her. The sun was 
 within ten degrees of the horizon, and its yellow light 
 flooded her face and heightened the bright rose color of 
 her cheeks to a vermilion red, their moderate pink hue 
 being only seen in its natural tone where the cheek curved 
 round into shadow. The ends of her hanging hair softly 
 dragged themselves backwards and forwards upon her 
 shoulder as each faint breeze thrust against or relinquished 
 it. Fringes and ribbons of her dress, moved by the same 
 breeze, licked like tongues tipon the pans around them, 
 and fluttering forward from shady folds caught likewise 
 their share of the lustrous orange glow. 
 
J 54 A FAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 Mr. Swancourt shouted out a welcome to Knight from 
 a distance of about thirty yards, and after a few prelimi- 
 nary words proceeded to a conversation of deep earnest- 
 ness on Knight's fine old family name, and theories as to 
 lineage and intermarriage connected therewith. Knight's 
 portmanteau having in the meantime arrived, they soon 
 retired to prepare for dinner, which had been kept back 
 two hours later than the usual time of that meal. 
 
 An arrival was an event in the life of Elfride, now that 
 they were again in the country, and that of Knight neces- 
 sarily an engrossing one. And that evening she went to 
 bed for the first time without thinking of Stephen at all. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 **TH15 MOOD OF WOMAN WHO CAN TELL?" 
 
 THE old tower of West Endelstov/ Church had reached 
 the last weeks of its existence. It was to be re- 
 placed by a new one. Planks and poles had arrived in 
 the church-yard, iron bars had been thrust into the venera- 
 ble crack extending down the belfry wall to the foundation, 
 the bells had been taken down, the owls had forsaken this 
 home of their forefathers, and six iconoclasts in white fus- 
 tian, to whom a cracked edifice was a species of Mumbo 
 Jumbo, had taken lodgings in the village previous to com- 
 mencing the actual removal of the stones. 
 
 This was the day after Knight's arrival. To enjoy for 
 the last time the prospect seaward from the summit, the 
 vicar, Mrs. Swancourt, Knight, and Elfride all ascended the 
 winding turret — Mr. Swancourt stepping forward with many 
 loud pants, his wife struggling along silently, but suffering 
 none the less. They had hardly reached the top when a large 
 lurid cloud, palpably a re'servoir of rain, thunder, and light- 
 ning, was seen to be advancing overhead from the north. 
 
 The two cautious elders suggested an immediate return, 
 and proceeded to put it in practice as regarded themselves. 
 
 *■' Dear me, I wish I had not come up," exclaimed Mrs. 
 Swancourt. 
 
 " We shall be slower than you two in going down," the 
 vicar said over his shoulder, "and so, don't you start till we 
 are nearly at the bottom, or you will run over us and break 
 our necks somewhere in the darkness of the turret." 
 
 Accordingly Elfride and Knight waited on the leads till 
 the staircase should be clear. Knight was not in a talka- 
 tive mood that morning. Elfride was rather lively, by rea- 
 son of his inattention, which she privately set down to his 
 
£66 ^ P^^^ OF BLUE EVES 
 
 thinking her not worth talking to. While Knight stood 
 watching the rise of the cloud, she sauntered to the other 
 side of the tower, and there remembered an old feat she 
 had performed the year before. It was to walk round upon 
 the parapet of the tower — which was quite without battle- 
 ment or pinnacle, and presented a smooth flat surface about 
 two feet wide, forming a pathway on all the four sides. 
 Without reflecting in the least upon what she was doing, she 
 now stepped upon the parapet in the old way, and began 
 walking along. 
 
 " We are down, cousin Henr}'," cried Mrs. Swancourt 
 up the turret. " Follow us when you like." 
 
 Knight turned and saw Elfride commencing her eleva- 
 ted promenade. His face flushed with mingled concern 
 and anger at her rashness. 
 
 *'I certainly gave you credit for more common sense," 
 he said. 
 
 She reddened a little and walked on. 
 
 " Miss Swancourt, I insist upon your coming down," he 
 exclaimed. 
 
 " I will in a minute. I am safe enough. I have done 
 it often." 
 
 At that moment, by reason of a slight perturbation his 
 words had caused in her, Elfride's foot caught itself in a 
 little tuft of grass growing in a joint of the stonework, and 
 she almost lost her balance. Knight sprang forward with 
 a face of horror. By what seem'ed a special interposition 
 of a merciful Providence, she tottered to the inner edge of 
 the parapet instead of to the outer, and reeled over upon 
 the lead roof two or three feet below the wall. 
 
 Knight seized her as in a vice, and he said, panting, 
 " That ever I should have met a woman fool enough to do 
 a thing of that kind ! Good God, you ought to be ashamed 
 of yourself ! " 
 
 The close proximity of the shadow of Death had made 
 her sick and pale as a corpse before he spoke. Already 
 lowered to that state, his words completely overpowered 
 her, and she swooned away as he held her, 
 
 Elfride's eyes were not closed for more than forty sec- ^ 
 onds. She opened them, and remembered the position in- 
 stantly. His face had altered its expression from stern an- 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 1 67 
 
 ger to pity. But his severe remarks had rather frightened 
 her, and she struggled to be free, 
 
 " If you can stand, of course you may," he said, and 
 loosened his arms. " I hardly know whether most to laugh 
 at your freak or to chide you for its folly." 
 
 She immediately sank upon the lead work. Knight lift- 
 ed her again. " Are you hurt? " he said. 
 
 She murmured an incoherent expression, and tried to 
 smile ; saying, with a fitful aversion of her face, " I am 
 only frightened. Put me down, do put me down ! " 
 
 " But you can't walk," said Knight. 
 
 " You don't know that ; how can you ? I am only 
 frightened, I tell you," she answered petulantly, and raised 
 her hand to her forehead. Knight then saw that she was 
 bleeding from a severe cut in her wrist, apparently where 
 it had descended upon a salient corner of the leadwork. 
 Elfride too seemed to perceive and feel this now for the 
 first time, and for a minute nearly lost consciousness again. 
 Knight rapidly bound his handkerchief round the place, and 
 to add to the complication, the thundercloud he had been 
 watching began to shed some heavy drops of rain. Knight 
 looked up and saw the vicar striding towards the house, and 
 Mrs. Swancourt waddling beside him, like a hard-driven 
 duck. 
 
 " As you are so faint, it will be much better to let me 
 carry you down," said Knight ; " or at any rate inside out 
 of the rain." But her objection to be lifted made it im- 
 possible for him to support her for more than five steps. 
 
 "This is folly, great folly," he exclaimed, setting her 
 down. 
 
 " Indeed ! " she murmured, with tears in her eyes. " I 
 say I will not be carried, and you say this is folly." 
 
 " So it is." 
 
 " No it isn't." 
 
 " It is folly, I think. At any rate the origin of it all is." 
 
 *' I don't agree to it. And you needn't get so angry with 
 me ; I am not worth it." 
 
 '^ Indeed you are. You are worth the enmity of princes, 
 as was said of such another. Now, then, will you clasp 
 yo^r hands behind my neck, that I may carry you down 
 without hurting vou } " 
 
1 68 ^ P^/iV OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 "No, no." 
 
 "You had better, or I shall foreclose." 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 " Deprive you of your chance." 
 
 Elfride gave a little toss. 
 
 " Now, don't writhe so when I attempt to carry you." 
 
 "I can't help it." 
 
 " Then submit quietly." 
 
 " I don't care, I don't care," she murmured in languid 
 tones and with closed eyes. 
 
 He took her into his arms, entered the turret, and with 
 slow and cautious steps descended round and round. Then, 
 with the gentleness of a nursing mother, he attended to the 
 cut on her arm. During his progress through the operations 
 of wiping it and binding it up anew, her face changed its 
 aspect from pained indifference to something Hke bashful;| 
 interest, interspersed with small tremors and shudders of a 
 trifling kind. 
 
 In the centre of each pale cheek a small red spot the 
 size of a wafer had now made its appearance, and continued ] 
 to grow larger. Elfride momentarily expected a recurrence 
 to the lecture on her foolishness, but Knight said no more 
 than this, 
 
 " Promise me never to walk on that parapet again." 
 
 " It will be pulled down soon : so I do." In a few min- 
 utes she continued in a lower tone, and seriously, " You 
 are familiar of course, as everybody is, with those strange 
 sensations we sometimes have, that our life for the moment 
 exists in duplicate." 
 
 " That we have lived through that moment before ? " 
 
 " Or shall again. Well, I felt on the tower that some- 
 thing similar to that scene is again to be common to us 
 both." 
 
 " God forbid ! " said Knight. " Promise me that you 
 will never again walk on any such place on any considera- 
 tion.^' 
 
 "I do." 
 
 " That such a'thing has not been before, we know. That 
 it shall not be again, you vow. Therefore think no more 
 of such a foolish fancy." 
 
 There had fallen a great deal of rain, but unaccom- 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. i6q 
 
 patjied by lightning. A few minutes longer, and the storm 
 had ceased. 
 
 " Now, take my arm, please." 
 
 ^' Oj no, it is not necessary." This relapse into wilful- 
 ness was because he had again connected the epithet fool- 
 ish with her. 
 
 " Nonsense : it is quite necessary ; it will rain again 
 directly, and you are not half recovered." And without 
 more ado, Knight took her hand, drew it under his arm, and 
 held it there so firmly that she could not have removed it 
 without a struggle. Feeding, at thus being led along, like a 
 colt in a halter for the first time, yet afraid to be angry, it 
 was to her great relief that she saw the carriage coming 
 round the corner to fetch them. 
 
 Her fall upon the roof was necessarily explained to some 
 extent upon their entering the house ; but both forbore to 
 mention a word of what she had been doing to cause such 
 an accident. During the remainder of the afternoon Elfride 
 was invisible ; but at dinner-time she appeared as bright 
 as ever. 
 
 In the drawing-room, after having been exclusively en- 
 gaged with Mr. and Mrs. Swancourt through the interven- 
 ing time, Knight again found himself thrown with Elfride. 
 She had been looking over a chess problem in one of the 
 illustrated periodicals. 
 
 '•" You like chess, Miss Swancourt ? " 
 
 "Yes. It is my favorite scientific game; indeed, ex- 
 cludes every other. Do you play?" 
 
 " I have played ; though not lately." 
 
 " Challenge him, Elfride," said the vicar heartily. " She 
 plays very well for a lady, Mr. Knight." 
 
 -' Shall we play ? " asked Elfride tentatively. 
 
 '' O, certainly. I shall be delighted." 
 
 The game began. Mr. Swancourt had forgotten a sim- 
 ilar performance with Stephen Smith the year before. El- 
 fride had not ; but she had begun to take for her maxim 
 the undoubted truth that the necessity of continuing faith- 
 ful to Stephen without suspicion, dictated a tickle behavior 
 almost as imperatively as fickleness itself; a fact, however, 
 which would give a startling advantage to the latter qualit}', 
 should it e' er appear. 
 
IjQ A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 Knight, by one of those inexcusable oversights which 
 will sometimes afflict the best of players, placed his rook in 
 the arms of one of her pawns. It was her first advantage. 
 She looked triumphant — even ruthless. 
 
 *' By George! what was I thinking of?" said Knight 
 quietly ; and then relinquished concern at his accident. 
 
 " Club laws we'll have, won't we, Mr. Knight ? " said 
 Elfride suasively. 
 
 " O, yes, certainly," said Mr, Knight, a thought however 
 just occurring to his mind that he had two or three times 
 allowed her to replace a man, on her religiously assuring 
 him that such a move was an absolute blunder. 
 
 She immediately took up the unfortunate rook and the 
 contest proceeded, Elfride having now rather the better of 
 the game. Then he won the exchange, regained his posi- 
 tion, and began to press her hard. Elfride grew flurried, 
 and placed her queen on his remaining rook's file. 
 
 " There — how stupid ! Upon my word, I did not see 
 your rook. Of course nobody but a fool would have put a 
 queen there knowingly." 
 
 She spoke excitedly, half expecting her antagonist to 
 give her back the move. 
 
 " Nobody, of course," said Knight serenely, and stretch- 
 ed out his hand towards his royal victim. 
 
 "It is not very pleasant to have it taken advantage of,^ 
 then," she said, with some vexation. 
 
 "Club laws, I think you said?" returned Knight bland- 
 ly, and mercilessly appropriating the queen. 
 
 She was on the brink of pouting, but was ashamed to 
 show it; tears almost stood in her eyes. She had been 
 trying so hard — so very hard — thinking and thinking till 
 her brain was in a whirl ; and it seemed so heartless of him 
 to treat her so, after all. 
 
 " I think it is — " she began. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Unkind to take advantage of a pure mistake I make 
 in that way." 
 
 " I lost my rook by even a purer mistake," said the ene- 
 my, in an inexorable tone without lifting his eyes. 
 
 "Yes, but — " However, as his logic was absolutely 
 unanswerable, she merely registered a protest. " I cannot 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. I7I 
 
 enduie those cold-blooded ways of clubs and professional 
 players, like Staunton and Morphy. Just as if it really mat- 
 tered whether you have raised your fingers from a man or 
 no." 
 
 Knight smiled as pitilessly as before, and they went on 
 in silence. 
 :. "Checkmate," said Knight. 
 
 " Another game," said Elfride peremptorily ; and look- 
 ing very warm. 
 
 " With all my heart," said Knight. 
 
 " Checkmate," said Knight again, at the end of forty 
 minutes. 
 
 " Another game," she returned resolutely. 
 
 " I'll give you the odds of a bishop," Knight said to her 
 kindly. 
 
 " No, thank you," Elfride replied, in a tone intended for 
 courteous indifference ; but, as a fact, very cavalier indeed. 
 
 " Checkmate," said her opponent, Vv^ithout the least 
 emotion. 
 
 Elfride, the difference between your state of mind now, 
 and when you purposely made blunders that Stephen Smith 
 might win ! 
 
 It was bed-time. Her mind as if it would throb itself 
 out of her head, she went off to her chamber, full of morti- 
 fication at being beaten time after time when she herself 
 was the aggressor. Having for two or three years enjoyed 
 the reputation throughout the globe of her father's brain — 
 which almost constituted her entire world — of being an ex- 
 cellent player, this fiasco was intolerable ; for unfortunately 
 the person most dogged in the belief in a false reputation 
 is always that one, the possessor, who has the best means 
 of knowing that it is not true. 
 
 In bed no sleep came to soothe her ; that gentle thing 
 being the very middle-of-summer friend in this respect of 
 flying away at the merest troublous cloud. After lying 
 awake till two o'clock, an idea seemed to strike her. She 
 sofdy arose, got a light, and fetched a Chess Praxis from 
 the library. Returning and sitting up in bed, she diligent- 
 ly studied the volume till the clock struck five, and her eye- 
 lids felt thick and heavy. She then extinguished the light 
 and 'ay down again. 
 
J -2 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 " You look pale, Elfride," said Mrs. Swancourt the next . 
 morning at breakfast. " Isn't she, cousin Harry .? " 
 
 A young lady who is scarcely ill at all can hardly help 
 beoomuig so when regarded as such by all eyes turning 
 upon her' at the table in obedience to some remark. Every- 
 body looked at Elfride. She certainly was pale. 
 
 *' Am I pale ? " she said with a faint smile. " I did not 
 sleep much. I could not get rid of armies of bishops and 
 knights, try how I would." 
 
 " Chess is a bad thing just before bed-time ; especially 
 for excitable people like yourself, dear. Don't ever play late 
 again." 
 
 " I'll play early instead. Cousin Knight," she said, in 
 imitation of Mrs. Swancourt, " will you oblige me in some- 
 thing ? " 
 
 " Even to half my kingdom." 
 " Well, it is to play one game more." 
 " When ? " 
 
 " Now, instantly ; the moment we have breakfasted." 
 " Nonsense, Elfride," said her father. " Making your- 
 self a slave to the game like that." 
 
 " But I want to, papa. Honestly, I am restless at hav- 
 ing been so ignominiously overcome. And Mr. Knight 
 doesn't mind. So what harm can there be ? " 
 
 "Let us play by all means, if you wish it," said Knight. 
 So when breakfast was over, the combatants withdrew 
 to the quiet of the library, and the door was closed. Elfride 
 seemed to have an idea that her conduct was rather ill-reg- 
 ulated, and startlingly free from conventional restraint. And 
 worse, she fancied upon Knight's face a slightly amused 
 look at her proceedings. 
 
 "You think me foolish, I suppose," she said recklessly ; 
 "but I want to do my very best just once, and see whether 
 I can overcome you." 
 
 " Certainly : nothing more natural. Though I am afraid 
 it is not the plan adopted by women of the world after a 
 defeat." 
 
 " Why, pray ? " 
 
 " Because they know that as good as overcoming is skill 
 in effacing recollection of being overcome, and turn their 
 attention to that entirely." 
 
A PA If! OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 173 
 
 "I am wrong again, of course." 
 
 " Perhaps your wrong is more pleasing than theii 
 right." 
 
 " I don't quite know whether you mean that, or whether 
 you are laughing at me," she said, looking doubtingly at 
 him, yet inclining to accept the more flattering intei'preta- 
 tion. " I am alm.ost sure you think it vanity in me to think 
 I am a match for you. Well, if you. do, I say that vanity is 
 no crime in such a case." 
 
 " Well, perhaps not. Though it is hardly a virtue." 
 
 ' O, yes, in battle. Nelson's bravery lay in his van- 
 ity." 
 
 '' Indeed ! Then so did his death." 
 
 " O, no, no ! For it is written in the book of the prophet 
 Shakespeare, 
 
 " Fear and be slain ? no worse can come to fight ; 
 And fight and die, is death destroying death ! " ' 
 
 And down they sat, and the contest began, Elfride hav- 
 ing the first move. The game progressed. Elfride's heart 
 beat so violently that she could not sit still. Her dread 
 was lest he should hear it. And he did discover it at last 
 — some flowers upon the table being set throbbing by its 
 pulsations. 
 
 '•' I think \NQ had better give over," said Knight, looking 
 at her gently. "It is too much for you, I know. Let us 
 write down the position, and finish another time." 
 
 "No, please not," she implored. " I should not rest if 
 I did not know the result at once. It is your move." 
 
 Ten minutes passed. 
 
 She started up suddenly. " I know what you are doing ! " 
 she cried ; an angry color upon her cheeks, and her eyes 
 indignant. " You were thinking of letting me win to please 
 me ! " 
 
 " I don't mind owning that I was," Knight responded 
 phlegmatically, and appearing all the more so by contrast 
 with her own turmoil. 
 
 " But you must not ! I won't have it." 
 
 " Very well." 
 
 " No, that will not do ; I insist that you don't do any 
 such absurd thing. It is insulting me ! " 
 
{74 ^ /'^/v? OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 " Very well, madatn. I won't do any such absurd thing. 
 You shall not win.'' 
 
 *'']1iat is to be proved," she returned proudly ; and the 
 play went on. 
 
 Nolhing is now heard but the ticking of a quaint old 
 f ime-piece on the summit of a bookcase. Ten minutes pass ; 
 he captures her knight ; she takes his knight, and looks a 
 very Rhadamanthus. 
 
 More minutes tick away : she takes his pawn and 
 has the advantage, showing her sense of it rather prom • 
 nently. 
 
 Five minutes more: he takes her bishop : she brings 
 things even by taking his knight. 
 
 Three minutes : she looks bold, and takes his queen : he 
 looks placid, and takes hers. 
 
 Eight or ten m.inutes pass: he takes a pawn: she utters 
 a little pooh ! but not the ghost of a pawn can she take in 
 retaliation. 
 
 Ten minutes pass: he takes another pawn and says, 
 " Check I " She flushes, extricates herself by capturing his 
 bishop, and looks triumphant. He immediately takes her 
 bishop : she looks surprised. 
 
 Five minutes longer: she makes a dash and takes his 
 only remaining bishop; he replies by taking her only re- 
 maining knight. 
 
 Two minutes : he gives check ; her mind is now in a 
 painful state of tension, and she shades her face with her 
 hand. 
 
 Yet a few minutes m.ore : he takes her rook and checks 
 again. She literally trembles now lest an artful surprise she 
 has in store for him shall be anticipated by the surprise he 
 evidently has in store for her. 
 
 Five ninutes : " Checkmate in two moves ! " exclaims 
 Elfride. 
 
 "If you can," sa3^s Knight. 
 
 " O, I have miscalculated ; that is cruel ! " 
 
 " Checkmate," says Knight ; and the victory is won. 
 
 Elfride arose and turned away without letting him see 
 hei face. Once in the hall she ran up stairs and into her 
 room, and flung herself down upon her bed, weeping bit- 
 terly. 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 17S 
 
 "Where is Elfride ?" said her father at luncheon. 
 
 Knight listened anxiously for the answer. He had been 
 hoping to see her again before this time. 
 
 "' She isn't well, sir," was the reply. 
 
 Mrs. Swancourt arose and left the room, going up stairs 
 to Eifride's apartment. At the door was Unity, who occu- 
 [)ied in the new establishment a position between young- 
 lady's maid and middle-housemaid. 
 
 '" She is sound asleep, ma'am," Unity whispered. 
 
 Mrs. Swancourt opened the door. Elfride was lying 
 full dressed on the bed, her face hot and red, her arms 
 thrown abroad. At intervals of a minute she tossed rest- 
 lessly from side to side, and indistinctly moaned words used 
 in the game of chess. 
 
 Mrs. Swancourt had a turn for doctoring, and felt hei 
 pulse. It was twanging like a harp-string, at the rate of two 
 hundred a minute. Softly moving the sleeping girl to a 
 little less cramped position, she went down stairs again. 
 
 " She is asleep now," said Mrs. Swancourt. " She does 
 not seem very well. Cousin Knight, what were you think- 
 ing of.'* her tender brain won't bear cudgelling like your 
 great head. You should have strictly forbidden her to play 
 again." 
 
 In truth, the essayist's experience of the nature of young 
 women was far less extensive than his abstract knowledge 
 of them led himself and others to believe. He could pack 
 them into sentences like a workman, but empirically was 
 nowhere. 
 
 " I am indeed sorry," said Knight, feeling even more 
 than he expressed. '' But surely, the young lady knows 
 best what is good for her ? " 
 
 '^ Bless you, that's just what she doesn't know. She 
 never thinks of such things, does she, Christopher > Hei 
 father and I have to command her and keep her in order, 
 as you would a child. She will say things worthy of a 
 French epigrammatist, and act like a robin in a greenhouse. 
 But I think we will send for Dr. Gran son — there can be no 
 harm." 
 
 A man was straightway despatched on horseback to 
 Stranton, and the gentleman known as Dr. Granson came in 
 the course of the afternoon. He pronounced her nervous 
 
i;76 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 system to be in a decided state of disorder ; forwarded some 
 soothing draught, and gave orders that on no account what- 
 ever was she to play chess again. 
 
 The next morning Knight waited with a curiously com- 
 pounded feeling for her entry to breakfast. The female ser- 
 vants came in to prayers at irregular intervals, and as each 
 entered, he could not, to save his life, avoid turning his head 
 with the hope that she might be Elfride. Mr. Swancourt 
 began reading without waiting for her. Then somebody 
 glided in noiselessly ; Knight softly glanced up : it was only 
 the little kitchen-maid. Knight thought reading prayers a 
 bore. 
 
 He went out alone, and for almost the first time failed 
 to recognize that holding converse with Nature's charms 
 was not solitude. On nearing the house again he perceiv- 
 ed his young friend crossing a slope by a path which ran 
 into the one he was following, in the angle of the field. 
 Here they met. Elfride was at once exultant and abashed : 
 coming into his presence had upon her the effect of enter- 
 ing a cathedral. 
 
 Knight had his note-book in his hand, and had, in fact, 
 been in the very act of writing therein, when they came in 
 view of each other. He left off in the midst of a sentence, 
 and proceeded to inquire warmly concerning her state of 
 health. She said she was perfectly well, and indeed had 
 never looked better. Her health was as inconsequent as 
 her actions. Her lips were red, without the polish that 
 cherries have, and their redness joined with a white skin in 
 a clearly-defined line, which had nothing of jagged confu- 
 sion in it. Altogether, the last person in the world to be 
 knocked over by a game of chess, because too ephemeral 
 looking to play one. 
 
 " Are you taking notes .?" she inquired, with an alacrity 
 plainly arising less from interest in the subject than from a 
 wish to divert his thoughts from her person. 
 
 " Yes ; 1 was making an entry. And with your per- 
 mission I will complete it." Knight then stood still, and 
 wrote. Elfride remained beside him a moment, and after- 
 wards walked on. 
 
 " I should like to see ai' the secrets that are in thai 
 book," she gayly flung back t > him over her shoulder. 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 177 
 
 " I don't think you would find much to interest you." 
 
 "I know I should." 
 
 "Then of course I have no more to say." 
 
 " But I would ask this question first. Is it a book of 
 mere facts concerning journey and expenditure, and so on, 
 or a book of thoughts ? " 
 
 " Well, to tell the truth, it is not exactly either. It con- 
 sists for the most part of jottings for articles and essays, 
 disjointed and disconnected, of no possible interest to any- 
 bod) but myself." 
 
 " It contains, 1 suppose, your developed thoughts in 
 embryo ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " If they are interesting when enlarged to the size of an 
 article, what must they be in their concentrated form ? 
 Pure rectified spirit, above proof; before it is lowered to 
 be fit for human consumption : ' words that burn ' indeed." 
 
 " Rather like a balloon before it is inflated ; flabby, 
 shapeless, dead. You could hardly read them." 
 
 "May I try?" she said coaxingly. "I wrote my poor 
 romance in that way — I mean in bits, out of doors — and I 
 should like to see whether your way of entering things is 
 the same as mine." 
 
 " Really, that's rather an awkward request. I suppose 
 I can hardly refuse now you have asked so directly j but — " 
 
 " You think me ill-mannered in asking. But does not 
 this justify me — your writing in my presence, Mr. Knight ? 
 If I had lighted upon your book by chance, it would have 
 been different ; but you stand before me, and say, ' excuse 
 me,' without caring whether I do or not, and write on, and 
 then tell me they are not private facts but public ideas." 
 
 " Very well, Miss Swancourt. If you really must see, 
 the consequences be upon your own head. Remember, 
 my advice to you is to leave my book alone." 
 ^ " But with that caution I have your permission ? " 
 
 *' Yes." 
 
 She hesitated a moment, looked at his hand containing 
 the book, then laughed, and saying, " I must see it," with- 
 drevv^ it from his fingers. 
 
 Knight rambled on towards the house, leaving hei 
 standing in the path turning over the leaves. By the time 
 8-^- 
 
178 
 
 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 he had reached the wicket-gate he saw that she had moved, 
 and waited till she came up. 
 
 Etfride hid closed the note-book, and was cairying it 
 disdainfully by the corner between her finger and thumb ; 
 her face wore a nettled look. She silently extended the 
 volume towards him, raising her eyes no higher than her 
 hand was lifted. 
 
 '' Take it," said Elfride quickly. " I don't want to read 
 it." 
 
 " Could you understand it .? " said Knight. 
 
 " As far as I looked. But I didn't care to read much." 
 
 " Why, Miss Swancourt ? " 
 
 " Only because I didn't wish to — that's all." 
 
 " I warned you that you might not." 
 
 " Yes, but I never supposed you would have put 77te 
 there." 
 
 " Your name is not mentioned once within the four cor- 
 ners." 
 
 " Not my name — I know that." 
 
 '' Nor your description, nor anything by which anybody 
 Vv^ould recognize you." 
 
 ''Except myself. For what is this?" she exclaimed, 
 taking it from him and opening a page. " August 7. That's 
 the day before yesterday. But I won't read it," Elfride 
 said, closing the book again with pretty hauteur. " Why 
 should I ? I had no business to ask to see your book, and 
 it serves me right." 
 
 Knight hardly recollected what he had written, and 
 turned over the book to see. He came to this : 
 
 " Aug. 7. Girl gets into her teens, and her self-con- 
 sciousness is born. After a certain interval passed in 
 infantine helplessness, it begins to act. Simple, young, and 
 inexperienced at first. Persons of observation can tell to 
 a nicety how old this consciousness is by the skill it has 
 acquired in the art necessary to its success — the art of hi«l- 
 ing itself. Generally begins career by actions which are 
 popularly termed showing otT. Method adopted depends 
 in each case upon the disposition, rank, residence, of the 
 young lady attempting it. Town-bred girl will utter some 
 moral paradox on fast men, or love. Country Miss adopts 
 the more material media of taking a ghastly fence, whist- 
 
^ PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 179 
 
 ling, or making your blood run cold by appearing to risk 
 her neck. {Mem. On Endelstow tower.) 
 
 "An innocent vanity is of course the origin of these dis- 
 plays. " Look at me," say these youthful begiiuiers in 
 womanly artifice, without retlecting whether or not it be to 
 their advantage to show so very much of themselves. 
 (Amplify and correct for paper on Artless Arts.)" 
 
 " Yes; I remember now," said Knight. " The notes 
 were certainly suggested by your manoeuvre on the church 
 tower. But you must not think too much of such random 
 observations," he continued encouragingly, as he noticed 
 her injured looks. " A mere fancy passing through my 
 head assumes a factitious importance to you, because it has 
 been made permanent by being written down. All man- 
 kind think thoughts as bad as those of people they most 
 love on earth, but such thoughts never getting embodied on 
 paper, it becomes assumed that they never existed. I dare- 
 say that you yourself have thought some disagreeable thing 
 or other of me, which would seem just as bad as this if 
 written. I challenge you, now, to tell me." 
 
 " The worst thing I have thought of you? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I must not." 
 
 " O, yes." 
 
 " I thought you were rather round-shouldered." 
 
 Knight looked slightly redder. 
 
 " And that there was a Utile bald spot on the top of 
 your head." 
 
 " Heh-heh ! Two ineradicable defects," said Knight, 
 there being a faint ghasthness discernible in his laugh. 
 " TJiey are much worse in a iad/s eye than being thought 
 self-conscious, I suppose." 
 
 " Ah, that's very fine," she said, too inexperienced to 
 perceive her hit, and hence not quite disposed to forgive 
 his notes. " You alluded to me in that entry as if I were 
 -such a child, too. Everybody does that. 1 cannot under- 
 stand it. I am quite a woman, you know. How old do 
 vnu think I am ? " 
 
 " How old? Why, seventeen, I should say. All girls 
 art- seventeen." 
 
 *' You are wrong. I am nearly nineteen. Which class 
 
j8o , ^ ^^^-^^^^ OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 of women do you like best, those who seem younger, oi 
 those who seem older than they are." 
 
 '* Off-hand I should be inclined to say those who seem 
 older." 
 
 So it was not Elfride's class. 
 
 " But it is well known," she said eagerly, and there was 
 something touching in the artless anxiety to be thought 
 much of she revealed by her words, " that the slo\ver a na- 
 ture is to develop, the richer tlie nature. Youths and girls 
 who are men and women before they come of age are no- 
 bodies by the time backward people have shown their full 
 compass." 
 
 '' Yes," said Knight thoughtfully. " There is really 
 something in that remark. But at the risk of oiTence 1 
 must remind you that you there take for .granted that the 
 woman behind her time at a given age has not reached the 
 end of her tether. Her backwardness may be not because 
 she is slow to develop, but because she soon exhausted hei 
 capacity for developing." 
 
 Elfride looked disappointed. By this time they were in- 
 doors. Mrs. Swancourt, to whom matchmaking by any hon- 
 est means was meat and drink, had now a litde scheme of that 
 nature concerning this pair. The morning-room, in which 
 they both expected to find her, was empty ; the old lady 
 having, for the above reason, vacated it by the second door 
 as they entered by the first. 
 
 Knight went to the chimney-piece, and carelessly sur 
 veyed two portraits on ivory. 
 
 "Though these pink ladies had very rudimentary feat- 
 ures, judging by what I see here," he observed, " they had 
 unquestionably beautiful heads of hair." 
 
 " Yes j and that is everything," said Elfride, possibly 
 conscious of her own, possibly not. 
 
 " Not everything ; though a great deal, certainly." 
 
 *' Which color do you like best .-' " she ventured to ask. 
 
 " More depends on its abundance than on its color." 
 
 " Abundances being equal, may I inquire your favorite 
 color ? " 
 
 " Dark." 
 
 ** I mean for women," she said with the minutest fall of 
 countenance, and a hope that she had been misunderstood. 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. l8l 
 
 "So do I," Knight replied. 
 
 It was impossible for any man not to know the color of 
 Elfride's hair. In women who wear it plainly such a feat- 
 ure may be overlooked by men not given to ocular intent- 
 ness. But hers was always in the way. You saw her hair 
 as far as you could see her sex, and knew that it was the 
 palest brown. She knew instantly that Knight, being per- 
 fectly well aware of this, had an independent standard of 
 admiration in the matter. 
 
 Elfride was thoroughly vexed. She could not but be 
 struck with the honesty of his opinions, and the worst of it 
 was, that t-iie more they went against her, the more she re- 
 spected them. And now, like a reckless gambler, she haz- 
 arded her last and best treasure. Her eyes : they were 
 her all now. 
 
 " What eyes do you like best, Mr. Knight ? " 
 
 " Honestly, or as a compliment.? " 
 
 "Of course honestly; I don't want anybody's compli- 
 ment." 
 
 And yet Elfride knew otherwise : that a comphment 
 from that man then would have been like a well to a famish- 
 ed Arab. 
 
 " I prefer hazel," he said, serenely. 
 
 She had played and lost again. 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 •*LOVE WAS IN THE NEXT DEGREE." 
 
 KNIGHT had none of those light familiarities of 
 speech which, by judicious touches of epigram* 
 matic flattery, obliterate a woman's recollection of the 
 speaker's abstract opinions. So no more was said by 
 either on the subject of hair, eyes, or development. El- 
 fride's mind had been impregnated with sentiments of her 
 own smallness to an uncomfortable degree of distinctness, 
 and her discomfort was visible in her face. The wliole 
 tendency of the conversation latterly had been to quietly 
 but surely disparage her ; and she was fain to take Stephen 
 into favor in self-defence. He would not have been so un- 
 loving, she said, as to admire an idiosyncrasy and features 
 different from her own. True, Stephen had declared he 
 loved her : Mr. Knight had never done anything of the 
 sort. Somehow this did not mend matters, and the sensa- 
 tion of her smallness in Knight's eyes still remained. Had 
 the position been reversed — had Stephen loved her in spite 
 of a differing taste, and had Knight been indifferent in 
 spite of her resemblance to his ideal, it would have en- 
 gendered far happier thoughts. As matters stood, Ste- 
 phen's admiration might have its root in a blindness the 
 result of passion. Perhaps any keen man's judgment was 
 condemnatory of her. 
 
 During the remainder of Saturday they were more or 
 less thrown with their seniors, and no conversation arose 
 which was exclusively their own. When Elfride was in bed 
 that night her thoughts recurred to the same subject. At 
 one moment she insisted that it was ill-natured of him to 
 speak so decisively as he had done ; the next, that it was 
 sterling honesty. 
 
 "Ahj what a poor nobody I am!" she said, sighing. 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 1 83 
 
 •* People like him, who go about the great world, don't care 
 in the least what I am like either in mood or feature." 
 
 l-erhaps a man who has got thoroughly into a woman's 
 mind in this manner is half-way to her heart ; for the dis- 
 tance betv.-een her reason and her feeling is proverbially 
 short. 
 
 *' And are you really going away this week ? " said Mrs. 
 Swancourt to Knight on the following evening, which was 
 Sunday. 
 
 They were all leisurely climbing the hill to the church, 
 where a last service was now to be held at the rather ex- 
 ceptional time of evening instead of in the afternoon, pre- 
 vious to the demolition of the ruinous portions. 
 
 " I am intending to cross to Cork from Bristol," re- 
 turned Knight ; "and then I go on to Dublin." 
 
 "Return this way, and stay a little longer with us," 
 said the vicar. "A week is nothing. We have hardly 
 been able to realize your presence yet. I remember a 
 story which — " 
 
 The vicar suddenly stopped. He had forgotten it was 
 Sunday, and would probably have gone on in his week-day 
 mode of thought had not a turn in the breeze blown the 
 skirt of his college gown within the range of his vision, 
 and so reminded him. He at once diverted the current of 
 his narrative with the dexterity the occasion demanded. 
 
 "The story of the Levite who journeyed to Beth-lehem- 
 judah, from which I took my text the Sunday before last, 
 is quite to the point," he continued, with the pronuncia- 
 tion of a man who, far from having intended to tell a 
 week-day story a moment earlier, had thought of nothing but 
 Sabbath matters for several weeks. " What did he gain 
 after all by his restlessness? Had he remained in the city 
 of the Jebusites, and not been so anxious for Gibeah, none 
 of his troubles would have arisen." 
 
 " But he had wasted five days already," said Knight, 
 smiling at the vicar's adroit diversion. " His fault lay in 
 beginning the tarrying system originally." 
 
 '' True, true ; my illustration fails," 
 
 " But not the hospitality which prompted it." 
 
 " So you are to come just the same," urged Mis. Swan- 
 court, for she had seen an almost imperceptible fall of 
 
1 84 ^ P^^R OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 countenance in her step-daughter at Knight's announce* 
 ment. 
 
 Knight half promised to call on his return journey ; 
 but the uncertainty with which he spoke was quite enough 
 to fill Elfride with a regretful interest in all he did during 
 the few remaining hours. The curate having already offi- 
 ciated twice that day in the two churches, Mr. Swancourt 
 had undertaken the whole of the evening service, and 
 Knight read the lessons for him. The sun streamed across 
 from the dilapidated west window, and lighted all the as- 
 sembled worshippers with a golden glow, Knight as he 
 read being illuminated by the same mellow lustre. Elfride 
 regarded him with a throbbing sadness of mood which was 
 fed by a sense of being far removed from his sphere. As 
 he went deliberately through the chapter appointed — a 
 portion of the history of Elijah — and ascended that mag- 
 nificent climax of the wind, the earthquake, the fire, and 
 the still small voice, his deep tones echoed past with 
 such apparent disregard of her existence, that his pres- 
 ence inspired her wath a forlorn sense of unapproachable- 
 ness, which his absence would hardly have been able to 
 cause. 
 
 At the same time, turning her face for a moment to 
 catch the glory of the dying sun as it fell on his face, her 
 eyes were arrested by the shape and aspect of a woman in 
 the west gallery. It was the bleak barren countenance of 
 the widow Jethway, whom Elfride had not seen much of 
 since the morning of her return with Stephen Smith. Pos- 
 sessing the smallest of competencies, this unhappy woman 
 appeared to spend her life in journeyings between Endel- 
 stow churchyard and that of a village near Southampton^ 
 where her father and mother were laid. 
 
 She had not attended the service here for a consider- 
 able time, and she now seemed to have a reason for her 
 choice of seat. From the gallery window the tomb of 
 her son was plainl}/ visible — standing as the nearest object 
 in a prospect which was closed outwardly by the changeless 
 horizon of the sea. 
 
 The streaming rays, too, flooded her face, now bent 
 towards Elfride with a hard and bitter expression that the 
 solemnity of the place raised to a tragic dignity it did not 
 
A PA IK OF BLUE EYES. 185 
 
 intrinsically possess. The girl resumed her normal atti- 
 tude with an added disquiet. 
 
 Elfride's emotion was cumulative, and after a while 
 would assert itself on a sudden. A slight touch was enough 
 to set it free — a poem, a sunset, a cunningly contrived 
 chord of music, a vague imagining, being the usual acci- 
 dents of its exhibition. The longing for Knight's respect, 
 which was leading up to an incipient yearning for his love, 
 made the present conjuncture a sufficient one. While kneel- 
 ing down previous to leaving, when the sunny streaks had 
 gone upward to the roof, and the lower part of the church 
 was in soft shadow, she could not help thinking of Cole- 
 ridge's morbid poem the "Three Graves," and shuddering 
 as she wondered if Mrs. Jethway were cursing her, she 
 wept as if her heart would break. 
 
 They came out of church just as the sun went down, 
 leaving the landscape like a platform from which an elo- 
 quent speaker has retired, and nothing remains for the 
 audience to do but to rise and go home. Mr. and Mrs. 
 Swancourt went off" in the carriage, Knight and Elfride 
 preferring to walk, as the skilful old matchmaker had im- 
 agined. They descended the hill together. 
 
 " I liked your reading, Mr. Knight." Elfride presently 
 found herself saying. " You read better than papa." 
 
 " I will praise anybody that will praise me. You played 
 excellently. Miss Swancourt, and very correctly." 
 
 " Correctly — yes." . 
 
 *' It must be a great pleasure to you to take an active 
 part in the service." 
 
 " I want to be able to play with more feeling. But I 
 have not a good selection of music, sacred or secular. I 
 wish I had a nice little music-library — well chosen, and that 
 the only new pieces sent me were those of genuine merit." 
 
 " I am glad to hear such a wish from you. It is extia- 
 ordinary how many women have no honest love of music 
 as an end and not as a means, even leaving out those who 
 have nothing in them. They mostly like it for its acces- 
 sories. I have never met a woman who loves music as do 
 ten or a dozen men I know." 
 
 How would you draw the line between women with 
 something and women with nothing in them?" 
 
I 36 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 "Well," said Knight, reflecting a moment, "I mean 
 by nothing in them those who don't care about anything 
 solid. This is an instance: I knew a man who had a 
 young friend he was much interested in j in fact, they were 
 going to be married. She was seemingly poetical, and he 
 offered hei a choice of two editions of the British poets, 
 which she pretended to want badly. He said, ' Which of 
 them w^ould you like best for me to send?' She said, 
 'A pair of the prettiest earrings in Bond-street, if you- 
 don't mind, would be nicer than either.' Now I call her a 
 girl with not much in her but vanity ; and so do you, I 
 dare say." 
 
 " O, yes," replied Elfride with an effort. 
 
 Happening to catch a glimpse of her face as she was 
 speaking, and noticing that her attempt at heartiness was 
 a miserable failure, he appeared to have misgivings. 
 
 ^'You, Miss Swancourt, would not, under such circum- 
 stances, have preferred the nicknacks ? " 
 
 " No, I don't think I should, indeed," she stammered. 
 
 " I'll put it to you," said the inflexible Knight. " Which 
 will you have of these two things of about equal value — the 
 well-chosen little library of the best music you spoke of — 
 bound in morocco, walnut case, lock and key — or a pair 
 of the very prettiest earrings in Bond-street windows ? " 
 
 "Of course the music," Elfride replied with forced 
 earnestness. 
 
 "You are quite certain ? "he said emphatically. 
 
 " Quite," she faltered ; " if I could for certain buy the 
 earrings afterwards." 
 
 Knight, somewhat blamably, keenly enjoyed sparring 
 with the palpitating little creature v/hose excitable nature 
 made any such thing a species of cruelty. 
 
 He looked at her rather oddly, and said, " Fie ! " 
 
 " Forgive me," she said, laughing a little, a little 
 frightened, and blushing very deeply. 
 
 " Ah, Miss Elfie, why didn't you say at first, as any 
 firm woman would have said, I am as bad as she, and shall 
 choose the same ? " 
 
 " I don't know," said Elfride wofully, and with a dis- 
 tressful smile. 
 
 I thought you were exceptionally musical ? " 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EVES. ig; 
 
 " So I am, I think. But the test is so severe— quite 
 painful/' 
 
 '^ r don't understand." 
 
 " Music doesn't do any real good, or rather—" 
 
 " That is a thing to say, Miss Swancourt ! Wliy what— " 
 
 '*' You don't understand ! you don't understand ! " 
 
 "Why, what conceivable use is there in jimcrack 
 jewelry ? " 
 
 "No, no, no, no!" she cried petulantly; ''I didn't 
 mean what you think. I like the music best, only I like — " 
 
 " Earrings better—own it ! " he said, in a teasing tone. 
 " Well, I think I should have had the moral courage to 
 own it at once, without pretending to an elevation I could 
 not reach." 
 
 Like the French soldiery, Elfride was not brave when 
 on the defensive. So it was almost with tears in her eyes 
 that she answered desperately : 
 
 " My meaning is, that I like earrings best just now, 
 because I lost one of my prettiest pair last year, and papa 
 said he would not buy any more, or allow me to myself, 
 because I was careless ; and now I wish I had some like 
 them — that's what my meaning is — indeed it is, Mr. 
 Knight." 
 
 " I am afraid I have been very harsh and rude," said 
 Knight, with a look of regret at s'eeing how disturbed she 
 was. " But seriously, if women only knew how they ruin 
 their good looks by such appurtenances, I am sure they 
 would never want them." 
 
 " They were lovely, and became me so ! " 
 
 "Not if they were like the ordinary hideous things 
 women stuff their ears with now-a-days — like the governor 
 of a steam-engine, or a pair of scales, or gold gibbets and 
 chains, and artists' palettes, and compensation pendulums, 
 and Heaven knows what besides." 
 
 *' No ; they were not one of those things. So pretty- 
 like this," she said with eager animation. And she dre.v 
 with the point of her parasol an enlarged view of one cf 
 the lamented darlings, to a scale that would have suited a 
 giantess half a mile high. 
 
 " Yes, very pretty — very," said Knight dryly. " ilow 
 did you come to lose such a precious pair of articles?" 
 
Ig3 A PAIR OF BLUE EVES. 
 
 ** I only lost one — nobody ever loses both at the same 
 time." 
 
 She made this remark with embarrassment, and a ner- 
 vous movement of the fingers. Seeing that the loss oc- 
 curred while Stephen Smith was attempting to kiss her for 
 the first time on the cliff, her confusion was hardly to be 
 wondered at. The question had been awkward, and re- 
 ceived no direct answer. 
 
 Knight seemed not to notice her manner. 
 
 " O, nobody ever loses both — I see. And certainly 
 the fact that it was a case of loss takes away all odor of 
 vanity from your choice." 
 
 " As I never know whether you are in earnest, I don't 
 now," she said, looking up inquiringly at the hairy fiice 
 of the oracle. And coming gallantly to her own rescue ; 
 " If I really seem vain, it is that I am only vain in my 
 ways — not in my heart. The worst women are those vain 
 in their hearts, and not in their ways." 
 
 " An adroit distinction. Well, they are certainly the 
 more objectionable of the two," said Knight. 
 
 " Is vanity a mortal or a venial sin ? You know what 
 life is : tell me." 
 
 " I am very far from knowing what life is. A just con- 
 ception of life is too large a thing to grasp during the short 
 interval of passing through it." 
 
 "Will the fact of a woman being fond of jewelry be 
 likely to make her life, in its higher sense, a failure ?" 
 
 "Nobody's life is altogether a failure," 
 
 " Well, you know what I mean, even though my words 
 are badly selected and commonplace," she said impa- 
 tiently. " Because I utter commonplace words, you must 
 not suppose I think only commonplace thoughts. My 
 poor stock of words are like a limited number of rough 
 moulds I have to cast all my materials in, good and bad ; 
 and the novelty or delicacy of the substance is often lost 
 in the coarse triteness of the form." 
 
 "Very well ; I'll believe that ingenious representation. 
 As to the subject in hand — lives which are failure s — you 
 need not trouble yourself Anybody's life may be just as 
 romantic and strange and interesting if he or she fails as 
 if he or she succeed. All the difference is, that the last 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 189 
 
 chapter is wanting in the story. If a man of power tries 
 to do a great deed, and just falls short of it by an accident 
 not his fault, up to that time his history had as much in it 
 as that of a great man who has done his great deed. It is 
 whimsical of the world to hold that particulars of how a 
 lad went to school and so on should be as an interesting 
 romance or as nothing to them, precisely as the lad in 
 after years becomes renowned, or, with the power to 
 become so, does not." 
 
 They were walking between the sunset and the moon- 
 rise. With the dropping of the sun a nearly full moon 
 had begun to show itself. Their shadows, as cast by the 
 western glare, showed signs of becoming obliterated in the 
 interest of a rival pair in the opposite direction which 
 the moon was bringing to distinctness. 
 
 "I consider my life to some extent a failure," said 
 Knight again after a pause, during which he had noticed 
 the antagonistic shadows. 
 
 " You ! How .? " 
 
 " I don't precisely know. But in some way I have 
 missed the mark." 
 
 "Really.? To have done it is not much to be sad 
 about, but to feel that you have done it must be a cause 
 of sorrow. Am I right ? " 
 
 " Partly, though not quite. For a sensation of being 
 profoundly experienced serves as a sort of consolation to 
 people who are conscious of having taken wrong turnings. 
 Contradictory as it seems, there is nothing truer than that 
 people who have always gone right don't know half as 
 much about the nature and ways of going right as those 
 who have gone wrong. However, it is not desirable for 
 me to chill your summer-time by going into this." 
 
 " You have not told me even now if I am really vain." 
 
 " If I say Yes, I shall offend you ; if I say No, you'll 
 think I don't mean it," he replied, looking curiously into 
 her face. 
 
 " Ah, well," she replied, with a little laugh of distress, 
 "* That which is exceeding deep, who shall find it out?' 
 I suppose I must take you as I do the Bible — find out and 
 understand all I can ; and on the strength of that swallow 
 the rest in a lump, by simple faith. Think me vain, if you 
 
igO A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 will. Worldly greatness requires so much littleness to 
 grow up in, tJiat an infirmity more or less is not a mailer 
 for regret." 
 
 " As regards women, I can't say," answered Knight 
 carelessly; "but it is without doubt a misfortune for a 
 man, who has a living to get, to be born of a truly noble 
 nature. A high soul will bring a man to the workhouse ; 
 so you may be right in sticking up for vanity." 
 
 " No, no, I don't do that," she said regretfully. " Mr. 
 Knight, when you are gone, will you send me something 
 you have written 1 I think I should like to see whether 
 you write as you have lately spoken, or in your better 
 mood. Which is your true self — the cynic you have been 
 this evening, or the nice philosopher you were up to to- 
 night 1 " 
 
 " Ah, which ? You know as well as I." 
 
 Their conversation detained them on the lawn and in 
 the portico till the stars blinked out. Elfride flung back 
 her head, and said idly, 
 
 " There's a bright star exactly over me." 
 
 "Each bright star is overhead somewhere." 
 
 "Is it? O yes, of course. Where is that one?" and 
 she pointed with her finger. 
 
 " That is poised like a white hawk over one of the 
 Cape Verde islands." 
 
 " And that ? " 
 
 " Looking down upon the source of the Nile." 
 
 "And that lonely quiet-looking one?" 
 
 " He watches the North Pole, and has no less than the 
 whole equator for his horizon. And that idle one low 
 down upon the ground, that we have almost rolled away 
 from, is in India — over the head of a young friend of mine, 
 who very possibly looks at the star in our zenith, as it 
 hangs low upon his horizon, and thinks of it as marking 
 where his true-love dwells." 
 
 Elfride glanced at Knight with misgiving. Did he 
 mean her ? She could not see his features ; but his atti- 
 tude seemed to show unconsciousness. 
 
 " The star is over 7ny head," she said with hesitation, 
 
 " Or anybody else's in England." 
 
 " O yes, I see," with a breath of relie£ 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 191 
 
 "His parents, I believe, are natives of this county, j 
 don't know them, though I have been in correspondence 
 with him for many years till lately. Fortunately or unfor- 
 tunately for him, he fell in love, and then went to Bombay. 
 Since that time I have heard very little of him." 
 
 Knight went no farther in his volunteered statement, 
 and though Elfride at one moment was inclined to profit 
 by the lessons in honesty he had just been giving her, the 
 flesh was weak, and the intention dispersed into silence. 
 There seemed a reproach in Knight's blind words, and 
 yet she was not able to clearly define any disloyalty she 
 had been guilty of. 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 " A DISTANT DEARNESS IN THE HILL." 
 
 KNIGHT turned his back upon the parish of Endel* 
 stow, and crossed over to Cork. 
 
 One day of absence superimposed itself on another, 
 and proportionately weighted his heart. He pushed on to 
 the Lakes of Killarney, rambled amid their luxuriant 
 woods, surveyed the infinite variety of island, hill, and dale 
 to be there found, listened to the marvellous echoes of that 
 romantic spot ; but altogether missed the glory and the 
 dream he formerly found in such favored regions. 
 
 While in the company of Elfride, her girlish presence 
 had not perceptibly affected him to any depth. He had 
 not been conscious that her entry into his sphere had add- 
 ed anything to himself ; but now that she was taken away 
 he was very conscious of a great deal being abstracted. The 
 superfluity had become a necessity, and Knight was in love. 
 
 Stephen fell in love with Elfride by looking at her ; 
 Knight by ceasing to do so. When or how the spirit en- 
 tered into him he knew not : certain he was that when on 
 the point of leaving Endelstow he had felt none of that ex- 
 quisite nicety of poignant sadness natural to such sever- 
 ances, seeing how delightful a subject of contemplation 
 Elfride had been ever since. Plad he begun to love her 
 when she met his eye after her mishap on the tower } He 
 had simply thought her weak. Had he grown to love her 
 while standing on the lawn brightened all over by the eve- 
 ning sun ? He had thought her comphSxion good : no 
 more. Was it her conversation that had sown the seed ? 
 He had thought her words ingenious, and very creditable 
 to a young woman, but not noteworthy. Had the chess- 
 playing anything to do with it ? Certainly not : he had 
 U^ought her at that time a rather conceited child. 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 193 
 
 Knight's experience was a complete disproof of the as- 
 sumption that love always comes by glances of the eye and 
 sympathetic touches of the fingers : that, like flame, it 
 makes itself palpable at the moment of generation. Not 
 till they were parted, and she had become sublimated in 
 his memory, could he be said to have even attentively re- 
 garded her. 
 
 Thus, having passively gathered up images of her which 
 his mind did not act upon till the cause of them was no 
 longer before him, he appeared to himself to have fallen in 
 love with her soul, which had temporarily assumed its dis- 
 embodiment to accompany him on his way. 
 
 She began to rule him so imperiously now that, accus- 
 tomed to analysis, he almost trembled at the possible re- 
 sult of the introduction of this new force among the nicely 
 adjusted ones of his ordinary life. He became restless : 
 then he forgot all collateral subjects in the pleasure of 
 thinking about her. 
 
 Yet it must be said that Knight loved philosophically 
 rather than romantically. 
 
 He thought of her manner towards him. Simplicity 
 verges on coquetry. Was she flirting ? he said to himself. 
 No forcible translation of favor into suspicion was able to 
 uphold such a theory. The performance had been too 
 well done to be anything but real. It had the defects with- 
 out which nothing is genuine. No actress of twenty years* 
 standing, no fashionable lady whose earliest season " out " 
 was lost in the discreet mist of evasive talk, could have 
 played before him the part of ingenuous girl as Elfride liv- 
 ed it. She had the little artful ways which partly make up 
 ingenuousness. 
 
 There are bachelors by nature and bachelors by cir- 
 cumstance : spinsters there doubtless are also of both 
 kinds, though I have only met those of the latter. How- 
 ever, Knight had been looked upon as a bachelor by na- 
 ture. What was he coming to? It was very odd to him- 
 self to look at his theories on the subject of love, and 
 reading them now by the full light of a new experience, to 
 see how much more his sentences meant than he had felt 
 them to mean when they were written. People often dis- 
 cover the real force of a trite old maxim only when it is 
 
194 
 
 A PAIR OF BLUE EVILS. 
 
 thrust upon them by a chance adventure ; but Knight had 
 never before known the case of a man who learned the full 
 compass of his own epigrams by such means. 
 
 He v/as intensely satisfied with one aspect of the affair. 
 Inbred in him was an invincible objection to be any but 
 the first comer in a woman's heart. He had discovered 
 >*'ithin himself the condition that if ever he did make up 
 his mind to marry, it must be on the certainty that no 
 cropping out of inconvenient old letters, no bow and blush 
 to a mysterious stranger casually met, should be a possible 
 source of discomposure. Knight's sentiments were only 
 the ordinary ones of a man of his age who loves warmly, 
 perhaps exaggerated a little by his pursuits. When men 
 first love as lads, it is with the very centre of their hearts, 
 nothing else being concerned in the operation. With add- 
 ed years, more of the faculties attempt a partnership in the 
 passion, till at Knight's age the understanding is fain to 
 have a hand in it. It may as well be left out. A man in 
 love setting up his brains as a gauge of his position is like 
 determining a ship's longitude from a light at the mast- 
 head. 
 
 Knight argued from Elfride's unwontedness of ma>nner, 
 which was matter of fact, to an unwontedness in love, which 
 was matter of inference only. Licredides les plus cr'edides. 
 " Elfride," he said, " had hardly looked upon a man till 
 she saw me." 
 
 He had never forgotten his severity to her because she 
 preferred ornament to edification, and had since excused 
 her a hundred times by thinking how natural to woman- 
 kind was a love of adornment, and how necessary became 
 a mild infusion of personal vanity to complete the delicate 
 and fascinating dye of the feminine mind. So at the end 
 of a week's absence, which had brought him as far as Dub- 
 lin, he resolved to curtail his tour, return to Endelstow, 
 and commit himself by making a reality of the hypothetical 
 offer of that Sunday evening. 
 
 Notwithstanding that he had concocted a great deal of 
 paper theory on social amenities, and modern manners 
 generally, the special ounce of practice was wanting, and 
 now for his life Knight could not recollect whether it was 
 considered correct to gi 'e a young lady personal orna* 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. I95 
 
 ments before a regular engagement to marry liad been ini- 
 tiated. But the day before leaving Dublin he looked 
 around anxiously for a high-class jewelry establishment, in 
 which he purchased what he considered would suit her 
 best. 
 
 It was with a most awkward and unwonted feeling that 
 aftei entering and closing the door of his room he sat down, 
 opened the morocco case, and held up each of the fragile 
 bits of gold- work before his eyes. Many things had be- 
 come old to the solitary man of letters, but these were new, 
 and he handled like a child an outcome of civilization 
 which had never before been touched by his fingers. A 
 sudden fastidious decision that the pattern chosen would 
 not suit he -after all caused him to rise in a flurry and tear 
 down the street to change them for others. After a groat 
 deal of trouble in re-selecting, during which his mind bo- 
 came so bewildered that the critical faculty on objects ol 
 art seemed to have deserted and left him helpless, Knight 
 carried off another pair of ear-rings. These remained in 
 his possession till the afternoon, when, after contemplating 
 them fifty times with a growing misgiving that the last 
 choice was worse than the first, he felt that no sleep would 
 visit his pillow till he had improved upon his previous pur- 
 chases yet again. In a perfect heat of vexation with him- 
 self for such tergiversation, he went anew to the shop-door, 
 was absolutely ashamed to enter and give further trouble, 
 went to another shop, bought a pair at an enormously in- 
 creased price because they seemed the very thing, asked 
 the goldsmiths if they would take the other pair in ex- 
 change, was told that they could not exchange -articles 
 bought of another maker, paid down the money, and went 
 off with the two pairs in his possession, wondering what on 
 earth to do with the superiiuous pair. He almost wished 
 he could lose them, or that somebody would steal them, 
 and was burdened with the idea that, as a sensible man, 
 with true ideas of economy, he must necessarily sell them 
 somewhere. Mingled with a blank feeling of a whole day 
 being lost to him in running about the city on this new 
 and extraordinary class of errand, and of several pounds 
 being lost through his bungling, was a slight sense of satis- 
 faction that he had emerged forever from his antediluvian 
 
196 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 ignorance on the subject of ladies' jewelry, as well as se- 
 cured a truly artistic production at last. During the re- 
 mainder of that day he scanned the ornaments of every 
 lady he met with the profoundly experienced eye of an ap- 
 praiser. 
 
 Next morning Knight was again crossing St. George's 
 Channel — not returning to London by the Holyhead route 
 as he had originally intended, but towards Bristol — availing 
 himself of Mr. and Mrs. Swancourt's invitation to revisit 
 them on his homeward journey. 
 
 We flit forward to Elfride. 
 
 Woman's ruling passion — to fascinate and influence 
 those more powerful than she — though operant in Elfride, 
 was decidedly purposeless. She had wanted her friend 
 Knight's good opinion from the first : how much more than 
 that elementary ingredient of friendship she now desired, 
 her fears would hardly allow her to think. In originally 
 wi:;hing to please the highest class of man she had ever in- 
 timately known, there was no disloyalty to Stephen Smith. 
 She could not — and few women can — realize the possible 
 vastness of an issue which has only an insignificant cause. 
 
 Her letters from Stephen were necessarily few, and her 
 sense of fidelity clung to the last she had received as a 
 wrecked mariner clings to flotsam. The young girl per- 
 suaded herself that she was glad Stephen had such a right 
 to her hand as he had acquired (in her eyes) by the elope- 
 ment. She beguiled herself by saying, " Perhaps if I had 
 not so committed myself I might fall in love with Mr. 
 Knight." 
 
 All this made the week of Knight's absence very gloomy 
 and distasteful to her. She had retained Stephen in her 
 prayers, and his old letters were re-read — as a medicine in 
 reality, though she deceived herself into the belief that it 
 was as a pleasure. 
 
 These letters had grown more and more hopeful. He 
 told her that he finished work every day with a pleasant 
 consciousness of having removed one more stone from the 
 barrier which divided them. Then he drew images of what 
 a fine figure they tv/o would cut some day. People would 
 turn their heads and say, " What a prize he has won." She 
 was not to be sad about that wild runaway attempt of theirs 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 197 
 
 (Elfride had repeatedly said that it grieved her). What- 
 ever any other person who knew of it might think, he knew 
 well enough the modesty of her nature. The only reproach 
 was a gentle one for not having written quite so devotedly 
 during her visit from London. Her letter had seemed to 
 have a liveliness derived from other thoughts than thoughts 
 of him. 
 
 Knight's intention of an early return to Endelstow hav- 
 ing originally been faint, his promise to do so had been 
 fainter. He was a man who kept his words well to the rear 
 of his possible actions. The vicar was rather surprised to 
 see him again so soon: Mrs. Swancourt was not. Knight 
 found, on meeting them all, after his arrival had been an- 
 nounced, that they had formed an intention to go to St. 
 Leonard's for a few days at the end of the month. 
 
 No satisfactory opportunity offered itself on this first 
 evening of his return for presenting Elfride with what he 
 had been at such pains to procure. He was fastidious in 
 his reading of opportunities of such a kind. The next 
 morning chancing to break fine after a week of cloudy 
 weather, it was proposed and decided that they should all 
 drive to Barwith Bay, a local lion which neither Mrs. Swan- 
 court nor Knight had seen. Knight scented romantic oc- 
 casions from afar, and foresaw that such a one might be 
 expected before the coming night. 
 
 The journey was along a road by neutral green hills, 
 upon which hedgerows lay trailing like ropes on a quay. 
 Gaps in these uplands revealed the blue sea, flecked with 
 a few dashes of white and a solitary white sail, the whole 
 brimming up to a keen horizon which lay like a line ruled 
 from hill-side to hill-side. Then they rolled down a pass, 
 the chocolate-toned rocks forming a wall on both sides, from 
 one of which fell a heavy jagged shade over half the road- 
 way. A spout of fresh water burst from an occasional crev- 
 ice, and pattering down upon broad green leaves, ran along 
 as a rivulet at the bottom. Unkempt locks of heather over- 
 hung the br^w of each steep, whence at divers points a 
 bramble swung forth into mid-air, snatching at their head- 
 dresses like a claw. 
 
 They mounted the last ctest, and the bay which was ro 
 
198 
 
 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 be the end of their pilgrimage burst upon them. The ocean 
 blueness deepened its color as it stretched to the feet of 
 the crags, where it terminated in a fringe of white — silent 
 at this distance, though moving and heaving like a counter- 
 pane upon a restless sleeper. The shadowed hollows of the 
 purple-and-brown rocks would have been called blue had 
 not that tint been so entirely appropriated by the water be- 
 side them. 
 
 The carriage was put up at a little cottage with a shed 
 attached, and an ostler and the coachman carried the hamper 
 of provisions down to the shore. 
 
 Knight found his opportunity. " 1 did not forget your 
 wish," he began, when they were apart from their friends. 
 
 Elfride looked as if she did not understand. 
 
 " And I have brought you these," he continued, awk- 
 wardly pulling out a case, and opening it while holding it 
 towards her. 
 
 "O, Mr. Knight," said Elfride, confused, and turning to 
 a lively red ; "I didn't know you had any intention or mean- 
 ing in what you said. I thought it a mere supposition., I 
 don't want them." 
 
 A thought which had flashed into her mind gave the re- 
 ply a greater decisiveness than it might otherwise have pos- 
 sessed. To-morrow was the day for Stephen's letter. 
 
 " But will you not accept them ? " Knight returned, feel- 
 ing less her master than heretofore. 
 
 "I would rather not. They are beautiful — more beau- 
 tiful than any I have ever seen," she answered earnestly, 
 looking half-wishfully at the temptation, as Eve may have 
 looked at the apple. " But I don't want to have them, if 
 you will kindly forgive me, Mr. Knight." 
 
 *' No kindness at all," said Mr. Knight, brought to a 
 full stop at this unexpected turn of events. 
 
 A silence followed. Knight held the open case, looking 
 rather wofully at the glittering forms he had taken such 
 trouble to procure ; turning it about and holding it up as if, 
 feeling his gift to be slighted by her, he was resolved to ad- 
 mire it very much himself. 
 
 " Shut them up, and don't let me see them any longei 
 — do ! " she said aughingly, and with a quaint mixture of 
 reluctance and entreaty. 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 199 
 
 "Why, Elfie?" 
 
 *' Not Elfie to you, Mr. Knight O, because I shall 
 want them. There, I am silly, I know, to say that. But 
 I have a reason for not taking them — now." She kept in 
 the last word for a moment, intending to imply that her re- 
 fusal was finite, but somehow the word slipped out, and un- 
 did all the rest. 
 
 " You will take them some day ? " 
 
 *' I don't want to." 
 
 " Why don't you, Mistress Elfride Swancourt ? " 
 
 *' Because I don't. I don't like to take them." 
 
 "I have read a fact of distressing significance in that," 
 said Knight. " Since you like them, your dislike to havmg 
 them must be towards me ? " 
 
 " No, it isn't." 
 
 *' What, then, do you like me ? " 
 
 Elfride looked into the distance with features shaped to 
 an expression of the nicest criticism as regarded her an- 
 swer. 
 
 " I like you pretty well," she at length murmured, 
 mildly. 
 
 " Not very much } " 
 
 " You are so sharp with me, and say hard things, and so 
 how can I ? " she replied evasively. 
 
 " You think me a fogey, I suppose ? " 
 
 " No, I don't — I mean I do — 1 don't know what I think 
 you, I mean. Let us go to papa," responded Elfride, with 
 somewhat of a flurried delivery. 
 
 "Well, I'll tell you my object in getting the present," 
 said Knight, with a composure intended to remove from 
 her mind any possible impression of his being what he vias 
 — her lover. *' You see it was the very least I could do irv 
 common civility." 
 
 Elfride felt rather blank at this lucid statement. 
 
 " Knight continued, putting away the case, " I felt as 
 'Anybody naturally would have, you know, that my words on 
 your choice the other day were invidious and unfair, and 
 thought an apology should take a practical shape." 
 
 "0, yes." 
 
 " Elfride was sorry — she could not tell why — that he 
 gave such a legitimate reason. It was a disappointment 
 
200 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 that he had all the time a cool motive, wnich might be stated 
 to anybody without raising a smile. Had she known they 
 were offered in that spirit, she would certainly have accepted 
 the seductive gift And the tantalizing feature was that 
 perhaps he suspected her to imagine them offered as a lever's 
 token, which was mortifying enough if they were not. 
 
 •' Mrs. Swancourt came now to where they were sitting, 
 to select a point for spreading their table, and amid the 
 discussion upon that subject, the matter pending between 
 Knight and Eifride was shelved for a while. He read her 
 refusal so certainly as the bashfulness of a girl in a novel 
 position, that upon the whole he could tolerate such a be- 
 ginning. Could Knight have been told that it was a sense 
 of fidelity strugghng against new love, while no less assur- 
 ing as to his ultimate victory, it would have entirely abstract- 
 ed the wish to secure it. 
 
 At the same time a slight constraint of manner was vis- 
 ible in them for the remainder of the afternoon. The 
 tide turned, and they were obliged to ascend to higher 
 ground. The day glided on to its end in the usual quiet 
 dreamy passivity of such occasions — when every deed done 
 and thing thought is in endeavoring to avoid doing and 
 thinking more. Looking idly ov^er the verge of a crag, they 
 beheld their dining-table gradually being splashed upon 
 and their crumbs and fragments all washed away by the in- 
 coming sea. The vicar drew a moral lesson from the 
 scene ; Knight replied in the same satisfied strain. And 
 then the waves rolled in furiously — the neutral green-and- 
 blue tongues of water slid up the slopes, and were meta- 
 morphosed into foam by a careless blow, falling back white 
 and faint, and leaving trailing followers behind. 
 
 The falling of a heavy shower was the next scene — 
 driving them to shelter in a shallow cave — after which the 
 horses were put in, and they started to return homeward. 
 By the time they reached the higher levels, the sky had 
 again cleared, and the sunset rays glanced directly upon 
 the wet uphill road they had climbed. The ruts formed by 
 their carriage-wheels on the ascent — a pair of Liliputian ca- 
 nals — were as so many shining bars of gold, tapering to 
 nothing in the distance. Upon this also they turned their 
 backs, and night spread over the sea. 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 201 
 
 The evening was chilly, and there was no moon. Knight 
 sat close to Elfride, and, when the darkness rendered the 
 position of a person a matter of uncertainty, particularly 
 close. Elfride edged away. 
 
 " I hope you allow me my place ungrudgingly ? " he 
 whispered. 
 
 *' O, yes ; 'tis the least I can do in common civility," she 
 said, accenting the words so that he might recognize them 
 as his own returned. 
 
 Both of them felt delicately balanced between two pos 
 sibilities. Thus they reached home. 
 
 To Knight this mild experience was delightful. It was 
 to him a gentle innocent time — a time which, though there 
 may not be much in it, seldom repeats itself in a man's life, 
 and has a peculiar dearness when glanced at retrospective- 
 ly. He is not inconveniently deep in love, and is lulled by 
 a peaceful sense of being able to enjoy the most trivial 
 thing with a childlike enjoN'ment. The movement of a 
 wave, the color of a stone, anything, was enough for Knight's 
 drowsy thoughts of that day to precipitate themselves upon. 
 Even the sermonizing platitudes the vicar had delivered 
 himself of — chiefly because something seemed to be pro- 
 fessionally required of him in the presence of a man ol 
 Knight's proclivities — were swallowed whole. The pres- 
 ence of Elfride led him not merely to tolerate that kind of 
 talk from the necessities of ordinary courtesy ; but he lis- 
 tened to.it — took in the ideas with an enjoyable make-be- 
 lieve that they were proper and necessary, and indulged in 
 a conservative feeling that the face of things was complete. 
 
 Entering her room that evening, Elfride found a packet 
 for herself on the dressing-table. How it came there she 
 did not know. She tremblingly undid the folds of white 
 paper that covered it. Yes ; it was the treasure of a mo- 
 rocco case, containing those treasures of ornament she had 
 refused in the daytime. 
 
 Elfride dressed herself in them for a moment, looked 
 at herself in the glass, blushed red, and put them away. 
 They filled her dreams all that night. Never had she seen 
 anything so lovely, and never was it more clear that as an 
 honest woman she was in duty bound to refuse them. 
 Why it was not equally clear to her that duty required 
 
 9* 
 
202 ^ ^^^^ OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 more vigorous coordinate conduct as well, let those who 
 blame her say. 
 
 The next morning glared in like a spectre upon her. 
 It was Stephen's letter-day, and she was bound to meet the 
 postman— to stealthily do a deed she had never liked, wO 
 secure an end she had now ceased to desire. 
 
 But she went. 
 
 There were two letters. 
 
 One was from the bank at St. Kirr's, in which she had 
 a small private deposit — probably something about inter- 
 est. She put that in her pocket for a moment, and going 
 in-doors and up stairs, to be safer from observation, trem- 
 blingly opened Stephen's. 
 
 What was this he said to her ? 
 
 She was to go to the St. Kirr's bank and take a sum of 
 money which they had received private advices to pay her. 
 
 The sum was two hundred pounds. 
 
 There was no check, order, or anything in the nature 
 of guarantee. In fact the information amounted to this : 
 the money was now in the St Kirrs bank, standing in her 
 name. 
 
 She instantly opened the other letter. It contained a 
 deposit note from the bank for the sum of two hundred 
 pounds which had that day been added to her account. 
 Stephen's information, then, was correct, and the transfer 
 made. 
 
 " I have earned this in one year," Stephen's letter went 
 on to say, " and what so proper as well as pleasant for me 
 to do as to hand it over to you to keep for our use ? I 
 have plenty for myself independently of this. Should you 
 not be disposed to let it lie idle in the bank, get your 
 father to invest it in your name on good security. It is a 
 little present to you from your more than betrothed. He 
 will, I think, Elfride, feel now that my pretentions to your 
 hand are anything but the dream of a silly boy, not worth 
 rational consideration." 
 
 With a natural delicacy, Elfride, in mentioning her 
 father's marriage, had refrained from all allusion to the 
 pecuniary resources of the lady. 
 
 Leaving this matter-of-fact subject, he went on, some 
 what after his boyish manner : 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 203 
 
 " Do you remember, darling, that first morning of my 
 arrival at your house, when your father read at prayers the 
 miracle of healing the sick of the palsy — where he is told 
 to take up his bed and walk ? I do, and I can now so 
 well realize the force of that passage. The smallest piece 
 of mat is the bed of the Oriental, and yesterday I saw a 
 native perform the very action, which reminded me to men- 
 tion it But you are better read than I, and perhaps you 
 
 knew all this long ago One day I bought some small 
 
 native idols to send home to you as curiosities, but after- 
 wards finding they had been cast in England, made to look 
 old, and shipped over, I threw them away in disgust. 
 
 " Speaking of this reminds me that we are obliged to 
 import all our house-building iron-work from England. 
 Never was such foresight required to be exercised in build- 
 ing houses as here. Before we begin, we have to order 
 every column, lock, hinge, and screw that will be required. 
 We cannot go into the next street, as in London, and get 
 them cast at a minute's notice. Mr. L. says somebody will 
 have to go to England very soon and superintend the se- 
 lection of a large order of this kind. I only wish I may 
 be the man." 
 
 There before her lay the deposit receipt for the two 
 hundred pounds, and beside it the elegant present of 
 Knight. Elfride grew cold— then her cheeks felt scorched, 
 as if by fire. If by destroying the piece of paper the whole 
 transaction could have been withdrawn from her experience, 
 she w^ould willingly have sacrificed the money it repre- 
 sented. She did not know what to do in either case. She 
 almost feared to let the two articles lie in juxtaposition : 
 so antagonistic were the interests they represented that a 
 miraculous repulsion of one by the other was almost to be 
 expected. 
 
 That day she was seen little of. By the evening she 
 had come to a resolution, and acted upon it. The packet 
 was sealed up — with a tear of regret as she closed the case 
 upon the pretty forms it contained — directed, and placed 
 upon the writing-table in Knight's room. And a letter was 
 written to Stephen, stating that as yet she hardly under 
 stood her position with regard to the money sent ; but de- 
 claring she was ready to fulfill her promise to marry hinL 
 
 ift. 
 
204 
 
 A PAIR OF BLUE E\ ES. 
 
 After this letter had been written she delayed posting it — al< 
 IhoLigh she did not cease to feel that the deed must be done. 
 
 Several days passed. There was another Indian letter 
 for Elfride. Coming miexpectedly, her father saw it, but 
 made no remark — why, she could not tell. The news this 
 time was absolutely overwhelming. Stephen, as he had 
 wished, had been actually chosen as the most fitting to ex- 
 ecute the iron-work commission he had alluded to as im- 
 pending. This duty completed, he had three months' 
 leave. His letter continued that he should -follow it in a 
 week, and should take the opportunity to plainly ask her 
 father to permit the engagement. Then came a page ex- 
 pressive of his delight and hers at the reunion, and finally, 
 the information that he would write to the shipping agents, 
 asking them to telegraph and tell her when the ship bring- 
 ing him home should be in sight — knowing how accepta- 
 ble such information would be. 
 
 Elfride lived and moved now as in a dream. Knight 
 had at first become almost angry at her persistent refusal 
 of his offering — and no less with the manner than the fact 
 of it. But he saw that she began to look worn and ill — 
 and his vexation lessened to simple perplexity. 
 
 He ceased now to remain in the house for long hours 
 together as before, but made it a mere centre for antiqua- 
 rian and geological excursions in the neighborhood. Throw 
 up his cards and go away he fain would have done, but 
 could not. And thus, availing himself of the privileges of 
 a relative, he went in and out the premises as fancy led 
 him — but still lingered on. 
 
 " I don't wish to stay here another day if my presence 
 is distasteful," he said one afternoon. " At first you used 
 to imply that I was severe with you ; and when I am kind 
 you treat me unfairly." 
 
 " No, no. Don't say so." 
 
 The origin of their acquaintanceship had been such as 
 to render their manner towards each other peculiar and 
 uncommon. It was of a kind to cause them to speak out 
 their minds on any feelings of objection and difference : to 
 be reticent on gentler matters. 
 
 " I have a good mind to go away and never trouble you 
 again," ctnitinued Knight. 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 20$ 
 
 She said nothing, but the eloquent expression of her 
 eyes and wan face was enough to reproach him for harsh- 
 ness. 
 
 " Do you like me to be here, then ? " Knight inquired 
 gently. 
 
 " Yes," she said. Fidelity to the old love and truth to 
 the new were ranged on opposite sides, and truth virtuelessly 
 prevailed. 
 
 " Then I'll stay a little longer," said Knight. 
 
 " Don't be vexed if I keep by myself a good deal, will 
 you ? Perhaps something may happen, and I may tell you 
 something." 
 
 "Mere coyness," said Knight to himself ; and went away 
 with a lighter heart. The trick of reading truly enigmatical 
 forces at work in woman at given times, which with some 
 men is an unerring instinct, is peculiar to minds less direct 
 and honest than Knight's. 
 
 The next evening, about five o'clock, before Knight had 
 returned from a pilgrimage along the shore, a man walked 
 up to the house. He was a messenger from the station at 
 Stranton, to which place the railway had been advanced 
 during the summer. 
 
 A telegram for Miss Swancourt, and a shilling to pay 
 for a special messenger. 
 
 Miss Swancourt sent out the money, signed the paper, 
 and opened her letter with a trembling hand. She read : 
 * yohnson^ Liverpool^ to Miss Swancourt^ Endelstow^ near 
 
 Stranton. 
 
 * Amaryllis telegraphed of Holyhead four o'clock. Ex- 
 pect will dock and land passengers at Cantti?ig's Basin ten o'clock 
 *o morrow 77iorning.' 
 
 Her father called her into the study. 
 
 " Elfride, who sent you that message ? " lie asked su* 
 oiciously. 
 
 "Johnson." 
 
 " Who is Johnson, for Heaven's sake ? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 *' The deuce you don't ! Who is to know, then ? ** 
 
 " I have never heard of him till now." 
 
 " That's a singular story, isn't it ? " 
 
 « I don't know." 
 
2o6 ^ P^^R OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 " Ccme, come, miss ! AVhat was the telegram ?" 
 
 " Do you really wish to know, papa ? " 
 
 " Well, I do." 
 
 " Remember, I am a full-grown woman now." 
 
 " Well, what then ? " 
 
 " Being a woman, and not a child, I may, I think, hava 
 a secret or two." 
 
 " You will, it seems." 
 
 " Women have, as a rule." 
 
 " But don't keep them. So speak out." 
 
 "If you will not press me now, I give my word to tell 
 you the meaning of all this before the week is past." 
 
 " On your honor ? " 
 
 "On my honor." 
 
 " Very well. I have had a certain suspicion, you know ; 
 and I shall be glad to find it false. I don't like your man- 
 ner lately." 
 
 " At the end of the week, I said, papa." 
 
 Her father did not reply, and Elfride left the room. 
 
 She began to look out for the postman again. The 
 next morning he brought an ir ind letter from Stephen. 
 It contained very little matter, having been written in 
 haste ; but the meaning was bulky enough. Stephen said 
 he should arrive at his father's house. East Endelstow, at 
 five or six o'clock that same evening ; that he would after 
 dusk walk on to the next village, and meet her, if she 
 would, in the church porch, as in the old time. He pro- 
 posed this plan because he thought it unadvisable to call 
 formally at her house so late in the evening ; yet he could 
 not sleep without having seen her. The minutes would 
 seem hours till he clasped her in his arms. 
 
 Elfride was still steadfast in her opinion that honoi 
 compelled her to meet him. Probably the very longing to 
 avoid him lent additional weight to the conviction ; for she 
 »vas markedly one of those who sigh for the unattainable — 
 to whom, superlatively, a hope is pleasing because not a 
 possession. And she knew it so well, that her intellect was 
 inclined to exaggerate this defect in herself 
 
 So during the day she looked her duty steadfastly in the 
 face ; read Wordsworth's repressing and depressing ode to 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 207 
 
 that deity ; committed herself to her guidance ; and still felt 
 the weight of chance desires. 
 
 But she began to take a melancholy pleasure in contem- 
 plating the sacrifice of herself to the man whom a maidenly 
 sense of propriety compelled her to regard as her only pos- 
 sible husband. Shi> would meet h*m, and do all that lay in 
 her power to marry >ka3a. 
 
CHAPTER XXL 
 
 " ON THE COLD GREY STONES, O SEA 1 '* 
 
 STEPHEN had said that he should come by way of 
 Bristol, and thence by the steamer to Stranton, in order 
 to avoid the long journey over the hills from St. Kirr's. 
 He did not know of the extension of the railway. 
 
 During the afternoon a thought occurred to Elfride, 
 that from any cliff along the shore it would be possible to 
 see the steamer some hours before its arrival. 
 
 She had accumulated religious force enough to do an 
 act of supererogation. The act was this — to go to some 
 point of land and watch for the ship that brought her future 
 husband home. 
 
 It was a cloudy afternoon. Elfride was often diverted 
 from a purpose by a dull sky ; and though she used to per- 
 suade herself that the weather was as fine as possible on 
 the other side of the clouds, she could not bring about any 
 practical result from this fanc}'. Now her mood was such 
 that the humid sky harmonized. 
 
 Having ascended and passed over a hill behind the 
 house, Elfride came to a small stream. She used it as a 
 guide to the coast. It was smaller than that in her own 
 valley, and flowed altogether at a higher level. Furze- 
 bushes lined the slopes of its shallow basin ; but at the 
 bottom, where the water flowed, was a soft green carpet, in 
 a strip two or three yards wide. 
 
 In winter, the water flowed over the grass ; in summer, 
 as now, it trickled along a channel in the midst. 
 
 Elfride had a sensation of eyes regarding her from 
 somewhere. She turned, and there was Mr. Knight. He 
 had dropped into the valley from the side of the hill. She 
 feit a thrill of pleasure, and rebelliously allowed it to exist. 
 
 " What utter loneliness to find you in 1 " 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 209 
 
 * T am going to the shore by tracking the stream. I 
 believe it empties itself not far off, in a silver thread of 
 Water, over a cascade of great height." 
 
 " Why do you load yourself with that heavy telescope? " 
 
 "To look over the sea with it," she said faintly. 
 
 " I"ll carry it for you to your journey's end." And he 
 took the glass from her unresisting hands. " It cannot be 
 half a mile farther. See, there is the water." He pointed 
 to a short fragment of level muddy-grey color, cutting 
 against the sky. 
 
 Elfride had already scanned the small surface of ocean 
 visible, and had seen no ship. 
 
 They walked along in company, sometimes with the 
 brook between them — for it was no wider than a man's 
 stride — sometimes close together. The green carpet grew 
 swampy, and they kept higher up. 
 
 One of the two ridges between which they walked dwin- 
 dled lower and became insignificant. That on the right 
 hand rose with their advance, and terminated in a clearly- 
 defined edge against the light, as if it were abruptly sawn 
 off. A little farther, and the bed of the rivulet ended in the 
 .same fashion. 
 
 They had come to a bank breast-high, and over it the 
 valley was no longer to be seen. It was withdrawn, cleanly 
 and completely. In its place was sky and boundless atmos- 
 phere ; and perpendicularly down beneath them — small 
 and far off — lay the corrugated surface of the Atlantic. 
 
 The small stream here found its death. Running over 
 the precipice it was dispersed in spray before it was half 
 way down, and falling like rain upon projecting ledges, 
 made minute grassy meadows of them. Lower down it 
 s^nked away amid the dobris of the cliff. 
 
 This was the inglorious end of the river. 
 
 " What are you looking for ? " said Knight, following the 
 direction of her eyes. 
 
 She was gazing hard at a black object — nearer to the 
 shore than to the horizon — from the summit of which came 
 a nebulous haze, stretching hke gauze over the sea. 
 
 "The Puffin steamboat — from Bristol to Stranton," she 
 said. "I think that is it — look. Will you give me the 
 glass?" 
 
210 A P^^R OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 Knight pulled open the old-fashioned but powerful tele- 
 scope and handed it to Elfride, who had looked on with 
 heavy eyes. 
 
 " I can't keep it up, now," she said. 
 
 " Rest it on my shoulder." 
 
 " It is too high." 
 
 *' Under my arm." 
 
 "Too low. You may look instead," she murmured 
 weakly. 
 
 Knight raised the glass to his eye, and swept the sea till 
 the Puffin entered its field. 
 
 *' Yes, it is the Puffin. I can see her figure-head dis- 
 tinctly — a bird with a beak as big as its head." 
 
 " Can you see the deck ? " 
 
 "Wait a minute ; yes, pretty clearly. And I can see 
 the black forms of the passengers against its white surface. 
 One ot them has taken something from another — a glass, 
 I think — yes, it is — and he is levelling it in this direction. 
 Depend upon it we are conspicuous objects against the sky 
 to them. Now it seems to rain upon them, and they put 
 on overcoats and open umbrellas. They vanish and go 
 below —all but that one who has borrowed the glass. He 
 is a slim young fellow, and still watches us." 
 
 Elfride grew pale, and shifted her little feet uneasily. 
 
 Knight lowered the glass. 
 
 " I think we had better return," he said. " That cloud 
 which is raining on them may soon reach us. Why, you 
 look ill. How is that ? " 
 
 " Something in the air affects my face." 
 
 " Those fair cheeks are very fastidious, I fear," returned 
 Knight tenderly. " This air would make those rosy that 
 were never so before, one would think — eh, Nature's spoilt 
 child ? " 
 
 Elfride's color returned again. 
 
 "There is more to see behind us, after all," said Knight. 
 
 She turned her back upon the boat and Stephen Smith, 
 and saw, towering still higher than themselves, the vertical 
 face of the hill on the right, which did not project seaward 
 so far as the bed of the valley, but formed the back of a 
 small cove, and so was visible like a concave wall, bending 
 round from their position towards the left. 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 211 
 
 The composition of the huge hill was revealed to its 
 backbone and marrow here at its rent extremity. It con- 
 sisted of a vast stratification of blackish-grey slate, unva- 
 ried in its whole height by a single change of shade. 
 
 It is with cliffs and mountains as with persons ; they 
 have what is called a presence, which is not proportionate 
 to their actual bulk. A little cliff will impress you powerfully : 
 a great one not at all. It depends, as with man, upon the 
 countenance of the cliff. 
 
 *• I cannot bear to look at that cliff/' said Elfride. " It has 
 a horrid personality, and makes me shudder. We will go." 
 
 " Can you climb ? " said Knight. " If so, we will ascend 
 by that path over the grim old fellow's brow." 
 
 "Try me," said Elfride disdainfully. "I have ascend- 
 ed steeper slopes than that." 
 
 From where they had been loitering, a grassy path 
 wound along inside a bank, placed as a safeguard for un- 
 wary pedestrians, to the top of the precipice, and over it 
 along the hill in an inland direction. 
 
 " Take my arm, Miss Swancourt," said Knight. 
 
 " I can get on better without it, thank you." 
 
 When they were one quarter of the way up, Elfride 
 stopped to take breath. Knight stretched out his hand. 
 
 She took it, and they ascended the remaining slope to- 
 gether. Reaching the very top, they sat down to rest by 
 mutual consent. 
 
 " Heavens, what an altitude ! " said Knight, between 
 his pantings, and looking far over the sea. The cascade at 
 the bottom of the slope appeared a mere span in height 
 from where they were now. 
 
 Elfride was looking to the left. The steamboat was in 
 full view again now, and by reason of the vast surface of sea 
 their higher position uncovered, it seemed almost close to 
 the shore. 
 
 " Over that edge," said Knight, " where nothing but 
 vacancy appears, is a moving compact mass. The wind 
 strikes the face of the rock, runs up it, rises like a fountain 
 to far above our heads, curls over us in an arch, and dis- 
 perses behind us. In fact, an inverted cascade is there — ■ 
 as perfect as the Niagara Falls — but rising instead of fall' 
 ing, and air instead of water. Now look here." 
 
212 ^ PA^^ OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 Knight threw a stone over the bank, aiming it as to go 
 onward over the cliff. Reaching the verge, it towered mto 
 the air like a bird, turned back, and alighted on the ground 
 behind them. They themselves were in a dead calm. 
 - " A boat crosses Niagara immediately at the foot of 
 the falls, where the water is quite still, the fallen mass curv- 
 ing under it. We are in precisely the same position with 
 regard to our atmospheric cataract here. If you run back 
 from the cliff fifty yards, you will be in a brisk wind. Now 
 I dare say over the bank is a little backward current." 
 
 Knight arose and leaned over the bank. No sooner was 
 his head above it than his hat appeared to be sucked from 
 his head — slipping over his forehead in a seaward direction." 
 
 " That's the backward eddy, as I told you," he cried, 
 and vanished over the little bank after his hat. 
 
 Elfride waited one minute ; he did not return. She 
 waited another, and there was no sign of him. 
 
 A few drops of rain fell ; then a sudden shower. 
 
 She arose, and looked over the bank. On the other side 
 were two or three yards of level ground — then the verge of 
 the precipice. 
 
 On the slope was Knight, his hat on his head. He was 
 on his hands and knees, trying to climb back to the level 
 ground. The rain had wetted the shaly surface of the in- 
 cline. A slight superficial wetting of soil of any kind 
 makes it far more slippery to stand on than the same soil 
 thoroughly drenched. The inner substance is still hard, 
 and is lubricated by the moistened film. 
 
 " I find a difficulty in getting back," said Knight. 
 
 Elfride's heart fell like lead. " But you can get back ?" 
 she wildly inquired. 
 
 Knight strove with all his might for two or three 
 minutes, and the drops of perspiration began to bead his 
 brow. 
 
 " No, I am unable to do it," he answered. 
 
 Elfride, by a wrench of thought, forced away from her 
 mind the sensation that Knight was in bodily danger. But 
 attempt to help him she must.- She ventured upon the 
 treacherous incline, propped herself with the closed tele- 
 scope, and gave him her hand before he saw her move 
 ments. - « 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 213 
 
 '*0, Elfride, why did you I " said he. " I am afraid you 
 h v*. only endangered yourself." 
 
 And as if to prove his statement, in making an endeavor 
 by rirr assistance they both slipped lower, and then he was 
 ag»in stayed. His foot was propped by a bracket of quartz 
 rock, balanced on the verge of the precipice. Fixed by 
 this, he steadied her, her head being about a foot below the 
 beginnin,?; of the slope. Elfride had dropped the glass ; it 
 rolled to the edge and vanished over it into a nether sky. 
 
 *' Hold tightly to me," he said. 
 
 She f!ung her arms round his neck with such a firm 
 grasp that while he remained it was impossible for her to 
 fall. 
 
 " Don't be flurried," Knight continued. " So long as 
 we stay above this block we are perfectly safe. Wait a 
 moment while I consider what we had better do." 
 
 He turned his eyes to the dizzy depths beneath them, 
 and surveyed the position of affairs. 
 
 Two glances told him a tale with ghastly distinctness. 
 It was that, unless they performed their feat of getting up 
 the slope wiji the precision of machines, they were over the 
 edge and whirling in mid-air. 
 
 For this purpose it was necessary that he should recover 
 the breath and strength which his previous efforts had cost 
 him. So he still waited, and looked in the face of the 
 enemy. 
 
 The crest of this terrible natural fayade passed among 
 the neighboring inhabitants as being seven hundred feet 
 above the water it overhung. It had been proved by actual 
 measurement to be not a foot less than six hundred and 
 fifty. 
 
 That is to say, it is nearly three times the height of 
 Flamborough, half as high again as the South Foreland, a 
 hundred feet higher than Beachy Head — the loftiest prom- 
 ontory on the east or south side of this island, twice the 
 height of St Alban's, thrice as high as the Lizard, and just 
 double the height of St. Bee's. One seaboard point on the 
 western coast is known to surpass it in altitude, but only by 
 a few feet. This is Great Orme's Head in Caernarvon- 
 shin* 
 
 nd it must be remembered that this cliff exhibits an 
 
214 
 
 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 intensifying feature which some of those are without — sheei 
 perpendicularity from the half-tide level. 
 
 Yet this remarkable rampart forms no headland : it 
 rather walls in an inlet — the promontory on each side being 
 much lower. Thus, far from being salient, its horizontal 
 section is concave. The sea, rolling direct from the shores 
 of North America, has in fact eaten a chasm into the middle 
 of a hill, and the giant, embayed and unobtrusive, stands in 
 the rear of pigmy supporters. Not least singularly, neither 
 hill, chasm, nor precipice has a name, or the merest tradi- 
 tion of a name. On this account we will call the precipice 
 the Cliff without a Name. 
 
 What gave an added terror to its height was its blackness. 
 And upon this dark face the beating of ten thousand west 
 winds had formed a kind of bloom, which had a visual 
 effect not unlike that of a black Hamburg grape. Moreover 
 it seemed to float off into the atmosphere, and inspire ter- 
 ror through the lungs. 
 
 " This piece of quartz, supporting my feet, is on the very 
 nose of the cliff," said Knight, breaking the silence after his 
 rigid stoical meditation. '* Now what you are to do is this. 
 Clamber up my body till your feet are on my shoulders : 
 when you are there you will, I think, be able to climb on to 
 level ground." 
 
 "What will you do.?" 
 
 "Wait while you run for assistance." 
 
 " I ought to have done that in the first place, ought I 
 not?" 
 
 *' I was in the act of slipping, and should have reached no 
 standing point without your weight, in all probability. But 
 don't let us talk. Be brave, Elfride, and climb." 
 
 She prepared to ascend, saying, " This is the moment I 
 anticipated when on the tower. I thought it would come." 
 
 "This is not a time for superstition," said Knight. " Dis- 
 miss all that." 
 
 " I will," she said humbly. 
 
 "Now put your foot into my hand: next the other. 
 That's good — well done. Now to my shoulder." 
 
 She placed her feet upon a stirrup he made of his hands, 
 and was high enough to get a view of the natural surface of 
 the hill over the bank. 
 
A FAIR OF BL UE E YES. 2 1 $ 
 
 " Can you now clirnb on to level ground ? ** 
 
 " I am afraid not. 1 will try." 
 
 " What can you see .? '* 
 
 " The sloping common.'' 
 
 « What upon it ? " | 
 
 " Purple heather and some grass. 
 
 " Nothing more — no man or human being of any kind ?'* 
 
 "Nobody." 
 
 " Now try to get higher in this way. You see that tuft of 
 sea-pink above you. Get that well into your hand, but 
 don't trust to it entirely. Then step upon my shoulder, and 
 1 think you will reach the top." 
 
 With trembling knees she did exactly as he told her. 
 The preternatural quiet and solemnity of his manner over- 
 spread upon herself, and gave her a courage not her own. 
 She made a spring from the top of his shoulder, and was 
 up. 
 
 Then she turned to look at him. 
 
 By an ill-fate, the force downwards of her bound, added 
 to his own weight, had been too much for the block of quartz 
 upon which his feet depended. It was, indeed, an igneous 
 protrusion into the enormous mass of black strata, which 
 had been denuded from the sides of the alien fragments by 
 centuries of frost and rain, and now left it without much 
 support. 
 
 It moved. Knight seized a tuft of sea-pink with each 
 hand. 
 
 The quartz rock which had been his salvation was worse 
 than useless now. It rolled over out of sight, and away 
 into the same nether sky that had ingulfed the telescope. 
 
 One of the tufts by which he held came out at the root, 
 and Knight began to follow the quartz. It was a terrible 
 moment. Elfride uttered a low wild wail of agony, bowed 
 her head and covered her face with her hands. 
 
 Between the turf-covered slope and the gigantic vertical 
 rock was an intervening weather-worn series of jagged edges, 
 forming a face yet steeper than the former slope. As he 
 slowly slid inch by inch upon these, Knight made a last des- 
 perate dash at the lowest tuft of vegetation — the last outly- 
 ing knot of starved herbage ere the rock appeared in all its 
 bareness. It arrested his farther descent. Knight was 
 
2i6 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 now literally suspended by his arras ; but the incline of the 
 brow was what engineers would call about a quarter in one, 
 which was sufficient to relieve his arms of a portion of his 
 weight, but was very far from offering a sufficiently flat face 
 to support him. 
 
 In spite of this dreadful tension of body and mind 
 Knight found time for a moment of thankfulness. Elfride 
 was safe. 
 
 She lay on her side above him — her fingers clasped. 
 Seeing him again steady, she jumped upon her feet. 
 
 " Now, if I can only save you by running for help ! " she 
 cried. "O, I would have died instead ! Why did you try 
 so hard to deliver me ? " And she turned away wildly to run 
 for assistance. 
 
 *' Elfride, how long will it take you to run to Endelstow 
 and back ? " 
 
 " Three-quarters of an hour." 
 
 " That won't do j my hands will not hold out ten min- 
 utes. And is there nobody nearer ? " 
 
 " No ; unless a chance passer may happen to be." 
 
 " He would have nothing with him that could save me. 
 Is there a pole or stick of any kind on the common ?" 
 
 She gazed around. The common was bare of every- 
 thing but heather and grass. 
 
 A minute — perhaps more time — was passed in mute 
 thought by both. On a sudden the blank and helpless agony 
 left her face. She vanished over the bank from his sight 
 
 Knight felt himself alone in a terrible loneliness 
 
CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 " LOVE WILL FIND OUT THE WAY.** 
 
 HAGGARD cliffs, of every ugly altitude, are as ccra- 
 mon as sea- fowl along the line of coast between Ex- 
 moor and Land's End ; but this outflanked and encompass- 
 ed specimen was the ugliest of them all. Their summits 
 are not safe places for scientific experiment on the princi- 
 ples of air-currents, as Knight had now found, to his dis- 
 may. 
 
 He still clutched the face of the escarpment — not with 
 the frenzied hold of despair, but with a dogged determina- 
 tion to make the most of his every jot of endurance, and so 
 give the longest possible scope to Elfride's intentions, what- 
 ever they might be. 
 
 He reclined hand in hand with the world in its infancy. 
 Not a blade, not an insect, which spoke of the present, was 
 between him and the past. The inveterate antagonism of 
 these black precipices to all the strugglers for life is in no 
 way more forcibly suggested than by the absence of the min- 
 utest tufts of grass, lichens, or confervas from their fronts 
 and ledges. 
 
 Knight pondered on the meaning of Elfride's hasty dis- 
 appearance, but could not avoid an instinctive conclusion 
 that there existed but a doubtful hope for him. As far as 
 he could judge, his sole chance of deliverance lay in the 
 possibility of a rope or pole being brought ; and this possi- 
 bility was remote indeed. The soil upon these high downs 
 was left so untended that they were unenclosed for miles, 
 except by a casual bank or dry wall, and were rarely visited 
 but for the purpose of collecting or counting the flock 
 which found a scanty means of subsistence thereon. 
 
 At first, when death appeared improbable, because it 
 had never visited him before, Knight could think of no fu- 
 lo 
 
2i8 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 ture, nor of anything connected with his past. He could 
 only look sternly at Nature's treacherous attempt to put an 
 end to him, and strive to thwart her. 
 
 From the fact that the cliff formed the inner face of the 
 segment of a huge cylinder, having the sky fot a top 
 and the sea for a bottom, which enclosed the cove ro the 
 extent of more than a semicircle, he could see the vertical 
 face curving round on each side of him. He looked far 
 down the fayade, and realized more thoroughly how it 
 threatened him. Griraness was in every feature, and to its 
 very bowels the inimical shape was desolation. 
 
 By one of those familiar conjunctions in which the inani- 
 mate world baits the mind of man when he pauses in mo- 
 ments of suspense, opposite Knight's eyes was an imbedded 
 fossil, standing forth in low relief from the rock. It was a 
 creature with eyes. The eyes, dead and turned to stone, 
 were even now regarding him. It was one of the early 
 crustaceans called Trilobites. Separated by millions of 
 years in their lives, Knight and this underling seemed to 
 have met in their death. It was the single instance within 
 reach of his vision of anything that had ever been alive and 
 had had a body to save, as he himself had now. 
 
 This creature represented but a low type of animal ex- 
 istence, for never in their vernal years had the plains indi- 
 cated by those numberless slaty layers been traversed by 
 an intelligence worthy of the name. Zoophytes, rnollusca, 
 shell-fish, were the highest developments of those ancient 
 dates. The immense lapses of time each formation repre- 
 sented had known nothing of the dignity of man. They 
 were grand times, but they were mean times too, and mean 
 were their relics. He was to be with the small in his 
 death. 
 
 Knight was a geologist ; and such is the supremacy of 
 habit over occasion, as a pioneer of the thoughts of men^ 
 that at this dreadful juncture his mind found time to take 
 in, by a momentary sweep, the varied scenes that had had 
 their day between this creature's epoch and his own. There 
 is no place like a cleft landscape for bringing home such 
 imaginings as these. 
 
 Time closed up like a fan before him. He saw himself 
 at one extremity of the years, face to face with the begin- 
 
A PAIR OF BLU^ EYES. 2IO 
 
 nmg and all the intermediate centuries rJmultaneousIy. 
 Fierce men, clothed in the hides of beasts, and carrying, 
 for defence and attack, huge clubs and pointed spears, rose 
 from the rock, like the phantoms before the doomed Mac- 
 beth. They lived in hollows, woods, and mud huts — per- 
 haps in caves of the neighboring rocks. Behind them stood 
 an earlier band. No man was there. Huge elephantine 
 forms-, the mastodon, the hippopotamus, the tapir, anteJopes 
 of monstrous size, the megatherium, and the mylodou — all, 
 for the moment, in juxtaposition. Farther back, and over- 
 lapped by these, were perched huge-billed birds and swinish 
 creatures as large as horses. Still more shadowy were the 
 sinister crocodilian outlines — alligators and other horrible 
 reptiles, culminating in the colossal lizard, the iguanodon. 
 Folded behind were dragon forms and clouds of flying rep- 
 tiles : still underneath were fishy beings of lower develop- 
 ment ; and so on, till the life-time scenes of the fossil con- 
 fronting him were a present and modern condition of things. 
 
 These images passed before Knight's inner eye in less 
 than half a minute, and he was again considering the actual 
 present. Was he to die ? The mental picture of Elfride 
 in the world, without himself to cherish her, smote his heart 
 like a whip. He had hoped for deliverance, but what could 
 a girl do ? He dared not move an inch. Was Death really 
 stretching out his hand ? The previous sensation that it 
 was improbable he would die, was fainter now. 
 
 However, Knight still clung to the cliff. 
 
 To those hardy weather-beaten individuals who pass the 
 greater part of their days and nights out-of-doors, Nature 
 seems to have moods in other than a poetical sense : moods 
 literally and really — predilections for certain deeds at cer- 
 tain times, without any apparent law to govern or season to 
 account for them. They read her as a person with a curi- 
 ous temper. Thus : she does not scatter kindnessess and 
 cruelties alternately, impartially, or in order — shining on 
 them one day, raining on them the next — but heartless sever- 
 ities or overwhelming kindnesses in lawless caprice. Their 
 case is always that of the prodigal's favorite or the miser's 
 pensioner. In her unfriendly moments there seems a cruel 
 fun in her tricks — a feline playfulness begotten by an antici* 
 pated pleasure in swallowing the victim. 
 
220 ^ P^^^ OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 This way of thinking had been foreign to Knight, but 
 he began to adopt it now. He was first spitted on a 
 rock. New tortures followed after a while. The rain in- 
 creased, and persecuted him with exceptional persistency, 
 the reason of which he was moved to believe to be because 
 he was in such a wretched state already. An entirely new 
 order of things had been observed in this introduction of 
 rain upon the scene. It rained upwards instead of down. 
 The strong ascending current of air carried the rain drops 
 with it in its race up the escarpment, coming to him with 
 such velocity that they stuck into his flesh like cold needles. 
 Each drop was virtually a shaft, and it pierced him to his 
 skin. These water-shafts seemed to lift him on their points : 
 no downward rain ever had such a torturing effect. In a 
 brief space he was drenched, except in two places. These 
 were on the top of his shoulders and on the crown of his 
 hat. 
 
 The wind, though not intense in other situations, was 
 strong here. It tugged at his coat, and lifted it. We are 
 mostly accustomed to look upon all opposition which is not 
 animate, as that of the stolid, inexorable hand of indiffer- 
 ence, which wears out the patience more than the strength. 
 Here, at any rate, hostility did not assume that slow sick- 
 ening form. It was a cosmic agency, active, lashing, eager 
 for conquest ; determination ; not an insensate standing in 
 the way. 
 
 Knight had over-estimated the strength of his hands. 
 They were getting weak already. " She will never come 
 again ; she has been gone ten minutes," he said to him- 
 self. 
 
 This mistake arose from the unusual compression of his 
 experiences just now : she had really been gone but 
 three. 
 
 " As many more minutes will be my end," he thought. 
 
 Next came another instance of the incapacity of the 
 mind to make comparisons at such times. 
 
 " This is a summer afternoon," he said, " and there can 
 never have been such a heavy and cold rain on a summer 
 day in my life before." 
 
 He was again mistaken. The rain was quite ordinary 
 in quantity j the air in temperature. It was the menacing 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 221 
 
 attitude in which they approached him that magnified their 
 powers. 
 
 He again looked straight downwards, the wind and the 
 water-dashes lifting his moustache, scudding up his cheeks, 
 under his eyelids, and into his eyes. This is what he saw 
 down there : the surface of the sea — visually just past his 
 toes, and under his feet ; actually one-eighth of a mile, oi 
 more than two hundred yards, below them. We color ac- 
 cording to our moods the objects we survey. The sea 
 would have been a deep neutral blue, iiad happier auspices 
 attended the gazer : it was now no otherwise than distinctly 
 black to his vision. That narrow white border was foam, he 
 knew well ; but its boisterous tosses were so distant as to 
 appear a pulsation only, and its plashing was barely audible. 
 A white border to a black sea — his funeral pall and its 
 edging. 
 
 The world was to some extent turned upside down for 
 him. Rain ascended from below. Beneath his feet was 
 aerial space and the unknown ; above him was the firm fa- 
 miliar ground, and upon it all that he loved best. 
 
 Pitiless nature had then two voices, and two only. The 
 nearest was the voice of the wind in his ears, rising and fall- 
 ing as it mauled and thrust him hard or softly. The sec- 
 ond and distant one was the moan of that fathomless ocean 
 below and afar — rubbing its restless flank against the Cliff 
 without a Name. 
 
 Knight perseveringly held on. Had he any faith in 
 Elfride ? Perhaps. Love is faith, and faith, like a gathered 
 flower, will live on a long time after nutriment has ceased. 
 
 Nobody would have expected the sun to shine on such 
 an evening as this. Yet it appeared, low down upon the 
 sea. Not with its natural golden fringe, sweeping the 
 farthest ends of the landscape, not with the strange glare 
 of whiteness which it sometimes puts on as an alternative 
 with color, but as a splotch of vermilion red upon a leaden 
 ground — a red face looking on with a drunken leer. 
 
 Most men who have brains knov/ it, and few are so fool- 
 ish as to disguise this fact from themselves or others, even 
 though an ostentatious display may be called self-conceit. 
 Knight, without showing it much, knew that his intellect 
 was above the average. And he thought — he could not 
 
222 ^ PA^R OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 help thinking — that his death would be a deliberate loss to 
 earth of good material ; that such an experiment in killing 
 might have been practiced upon some less developed life. 
 
 A fancy some people hold, when in a bitter mood, is 
 that inexorable circumstance only tries to prevent what in- 
 telligence attempts. Renounce a desire for a long-contested 
 position, and go on another tack, and after a while the prize 
 is thrown at you, seemingly in disappointment that no more 
 tantalizing is possible. 
 
 Knight gave up thoughts of life utterly and entirely, 
 and turned to contemplate the Dark Valley and the unknown 
 future beyond. Into the solemn depths of these reflections 
 we will not pry. Let it suffice to state what followed. 
 
 At that moment of taking no more thought for this life, 
 something disturbed the outline of the bank above him. 
 A spot appeared. 
 
 It was the head of Elfride. 
 
 Knight immediately prepared to welcome life agam. 
 
 The expression of a face consigned to utter loneliness, 
 when a friend first looks in upon it, is moving in the extreme. 
 In rowing seaward to a light-ship or sea-girt light-house, 
 where, without any immediate terror of death, the inmates 
 experience the gloom of monotonous seclusion, the grateful 
 eloquence of their countenances at the greeting, expressive 
 of thankfulness for the visit, is almost enough to stir the 
 emotions of the observer. 
 
 Knight's upward look at Elfride was of a nature with, 
 but far transcending, such an instance as this. The lines 
 of his face had deepened to furrows, and every one of them 
 thanked her visibly. His lips moved to the word " Elfride," 
 though the motion evolved no sound. His eyes passed all 
 description in their combination of the whole diapason of 
 eloquence, from lover's deep love to fellow-man's gratitude 
 for a token of remembrance from one of his kind. 
 
 Elfride had come back. What she had come to do he 
 did not know. She could only look on at his death, per- 
 haps. Still, she had come back, and not deserted him ut- 
 terly, and it was enough. 
 
 It was a novelty in the extreme to see Henry Knight, 
 to whom Elfride was but a child, who had swayed her as a 
 tree sways a bird's nest, who mastered her and made her 
 
A FAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 223 
 
 weep most bitterly at her own insignificance, thus thankful 
 for a sight of her face. She looked down upon him, her 
 face glistening with rain and tears. He smiled faintly. 
 
 " How calm he is ! " she thought. " How great and 
 noble he is to be so calm ! " She would have died ten 
 times for him Ihen. 
 
 The gliding form of the steamboat caught her eye : she 
 heeded it no longer. 
 
 " How much longer can you wait ? " came from her pale 
 lips and along the wind to his position. 
 
 " Four minutes," said Knight, in a weaker voice than 
 her own. 
 
 " But with a ^ood hope of being saved ? '* 
 
 " Seven or eight.'' 
 
 He now noticed that in her arms she bore a bundle of 
 white linen, and that her form was unnaturally attenuated. 
 So preternaturally thin and flexible was Elfride at this mo- 
 ment, that she appeared to bend under the light blows of 
 the rain-shafts, as they struck into her sides and bosom, 
 and splintered into spray on her face. . There is nothing 
 like a thorough drenching for reducing the protuberances 
 of clothes, but Elfride's seemed to cHng to her like a glove. 
 
 Without heeding the attack of the clouds farther than 
 by raising her hand and wiping away the spirts of rain 
 when they went more particularly into her eyes, she sat 
 down and hurriedly began rending the linen into strips. 
 These she knotted end to end, and afterwards twisted them 
 like the strands of a cord. In a short space of time she 
 had formed a perfect rope by this means, six or seven 
 yards long. 
 
 " Can you wait while I bind it ? " she said, again anx- 
 iously extending her gaze down to him. 
 
 " Yes, if not very long. Hope has given me a wonder- 
 ful instalment of strength." 
 
 Elfride dropped her eyes again, tore the remaining ma- 
 terial into narrow tape-like ligaments, knotted each to each 
 as before, but on a smaller scale, and wound the lengthy 
 string she had thus formed round and round the linen 
 rope, which, without this binding, had a tendency to spread 
 abroad. 
 
 " Now," said Knight, who, watching the proceedings 
 
224 ^ P^^^^ OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 intently, had by this time not only grasped her scheme, but 
 reasoned farther on, " I can hold three minutes longer yet. 
 And do you use the time in testing the strength of the 
 knots, one by one." 
 
 She at once obeyed, tested each singly by putting her 
 foot on the rope between each knot, and pulling with her 
 hands. One of the knots slipped. 
 
 " O, think ! It would have broken but for your fore- 
 thought," Elfride exclaimed apprehensively. 
 
 She re-tied the two ends. The rope was now firm in 
 every part. 
 
 " When you have let it down," said Knight, already 
 resuming his position of ruling power, " go back from the 
 edge of the slope, and over the bank as far as the rope 
 will allow you. Then lean down, and hold the end with 
 both hands." 
 
 He had first thought of a safer plan for his own deliv- 
 erance, but it involved the disadvantage of possibly endan- 
 gering her life. 
 
 "I have tied it round my waist," she cried; "and I 
 will lean directly upon the bank, holding with my hands as 
 well." 
 
 It was the arrangement he had thought of, but would 
 not suggest. 
 
 " I will raise and drop it three times when I am behind 
 the bank," she continued, "to signify that I am ready. 
 Take care, O, iC^ke the greatest care, I beg you ! " 
 
 She dropped the rope over him, to learn how much of 
 its length it would be necessary to expend on that side of 
 the bank, went back, and disappeared as she had done be- 
 fore. 
 
 The rope was trailing by Knight's shoulders. In a few 
 moments it moved three times. 
 
 He waited yet a second or two, then laid hold. 
 
 The incline of this upper portion of the precipice, to 
 the length only of a few feet, useless to a climber empty- 
 handed, was invaluable now. Not more than half his 
 weight depended entirely on the linen rope. Half a dozen 
 extensions of the arms, alternating with half a dozen seiz- 
 ures of the rope with his feet, brought him up to the level 
 of the soil. 
 
 \ 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 22t, 
 
 He was saved, and by Elfride. 
 
 He extended his cramped limbs like an awakened 
 sleeper, and sprang over the bank. 
 
 At sight of him she leaped to her feet with almost a 
 shriek of joy. Knight's eyes met hers, and with supreme 
 eloquence the glance of each told a long-concealed tale of 
 emotion in that short half-moment. Moved by an impulse 
 neither could resist, they ran together and into each other's 
 arms. 
 
 At the moment of embracing, Elfride's eyes involun- 
 tarily flashed towards the Puffin steamboat. It had doub- 
 led the point, and was no longer to be seen. 
 
 An overwhelming rush of exultation at having delivered 
 the man she revered from one of the most terrible forms 
 of death, shook the gentle girl to the centre of her soul. 
 It merged in a defiance of duty to Stephen, and a total 
 recklessness as to plighted faith. Every nerve of her will 
 was now in subjection to her feeling — volition as a guiding 
 power had forsaken her. To remain passive, as she re- 
 mained now, encircled by his arms, was a sufficiently com- 
 plete result — a glorious crown to all the years of her life. 
 Perhaps he was only grateful, and did not love her. No 
 matter : it was infinitely more to be even the slave of the 
 greater than the queen of the less. Some such sensation 
 as this, though it was not recognized as a finished thought, 
 raced along the impressible soul of Elfride. 
 
 Regarding their attitude, it was impossible for two per- 
 sons to go nearer to a kiss than went Knight and Elfride 
 during those minutes of impulsive embrace in the pelting 
 rain. Yet they did not kiss. Knight's peculiarity of na- 
 ture was such that it would not allow him to take advan- 
 tage of the unguarded and passionate avowal she had 
 tacitly made. 
 
 Elfride recovered herself, and gently struggled to be 
 free. 
 
 He reluctantly relinquished her, and then surveyed her 
 from crown to toe. She seemed as small as an infant. 
 He perceived whence she had obtained the rope. 
 
 " Elfride, my Elfride! " he exclaimed in gratified amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 " I must leave you now," she said, her face burning 
 
226 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 with red, of an expression between gladness and shame. 
 " You follow me, but at some distance." 
 
 " The rain and wind pierce you through ; the chill 
 will kill you. God bless you for such devotion 1 Take 
 my coat, and put it on." 
 
 " No ; I shall get warm running." 
 
 Elfride had absolutely nothing between her and the 
 weather but her exterior robe or " costume." The door 
 had been made upon a woman's wit, and it had found its 
 way out. Behind the bank, while Knight reclined upon 
 the dizzy slope waiting for death, she had taken off her 
 whole clothing, and replaced only her outer robe and skirt. 
 Every thread of the remainder lay upon the ground in the 
 form of a woolen and cotton rope. 
 
 " I am used to being wet through," she added. " I 
 have been drenched on Pansy dozens of times. Good-bye 
 till we meet, dry and in our right mind, by the fireside at 
 home!" 
 
 She then ran off from him through the pelting rain like 
 a hare ; or more like a pheasant when, scampering away 
 with a lowered tail, it has a mind to fly, but does not. 
 Elfride was soon out of sight. 
 
 Knight felt uncomfortably wet and chilled, but glow- 
 ing with fervor nevertheless. He fully appreciated El- 
 fride's girlish delicacy in refusing his escort in the meagre 
 habiliments she wore, yet felt that necessary abstraction of 
 herself for a short half-hour as a most grievous loss to 
 him. 
 
 He gathered up the knotted and twisted mass of linen, 
 lace, and embroidery-work, and laid it across his arm. 
 He noticed on the ground an envelope, limp and wet. In 
 endeavoring to restore this to its proper shape, he loosened 
 from the envelope a piece of paper it had contained, which 
 was seized by the wind in falling from Knight's hand. It 
 was blown to the right, blown to the left — it floated to the 
 edge of the cliff and over the sea, where it was hurled 
 aloft. It twirled in the air, and then flew back over his 
 head 
 
 Knight followed the paper, and secured it. Having 
 done so, he looked to discover if it had been worth 
 secu-ing. 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 227 
 
 The troublesome sheet was a banker's receipt for two 
 hundred pounds, placed to the credit of Miss Swancourt, 
 which the impractical girl had totally forgotten she car- 
 ried with her. 
 
 Knight folded it as carefully as its moist condition 
 would allow put it in his pocket, and followed her. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 "SHOULD AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT ' " 
 
 BY this time Stephen Smith had stepped out upon the 
 quay at Stranton, and breathed his native air. 
 
 A darker skin, a more pronounced moustache, and an 
 incipient beard, were the chief additions and changes 
 noticeable in his appearance. 
 
 In spite of the falling rain, which had lessened some- 
 what, he took a small valise in his hand, and, leaving the 
 remainder of his luggage at the inn, ascended the hills 
 towards East Endelstow. This place lay in a vale of its 
 own, farther inland than the west village, and though so 
 near, it had little of physical feature in common with 
 the latter. East Endelstow was more wooded and fertile : 
 it boasted of Lord Luxellian's mansion and park, and was 
 free from those bleak open uplands which lent such an air 
 of desolation to the vicinage of the coast — always except- 
 ing the small valley in which stood the vicarage and Mrs. 
 Swancourt's old house, the Crags. 
 
 Stephen had arrived nearly at the summit of the ridge, 
 when the rain again increased its volume, and, looking 
 about for temporary shelter, he ascended a steep path 
 which penetrated dense hazel bushes in the lower part of 
 its course. Farther up it emerged upon a ledge immedi- 
 ately over the turnpike road, and sheltered by an over- 
 hanging face of rubble rock, with bushes above. For a 
 reason of his own he made this spot his refuge from the 
 storm, and turning his face to the left, conned the land- 
 scape as a book. 
 
 He was overlooking the valley containing Elfride's 
 residence. 
 
 From this point of observation the prospect exhibited 
 the peculiarity of being either brilliant foreground or the 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 23^ 
 
 dark brown of distance, a sudden dip in the surface of t^e 
 country lowering out of sight all the intermediate prospect. 
 In apparent contact with the trees and bushes growing 
 close beside him appeared the distant tract, terminated 
 suddenl}^ by the brink of the series of cliffs which culmi- 
 nated in the tall giant without a name — small and unim- 
 portant as here beheld. A leaf on a bough at Stephen's 
 elbow blotted out a whole hill in the contrasting district 
 far away; a green bunch of nuts covered a complete up- 
 land there, and the great cliff itself was outvied by a pigmy 
 crag in the bank hard by him. Stephen had looked upon 
 these things hundreds of times before to-day, but he had 
 never viewed them with such tenderness as now. 
 
 Stepping forward in this direction yet a little farther, 
 he could see the tower of West Endelstow church, beneath 
 which he was to meet his Elfride that night. And at the 
 same time he noticed, coming over the hill from the cliffs, 
 a white speck in motion. It seemed first to be a sea-gull 
 flying low, but ultimately proved to be a human figure, 
 running with great rapidity. The form flitted on, heedless 
 of the rain which had caused Stephen's halt in this place, 
 dropped down the heathery hill, entered the vale, and was 
 out of sight. 
 
 While he meditated upon the meaning of this phenom- 
 enon, he was surprised to see swim into his ken from the 
 same point of departure another moving speck, as different 
 from the first as v/ell could be, insomuch that it was per- 
 ceptible only by its blackness. Slowly and regularly it 
 look the same course, and there was not much doubt that 
 this was the form of a man. He, too, gradually descended 
 from the upper levels, and was lost in the valley below. 
 
 The rain had by this time again abated, and Stephen 
 returned to the road. Looking ahead he saw two men 
 and a cart. They were soon obscured by the intervention 
 of a high hedge. Just before they em.erged again he 
 heard voices in conversation. 
 
 '• 'A must soon be in the naiborhood, too, if so be he's 
 a-coming," said a tenor tongue, which Stephen instantly 
 recognized as Martin Cannister's. 
 
 "'A must 'a b'lieve,'* said another voice — that of 
 Stephen's father. 
 
230 ^ P^I^ OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 Stephen stepped forward, and came before them face 
 to face. His father and Martin were walking, dressed in 
 their second-best suits, and beside them rambled along a 
 grizzel horse and brightly painted spring-cart. 
 
 " All right, Mr. Cannister ; here's the lost man ! " ex- 
 claimed young Smith, entering at once upon the old style 
 of greeting. " Father, here I am." 
 
 " All right, my sonny ; and glad I be for't ! " returned 
 John Smith, overjoyed to see the young man. " How be 
 ye ? Well, come along home, and don't let's bide out here 
 in the damp. Such weather must be terrible bad for a 
 young chap just come from a fiery nation like Indey ; hey, 
 naibor Cannister ? " 
 
 "Trew, trew. And about getting home his traps I 
 Boxes, monstrous bales, and noble packages of foreign 
 description, I make no doubt ? " 
 
 " Hardly all that," said Stephen, laughing. 
 
 " We brought the cart,maning to go right on to Stranton 
 afore ye landed," said his father. " ' Put in the horse,' says 
 Martin. * Ay,' says I, 'so we will ;' and did it straight- 
 way. Now, maybe, Martin had better go on wi' the cart 
 for the things, and you and I walk home-along." 
 
 " And I shall be back a'most as soon as you. Peggy's 
 a pretty step still, though time d' begin to tell upon her as 
 upon the rest o' us." 
 
 Stephen told Martin where to find his baggage, and 
 then continued his journey homeward in the company of 
 his father. 
 
 " Owing to your coming a day sooner than we first ex- 
 pected," said John, " you'll find us in a turk of a mess, 
 sir — ' sir,' says I to my own son ! but ye've gone up so, 
 Stephen. We've killed the pig this morning for ye, think- 
 ing ye'd be hungry, and glad of a morsel of fresh mate. 
 And 'a won't be cut up till to-night. However, we can 
 make ye a good supper of fry, which will chaw up well wi 
 a dab o' mustard and a few nice new taters, and a drop of 
 sliilling ale to wash it down. Your mother have scrubbed 
 the house through because ye were coming, and dusted all 
 the chimmer furniture, and bought a new basin and jug of 
 a travelling crockery-woman that came to our door, and 
 scoured the cannelsticks, and claned the winders 1 Ay, I 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 23 1 
 
 don*t know what 'a ha'nt a done. Never wer such a steer, 
 'a b'lieve." 
 
 Conversation of this kind and inquiries of Stephen for 
 his mother's well-being occupied them for the remainder of 
 the journey. When they drew near the river, and the cot- 
 tage behind it, they could hear the master-mason's clock 
 striking off the bygone hours of the day at intervals of a 
 quarter of a minute, during which intervals Stephen's im- 
 agination readily pictured his mother's forefinger wander- 
 ing round the dial in company with the minute-hand. 
 
 " The clock stopped this morning, and your mother is 
 putting en right seemingly," said his father in an explana- 
 tory tone ; and they went up the garden to the door. 
 
 When they had entered, and Stephen had dutifully and 
 warmly greeted his mother — who appeared in a cotton dress 
 of a dark-blue ground, covered broadcast with a multitude 
 of new and full moons, stars, and planets, with an occa- 
 sional dash of a comet-like aspect, to diversify the scene — 
 the crackle of cart wheels was heard outside, and Martin 
 Cannister stamped in at the doorway, in the form of a pair 
 of legs beneath a great box, his body being nowhere visi- 
 ble. When the luggage had been all taken down, and 
 Stephen had gone up stairs to change his clothes, Mrs. 
 Smith's mind seemed to recover a lost thread. 
 
 " Really our clock is not worth a penny," she said, 
 turning to it and attempting to start the pendulum. 
 
 " Stopped again ? " inquired Martin with commisera- 
 tion. 
 
 " Yes, sure," replied Mrs. Smith ; and continued after 
 the manner of certain matrons, to whose tongues the har- 
 mony of a subject with a casual mood is a greater recom- 
 mendation than its pertinence to the occasion. "John 
 would spend pounds a year upon the jimcrackold thing, if 
 he might, in having it claned, when at the same time you 
 may doctor it yourself as well. ' The clock's stopped again, 
 John,' I say to him. ' Better have en claned,' says he. 
 There's five shillings. *That clock grinds again,' I say to 
 en. * Better have en claned,' 'a says again. * That clock 
 strikes wrong, John,' says I. ' Better have en claned,' 
 he goes on. The wheels would have been polished to 
 skeletons by this time if I had listened to en, and I assure 
 
232 ^ PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 you we could have bought a chainey-faced beauty wi' the 
 good money we've flung away these last ten years upon 
 this old green-faced mortal. And, Martin, you must be 
 wet. My son is gone up to change. John is damper than 
 I should like to be, but 'a calls it nothing. Some of Mrs. 
 Swancourt's servants have been here — they ran in out of 
 the rain when going for a walk — and I assure you the state 
 of bonnets was frightful." 
 
 " How's the folks ? We've been over to Stranton, and 
 what wi' running and stopping out of the storms, my poor 
 head is beyond everything ! fizz, fizz, fizz ] 'tis frying o' fish 
 from morning to night," said a cracked voice in the door- 
 way at this instant. 
 
 " Lord so's, who's that ? " said Mrs. Smith, in a private 
 exclamation, and turning round saw William Worm, en- 
 deavoring to make himself look passing civil and friendly 
 by overspreading his face with a large smile that seemed to 
 have no connection with the humor he was in. Behind 
 him stood a woman about twice his size, with a large um- 
 brella over her head. This was Mrs. Worm, WiiUam's 
 wife. 
 
 " Come in, William," said John Smith. " We don't 
 kill a pig every day. And you likewise, Mrs. Worm. 1 
 make ye welcome. Since ye left Parson Swancourt, Wil- 
 liam, I don't see much of ye." 
 
 " No, for to tell the truth, since I took to the turnpike- 
 gate line, I've been out but little, coming to church o' Sun- 
 days not being my duty now, as 'twas in a parson's family, 
 you see. However, our boy is able to mind the gate now, 
 and I said, says I, 'Barbara, let's call and see John 
 Smith.' " 
 
 " I am sorry to hear your head is so bad still." 
 
 " Ay, I assure you that frying o' fish is going on for 
 nights and days. And, you know, sometimes 'tisn't only 
 fish, but rashers o' bacon and inions. Ay, I can hear the 
 fat pop and fizz as nateral as life ; can't I, Barbara ? " 
 
 Mrs. Worm, who had been all this time engaged in 
 closing her umbrella, corroborated this statement, and now, 
 coming in-doors, showed herself to be a wide-faced, com- 
 fortable-looking woman, with a wart upon her cheek, bear* 
 \ng a small tuft of hair in its centre. 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 233 
 
 " Have ye ever tried anything to cure yer noise, Master 
 Worm ? " inquired Martin Cannister. 
 
 " O ay ; bless ye, I've tried everything. Ay, Provi- 
 dence is a merciful man, and I have hoped he'd have found 
 it out by this time, living so many years in a parson's fami- 
 ly, too, as I have, but 'a don't seem to relieve me. Ay, I 
 be a poor wambling man, and life's a mere bubble." 
 
 *'True, mournful true, William Worm. 'Tis so. The 
 world wants looking to, or 'tis all sixes and sevens wi' us." 
 
 *' Take your things off, Mrs. Worm," said Mrs. Smith. 
 " We be rather in a muddle, to tell the truth for my son 
 is jist dropped in from Indy a day sooner than we ex- 
 pected, and the pig-killer is coming presently to cut up." 
 
 Mrs. Barbara Worm, not wishing to take any mean ad- 
 vantage of persons in a muddle by observing them, re- 
 moved her bonnet and mantle with eyes fixed upon the 
 flowers in the plot outside the door. 
 
 " What beautiful tiger lilies ! " said Mrs. Worm. 
 
 " Yes, they be very well, but such a trouble to me on 
 aocount of the children that come here. They will go 
 eating the berries on the stem, and call 'em currants. 
 Taste wi' junivals is quite fancy, really." 
 
 And your snapdragons look as fierce as ever." 
 
 " Well really," answered Mrs. Smith, entering didacti- 
 cally into the subject, " they are more like Christians than 
 flowers. But they make up well enough wi' the rest, and 
 don't require much tending. And the same can be said o' 
 these miller's wheels. 'Tis a flower I like very much, 
 though so simple. Having them is like asking your rela- 
 tions to a party — they count up for a show, and you haven't 
 the trouble of complimenting 'em. John says he'd neveif 
 care about the flowers o' 'em, but men have no eye foi 
 anything nate. He says his favorite flower is a cauliflower. 
 And I assure you I tremble in the spring-time, for 'tis 
 perfect murder." 
 
 "You don't say so, Mrs. Smith ! " 
 
 "John digs round the roots, you know. In goes his 
 blundering spade, through roots, bulbs, everything that 
 hasn't got a good show above ground, turning 'em up cut 
 all to shoes. Only the very last fall I went to move some 
 tulips, when I found every bulb upside down, and the stems 
 
234 ^ P^/i? OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 crooked round. He had turned 'em over in the spring, 
 and the cunning creatures had soon found that heaven was 
 not where it used to be." 
 
 "What's that long- favored flower under the hedge? " 
 " They ? O Lord, they are the horrid Jacob's ladders ! 
 Instead of praising 'em, I be mad wi' 'em for being so 
 ready to bide where they are not wanted. They be very 
 well in their way, but I do not care for things that neglect 
 won't kill. Do what I will, dig, drag, scrap, pull, I get too 
 many of 'em. I chop the roots : up they'll come, treble 
 strong. Throw 'em over hedge ; there they'll grow, star- 
 ing me in the face like a hungry dog drove away, and creep 
 back again in a week or two the same as before. 'Tis 
 Jacob's ladder here, Jacob's ladder there, and plant 'em 
 where nothing in the world will grow, you get crowds of 
 'em in a month or two. John made a new manure mixen 
 last summer, and he said, * Mariar, now if you've got any 
 flowers or such like, that you don't want, you may plant 
 'em round my mixen so as to hide it a bit, though 'tis not 
 likely anything of much value will grow there.' I thought, 
 * There's them Jacob's ladders ; I'll put them there, since 
 they can't do harm in sich a place,' and I planted the 
 Jacob's ladders sure enough. They growed, and they 
 growed, in the mixen and out of the mixen, all over the 
 litter, covering it quite up. When John wanted to use it 
 about the garden, 'a said, * Nation seize them Jacob's 
 ladders of yours, Mariar ! They've eat the goodness out 
 of every morsel of my manure, so that 'tis no better than 
 sand itself! ' Sure enough the hungry mortals had. 'Tis 
 my belief that in the secret souls o' 'em, Jacob's ladders 
 be weeds, and not flowers at all, if the truth was known." 
 Robert Lickpan, pig-killer and carrier, arrived at this 
 moment. The fatted animal hanging in the back kitchen 
 was cleft down the middle of its backbone, Mrs. Smith 
 being meanwhile engaged in cooking supper. Between 
 the cutting and chopping, ale was handed round, and 
 Worm and the pig-killer listened to John Smith's descrip- 
 tion of the meeting with Stephen, with eyes blankly fixed 
 upon the table-cloth, in order that nothing in the external 
 world should interrupt their efforts to conjure up the 
 scene correctly. 
 
i PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 235 
 
 Stephen came down stairs in the middle of the story, 
 and after the little interruption occasioned by his entrance 
 and welcome, the narrative was again continued, precisely 
 as if he had not been there at all, and was told inclusively 
 to him, as to somebody who knew nothing about the matter. 
 
 " * Ay,' I said, as I catched sight o' en through the 
 brimbles, * that's the lad, for I d' know en by his grand- 
 father's walk ;' for ^a stapped out like poor father for all 
 the world. Still there was a touch o' the frisky that set 
 me wondering. 'A got closer, and I said, 'That's the 
 lad, for I'd know en by his carrying a black case like a 
 travelling man.' Still, a road is common to all the world, 
 and there be more travelling men than one. But I kept 
 my eye cocked, and I said to Martin, * 'Tis the boy, now, 
 for I d' know en by the wold twirl o' the stick and the 
 family step.' Then a' cam closer, and 'a said, * All right.' 
 I could swear to en then." 
 
 Stephen's personal appearance was next criticised. 
 
 " He d' look a deal thinner in face, surely, than when 
 I seed en at the parson's, and never knowed en, if ye'll 
 believe me," said Martin. 
 
 " Ay, there," said another, without removing his eyes 
 from Stephen's face, " I should ha' knowed en anywhere. 
 'Tis his father's nose to a T." 
 
 " It has been often remarked," said Stephen modestly. 
 
 "And he's certainly taller," said Martin, letting his 
 glance run over Stephen's form from bottom to top. 
 
 " I was thinking 'a was exactly the same height," Worm 
 replied. 
 
 " Bless thy soul, that's because he's bigger round like- 
 wise." And the united eyes all moved to Stephen's waist. 
 
 '*I be a poor wambling man, but I can make allow- 
 ances," said William Worm. " Ah, sure, and how he cam 
 as a stranger and pilgrim to Parson Swancourt's that time, 
 not a soul knowing en after so many years ! Ay, life's a 
 strange bubble, Stephen : but I suppose I must say Sir to 
 ye ? " 
 
 " O, it is not necessary at present," Stephen replied, 
 though mentally resolving to avoid the vicinity of these 
 familiar friends as soon as he had made pretentions to the 
 hand of Elfride. 
 
236 ^ P^I^ OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 "Ah, well," said Worm musingly, " some would have 
 looked for no less than a Sir. There's a sight of differ- 
 ence in people." 
 
 " And in pigs likewise," observed John Smith, looking 
 at the halved carcass of his own. 
 
 Robert Lickpan, the pig-killer, here seemed called 
 upon to enter the lists of conversation. 
 
 " Yes, they've got their particular naters good-now," he 
 remarked initially. " Many's the rum-tempered pig I've 
 knowed." 
 
 " I don't doubt it, Master Lickpan," answered Martin, 
 in a tone expressing that his convictions, no less than 
 good manners, demanded the reply. 
 
 " Yes," continued the pig-kiiler, as one accustomed to 
 be heard. " One that I knowed was deaf and dumb, and 
 we couldn't make out what was the matter wi' the pig. 'A 
 would eat well enough when 'a seed the trough, but when 
 his back was turned, you might a-rattled the bucket all 
 day, the poor soul never heard ye. Ye could play tricks 
 upon en behind his back, and 'a wouldn't find it out no 
 quicker than poor deaf Grammer Gates. But 'a fatted 
 well, and I never seed a pig open better when 'a was kil- 
 led, and 'a was very tender eating, very; as pretty a bit 
 of mate as ever you see ; you could suck that mate through 
 a quill. 
 
 " And another I knowed," resumed the killer, after 
 quietly letting a pint of ale run down his throat of its own 
 accord, and setting down the cup with mathematical exact- 
 ness upon the spot from which he had raised it — " another 
 went out of his mind." 
 
 " How very mournful ! " murmured Mrs. Worm. 
 
 *' Ay, poor thing, 'a did ! As clean out of his mind as 
 the cleverest Ghristian could go. In early life 'a was very 
 melancholy, and never seemed a hopeful pig by no means. 
 *Twas Andrew Gandle's pig — that's whose pig 'twas." 
 
 *' I can mind the pig well enough," attested John Smith. 
 
 " And a pretty little porker 'a was. And you all know 
 Farmer Buckle's sort ? Every jack o' 'em siSfer from the 
 rheumatism to this day, owing to a damp sty tliey lived in 
 when they were striplings, as 'twere." 
 " Well, now we'll weigh," said Jolm. 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 237 
 
 " If so be he were not so fine, we'd weigh en whole : 
 but as he is, we'll take a side at a time. John, you can 
 mind my old joke, ey ? A good old joke, that." 
 
 " I do so ; though 'twas a good few years ago I first 
 heard en." 
 
 " Yes," said Lickpan, " that there old familiar joke have 
 been in our family for generations, I may say. My father used 
 that joke constantly at pig-killings for more than five-and- 
 forty years — the time he followed the calling. And 'a told 
 me that 'a had it from his father when. he was quite a chiel, 
 who made use o' en just the same at every killing more or 
 less ; and pig-killings were pig-killings in those days." 
 
 *' Trewly they were." 
 
 "I've never heard the joke," said Mrs. Smith tenta- 
 tively. 
 
 " Nor I," chimed in Mrs. Worm, who, being the only 
 other lady in the room, felt bound by the laws of courtesy 
 to feel like Mrs. Smith in everything. 
 
 " Surely, surely you have," said the killer, looking scep- 
 tically at the benighted females. " However, 'tisn't much 
 — I don't wish to say it is. It commences like this : * Bob 
 will tell the weight of your pig, 'a b'lieve,' says I. The 
 congregation of neighbors think I mane my son Bob, nat- 
 urally; but the secret is that I mane the bob o' the steel- 
 yard. Ha, ha, ha ! " 
 
 " Haw, haw, haw ! " laughed Martin Cannister, who 
 had heard the explanation for the hundredth time. 
 
 " Huh, huh, huh ! " laughed John Smith, who had heard 
 it for the thousandth. 
 
 *' Hee, hee, hee ! " laughed William Worm, who had 
 never heard it at all, but was afraid to say so. 
 
 " Thy grandfather, Robert, must have been a wide- 
 awake chap to make that story," said Martin Cannister, sub- 
 siding to a placid aspect of delighted criticism. 
 
 " He had a head, by all account. And, you see, as the 
 first-born of the Lickpans have all been Roberts, they've 
 all been Bobs, so the story was handed down to the present 
 day." 
 
 " Poor Joseph, your second boy, will never be able to 
 bring it out in company, which is rather unfortunate," said 
 Mrs. Worm thoughtfully. 
 
238 ^ P^^^ OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 " 'A won't. Yes, grandfer was a clever chap, as ye say ; 
 but I knowed a cleverer. 'Twas my uncle Levi. Uncle 
 Levi made a snuff-box that should be a puzzle to his friends 
 to open. He used to hand en round at wedding parties, 
 christenings, funerals, and in other jolly company, and let 
 'em try their skill. This extraordinary snuff-box had a 
 spring behind that would push in and out — a hinge where 
 seemed to be the cover; a slide at the end, a screw in front, 
 and knobs and mysterious notches everywhere. One man 
 would try the spring, another would try the screw, another 
 would try the slide ; but try as they would, the box wouldn't 
 open. And they couldn't open en, and they didn't open en. 
 Now what might you think was the secret of that box.?'* 
 
 All put on an expression that their united thoughts were 
 inadequate to the occasion. 
 
 " Why, the box wouldn't open at all. 'A were made not 
 to open, and ye might have tried till the end of Revelations, 
 'twould have been as naught, for the box were glued all 
 round." 
 
 "A very deep man to have made such a box." 
 
 " Yes. 'Twas Hke uncle Levi all over." 
 
 " 'Twas. T can mind the man very well. Tallest man 
 ever I seed." 
 
 " 'A was so. He never slept upon a bedstead after he 
 growed up a hard boy-chap — never could get one long 
 enough. When 'a lived in that little small house by the pond, 
 he used to have to leave open his chamber door every night 
 at going to bed, and let his feet poke out upon the landing." 
 
 " He's dead and gone now, nevertheless, poor man, as 
 we all shall," observed Worm, to fill the pause which fol- 
 lowed the conclusion of Robert Lickpan's speech. 
 
 The weighing and cutting up was pursued amid an ani- 
 mated discourse on Stephen's travels ; and at the finish, the 
 first fruits of the day's slaughter, fried in onions, were then 
 turned from the pan into a dish on the table, each piece 
 steaming and frizzling till it reached their very mouths. 
 
 It must be owned that the gentlemanly son of the house 
 looked rather out of place in the course of this operation. 
 Nor was his mind quite philosophic enough to allow him to 
 be comfortable with these worthies, his father's old friends. 
 He had never lived long at home — scarcely at all since his 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 239 
 
 childhood. The presence of William Worm was the most 
 awkward feature of the case, for, though Worm had left the 
 house of Mr. Swancourt, the being hand in glove with a ci- 
 devant servitor reminded Stephen too forcibly of the vicars 
 classification of himself before he went from England. 
 Mrs. Smith was conscious of the defect in her arrangements 
 which had brought about the undesired conjunction. She 
 spoke to Stephen privately. 
 
 " I am above having sich people here, Stephen ; but 
 what could I do 1 And your father is so rough in his na- 
 ture that he's more mixed up with 'em than need be." 
 
 "Never mind, mother," said Stephen ; " I'll put up with 
 it now." 
 
 " When we leave my lord's service, and get farther down 
 the country — as I hope we shall soon — it will be different. 
 We shall be among fresh people, and in a larger house, and 
 shall keep ourselves up a bit, I hope." 
 
 " Is Miss Swancourt at home, do you know? " Stephen 
 inquired. 
 
 " Yes, your father saw her this morning." 
 
 " Do you often see her ? " 
 
 *' Scarcely ever. Mr Glim, the curate, calls occasion- 
 ally, but the Swancourts don't come into the village now 
 any more than to drive through it. They dine at my Ior-^'<? 
 oftener than they used. Ah, here's a note was brought thib 
 morning for you by a boy." 
 
 Stephen eagerly took the note and opened it, his moth- 
 er watching him. He read what Elfride had written and 
 sent before she started for the cliff that morning: 
 
 ** Yes j I will meet you in the church at nine to-night. 
 
 E. S." 
 
 " I don't know, Stephen," his mother said meaninglyt 
 " whe'r you still think about Miss Elfride, but if I were you 
 I wouldn't concern about her. They say that none of old 
 Mrs. Swancourt's money will come to her step-daughter." 
 
 " I see the evening has turned out fine ; I am going out 
 for a little while to look round the place," he said, evading 
 the direct query. " Probably by the time I return our vis- 
 itors will be gone, and we'll have a more confidential talk." 
 
CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 " BREEZE, BIRD, AND FLOWER CONFESS THE HOUR " 
 
 THE rain had ceased since the sunset, but it was a 
 cloudy night ; and the light of the moon, softened 
 and dispersed by its misty veil, was distributed over the 
 land in pale grey. 
 
 A dark figure stepped from the doorway of John Smith's 
 river-side cottage, and strode rapidly towards West Endel- 
 stow with a light footstep. Soon ascending from the 
 lower levels he turned a corner, followed a cart-track, and 
 saw the tower of the church he was in quest of distinctly 
 shaped forth against the sky. In less than half an hour 
 from the time of starting he swung himself over the church- 
 yard stile. 
 
 '^he wild irregular enclosure was as much as ever an 
 .ntegral part of the old hill. The grass was still long, the 
 graves were shaped precisely as passing years chose to alter 
 them from their orthodox form as laid down by Martin 
 Cannister, and by Stephen's own grandfather before him. 
 
 A sound sped into the air from the direction in which 
 Stranton lay. It was the striking of the church clock, dis- 
 tinct in the still atmosphere as if it had come from the 
 tower hard by, which, wrapt in its solitary silentness, gave 
 out no such sounds of life. 
 
 *' One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine." 
 Stephen carefully counted the strokes, though he well knew 
 their number beforehand. Nine o'clock. It was the hour 
 Elfride had herself named as the most convenient for meet- 
 ing him. 
 
 Stephen stood at the door of the porch and listened. 
 He could have heard the softest breathing of any person in 
 the porch ; nobody was there. He went inside the door 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 24 1 
 
 way, sat down upon the stone bench, and waited with a 
 beating heart. 
 
 ^ The faint sounds heard only accented the silence. The 
 rising and falling of the sea, far away along the coast, was 
 the most important. A minor sound was the scurr of a 
 distant night-hawk. Among the minutest where all were 
 minute was the light settlement of gossamer fragments 
 floating in the air, a toad humbly laboring along through 
 the grass near the entrance, the crackle of a dead leaf 
 which a worm was endeavoring to pull into the earth, a 
 waft of air, getting nearer and nearer, and expiring at his 
 feet under the burden of a winged seed. 
 
 Among all these soft sounds came not the only soft 
 sound he cared to hear — the footfall of Elfride. 
 
 For a whole quarter of an hour Stephen sat thus intent, 
 without moving a muscle. At the end of that time he 
 walked to the west front of the church. Turning the cor- 
 ner of the tower, a white form stared him in the face. He 
 started back, and recovered himself. It was the tomb of 
 young farmer Jethway, looking still as fresh and as new as 
 when it was first erected, the white stone in which it was 
 hewn having a singular weirdness amid the dark blue slabs 
 from local quarries, of which the whole remaining grave- 
 stones were formed. 
 
 He thought of the night when he had sat thereon with 
 Elfride as his companion, and well remembered his regret 
 that she had received, even unwillingly, earlier homage 
 than his own. But his present tangible anxiety reduced 
 such a feehng to sentimental nonsense in comparison ; and 
 he strolled on over the graves to the border of the church- 
 yard, whence in the day-time could be clearly seen the vicar- 
 age and the present residence of the Swancourts. No foot- 
 step was discernible upon the path up the hill, but a light 
 was shining from a window in the last-named house. 
 
 Stephen knew there could be no mistake about the time 
 or place, and no difficulty about keeping the engagement. 
 He waited yet longer, passing from impatience into a mood 
 which failed to take any account of the lapse of time. He 
 was awakened from his reverie by Stranton clock. 
 
 One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. 
 
 One little fall of the hammer in addition to the number 
 II 
 
242 
 
 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 it had been unalloyed pleasure to hear, and what a differ 
 ence to him ! 
 
 He left the churchyard on the side opposite to his point 
 of entrance, and went down the hill. Slowly he drew near 
 the gate of her house. This he softly opened, and walked 
 up the gravel drive to the door. Here he paused for sev- 
 eral minutes. 
 
 At the expiration of that time a clear soft laugh came 
 out to his ears through an open window behind the corner 
 of the house. It was the laugh of Elfride. 
 
 Stephen was conscious of a gnawing pain at his heart. 
 He retreated as he had come. There are disappointments 
 which wring us, and there are those which inflict a v>^ound 
 whose mark we bear to our graves. Such are so keen that 
 no future gratification of the same desire can ever obliterate 
 them : they become registered at once as a permanent loss 
 of happiness. Such a one was Stephen's now : the crown- 
 ing aureola of the dream had been the meeting here by 
 stealth ; and if Elfride had come to him only ten minutes 
 after he had turned away, the disappointment would have 
 been ineradicable still. 
 
 When the young man reached home, he found there a 
 a letter which had arrived in his absence. Believing it to 
 contain some reason for her non-appearance, yet unable to 
 imagine one that could justify her, he hastily tore open the 
 envelope. 
 
 The paper contained not a word from Elfride. It was 
 the deposit-note for his two hundred pounds. On the 
 back was a form of a check, and this she had filled up with 
 the same sum, payable to the bearer. 
 
 Stephen was confounded. He attempted to divine her 
 motive. Considering how limited was his knowledge of 
 her later actions, he guessed rather shrewdly that, between 
 the time of her sending the note in the morning and the 
 evening's silent refusal of his gift, something had occurred 
 which had caused a total change in her attitude towards 
 him. 
 
 He knew not what to do. It seemed absurd now to go 
 to her father next morning, as he had purposed, and ask 
 for an engagement with her, a possibility impending all the 
 while that Elfride herself would not be on his side. Only 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 243 
 
 one course recommended itself as wise. To wait and see 
 what the days would bring forth ; to go and execute his 
 commissions in Birmingham ; then to return, learn if any- 
 thing had transpired, and try what a meeting might do : 
 perhaps her surprise at his backwardness would bring her 
 forward to show her old warmth as decidedly as in old 
 times. 
 
 This act of patience was in keeping only with the nature 
 of a man precisely of Stephen's constitution. Nme men 
 out of ten would perhaps have rushed off, got into her pres- 
 ence by fair means or foul, and provoked a catastrophe 
 of some sort. Possibly for the better, probably for the 
 worse. 
 
 He started for Birmingham the next morning. A day's 
 delay would have made no difference ; but he could not 
 rest until he had begun and ended the programme pro- 
 posed to himself. Bodily activity will sometimes take the 
 sting out of anxiety as completely as assurance itself 
 
CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 "MINE OWN FAMILIAR FRIEND." 
 
 DURING these days of absence Stephen lived under 
 alternate conditions. Whenever his emotions were 
 active, he was in agony. Whenever he was not in agony, 
 the business in hand had driven out of his mind by sheer 
 force all reflection on the subject of Elfride. 
 
 By the time he commenced his return journey at the 
 week's end, Stephen had very nearly worked himself up 
 to an intention to call and see her face to face. On this 
 occasion also he adopted his favorite route — by steamer 
 from Bristol to Stranton ; the time saved by speed on the 
 railway being wasted at junctions, and in following a devi- 
 ous course. 
 
 It was a bright silent evening at the beginning of 
 September when Smith again set foot in the little town. 
 He felt inclined to linger a while upon the quay before 
 ascending the hills, having formed a romantic intention to 
 go home by way of her house, yet not wishing to wander 
 in its neighborhood till the evening shades should suffi- 
 ciently screen him from observation. 
 
 And thus waiting for night's nearer approach, he 
 watched the placid scene, over which the pale luminosity 
 of the west cast a sorrowful monochrome, that became 
 slowly embrowned by the dusk. A star appeared, and 
 another, and another. They sparkled amid the yards and 
 rigging of the two coal brigs lying alongside, as if they had 
 been tiny lamps suspended in the ropes. The masts 
 rocked sleepily to the infinitesimal flux of the tide, which 
 clucked and gurgled with idle regularity m nooks and 
 holes of the harbor wall. 
 
 The twilight was now quite pronounced enough for his 
 purpose; and as, rather sad at heart, he was about to 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 245 
 
 move on, a little boat containing two persons glided up 
 the middle of the harbor with the lightness of a shadow. 
 The boat came opposite him, passed on, and touched the 
 landing-steps at the farther end. One of its occupants 
 was a man, as Stephen had known by the easy stroke of 
 the oars. When the pair ascended the steps, and came 
 into greater prominence, he was enabled to discern that 
 the second personage was a female ; also that she wore a 
 white decoration — apparently a feather — in her hat_ or 
 bonnet, which spot of white was the only distinctly visible 
 portion of her clothing. 
 
 Stephen remained a moment in their rear, and they 
 passed on, when he pursued his way also, and soon forgot 
 the circumstance. Having crossed a bridge, forsaken the 
 high-road, and entered the footpath which led up the vale 
 to West Endelstow, he heard a little wicket click softly 
 together some yards ahead. By the time Stephen had 
 reached the wicket and passed it, he heard another click 
 of precisely the same nature from another gate yet farther 
 on. Clearly some person or persons were preceding him 
 along the path, their footsteps being rendered noiseless by 
 the soft carpet of turf. Stephen now walked a little 
 quicker, and perceived two forms. One of them bore 
 aloft the white feather he had noticed in the female's hat 
 on the quay : they were the couple he had seen in the 
 boat. Stephen dropped a little farther to the rear. 
 
 From the bottom of the valley, along which the path 
 had hitherto lain, beside the m.argin of the trickling 
 streamlet, another path now diverged, and ascended the 
 slope of the left-hand hill. This footway led only to the 
 residence of Mrs. Swancourt and a cottage or two in its 
 vicinity. No grass covered this diverging path in portions 
 of its length, and Stephen was reminded that the pair in 
 front of him had taken this route by the occasional rattle 
 of the loose stones under their feet. Stephen climbed in 
 the same direction, but for some undefined reason he trod 
 more softly than did those preceding him. His mind was 
 unconsciously in exercise upon whom the female iiiight^ be 
 — whether a visitor to the Crags, a servant, or Elfride. 
 He put it to himself yet more forcibly ; could the lady be 
 Elfride ? A possible reason for her unaccountable failure 
 
246 ^ P^^R ^^ BLUE EYES. 
 
 to keep the aiDpointment with him returned with painful 
 force. 
 
 They entered the grounds of the house by the side 
 wicket, whence the path, now wide and well trimmed, 
 wended fantastically through the shrubbery to an octa- 
 gonal pavilion called the Belvedere, by reason of the com- 
 prehensive view over the adjacent district that its green 
 seats afforded. The path passed this erection and went 
 on to the house as well as to the gardener's cottage on the 
 other side, straggling thence to East Endelstow ; so that 
 Stephen felt no hesitation in entering a promenade which 
 could scarcely be called private. 
 
 He fancied he heard the gate open and swing together 
 again behind him. Turning, he saw nobody. 
 
 The people of the boat came to the summer-house. 
 One of them spoke. 
 
 " I am afraid we shall get a scolding for being so late." 
 
 Stephen instantly recognized the familiar voice, richer 
 and fuller now than it used to be. " Elfride ! " he wiiis- 
 pered to himself, and held fast by a sapling, to steady him- 
 self under the agitation her presence caused him. His 
 heart sank within him ; he dreaded to know the meaning 
 he sought. 
 
 " A breeze is rising again ; how the ash-tree rustles ! " 
 said Elfride. "Don't you hear it? I wonder what the 
 time is." 
 
 Stephen relinquished the sapling. 
 
 " I will get a light and tell you. Step into the summer 
 house ; the air is quiet there." 
 
 The cadence of that voice — he seemed to recognize its 
 peculiarity, as he had recognized some notes of the north- 
 ern birds on his return to his native clime, as an old nat- 
 ural thing renewed, yet not particularly noticed as natural 
 before that renewal. 
 
 They entered the Belvedere. In the lower part it was 
 formed of close woodwork nailed crosswise, and had open- 
 ings in the upper by way of v.'indows. 
 
 The scratch of a striking light was heard, and a bright 
 
 glow radiated from the interior of the building. The light 
 
 was the mother of a thousand new existences. It gave 
 
 to dancing leaf-shadows, stem-shadows, lustrous 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 247 
 
 Streaks, dots, sparkles, and threads of silver sheen of all 
 imaginable variety and transience. It awakened gnats, 
 which flew towards it, revealed shiny gossamer threads, 
 disturbed earthworms. Stephen gave but little attention 
 to these phenomena, and less time. He saw in the sum- 
 mer-house a strongly-illuminated picture. 
 
 First, the face of his friend and preceptor Henry 
 Knight, between whom and himself an estrangement had 
 arisen, not from any definite causes beyond those of ab- 
 sence, increasing age, and diverging sympathies. 
 
 Next, his bright particular star, Elfride. The face of 
 Elfride was more womanly than when she had called her- 
 self his, but as clear and healthy as ever. Her plenteous 
 twines of beautiful hair were looking much as usual, with 
 the exception of a slight modification in their arrangement, 
 in deference to the changes of fashion. 
 
 Their two foreheads were close together, almost touch- 
 ing, and both were looking down. Elfride was holding her 
 watch. Knight was holding the light with one hand, his left 
 arm being round her waist Part of the scene reached 
 Stephen's eyes through the horizontal bars of woodwork, 
 which crossed their forms like the ribs of a skeleton.^ 
 
 Knight's arm stole still farther round the waist of 
 Elfride. 
 
 " It is half-past eight," she said in a low voice, \yhich 
 had a peculiar music in it, seemingly born of a thrill of 
 pleasure at the new proof that she was beloved. 
 
 The flame dwindled down, died away, and all was 
 wrapped in a darkness to which the gloom before the illu- 
 mination bore no comparison in apparent density. Ste- 
 phen, shattered in spirit and sick to his heart's core, turned 
 away. In turning, he saw a shadowy outline behind the 
 summer-house on the other side. His eyes grew accus- 
 tomed to the darkness. Was the form a human form, or 
 was it an opaque bush of juniper ? 
 
 The lovers arose, brushed against the laurestines, and 
 pursued their way to the house. The indistinct figure had 
 moved, and now^ passed across Smith's front. So com- 
 pletely enveloped was the person, that it was impossible to 
 recognize him or her any more than as a shape. The 
 shape glided noiselessly on. 
 
248 ^ P^^^ OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 Stephen stepped forward, fearing any mischief was in- 
 tended to the other two. " Who are you ? " he said. 
 
 " Never mind who I am," answered a meek whisper 
 from the enveloping folds. " What I am, may she be ! 
 Perhaps I knew well — ah, so well ! — a youth whose place 
 you took, as he there now takes yours. Will you let her 
 break your heart, and bring you to an untimely grave, as 
 she did the one before you ? " 
 
 "You are Mrs. Jethway, I think. What do you do 
 here ? And why do you talk so wildly ? " 
 
 " Because my heart is desolate, and nobody cares about 
 it. May hers be so that brought trouble upon me ! " 
 
 " Silence ! " said Stephen, staunch to Elfride in spite 
 of himself. "She would harm nobody wilfully, never 
 would she ! How do you come here ? " 
 
 " I saw the two coming up the path, and wanted to 
 learn if she were not one of them. Can I help disliking 
 her if I think of the past t Can I help watching her if I 
 remember my boy .? Can I help ill-wishing her if I well- 
 wish him ? " 
 
 The bowed form went on, passed through the wicket, 
 and was enveloped by the shadows of the field. 
 
 Stephen had heard that Mrs. Jethway, since the death 
 of her son, had become a crazed, forlorn woman ; and be- 
 stowing a pitying thought upon her, he dismissed her fan- 
 cied wrongs from his mind, but not her condemnation of 
 Elfride's faithlessness. That entered into and mingled 
 with the sensations his new experience had begotten. The 
 tale told by the little scene he had witnessed ran parallel 
 with the unhapjDy woman's opinion, which, however base- 
 less it might have been antecedently, had become true 
 enough as regarded himself. 
 
 A slow weight of despair, as distinct from a violent 
 paroxysm as starvation from a mortal shot, filled him and 
 wrung him body and soul. The discovery had not been 
 altogether unexpected, for throughout his anxiety of the 
 last few days since the night in the churchyard, he had 
 been inclined to construe the uncertainty unfavorable to 
 himself. His hopes for the best had been but periodic in- 
 terruptions of a chronic fear of the worst. 
 
 A strange concomitant of his misery was the singularity 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 249 
 
 of its form. That his rival should be Knight, whom once 
 upon a time he had adored as a man is very rarely adored 
 by another in modern times, and whom he loved now, add- 
 ed deprecation to sorrow, and cynicism to both. Henry 
 Knight, whose praises he had so frequently trumpeted in 
 her ears, of whom she had actually been jealous, lest she 
 hrrself should be lessened in Stephen's love on account of 
 hin, had probably won her the more easily by reason of 
 those very praises which he had only ceased to utter by her 
 command. She had ruled him like a queen in that matter, 
 as in all others. Stephen could tell by her manner, brief 
 as had been his observation of it, and by her words, few as 
 they were, that her position was far different with Knight. 
 That she looked up at and adored her new lover from be- 
 low his pedestal, was even more perceptible than that she 
 had smiled down upon Stephen from a height above him. 
 
 The suddenness of Elfride's renunciation of himself 
 was good for more torture. To an unimpassioned out- 
 sider, it admitted of at least two interpretations — it might 
 either have proceeded from an endeavor to be faithful to 
 her first choice, till the lover seen absolutely overpowered 
 the lover remembered, or from a wish not to lose his love 
 till sure of the love of another. But to Stephen Smith the 
 motive involved in the latter alternative made it untenable 
 where Elfride was the actor. He mused on her letters to 
 him, in which she had never mentioned a syllable concern- 
 ing Knight. 
 
 It is desirable, however, to observe that only in two 
 letters could she possibly have done so. One was written 
 about a week before Knight's arrival, when, though she did 
 not mention his promised coming to Stephen, she had 
 hardly a definite reason in her mind for neglecting to do 
 so. In the next she did casually allude to Knight. But 
 Stephen had left Bombay long before that letter arrived. 
 
 Stephen looked at the dark form of the adjacent house, 
 where it cut a dark polygonal notch out of the sky, and felt 
 that he hated the spot. He did not know many facts of 
 the case, but could not help instinctively associating El- 
 fride's fickleness with the marriage of her father and their 
 introduction to London society. He closed the iron gate 
 bounding the shrubbery as noiselessly as he had opened it, 
 
250 
 
 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 and went into the grassy field. Here he could see the old 
 vicarage, the house alone that was associated with the 
 sweet pleasant time of his incipient love for Elfride. Turn- 
 ing sadly from the place that was no longer a nook in which 
 his thoughts might nestle when he was far away, he wan- 
 dered in the direction of the east village, to reach his 
 father's house before they retired to rest. 
 
 The nearest way to the cottage was by crossing the 
 park. He did not hurry. Happiness frequently has rea- 
 son for haste, but it is seldom that desolation need scram- 
 ble or strain. Sometimes he paused under the low-hang- 
 ing arms of the trees, looking vacantly on the ground. 
 
 Stephen was standing thus, scarcely less crippled in 
 thought than he was blank in vision, when a clear sound 
 permeated the quiet air about him, and spread on far be- 
 yond. The sound was the stroke of a bell from the tower 
 of East Endelstow church, which stood in a dell not forty 
 yards from Lord Luxellian's mansion, and within the park 
 enclosure. Another stroke greeted his ear, and gave char- 
 acter to both : then came a slow succession of them. 
 
 " Somebody is dead," he said aloud. 
 
 The death knell of an inhabitant of the eastern parish 
 was being tolled. 
 
 An unusual feature in the tolling was that it had not 
 been begun according to the custom in Endelstow and other 
 parishes in the neighborhood. At every death the sex and 
 age of the deceased were announced by a system of changes. 
 Three times three strokes signified that the departed one 
 was a man ; three times two, a woman ; twice three, a boy ; 
 twice two, a girl. The regular continuity of the tolling sug- 
 gested that it was the resumption rather than the beginning 
 of a knell — the opening portion of which Stephen had not 
 been near enough to hear. 
 
 The momentary anxiety he had felt with regard to his 
 parents passed away. He had left them in perfect health, 
 and had any serious illness seized either, a communication 
 would have reached him ere this. At the same time, since 
 his way homeward lay under the churchyard yews, he re- 
 solved to look into the belfry in passing by, and speak a 
 word to Martin Cannister, who Vs^ould be there. 
 
 Stephen reached the brow of the hill, and felt inclined 
 
^ A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 25I 
 
 to renounce his idea. His mood was such that talking to 
 any person to whom he could not unburden himself would 
 be wearisome. However, before he could put any inclina- 
 tion into effect, the young man saw from amid the trees a 
 bright light shining, the rays from which radiated like 
 needles through the sad plumy foliage of the yews. Its 
 direction was from the centre of the churchyard. 
 
 Stephen mechanically went forward. Never could there 
 be a greater contrast between two places of like purpose 
 than between this graveyard and that of the farther village. 
 Here the grass was carefully tended, and formed virtually a 
 part of the manor-house lawn ; flowers and shrubs being 
 planted ii:discriminately over both, while the few graves 
 visible were mathematically exact in shape and smoothness, 
 appearing in the daytime like chins newly shaven. There 
 was no wall, the division between God's Acre and Lord 
 Luxellian's being marked only by a few square stones set at 
 equidistant points. Among those persons who have romantic 
 sentiments on the subject of their last dwelling-place, prob- 
 ably the greater number would have chosen such a spot as 
 this in preference to any other ; a few would have fancied a 
 constraint in its trim neatness, and would have preferred the 
 uild hill-top of the neighboring site, with Nature in her most 
 negligent attire. 
 
 The light in the churchyard he next discovered to have 
 its source in a point very near the ground, and Stephen im- 
 agined it might come from a lantern in the interior of a 
 partly dug grave. But a nearer approach showed him that 
 its position was immediately under the wall of the aisle, and 
 within the mouth of an archway. He could now hear voices, 
 and the truth of the whole matter began to dawn upon him. 
 Walking on towards the opening. Smith discerned on his 
 left hand a heap of earth, and before him a flight of stone 
 steps which the removed earth had uncovered, leading down 
 under the edifice. It was the entrance to a large family 
 vault, extending under the north aisle. 
 
 Stephen had never before seen it open, and descending 
 one or two steps stooped to look under the arch. The vault 
 appeared to be crowded with coffins, with the exception of 
 an open central space, which had been necessarily kept 
 
252 ^ PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 free for ingress and access to the sides, round three of 
 which the coffins were stacked in stone bins or niches. 
 
 The place was well lighted with candles stuck in slips 
 of wood that were fastened to the wall. On making the 
 descent of another step the living inhabitants of the vault 
 were recognizable. They were his father the master-mason, 
 Martin Cannister, and two or three young and old laboring 
 men. Crowbars and workmen's hammers were scattered 
 about. The whole company, sitting round on coffins which 
 had been removed from their places, apparently for some 
 alteration or enlargement of the vault, were eating bread 
 and cheese, and drinking ale from a cup with two handles 
 passed round from each to each. 
 
 " Who is dead ? " Stephen inquired, stepping down. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 •*T0 THAT LAST NOTHING UNDER EARTH/ 
 
 ALL eyes were turned to the entrance as Stephen spoke, 
 and the ancient-mannered conclave scrutinized him 
 inquiringly. 
 
 " Why, 'tis our Stephen ! " said his father, rising from 
 his seat, and still retaining the mug in his left hand, while 
 he held out his right for a grasp. " Your mother is expect- 
 ing ye — thought you would have come afore dark. But ye'll 
 wait and go home with me ? I have all but done for the 
 day, and was going directly." 
 
 *' Yes, 'tis Master Stephy, sure enough. Glad to see ye 
 so soon again, Master Smith," said Martin Cannister, 
 chastening the gladness expressed in his words by a strict 
 neutrality of countenance, in order to harmonize the feeling 
 as much as possible with his position in a family vault. 
 
 " The same to you Martin ; and you, William," said 
 Stephen, nodding around to the rest, who having their 
 mouths full of bread and cheese, were of necessity compel- 
 led to reply merely, by looks, which they made friendly by 
 compressing their eyes to lines and wrinkles. 
 
 " And who is dead ? " Stephen repeated. 
 
 " Lady Luxellian, poor gentlewoman, as we all shall," 
 said a mason. " Ay, and we be going to enlarge the vault 
 to make room for her." 
 
 " When did she die ? " 
 
 " Early this morning," his father replied, with an appear- 
 ance of recurring to a chronic thought. " Yes, this morning. 
 Martin hev been tolling ever since, almost. There, 'twas 
 expected. She was very delicate." 
 
 " Ay, poor gentlewoman, this morning," said the under- 
 mason, a marvellously old man, whose skin seemed so much 
 too large for his body that it would not stay in position. 
 
254 
 
 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 " She must know by this time whether she's to go up or 
 down, poor creature." 
 
 "What was her age?" 
 
 " Not more than seven or eight-and-twenty by candle- 
 light, poor soul. But Lord ! by day 'a was forty if 'a were 
 an hour." 
 
 "Ay, night-time or day-time makes a difference of 
 twenty years to rich feymels," observed Martin. 
 
 " She was one-and-thirty really," said John Smith. "I 
 bad it from them that know." 
 
 " Not more than that ! " 
 
 " 'A looked very bad, poor lady. In faith, ye might say 
 she was dead for years afore 'a would own it, poor gentle- 
 woman." 
 
 " As my poor father used to say, * dead, but won't drop 
 down.'" 
 
 " I seed her, poor soul," said a laborer from behind 
 some removed coffins, *' only but last Valentine's day of all 
 the world. 'A was arm in crook wi' my lord. I says to 
 myself, ' You be ticketed Churchyard, my noble lady, al- 
 though you don't dream on't.' " 
 
 " I suppose my lord will write to all the other noble 
 lords anointed in the nation, to let 'em know that she that 
 
 was IS now no more 
 
 ? » 
 
 " 'Tis done and past. I see a bundle go off an hour 
 after the death. Sich wonderful black rims as they letters 
 had — half an inch wide, at the very least" 
 
 " Too much," said John Smith. " In short, 'tis out of 
 the question that a human being can be so mournful as 
 black edges half an inch wide. I'm sure people don't feel 
 more than a very narrow strip when they feels most of all." 
 
 " And there are two little girls, are there not ? " iaid 
 Stephen. 
 
 " Nice clane little girls — left motherless now." 
 
 " They used to come to Parson Swancourt's to play with 
 Miss Elfride when I were there," said William Worm. " Ah, 
 they did so's ! " The latter sentence was introduced to add 
 the necessary melancholy to a remark which, intrinsically, 
 could hardly be made to possess enough for the occasion. 
 " Yes," continued Worm, " they'd run up stairs, they'd run 
 
A PAIR OF BLUl^ EYES, 
 
 25S 
 
 down ; flitting about with her everywhere. Very fond of 
 her, they were. Ah, well ! " 
 
 " Fonder than ever they were of their mother, so 'tis 
 said here and there," added a laborer. 
 
 " Well, you see, 'tis natural. Lady Luxellian stood 
 aloof from 'em so — was so drowsy-like, that they couldn't love 
 her in the jolly-companion way children want to like folks. 
 Only last winter I seed Miss Elfride talking to my lady and 
 the two children, and Miss Elfride wiped their noses for ''era 
 so careful — my lady never once seeing that it wanted doing \ 
 and, naturally, children take to people that's their best 
 friend." 
 
 " Be as 'twill, the woman is dead and gone, and we 
 must make a place for her," said John. " Come, lads, 
 drink up your ale, and we'll just rid this corner, so as to 
 have all clear for beginning at the wall as soon as 'tis light 
 to-morrow." 
 
 Stephen then asked where Lady Luxellian was to lie. 
 
 " Here," said his father. " We are going to set back 
 this wall and make a recess ; and 'tis enough for us to do be- 
 fore the funeral. When my lord's mother died, she said, 
 ' John, the place must be enlarged before another can be 
 put in.' But 'a never expected 'twould be wanted so soon. 
 Better move Lord George first, I suppose, Simeon ? " 
 
 He pointed with his foot to a heavy coffin, covered with 
 what had originally been red velvet, the color of which 
 could only just be distinguished now. 
 
 "Just as ye think best, Master John," replied the shriv- 
 elled old mason, " Ah, poor Lord George ! " he continued, 
 looking contemplatively at the huge coffin ; " he and I were 
 as bitter enemies once as any could be when one is a lord 
 and t'other only a mortal man. Poor fellow! He'd clap 
 his hand upon ray shoulder and cuss rae as familiar and 
 neighborly as if he'd been a common equal. Ay, 'a cussed 
 me up hill and 'a cussed me down ; and then 'a would rave 
 out again, and the goold clamps of his fine teeth would 
 glisten in the sun, like fetters of brass, while I, being a 
 small man and poor, was fain to say nothing at all. Such 
 a strappen fine gentleman as he was too. Yes, I rather like 
 en sometimes. But once now and then, when 1 looked at 
 his towering height, I'd think it in secret, ' What a weight 
 
256 ^ P^^^ 0^ BLUE EYES, 
 
 you'll be, my lord, for our arms to lower under the aisle of 
 Endelslow church some day ! ' " 
 
 " And was he ? " inquired a young laborer. 
 
 " He was. He was five hundred-weight if 'a were a 
 pound. What with his lead, and his oak, and his clamps, 
 and his one thing and t'other "—here the ancient man 
 slapped his hand upon the cover with a force that caused a 
 rattle inside — " he half broke my back when I took his feet 
 to lower en down the steps there. ' Ah,' saith I to John 
 there — didn't I, John? — ' that ever one man's vanity should 
 be such a weight upon another man ! ' But there, I liked 
 my Lord George sometimes." 
 
 " 'Tis a thought to look at," said another, " that while 
 they be all here under one roof, a snug and united family 
 of Luxellians, they be really scattered miles away from one 
 another in the form of good sheep and wicked goats, 
 isn't it ? " 
 
 " True ; 'tis a thought to look at." 
 
 " And that one, if he's gone upward, don't know what 
 his wife is doing no more than the man in the moon if 
 she's gone downward. And that some unfortunate one in 
 the hot place is hollering across to a lucky one up in the 
 clouds, and quite forgetting their bodies be boxed close to- 
 gether all the time." 
 
 " Ay, 'tis a thought to look at, too, that I ca-n say ' Hul- 
 lo ! ' close to fiery Lord George, and 'a can't hear me." 
 
 " And that 1 be eating a onion close to dainty Lady 
 Jane's nose, and she can't smell me." 
 
 "What do 'em put all their heads one way for?" in- 
 quired a young man. 
 
 " Because 'tis churchyard law, you simple. The law of 
 the living is, that a man' shall be upright ; and the law of 
 the dead is, that a man shall be east and west. Every 
 state of society have its laws." 
 
 " We must break the law wi' a few of the poor souls, 
 however. Come, buckle to," said the master-mason. 
 
 And they set to work anew. 
 
 The order of interment could be distinctly traced by 
 observing the appearance of the coffins as they lay piled 
 around. On those which had been standing there but a 
 generation or two the trappings still remained. Those of 
 
A PAIR OF BL UE E YES. 
 
 257 
 
 an earlier period showed bare wood, with a few tattered 
 rags dangling therefrom. Earlier still, the wood lay in 
 fragments on the floor of the niche, and the coffin consist- 
 ed of naked lead alone; while in the case of the very old- 
 est, even the lead was bulging and cracking in pieces, 
 revealing to the curious eye a heap of dust within. The 
 shields upon many were quite loose, and removable by the 
 hand, their lustreless surfaces still indistinctly exhibiting 
 the name and title of the deceased. 
 
 Overhead the groins and concavities of the arches curv- 
 ed in all directions, dropping low towards the walls, where 
 the height was no more than sufficient to enable a person 
 to stand upright. 
 
 The body of George the fourteenth baron, together 
 with two or three others, all of more recent date than the 
 great bulk of coffins piled there, had, for want of room, 
 been placed at the end of the vault on tressels, and not in 
 niches like the others. These it was necessary to remove, 
 to form behind them the chamber in which they were ulti- 
 mately to be deposited. Stephen, finding the place and 
 proceedings in keeping with the sombre colors of his mind, 
 waited there still. 
 
 " Simeon, I suppose you can mind poor Lady Elfride, 
 and how she ran away with the actor?" said John Smith, 
 after a while. " I think it fell upon the time my father was 
 sexton here. Let us see — where is she ? " 
 
 " Here somewhere," returned Simeon, looking round 
 him. '' Why, I've got my arms round the very woman at 
 this moment." He lowered the end of the coffin he was 
 holding, wiped his face, and throwing a morsel of rotten 
 wood upon another as an indicator, continued : " That's 
 her husband, there. They were as fair a couple as you 
 should see anywhere round about; and a good-hearted 
 pair likewise. Ay, I can mind it, though I was but a chiel 
 at the time. She fell in love with this young man of hers, 
 and their banns were asked in some church in London ; 
 and the old lord her father actually heard 'em asked the 
 three times, and didn't notice her name, being gabbled on 
 wi' a host of others. When she had married she told her 
 father, and 'a fleed into a monstrous rage, and said she 
 shouldn' hae a farthing. Lady Elfride said she didn't 
 
258 ^ P^^^ OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 think of wishing it ; if he'd forgie her 'twas all she asked, 
 and as for a living, she was content to play plays with her 
 husband. This frightened the old lord, and 'a gie'd 'em a 
 house to live in, and a great garden, and a little field or 
 two, and a carriage, and a good-few guineas. Well, the 
 poor thing died at her first gossiping, and her husband — 
 who was as tender-hearted a man as ever eat meat, and 
 would have died for her — went wild in his mind, and broke 
 his heart (so 'twas said). Anyhow, they were buried the 
 same day — father and mother — but the baby lived. Ay, 
 my lord's family made much of that man then, and put 
 him here with his wife, and there in the corner the man is 
 now. The Sunday after there was a funeral sermon : the 
 text was, ' Or ever the silver cord be loosed, or the golden 
 bowl be broken ; ' and when 'twas preaching the men drew 
 their hands across their eyes several times, and every wo- 
 man cried out loud." 
 
 " And what became of the baby ? " said Stephen, who 
 had frequently heard portions of the story. 
 
 " She was brought up by her grandmother, and a pretty 
 maid she were. And she must needs run away with the 
 curate — parson Swancourt that is now. Then her grand- 
 mother died, and the tide and everything went away to an- 
 other branch of the family altogether. Parson Swancourt 
 wasted a good deal of his wife's money, and she left him 
 Miss Elfride. That trick of running away seems to be 
 handed down in families, like craziness or gout. And they 
 two women be as like as peas." 
 
 " Which two ? " 
 
 '■' Lady Elfride and young Miss that's alive now. The 
 same hair and eyes : but Miss Elfride's mother was darker 
 a good deal." 
 
 " Life's a strange bubble, ye see," said William Worm 
 musingly. " For if the Lord's anointment had descended 
 upon women instead of men, Miss Elfride would be Lord 
 Luxellian — Lady, I mane. But as it is, the blood is run 
 out, and she's nothing to the Luxellian family by law, what- 
 ever she may be by Gospel." 
 
 "I used to fancy,'' said Simeon, "when I seed Miss 
 Elfi ide hugging the little ladyships, that there was a likenese ;, 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 259 
 
 but I suppose 'twas only my dream, for years must have 
 altered the old family shape." 
 
 " And now we'll move these two, and home-along," in- 
 terposed John Smith, reviving, as became a master, the 
 spirit of labor, which had showed unmistakable signs of be- 
 ing nearly vanquished by the spirit of chat. '' The"flagon 
 of ale we don't want we'll let bide here till to-morrow ; none 
 of the poor souls will touch it 'a b'lieve." 
 
 So the evening's work was concluded, and the party 
 withdrew from the abode of the quiet dead, closing the 
 great iron door, and shooting the lock loudly into the huge 
 copper staple — an incongruous act of imprisonment towards 
 those who had no dreams of escape. 
 
CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 "HOW SHOULD I GREET THEE?" 
 
 LOVE frequently dies of time alone — much more fre- 
 quently of displacement. 
 
 With Elfride Swancourt, a powerful reason why the dis- 
 placement was successful was that the new-comer was a 
 greater man than the first. By the side of the instructive 
 and piquant snubbings she received from Knight, Stephen's 
 general agreeableness seemed watery ; by ^ the side of 
 Knight's spare love-making, Stephen's continual outflow 
 seemed lackadaisical. She had begun to sigh for somebody 
 farther on in manhness. Stephen was hardly enough of a 
 man. 
 
 Perhaps there was a proneness to inconstancy in her na- 
 ture — a nature, to those who contemplate it from a stand- 
 Doint beyond the influence o( that inconstancy, the most 
 exquisite of all in its plasticity and ready sympathies. 
 Partly, too, Stephen's failure to make his hold on her heart 
 a permanent one was his too timid habit of dispraising him- 
 self beside her — a peculiarity which, exercised towards sen- 
 sible men, stirs a kindly chord of attachment that a marked 
 assertiveness would leave untouched, but inevitably leading 
 the most sensible woman in the world to undervalue him 
 who practices it. Directly domineering ceases in the man, 
 snubbing begins in the woman ; the trite but no less unfor- 
 tunate fact being that the gentler creature never has the ca- 
 pacity to appreciate fair treatment from her natural comple- 
 ment. The abiding perception of the position of Stephen's 
 parents had, of course, a little to do with Elfride's renunci- 
 ation. To girls like her, poverty is not, as to the more 
 fibrous masses of humanity, a sin in itself; but it is a sin, 
 because graceful and dainty manners seldom abide in such 
 an atmosphere. No woman of refinement can be thorough- 
 
A FAIR OF BLUE EYES, 26 1 
 
 ly taught that a genius may wear a smock-frock, and an ad- 
 mittedly common man in one is but a worm to her eyes. 
 John Smith's rough hands and clothes, his wife's dialect, 
 the necessary narrowness of their ways, being constantly 
 under Elfride's notice were not without their effect. 
 
 On reaching home after the perilous adventure by the 
 sea-shore, Knight had felt unwell, and retired almost imme- 
 diately. The young lady who had so materially assisted 
 him had done the same, but she reappeared, properly 
 clothed, about five o'clock. She wandered restlessly about 
 the house, but not on account of their joint narrow escape 
 from death. The storm vv'hich had torn the tree had merely 
 bowed the reed, and with the deliverance of Knight all deep 
 thought of the accident had left her. The mutual avowal 
 which it had been the means of precipitating occupied a far 
 longer length of her meditations. 
 
 Eltnde's restlessness was on account of her miserable 
 promise to meet Stephen, which returned like a spectre 
 again and again. The perception of his littleness beside 
 Knight grew upon her alarmingly. She now thought how 
 sound had been her father's advice to her to give him up, 
 and was as passionately desirous of following it as she had 
 hitherto been adverse. Perhaps there is nothing more hard- 
 ening to the tone of young minds than thus discovering 
 how their dearest and strongest v/ishes become gradually 
 attuned by Time the Cynic to the very note of some selfish 
 policy which at an earlier time they despised. 
 
 The hour of appointment came, and with it a crisis ; and 
 with the crisis a collapse. 
 
 " God forgive me — I can't meet Stephen ! " she ex- 
 claimed to herself "I don't love him less, but I love Mr. 
 Knight more." 
 
 Ye-b: she would save herself from a man not fit for her 
 —in spite of vows. She would obey her father, and have 
 no more to do with Stephen Smith. Thus the fickle resolve 
 showed signs of assuming the complexion of a virtue. 
 
 The following days were passed without any definite 
 avowal from Knight's lips. Such solitary walks and scenes 
 as that witnessed by Smith in the summer-house were fre- 
 quent, but he courted her so intangibly, that to any but 
 such a delicate perception as Elfride's it would have ap- 
 
262 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 peared no courtship at all. The time now really began to 
 be sweet with her. She dismissed the sense of sin in her 
 past actions, and was absorbed in the intoxication of the 
 moment. The fact that Knight made no actual declaration 
 was no drawback. Knowing since the betrayal of his sen- 
 timents that love for her really existed, she preferred it for 
 the present in its form of essence, and was willing to avoid 
 for a while the grosser medium of words. Their feelings 
 having been forced to a rather premature demonstration, a 
 reaction was indulged in by both. 
 
 But no sooner had she got rid of her troubled conscience 
 on the matter of faithlessness than a new anxiety confronted 
 her. It was lest Knight should accidentally meet Stephen 
 in the parish, and that herself should be the subject of dis- 
 course. 
 
 Elfride, learning Knight more thoroughly, perceived that, 
 far from having a notion of Stephen's precedence, he had 
 no idea that she had ever been wooed before by anybody. 
 On ordinary occasions she had a tongue so frank as to show 
 her whole mind, and a mind so straightforward as to reveal 
 her heart to its innermost shrine. But the time for a change 
 had come. She never alluded to even a knowledge of 
 Knight's friend. When women are secret they are secret 
 indeed ; and more often than not they only begin to be 
 secret with the advent of a second lover. 
 
 The elopement was now a spectre worse than the first, 
 and, Uke the Spirit in Glenfinlas, it waxed taller with every 
 attempt to lay it. Her natural honesty invited her to confide 
 in Knight and trust to his generosity for forgiveness : she 
 knew also that as mere policy it would be better to tell 
 him early if he was to be told at all. The longer her con- 
 cealment the more difficult would be the revelation. But 
 she put it off. The intense fear which accompanies intense 
 love in young women was too strong to allow the exercise 
 of a moral quality antagonistic to itself: 
 
 " Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear ; 
 Where little fears grow great, great love grows there." 
 
 The match was looked upon as made by her father and 
 mother. The vicar remembered her promise to reveal the 
 meaning of the telegram she had received, and two days 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 263 
 
 after the scene in the summer-house, asked her pointedly. 
 t>he was frank with him now. 
 
 " I had been corresponding with Stephen Smith ever 
 since he left England, till lately." 
 
 " What ! " cried the vicar, aghast ; " under the eyes of 
 Mr. Knight, too ? " 
 
 " No ; when I found I cared most for Mr. Knight, I 
 obeyed you." 
 
 " You were very kind, I'm sure. When did you begin 
 to like Mr. Knight ? " 
 
 " I don't see that that is a pertinent question, papa j 
 the telegram was from the shipping- agent, and was not sent 
 at my request. It announced the arrival of the vessel 
 bringing him home." 
 
 " Home ! What, is he here > " 
 
 "Yes; in the village, I believe." 
 
 " Has he tried to see you ? " 
 
 " Only by fair means. But don't, papa, question me so ! 
 it is torture." 
 
 " I will only say one word more," he replied. " Have 
 you met him ? " 
 
 " I have not. I can assure you that at the present mo- 
 ment there is no more of an understanding between me and 
 the young man you so much disliked than between him and 
 you. You told me to forget him ; and I have forgotten 
 him." 
 
 " O, well ; though you did not obey me in the letter, you 
 are a good girl, Elfride, in obeying me at last." 
 
 "Don't call me 'good,' papa," she said bitterly ; " you 
 don't know — and the less said about some things the better. 
 Remember, Mr. Knight knows nothing about the other. 
 O, how wrong it all is ! I don't know what I am coming to." 
 
 " As matters stand, I should be inclined jto tell him ; or, 
 at any rate, 1 should not alarm myself about his knowmg. 
 He found out the other day that this was the parish young 
 Smith's father lives in — what puts you in such a flurry ? " 
 
 " I can't say ; but promise — pray don't let him know ; 
 it would be my ruin." 
 
 " Pooh, child. Knight is a good fellow and a clever 
 man ; but at the same time it does not escape my percep- 
 tions that he is no great^catch for you. Men of his turn of 
 
264 ^ ^^^^ OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 mind are nothing so wonderful in the way of husbands. If 
 you had chosen to wait, you might have mated with a much 
 wealthier man. But remember, I have not a word to say 
 against your having him if you like him. Charlotte is de- 
 lighted, as you know." 
 
 " Well, papa," she said, smiling hopefully through a sigh, 
 " it is nice to feel that in giving way to — to caring for him, 
 I have pleased my family. But I am not good ; O no, I am 
 very far from that." 
 
 "None of us are good, I am sorry to say," said her 
 father blandly ; " but girls have a chartered right to change 
 their minds, you know. It has been recognized by poets 
 from time immemorial. Catullus says, ' Mulier cupido 
 quod dicit amanti, in vento — ' What a memory mine is 1 
 However, the passage is, that a woman's words to a lover 
 are as a matter of couise written only on wind and water. 
 Now don't be troubled about that, Elfride." 
 
 " Ah, yoii don't know." 
 
 They had been standing on the lawn, and Knight was 
 now seen lingering some way down a winding walk. When 
 Elfride met him, it was with a much greater lightness of 
 heart ; things were more straight-forward now. The re- 
 sponsibility of her fickleness seemed partly shifted from her 
 own shoulders to her father's. Still, not entirely so. 
 
 " Ah, could he have known how far I went with Ste- 
 phen, and yet have said the same, how much happier I 
 should be ! " That was her prevailing thought. 
 
 In the afternoon the lovers went out together on horse- 
 back. 
 
 Not wishing to be observed, by reason of the late death 
 of Lady Luxellian, whose funeral had taken place very pri- 
 vately on the previous day, they yet found it necessary to 
 pass East Endelstow church. 
 
 The steps to the vault, as has been stated, were on the 
 outside of the building, immediately under the aisle wall. 
 Being on horseback, both Knight and Elfride could over- 
 look the shrubs which screened the churchyard. 
 
 "Look, the vault seems still to be open," said Knight. 
 
 " Yes, it is open," she answered. 
 
 " Who is that man close by it ? The mason, I sup* 
 pose ? " 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 26$ 
 
 « Yes." 
 
 " I wonder if it is John Smith, Stephen's father." 
 
 " 1 believe it is," said Eifride, with apprehension. 
 
 " Dear me, can it be? I should like to inquire how his 
 son, my truant protege, is going on. And from your fath- 
 er's description of the vault, the interior must be interest- 
 ing ; suppose we go in." 
 
 " Had we better, do you think ? May not Lord Luxei- 
 lian be there ? " 
 
 " It is not at all likely." 
 
 Eifride then assented, since she could do nothing else. 
 Her heart, which at first had quailed in consternation, re- 
 covered itself when she considered the character of John 
 Smith ; a quiet, unassuming man, he would be sure to act 
 towards her as before those love passages with his son, 
 which might have given a more pretentious mechanic airs. 
 So without much alarm, she took Knight's arm after dis- 
 mounting, and went with him between and over the graves. 
 The master- mason recognized her as she approached, and, 
 as usual, lifted his hat respectfully. 
 
 " I know you to be Mr. Smith, my former friend Ste- 
 phen's father," said Knight, directly he had scanned the 
 embrowned and ruddy features of John. 
 
 " Yes, sir, I believe I be." 
 
 " How is your son now .? I have only once heard from 
 him since he went to India. I dare say you have heard him 
 speak of me — Mr. Knight, who became acquainted with 
 him some years ago in Exeter." 
 
 " Ay, that I have. Stephen is very well, thank you, sir, 
 and he's in England ; in fact, he's at home. In short, sir, he's 
 down in the vault there, a-looking at the departed coffins," 
 
 Elfride's heart fluttered like an aspen-leaf 
 
 Knight looked amazed. ''Well, that is extraordinary," 
 he murmured. " Did he know I was in the parish ? " 
 
 " I really can't say, sir," said John, wishing himself out 
 of the entanglement he rather suspected than thoroughly 
 understood. 
 
 " Would it be considered an intrusion by the family if 
 we went into the vault .'* " 
 
 " O, bless ye, no sir ; scores of folk have been stepping 
 down. 'Tis left open a-purpose." 
 
Z66 *4 FA//? OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 "We will go down, Elfride." 
 
 " I am afraid the air is close," she said appealingly. 
 
 " O no, ma'am," said John. " We whitewashed the wails 
 and arches the day 'twas opened, as we always do, and 
 again on the morning of the funeral ; the pi ice is as sweet 
 as a granary." 
 
 "Then I should like you to accompany me, Elfie ; hav- 
 ing originally sprung from the family too." 
 
 " I don't like going where Death is so emphatically pres- 
 ent. I'll stay by the horses while you go in : they may get 
 loose." 
 
 " What nonsense ! I had no idea your sentiments were 
 so flimsily formed as to be perturbed by a few remnants of 
 mortality ; but stay out, if you are so afraid, by all means." 
 
 " O no, I am not afraid ; don't say that." 
 
 She held miserably to his arm, thinking that, perhaps, 
 the revelation might as well come at once as ten minutes 
 later, for Stephen would be sure to accompany his friend 
 to his horse. 
 
 At first, the gloom of the vault, which was lighted only 
 by a couple oi tapers, was too great to admit of their see- 
 ing anything distinctly ; but with a farther advance. Knight 
 discerned, in front of the black masses lining the walls, a 
 young man standing, and writing in a pocket-book 
 
 Knight said one word : " Stephen ! " 
 
 Stephen Smith, not being in such absolute ignorance 
 of Knight's whereabouts as Knight had been of Smith's, 
 instantly recognized his friend, and knew by rote the out- 
 lines of the fair woman standing behind him. 
 
 Stephen came forward and shook him by the hand, 
 without speaking. 
 
 •' Why have you not written, my boy ? " said Knight, 
 without in any way signifying Elfride's presence to Ste- 
 phen. To the essayist. Smith was still the country lad 
 whom he had patronized and tended ; one to whom the 
 formal presentation of a lady betrothed to himself would 
 have seemed incongruous and absurd. 
 
 " Why haven't you written to me 1 " said Stephen. 
 
 " Ah, yes. Why haven't I ? why haven't we ? That's 
 always the query which we cannot clearly answer without 
 an unsatisfactory sense of inadequacy. However, I have 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 267 
 
 not forgotten you, Smith. And now we have met ; and we 
 must meet again, and have a longer chat than this can con- 
 veniently be. I must know all you have been doing; that 
 you have thriven, I know, and you must teach me the 
 way." 
 
 Elfride stood in the background. Stephen had read 
 the position at a glance, and immediately guessed that she 
 had never mentioned his name to Knight. His tact in 
 avoiding catastrophes was the chief quality which made 
 him intellectually respectable, in which quality he far trans- 
 cended Knight ; and he decided that a tranquil issue out 
 of the encounter, without any harrowing of the feelings of 
 either Knight or Elfride, was to be attempted if possible. 
 His old sense of indebtedness to Knight had never wholly 
 forsaken him ; his love for Elfride was generous now. 
 
 As far as he dared look at her movements, he saw that 
 her bearing towards him would be dictated by his own to- 
 wards her j and if he acted as a stranger, she would do 
 likewise as a means of deliverance. Circumstances favor- 
 ing this course, it was desirable also to be rather reserved 
 towards Knight, to shorten the meeting as much as possi- 
 ble. 
 
 " I am afraid that my time is almost too short to allow 
 even of such a pleasure," he said. " I leave here to-mor- 
 row. And until I return to India, which will be in a fort- 
 night, I shall have hardly a moment to spare." 
 
 Knight's disappointed and dissatisfied look at this re- 
 ply sent a pang through Stephen as great as any he had 
 felt at the sight of Elfride. The words about shortness of 
 time were literally true, but their tone was far from being 
 so. He would have been gratilied to talk with Knight as 
 in past times, and saw as a dead loss to himself that, to 
 save the woman who cared nothing for him, he was delib- 
 erately throwing away his friend. 
 
 " O, I am sorry to hear that,'' said Knight, in a changed 
 tone. " But of course, if you have weighty concerns to at- 
 tend to, they must not be neglected. And if this is to be 
 our first and last meeting, let me say that I wish you suc- 
 cess with all my heart." Knight's warmth revived towards 
 the end ; the solemn impressions he was beginning to re- 
 ceive from the scene around them abstracting from his 
 
268 ^ PAI^ OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 heart as a puerility any momentary vexation at words. " It 
 is a strange place for us to meet in," he continued, looking 
 round the vault. 
 
 Stephen briefly as&ented, and there was a silence. The 
 blackened coffins were now revealed more clearly than at 
 first, the whitened walls and arches throwing them forward 
 in strong relief. It was a scene which was remembered by 
 all three as an indelible mark in their history. Knight, 
 with an abstracted face, was standing between his compan- 
 ions, though a little in advance of them, Elfride being on 
 his right hand, and Stephen Smith on his left. The white 
 daylight on his right side gleamed faintly in, and was toned 
 to a blueness by contrast with the yellow rays from the 
 candle against the wall. Elfride, timidly shrinking back, 
 and nearest the entrance, received most of the light there- 
 from, while Stephen was entirely in candle-light, and to 
 him the spot of outer sky visible above the steps was as a 
 steely blue patch, and nothing more. 
 
 " I have been here two or three times since it was 
 opened," said Stephen. " My father was engaged in the 
 work, you know." 
 
 "Yes. What are you doing?" Knight inquired, look- 
 ing at the note-book and pencil Stephen held in his hand. 
 
 " I have been sketching a few details in the church, and 
 since then I have been copying the names from some of 
 the coffins here. Before I left England, I used to do a 
 good deal of this sort of thing." 
 
 " Yes ; of course. Ah, that's poor Lady Luxellian, I 
 suppose." Knight pointed to a coffin of light satin-wood, 
 which stood on the stone sleepers in the new niche. " And 
 the remainder of the family are on this side. Who are 
 those two, so snug and close together ? " 
 
 Stephen's voice altered slightly as he replied : " That's 
 Lady Elfride Kingsmore — born Luxellian, and that is Ar- 
 thur, her husband. I have heard my father say that they 
 — he — ran away with her, and married her against the wish 
 of her parents." 
 
 " Then I imagine this to be where you got your Chris- 
 tian name, Miss Swancourt .? " said Knight, turning to her. 
 " I think you told me it was three or four generations ago 
 that your family branched off from the Luxellians?" 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 269 
 
 " She was my grandmother," said Elfride, vainly en- 
 deavoring to moisten her dry lips before she spoke. El- 
 fride had then the conscience-stricken look of Guido's 
 Magdalen, rendered upon a more childlike form. She 
 kept her face partially away from Knight and Stephen, and 
 set her eyes upon the sky visible outside, as if her salva- 
 tion depended upon quickly reaching it. Her left hand 
 rested lightly within Knight's arm, half withdrawn, from a 
 sense of shame at claiming him before her old lover, yet 
 unwilling to renounce him; so that her glove merely 
 touched his sleeve. " Can one be pardoned, and retain 
 the offence ? " said Elfride's heart then. 
 
 Conversation seemed to have no self-sustaining power, 
 and went on in the shape of disjointed remarks. " One's 
 mind gets thronged with thoughts while standing so sol- 
 emnly here," Knight said, in a measured quiet voice. 
 " How much has been said on death from time to time ! 
 how much we ourselves can think upon it ! We may fancy 
 each of these who lie here saying : 
 
 * For Thou, to make my fall more great, 
 Didst lift me up on high.' 
 
 What comes next, Elfride? It is the Hundred-and 
 second Psalm I am thinking of." 
 
 " Yes, I know it," she murmured, and went on in a 
 still lower voice, seemingly afraid for any words from the 
 emotional side of her nature to reach Stephen : 
 
 " • My days, just hastening to their end. 
 Are like an evening shade ; 
 My beauty doth, like withered grass 
 With waning lustre fade.' " 
 
 "WelV' said Knight musingly, "let us leave them. 
 Such occasions as these seem to compel us to roam out- 
 side ourselves, far away from the fragile frame we live in, 
 and to expand till our perception grows so vast that our 
 physical reality bears no sort of proportion to it. We look 
 back upon the weak and minute stem on which this lux- 
 uriant growth depends, and ask, Can it be possible thai 
 such a capacity has a foundation so small ? Must I again 
 
270 
 
 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 return to my daily walk in that narrow cell, a human body 
 Vv'here worldly thoughts can torture me? Do we not?" 
 
 " Yes," said Stephen and Elfride. 
 
 *' One has a sense of wrong, too, that such an apprecia- 
 tive breadth as a sentient being possesses should be com- 
 mitted to the frail casket of a body. What weakens one's 
 intentions regarding the future like the thought of this ? 
 However, let us tune ourselves to a more cheerful chord, 
 for there's a great deal to be done yet by us all." 
 
 As Knight meditatively addressed his juniors thus, un- 
 conscious of the deception practiced, for different reasons, 
 by the severed hearts at his side, and of the scenes that 
 had in earlier days united them, each one felt that he and 
 she did not gain by contrast with their musing mentor. 
 Physically not so handsome as either the youthful archi- 
 tect or the vicar's daughter, the thoroughness and integrity 
 of Knight illuminated his features with a dignity not even 
 incipient in the other two. It is difficult to frame rules 
 which shall apply to both sexes, and Elfride, an undeveloped 
 girl, can hardly be laden with the moral responsibilities 
 which attach to a man under like circumstances. The charm 
 of woman, too, lies partly in her subtleness in matters of 
 love. But if honesty is a virtue in itself, Elfride having 
 none of it now, seemed, being for being, scarcely good 
 enough for Knight. Stephen, though deceptive for no 
 unworthy purpose, was deceptive after all ; and whatever 
 good results grace such strategy if it succeed, it seldom 
 draws admiration when it fails. 
 
 On an ordinary occasion, had Knight been even quite 
 alone with Stephen, he would hardly have alluded to his 
 possible relationship to Elfride. But moved by attendant 
 circumstances, KnigJit was impelled to be confiding. 
 
 " Stephen," he said, " this lady is Miss Svvancourt. I 
 am staying at her father's house, as you probably know." 
 He stepped a few paces nearer to Smith, and said in a 
 lower tone : " I may as well tell you that we are engaged 
 to be married." 
 
 Low as the words had been spoken, Elfride had heard 
 them, and awaited Stephen's reply in breathless silence, if 
 that could be called silence where Elfride's dress, at eacU 
 throb of her heart, shook and mdicated it like a pulse-glass, 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 2^1 
 
 rustling also against the wall in reply to the same throb- 
 bing. The ray of daylight which reached her face lent it a 
 blue pallor in comparison with those of the other two. 
 
 "I congratulate you," Stephen whispered; and said 
 aloud, "I know Miss Swancourt — a little. You must 
 remember that my father is a parishioner of Mr. Swan- 
 court's." 
 
 " I thought you might possibly not have lived at home 
 since they have been here," said Knight. 
 
 " I have never lived at home, certainly, since that time." 
 
 " I have seen Mr. Smith," faltered Elfride. 
 
 *'Well, there is no excuse for me. As strangers to 
 each other I ought, I suppose, to have presented you : as 
 acquaintances, I should not have stood so persistently 
 between you. But the fact is, Smith, you seem a boy to 
 me, even now." 
 
 Stephen appeared to have a more than previous con- 
 sciousness of the intense cruelty of his fate at the present 
 moment. He could not repress the words, uttered with a 
 faint bitterness: 
 
 " You should have said that I seemed still the rural 
 mechanic's son I am, and hence an unfit subject for the 
 ceremony of introductions." 
 
 " O, no, no ! I won't have that." Knight endeavored 
 to give his reply a laughing tone in Elfride's ears, and an 
 earnestness in Stephen's : in both which efforts he signally 
 failed, and produced a forced speech pleasant to neither. 
 " Well, let us go into the open air again ; Miss Swancourt, 
 ,^ou are particularly silent. You mustn't mind Smith. I 
 lave known him for years, as I have told you." 
 
 " Yes, you have," she said. 
 
 " To think she has never mentioned her knowledge of 
 me!" Smith murmured, and thought with some remorse 
 how much her conduct resembled his own on his first 
 arrival at her house as a stranger to the place. 
 
 They ascended to the daylight, Knight taking no 
 farther notice of Elfride's manner, which, as usual, he 
 attributed to the natural shyness of a young female at 
 being discovered walking with him on terms which left not 
 much doubt of their meaning. Elfride stepped a little in 
 advance, and passed through the churchyard. 
 
272 
 
 A PAIR OF BL UE E YES. 
 
 " Vou are changed very considerably, Smith," said 
 Knight, " and I suppose it is no more than was to be 
 expected. However, don't imagine that I shall feel any 
 the less interest in you and your fortunes whenever you 
 care to confide them to me. I have not forgotten the 
 attachment you spoke of as your reason for going away to 
 India. A London young lady, was it not? I hope all is 
 prosperous ? " 
 
 " No : the match is broken off." 
 
 It being always difficult to know whether to express 
 sorrow or gladness under such circumstances — all depend- 
 ing upon the character of the match — Knight took shelter 
 in the safe words : "I trust it was for the best." 
 
 " I hope it was. But I beg that you will not press me 
 farther : no, you have not pressed me — I don't mean that 
 — but I would rather not speak upon the subject." 
 
 Knight said no more, and they followed in the footsteps 
 of Elfride, who still kept some paces in advanse, and had 
 not heard Knight's unconscious allusion to her. Stephen 
 bade him adieu at the churchyard-gate without going out- 
 side, and watched while he and his sweetheart mounted 
 their horses. 
 
 "Good heavens, Elfride," Knight exclaimed, "how 
 pale you are ! I suppose I ought not to have taken you 
 into that vault. What is the matter?" 
 
 "Nothing," said Elfride faintly. "I shall be myself in 
 a moment. All was so strange and unexpected down 
 there, that it made me faint." 
 
 " I thought you said very little. Shall I get some 
 water ? " 
 
 " No, no." 
 
 •' Do you think it is safe for you to mojint ? " 
 
 " Quite — indeed it is," she said, with a look ot appeal. 
 
 " Now then — up she goes ! " whispered Knight, and 
 lifted her tenderly into the saddle. 
 
 Her old lover still looked on at the performance as he 
 leaned over the gate a dozen yards off. Once in the saddle, 
 and having a firm grip of the reins, she turned her head as 
 if by a resistless fascination, and for the first time since that 
 memorable parting on the moor outside St. Kirrs, after the 
 passionate attempt at marriage with him, Elfride looked in 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 2/3 
 
 the face of the young man she first had loved. He was 
 the youth who had called her his inseparable wife many a 
 time, and whom she had even addressed as her husband 
 Their eyes met. Measurement of life should be propor- 
 tioned rather to the intensity of the experience therein con- 
 tained than to its actual length. Their glance, but a mo- 
 ment chronologically, was a season in their history. To 
 Elfride the intense agony of reproach in Stephen's eye was 
 a nail piercing her heart with a deadliness no words can 
 describe. With a spasmodic effort she withdrew her eyes, 
 urged on the horse, and in the chaos of perturbed memo- 
 ries was oblivious of any presence beside her. The deed 
 of deception was complete. 
 
 Gaining a knoll on which the park transformed itself 
 into wood and copse, Knight came still closer to her side, 
 and said, '* Are you better now, dearest ? " 
 
 " O, yes." She pressed a hand to her eyes, as if to 
 blot out the image of Stephen. A vivid scarlet spot now 
 shone with preternatural brightness in the centre of each 
 cheek, leaving the remainder of her face lily-white as be- 
 fore. 
 
 " Elfride," said Knight, rather in his old tone of men- 
 tor, " you know I don't for a moment chide you, but is there 
 not a great deal of unwomanly weakness in your allowing 
 yourself to be so overwhelmed by the sight of what, after 
 all, is no novelty ? Every woman worthy of the name 
 should, I think, be able to look upon death with something 
 like composure. Surely you think so too ? " 
 
 " Yes, I own it." 
 
 His obtuseness to the cause of her indisposition, by 
 evidencing his entire freedom from the suspicion of any- 
 thing behind the scenes, showed how incapable Knight was 
 of deception himself, rather than any inherent dullness in 
 him regarding human nature. This, clearly perceived by 
 Elfride, added poignancy to her self-reproach, and she 
 idolized him the more because of their difference. Even 
 the recent sight of Stephen's face and the sound of his 
 voice, which, for a moment, had stirred a chord or two of 
 ancient kindness, were unable to keep down the adoration 
 re-existent now that he was again out of view. 
 
 She had replied to Knight's question hastily, and im- 
 
 12* 
 
2/4 
 
 A PAIR OF BL UE E YES. 
 
 mediately went on to speak of indifferent subjects. Aftei 
 they had reached home, she was apart from him till dinner- 
 time. When dinner was over, and they were watching the 
 dusk in the drawing-room, Knight stepped out upon the 
 terrace. Elfride went after him very decisively, on the 
 spur of a virtuous intention. 
 
 " Mr. Knight, I want to tell you something," she said, 
 with quiet firmness. 
 
 " And what is it about ? " gayly returned her lover. 
 " Happiness, I hope. Do not let anything keep you so sad 
 as you seem to have been to-day." 
 
 "I cannot tell you the matter until I tell you the whole 
 substance of it,'' she said. " And that I will do to-morrow. 
 I have been reminded of it to-day. It is about something 
 I once did, and don't think I ought to have." 
 
 This, it must be said, was rather a mild way of refer- 
 ring to a frantic passion and flight, which, much or little in 
 itself, only accident had saved from being a scandal in the 
 public eye. 
 
 Knight thought the matter some trifle, and said pleas- 
 antly : 
 
 " Then I am not to hear the dreadful confession now ? " 
 
 " No, not now. I did not mean to-night," Elfride re- 
 sponded, with a slight decline in the firmness of her voice. 
 *'It is not light, as you think it — it troubles me a great 
 deal." Fearing now the effect of her own earnestness, she 
 answered forcedly, " Though, perhaps, you may think it 
 .ight, after all." 
 
 " But you have not said when it is to be ? " 
 
 " To-morrow morning. Name a time, will you, and 
 bind me to it? I want you to name an hour, because I 
 am weak, and may otherwise try to get out of it." She 
 added a little artificial laugh, which showed how timorous 
 her resolution was still. 
 
 " Well, say after breakfast — at eleven o'clock." 
 
 " Yes, eleven o'clock. I promise you. Bind me strict 
 ly to my word." 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 LULL A FANCY, TROUBLE-TOST 
 
 » 
 
 " T\ /T ^^^ Swancourt, it is eleven o'clock." 
 
 IVJ^ She was looking out of her dressing-room window 
 on the first floor, and Knight was regarding her from the 
 teirace balustrade, upon which he had been idly sitting for 
 some time — dividing the glances of his eye between the 
 pages of a book in his hand, the brilliant hues of the gera- 
 niums and calceolarias, and the open window above men- 
 tioned. 
 
 " Yes, it is, I know. I am coming." 
 He drew closer, and under the window. 
 " How are you this morning, Elfride ? You look no 
 better for your long night's rest." 
 
 She appeared at the door shortly after, took his offered 
 arm, and together they walked slowly down the gravel 
 path leading to the river and away under the trees. 
 
 Her resolution, sustained during the last fifteen hours, 
 had been to tell him the whole truth, and now the moment 
 had come. 
 
 Step by step they advanced, and still she did not speak. 
 They were nearly at the end of the walk, when Knight 
 broke the silence. 
 
 " Well, what is the confession, Elfride ? " 
 She paused a moment, drew a long breath ; and this 
 is what she said : 
 
 " I told you one day— or rather I gave you to under- 
 stand—what was not true. I fancy you thought me to 
 mean I was nineteen my next birthday, but it was my last 
 I was nineteen." 
 
 The moment had been too much for her. Now that 
 the crisis had come, no qualms of conscience, no love of 
 honesty, no yearning to make a confidence and obtain for- 
 
276 A PAIR OF BL UE E YES. 
 
 giveness with a kiss, could string Elfride up to the venture. 
 Her dread lest he should be unforgiving was heightened by 
 the thought of yesterday's artifice, which might possibly add 
 disgust to his disappointment The certainty of one more 
 day's affection, which she gained by silence, outvalued the 
 hope of a perpetuity combined with the risk of all. 
 
 The trepidation caused by these thoughts on what she 
 had intended to say shook so naturally the words she did 
 say, that Knight never for a moment suspected them to be 
 a last moment's substitution. He smiled and pressed her 
 hand warmly. 
 
 " My dear Elfie — yes, you are now — no protestation — 
 what a nice little woman you are, to be so absurdly scrupu- 
 lous about a mere iota ! Really, I never once have thought 
 whether your nineteenth year was the last or the present. 
 And, by George, well I may not ; for it would never do for 
 an old fogy a dozen years older to stand upon such a trifle 
 as that." 
 
 "Don't praise me — don't praise me! Though I prize 
 it from your lips, I don't deserve it now." 
 
 But Knight being in an exceptionally genial mood, 
 merely saw this distressful exclamation as modesty. " Well," 
 he added after a minute, " I like you all the better, you 
 know, for such moral precision, although I called it absurd." 
 He went on with tender earnestness : " For, Elfride, there 
 is one thing I do love to see in a woman — that is, a soul 
 truthful and clear as heaven's light. I could put up with 
 anything if I had that — forgive nothing if I had it not. 
 Elfride, you have such a soul, if ever woman had ; and hav- 
 ing it, secure it, and don't ever listen to the fashionable 
 theories of the day about a woman's privileges and natural 
 right to practice wiles. Depend upon it, my dear girl, that 
 a noble woman must be as honest as a noble man. I 
 specially mean by honesty, fairness not only in matters of 
 business and social detail, but in all the delicate dealings 
 of love, to which the licence given to your sex particularly 
 refers." 
 
 Elfride looked troublously at the trees. 
 
 " Now let us go on to the river, Elfie." 
 
 " I would if I had a hat on," she said with a sort of 
 suppressed woe. 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 2/; 
 
 ** I will get it for you," said Knight, veiy willing to 
 purchase her companionship at so cheap a price. " You 
 sit down there a minute." And he turned and walked 
 rapidly back to the house after the article in question. 
 
 Elfride sat down upon one of the rustic benches which 
 adorned this portion of the grounds, and remained with her 
 eyes upon the grass. She was induced to lift them by hear- 
 ing the noise of light and irregular footsteps hard by. 
 Passing along the path which intersected the one she was 
 in and traversed the outer shrubberies, Elfride beheld the 
 farmer's widow, Mrs. Jethway. Before she noticed Elfride, 
 she paused to look at the house, portions of which were 
 visible through the bushes. Elfride, shrinking back, hoped 
 the unpleasant woman might pass on without seeing her. 
 But Mrs. Jethway, silently apostrophizing the house, with 
 actions which seemed dictated by a half-overturned reason, 
 had discerned the girl, and immediately came up and stood 
 in front of her. 
 
 " Ah, Miss Swancourt ! Why did you disturb me ? 
 Mustn't I trespass here ? " 
 
 " You may walk here if you like, Mrs. Jethway. I do 
 not disturb you." 
 
 " You disturb my mind, and my mind is my whole life ; 
 for my boy is there still, and he is gone from my body." 
 
 "Yes, poor young man. I was sorry when he died." 
 
 " Do you know what he died of? " 
 
 " Consumption." 
 
 " O, no, no ! " said the widow. " That word * con- 
 sumption ' covers a good deal. He died because you were 
 his own well-agreed sweetheart, and then proved false — and 
 it killed him. Yes, Miss Swancourt," she said in an excited 
 whisper, "you killed my son ! " 
 
 " How can you be so wicked and foolish ! " replied 
 Elfride, rising indignantly. But indignation was not natu- 
 ral to her, and having been so worn and harrowed by late 
 events, she lost any powers of defence that mood might 
 have lent her. " I could not help his loving me, Mrs. Jeth- 
 way ! " 
 
 " That's just what you could have helped. You know 
 how it began, Miss Elfride. Yes : you said you liked the 
 name of Felix better than any other name in the parish, 
 
2^3 ^ P^^^ OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 and you knew it was his name, and that those you said il 
 to would report it to him." 
 
 *' I knew it was his name — of course I ^\6. ; but I am 
 sure, Mrs. Jethway, I did not intend anybody to tell him." 
 *' But you knew they would." 
 "No, I didn't." 
 
 " And then, after that, when you were riding on Revels- 
 day by our house, and the lads were gathered there, and 
 you wanted to dismount, when Jim Drake and George Up- 
 way and three or four more ran forward to hold your pony, 
 and Felix stood back timid, why did you beckon to him and 
 say you would rather he held it ? " 
 
 " O, Mrs. Jethway, you do think so mistakenly ! I 
 liked him best— that's why I wanted him to do it. He was 
 gentle and nice — I always thought him so — and I liked 
 him." 
 
 " Then why did you let him kiss you ? " 
 " It is a falsehood ; O, it is, it is! " said Elfride, weep- 
 ing with desperation. " He came behind me, and attempt- 
 ed to kiss me ; and that was why I told him never to let 
 me see hin again." 
 
 " But you did not tell your father or anybody, as you 
 would have if you had looked upon it then as the insult you 
 now pretend it was." 
 
 " He begged me not to tell, and foolishly enough I did 
 not. And I wish I had now. I little expected to be scourg- 
 ed with my own kindness. Pray leave me, Mrs. Jethway." 
 " Well, you harshly dismissed him, and he died. And 
 before his body was cold, you took another to your 
 heart. Then as carelessly sent him about his business, and 
 took a third. And, look here, Miss Swancourt," she con- 
 tinued, drawing closer ; " you have put it in my power to 
 do unto you as you did to me. Have you forgotten the 
 would-be runaway marriage ? The journey to London, and 
 the return the next day without being married, and that 
 there's enough disgrace in that to ruin a woman's good 
 name far less light than yours ? You may have : I have 
 not. Fickleness towards a lover is bad, but fickleness 
 after playing the wife is wantonness." 
 
 " O, it is a wicked cruel lie 1 Do not say it j O, do 
 notl" 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 279 
 
 "Does your new man know of it? I think not, or he 
 would be no man of yours ! As much of the story as was 
 known is creeping about the neighborhood even now ; but 
 I know more than any of them, and my time will come." 
 
 " T defy you ! " cried Elfride tempestuously. " Do and 
 say all you can to ruin me ; try, put your tongue at work \ 
 I invite it ! I defy you as a slanderous woman ! Look, there 
 he comes." A/id her voice trembled a little as she saw 
 through the leaves the beloved form of Knight coming 
 from the door with her hat in his hand. " Tell him at once ; 
 I can bear it." 
 
 " Not now," said the woman, and disappeared down the 
 path. 
 
 The excitement of her latter words had restored color 
 to Elfride's cheeks ; and hastily wiping her eyes, she walk- 
 ed farther on, so that by the time her lover had overtaken 
 her the traces of emotion had nearly disappeared from her 
 face. Knight put the hat upon her head, took her hand, 
 and drew it within his arm. 
 
 It was the last day but one previous to their departure 
 for St Leonards ; and Knight seemed to have a purpose 
 in being much in her company that day. They rambled 
 along the valley. The season was that period in the 
 autumn when the foliage alone of an ordinary plantation is 
 rich enough in hues to exhaust the chromatic combina- 
 tions of an artist's palette. Most lustrous of all are the 
 beeches, graduating from bright rusty red at the extremity 
 of the boughs to a bright yellow at their inner parts ; 
 young oaks are still of a neutral green ; Scotch firs and 
 hollies are nearly blue ; while occasional dottings of other 
 varieties give maroons and purples of eveiy tinge. 
 
 The river — such as it was — here pursued its course 
 amid flagstones as level as a pavement, but divided by 
 crevices of irregular width. With the summer drought the 
 torrent had narrowed till it was now but a thread of crystal 
 clearness, meandering along a central channel in the rocky 
 bed of the winter current. Knight scrambled through the 
 bushes which at this point nearly covered the brook from 
 sight, and leaped down upon the dry portion of the river 
 bottom. 
 
 " Elfride, I never saw such a sight ! " he exclaimed. 
 
28o ^ PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 " The hazels overhang the river's course in a perfect arch, 
 and the floor is beautifully paved. The place reminds 
 one of the passages of a cloister. Let me help you down." 
 
 He assisted her through the marginal underwood and 
 down to the stones. They walked on together to a tiny 
 cascade about a foot wide and high, and sat down beside 
 it on the flags that for nine months in the year were sub- 
 merged beneath a gushing bourne. From their feet 
 trickled the attenuated thread of water which alone re- 
 mained to tell the intent and reason of this leaf-covered 
 aisle, and journeyed on in a zigzag line till lost in the 
 shade. 
 
 Knight, leaning on his elbow, after contemplating all 
 this, looked critically at Elfride. 
 
 " Does not such a luxuriant head of hair exhaust itself 
 and get thin, as the years go on from eighteen to eight-and 
 twenty ? " he asked at length. 
 
 " O no ! " she said quickly, with a visible disinclination 
 to harbor such a thought, which came upon her with an 
 unpleasantness whose force it would be difficult for men to 
 understand. She added afterwards, with smouldering un- 
 easiness, " Do you really think that a great abundance of 
 hair is more likely to get thin than a moderate quantity.?" 
 
 " Yes, I really do. I believe — am almost sure, in fact 
 — that if statistics could be obtained on the subject, you 
 would find the persons with thin hair were those who had 
 a superabundance originally, and that those who start 
 with a moderate quantity retain it without much loss." 
 
 Elfride's troubles sat upon her face as well as in her 
 heart. Perhaps to a woman it is almost as dreadful to 
 think of losing her beauty as of losing her reputation. At 
 any rate, she looked quite as gloomy as she had looked at 
 any minute that day. 
 
 " You shouldn't be so troubled about a mere personal 
 adornment," said Knight, with some of the severity of 
 tone that had been customary before she had beguiled 
 him into softness. 
 
 " I think it a woman's duty to be as beautiful as she 
 can. If I were a scholar, I would give you chapter and 
 verse for it from one of your own Latin authors. I know 
 there is such a passage, for papa has alluded to it." 
 
A PAIR OF BL UE E YES. 28 1 
 
 " * Munditiag, et ornatus, et cultus,' etc. — is that it ? A 
 passage in Livy which is no defence at all." 
 
 " No, it is not that." 
 
 "Never mind, then ; for I have a reason for not taking 
 up my old cudgels against you, Elfie. Can you guess 
 what the reason is ? " 
 
 "No ; but I am glad to hear it," she said thankfully. 
 "For it is dreadful when you talk so. For whatever 
 dreadful name the weakness may deserve, I must candidly 
 own that I am terrified to think my hair may ever get 
 thin." 
 
 "Of course; a sensible woman would rather lose her 
 wits than her beauty." 
 
 " I don't care if you do say satire and judge me cruelly. 
 I know my hair is beautiful ; everybody says so." 
 
 " Why, my dear Miss Swancourt," he tenderly replied, 
 " I have not said anything against it. But you know wh?t 
 is said about handsome being and handsome doing." 
 
 " Poor Miss Handsome-does cuts but a sorry figure 
 beside Miss Handsome-is in every man's eyes, your own 
 not excepted, Mr. Knight, though it pleases you to throw 
 off so," said Elfride saucily. And lowering her voice : 
 " You ought not to have taken so much trouble to save me 
 from falling over the cliff, for you don't think mine a life 
 worth much (rouble evidently." 
 
 " Perhaps you think mine was not worth yours." 
 
 " It was worth anybody's ! " 
 
 Her hand was plashing in the little waterfall, and her 
 eyes were bent the same way. 
 
 "You talk about my severity with you, Elfride. You 
 are unkind to me, you know." 
 
 " How ? " she asked, looking up from her idle occupa- 
 tion. 
 
 " After my taking trouble to get jewelry to please you, 
 yw wouldn't accept it." 
 
 " Perhaps I would now; perhaps I want to.'* 
 
 " Do ! " said Knight. 
 
 And the packet was withdrawn from his pocket and 
 presented the third time. Elfride took it with delight. 
 The obstacle was rent in twain, and the pretty gift wa» 
 hers. 
 
282 ^ P'-'-^R OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 " ril take out these uglv ones at once," she exclaimed, 
 
 "and I'll wear yours— shall I ?" 
 
 " I should be gratified." 
 
 Now, though it may seem unlikely, considering how fa? 
 the two had gone in converse, Knight had never yet ven- 
 tured to kiss Elfride. Far slower was he than Stephen 
 Smith in matters like that The utmost advance he had 
 made in such demonstrations had been to the degree wit- 
 nessed by Stephen in the summer-house. So Elfride's 
 ch^ek being still forbidden fruit to him, he said impul- 
 sively, 
 
 " Elfie, I should like to touch that beautiful ear of 
 yours. Those are my gifts ; so let me dress you in them." 
 
 She hesitated with a stimulating hesitation. 
 
 " Let me put just one in its place, then 1 " 
 
 Her face grew much warmer. 
 
 " I don't think it would be quite the usual or proper 
 course," she said, suddenly turning and resuming her 
 operation of plashing in the miniature cataract. 
 
 The stillness of things was disturbed by a bird coming 
 to the streamlet to drink. After watching him dip his 
 bill, sprinkle himself, and fly into a tree. Knight replied, 
 with the courtcois brusqueness she so much liked to hear, 
 
 "Elfride, now vou may as well be fair. You would 
 mind my doinjj; it but little, I think ; so give me leave, 
 do." 
 
 " I will be fair, then," she said confidingly, and looking 
 him full in the face. It was a particular pleasure to her 
 to be able to io a little honesty without fear. " I should 
 not mind your doing so — I should like such an attention. 
 My thought was, would it be right to let you ? " 
 
 " Then T w 11 ' " he rejoined, with that singular earnest- 
 ness about a small matter — in the eyes of a ladies' man but 
 a momentary peg for flirtation or jest — which is only found 
 in deep natarcs who have been wholly unused to toying 
 with womankind, and which, from its unwontedness, is in 
 itself a tribute the most precious that can be rendered, and 
 homage the most exquisite to be received. 
 
 " And you shall," she whispered, without reserve, and 
 no longer mistress of the ceremonies. And then Elfride 
 inclined herself towards him, thrust back her hair, and 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYKS. 283 
 
 poised her head sideways. In doing th.s ner arm and 
 shoulder necessarily rested against his breast. 
 
 At the touch, the sensation of both seeme(^> to be con- 
 centrated at the point of contact. All the time he was per- 
 forming the delicate manoeuvre. Knight trembled like a 
 young surgeon in his first operation. 
 
 " Now the other," said Knight in a whisper. 
 
 "No, no." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " I don't know exactly.'* 
 
 " You must know." 
 
 " Your touch agitates me so. Let us go home." 
 
 " Don't say that, Elfride. What is it, after all ? A mere 
 nothing. Now turn round, dearest." 
 
 She was powerless to disobey, and turned forthwith ; 
 and then, without any defined intention in cither's mind, his 
 face and hers drew closer together; and he supported her 
 there, and kissed her. 
 
 Knight was at once the most ardent and the coolest 
 man alive. When his emotions slumbered he appeared 
 almost phlegmatic ; when they were moved he was no less 
 than passionate. And now, without having quite intended 
 an early marriage, he put the question plainly. It came 
 iviih all the ardoi which was the accumulation of long 
 years behind a na'ural reserve. 
 
 " Elfride, wh^n sljall we be married ? " 
 
 The words were sweet Ol er; b t there was a bitter in 
 the sweet. These newly-overt acts c f his, w^hich had cul - 
 mmated in this plain question, coming on the very day o ' 
 Mrs. Jethway's blasting reproaches, painted distinctly h^T 
 fickleness as an enormity. Loving him in secret had not 
 seemed such thorough-going inconstancy as the same love 
 recognized and acted upon in the face of threats. Her dis- 
 traction was interpreted by him at her side as the outward 
 signs of an unwonted experience. 
 
 " I don't press you for an answer now, darling," he said, 
 seeing she was not likely to give a lucid reply. " Take your 
 time." 
 
 Knight was as honorable a man as was ever loved and 
 deluded by woman. It may be said that his blindness in 
 love proved the point, for keenness in love generally goes 
 
284 ^ ^^^^ ^^ BLUE E YES. 
 
 with meanness in general. Once the passion had mas- 
 tered him, the intellect had gone for naught. Knight, as 
 a lover, was more single-minded and far simpler than his 
 friend Stephen, who in general capacity was shallow beside 
 him. 
 
 Without saying more on the subject of their marriage, 
 Knight held her at arm's length, as if she had been a large 
 bouquet, and looked at her with critical affection. 
 
 " Does your pretty gift become me ? " she inquired, 
 with tears of excitement on the fringes of her eyes. 
 
 " Undoubtedly, perfectly ! " said her lover, adopting a 
 lighter tone to put her at ease. " Ah, you should see 
 them ; you look lovelier than ever. Fancy that I have 
 been able to improve you ! " 
 
 " Am I really so nice t I am glad for your sake. I 
 wish I could see myself." 
 
 *' You can't. You must wait till we get home." 
 
 " I shall never be able," she said, laughing. " Look : 
 here's a way." 
 
 " So there is. Well done, woman's wit ! " 
 
 "Hold me steady." 
 
 "Oyes." 
 
 "And don't let me fall, will you? ' 
 
 " By no means." 
 
 Below their seat the thread of water paused to spread 
 out into a smooth small pool. Knight supported her while 
 she knelt down and leaned over it. 
 
 " I can see myself Really, try as religiously as I will, 
 1 cannot help admiring my appearance in them." 
 
 " Doubtless. How can you be so fond of finery ? I be- 
 lieve you are corrupting me into a taste for it I used to 
 hate every such thing before I knew you." 
 
 "I like ornaments, because I want people to admire 
 what you possess and envy you, and say, ' I wish I was 
 he.' " 
 
 " I suppose I ought not to object after that. And how 
 much longer are you going to look in there at yourself.-*" 
 
 " Until you are tired of holding me. O, I w;int to ask 
 you something." And she turned round. " Now tell truly, 
 won't you ? What color of hair do you like best now ? " 
 
 Knight did not answer at the moment. 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 285 
 
 " Say light, do ! " she whispered coaxingly. " Don't say 
 dark, as you did that time." 
 
 *' Light-brown, then. Exactly the color of my sweet- 
 heart's." 
 
 " Really ?" said Elfride, enjoying as truth what she knew 
 to be flattery. 
 
 *' Yes." 
 
 " And blue eyes, too, not hazel ? Say yes, say yes 1" 
 
 " One recantation is enough for to-day." 
 
 "No, no." 
 
 " Very well, blue eyes." And Knight laughed, and 
 drew her close and kissed her the second time, which op- 
 erations he performed with the carefulness of a fruiterer 
 touching a bunch of grapes so as not to disturb their 
 bloom. 
 
 Elfride objected this time, and flung away her face, the 
 movement causing a slight disarrangement of hat and hair. 
 Hardly thinking what she said in the trepidation of the mo- 
 ment, she exclaimed, clapping her hand to her ear : 
 
 " Ah, we must be careful ! I lost the other ear-rings do- 
 ing like this." 
 
 No sooner did she recognize the signiffrcant words than 
 a troubled look passed across her face, and she shut her 
 lips as if to keep them back. 
 
 "■ Doing like what? " said Knight. 
 
 '^ O, sitting down out of doors," she replied hastily. 
 
CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 " CARE, 
 
 IT is an evening at the beginning of October, and the 
 mellowest of autumn sunsets irradiates London, even to 
 its uttermost eastern end. Between the eye and the flaming 
 west columns of smoke standing up in the still air like tall 
 tiees. Everything in the shade is rich and misty blue. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Swancourt and Elfride are looking at these 
 lustrous and lurid contrasts from the v/indow of a large ho- 
 tel near London Bridge. The visit to their friends at St. 
 Leonards is over, and they are staying a day or two in the 
 metropolis on their way home. 
 
 Knight spent the same interval of time in crossing over 
 to Brittany by way of Weymouth, Jersey, and St. Malo. 
 He then passed through Normandy, and returned to Lon- 
 don also, his arrival there having been two days after that of 
 Elfride and her parents. 
 
 So the evening of this October day saw them all meeting 
 at the before-mentioned hotel, where they had previously 
 engaged apartments. During the afternoon Knight had 
 been to his lodgings at Richmond to make a little change 
 in the nature of his baggage ; and on coming up again there 
 was never ushered by a bland waiter into a comfortable 
 apartment a happier man than was Knight when shown to 
 where Elfride and her step-mother were sitting after a fatigu- 
 ing day of shopping. 
 
 Elfride looked none the better for her change : Knight 
 was as brown as a nut. They were soon engaged by them- 
 selves in a corner of the room. Now that the precious words 
 of promise had been spoken, the young girl had no idea of 
 keeping up her price by the system of reserve which other 
 more accomplished maidens use. Her lover was with her 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 287 
 
 again, and it was enough : she made her heart over to him 
 entirely. 
 
 Dinner was soon despatched. And when a preliminary 
 round of conversation concerning their doings since the last 
 parting had been concluded, they reverted to the subject of 
 to-morrow's journey home. 
 
 "That enervating ride through the myrtle climate of 
 South Devon — how I dread it to-morrow ! " Mrs. S\\an- 
 court was saying. " I had hoped the weather would have 
 been cooler by this time." 
 
 " Did you ever go by water ? " said Knight. 
 
 *' Never — by never, I mean not since the time of rail- 
 ways." 
 
 " Then if you can afford an additional day, I propose 
 that we do it," said Knight. " The Channel is like a lake 
 just now. We should reach Plymouth in about forty hours, 
 I think, and the boats start from just below the Bridge here " 
 (pointing over his shoulder eastward). 
 
 "Hear, hear ! " said the vicar. 
 
 " It's an idea, certainly," said his wife. 
 
 " Of course these coasters are rather tubby," said Knight. 
 "But you wouldn't mind that.-* " 
 
 " No: we wouldn't mind." 
 
 " And the saloon is a place like the fish-market of a 
 ninth-rate country town, but that wouldn't matter ? " 
 
 " O, dear, no. If we had only thought of it soon enough 
 we might have had the use of Lord Luxellian's yacht. But 
 never mind, we'll go. We shall escape the worrying rattle 
 through the whole length of the metropolis to-morrow morn- 
 ing — not to mention .the risk of being killed by excursion 
 trains, which is not a little one at this time of the year, if 
 the papers are true." 
 
 Elfride, too, thought the arrangement delightful ; and 
 accordingly, ten o'clock the following morning saw two cabs 
 wending their way round by the Mint, and between the pre- 
 ternaturally high walls of Nightingale-lane towards the river 
 side. The first vehicle was occupied by the travellers in 
 person, and the second brought up the luggage under the 
 supervision of Mrs. Snewson, Mrs. Swancourt's maid — and 
 for the last fortnight Elfride's also ; for although the young- 
 er lady had never been accustomed to any such a«*"-ndant 
 
238 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 at robing times, her step-mother forced her into a semblance 
 of familiarity with one when they were away from home. 
 
 Presently wagons, bales, and smells of all descriptions 
 increased to such an extent that the advance of the cabs 
 was at the slowest possible rate. At intervals it was neces- 
 sary to halt entirely, that the heavy vehicles unloading in 
 front might be moved aside, a feat which was not accomplish- 
 ed without a deal of swearing and noise. The vicar put his 
 head out of the window. 
 
 " Surely there must be some mistake in the way," he 
 said with great concern, drawing in his head again. " There's 
 not a respectable conveyance to be seen here except ours. 
 I've heard that there are strange dens in this part of Lon- 
 don, into which people have been entrapped and murder- 
 ed — surely there is no conspiracy on the part of the cab- 
 men?" 
 
 " O, no, no. It is all right," said Mr. Knight, who was 
 as placid as dewy eve by the side of Elfride. 
 
 " But what I argue from," said the vicar, with a greater 
 emphasis of uneasiness, " are plain appearances. This 
 can't be the highway from London to Plymouth by water, 
 because it is no way at all to any place. We shall miss our 
 steamer and our train too — that's what I think." 
 
 " Depend upon it we are right. In fact, here we are." 
 
 "Trimmer's Wharf," said the cabman, opening the 
 door. 
 
 No sooner had they alighted than they perceived a tus- 
 sle going on between the hind cabman and a crowd of light 
 porters who had charged him in column, to obtain posses- 
 sion of the bags and boxes, Mrs. Snewson's hands being 
 seen stretched towards heaven in the melee. Knight ad- 
 vanced gallantly, and after a hard struggle reduced the 
 crowd to two, upon whose shoulders and trucks the goods van- 
 ished away in the direction of the water's edge with start- 
 ling rapidity. 
 
 Then more of the same tribe, who had run on ahead, 
 were heard shouting to boatmen, three of whom pulled boats 
 alongside, and two being vanquished, the luggage went 
 tumbling into the remaining one. 
 
 " Never saw such a dreadful scene in mv life — never ! " 
 said Mr. Swancourt, floundering into the boat. "Worse 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 289 
 
 than Famine and Sword upon one. I thought such cus- 
 toms were confined to continental ports. Aren't you aston- 
 ished, Elfride ? " 
 
 " O, no," said Elfride, appearing amid the dingy scene 
 like a rainbow in a murky sky. "It is a pleasant novelty, 
 I think." 
 
 "Where in the wide ocean is our steamer.?'* the vicar 
 inquired. " I can see nothing but old hulks, for the life 
 ot me." 
 
 "Just behind that one," said Knight ; " we shall soon be 
 round under her." 
 
 The object of their search was shortly after disclosed to 
 view — a great lumbering form of inky blackness, which look- 
 ed as if it had not known the touch of a painter's brush for 
 .fifty years. It was lying beside such another, and the way 
 on board was down a narrow lane of water between the two, 
 about a yard and a half wide at one end, and gradually con- 
 verging to a point. At the moment of their entry into this 
 narrow passage, a brilliantly painted rival paddled down 
 the river like a trotting steed, creating such a series of 
 waves and splashes that their frail wherry was tossed like 
 a teacup, and the vicar and his wife slanted this way and 
 that, inclining their heads into contact with a Punch-and- 
 Judy air and countenance, the wavelets striking the sides 
 of the two hulls, and flapping back into their laps. 
 
 " Dreadful ! horrible ! " Mr. Swancourt murmured pri- 
 vately ; and said aloud, " I thought we walked on board. 
 I don't think really I should have come, if I had known 
 this trouble was attached to it." 
 
 " li they must splash, I wish they would splash us with 
 clean water," said the old lady, wiping her dress with her 
 handkerchief 
 
 " I hope it is perfectly safe," continued the vicar. 
 
 " O papa ! ^joM are not very brave," cried Elfride merrily, 
 
 " Bravery is only obtuseness to the perception of con- 
 tingencies," Mr. Swancourt severely answered. 
 
 Mrs. Swancourt laughed, and Elfride laughed, and 
 Knight laughed, in the midst of wh'ch pleasantness a man 
 shouted to them from some position between their heads 
 and the sky, and they found they were close to the Juliet, 
 into which they quiveringly ascended. 
 
 9 
 
290 
 
 A PAIR OF BL UE E YES. 
 
 It being found that the lowness of the tide would pre- 
 veat their getting off for an hour, the Swancourts, having 
 nothing else to do, allowed their eyes to idle upon men in 
 blue jerseys performing mysterious mending operations with 
 tar-twine ; or turned to look at the dashes of lurid sunlight, 
 like burnished copper stars afloat on the ripples, which 
 danced into and tantalized their vision ; or listened to the 
 loud music of a steam crane at work close by ; or to sigh- 
 ing sounds from the funnels of passing steamers, getting 
 dead as they grew more distant ; or to shouts from the 
 decks of different craft in their vicinity, all of them assum- 
 ing the form of " Ah-he-hay ! " 
 
 Half-past ten : not yet off. Mr. Swancourt sighed a 
 sigh of weariness, and looked at his fellow-travellers in gen- 
 eral. Their faces were certainly not worth looking at. The 
 expression " Waiting " was written upon them so absolutely 
 that nothing more could be discerned there. All animation 
 was suspended till Providence should raise the water and 
 let them go. 
 
 " I have been thinking," said Knight, " that we have 
 come among the rarest class of people in the kingdom. Of 
 all human characteristics, a low opinion of the value of his 
 own time by an individual must be among the strangest to 
 find. Here we see numbers of that patient and happy spe- 
 cies — rovers, as distinct from travellers. 
 
 " But they are pleasure-seekers, to whom time is of no 
 importance." 
 
 " O, no. The pleasure-seekers on the grand routes are 
 more anxious than the commercial travellers to rush on. 
 And added to the loss of time in getting to their journey's 
 end, these phenomenal people take their chance of sea-sick- 
 ness by coming this way. 
 
 " Can it be ? " inquired the vicar with apprehension. 
 * Surely not, Mr. Knight, just here in our own English 
 Channel — close at our doors, as I may say." 
 
 " Entrance passages are very draughty places, and the 
 Channel is like the rest. It ruins the temper of sailors. 
 It has been calculated by philosophers that more oaths go up 
 to heaven from the Channel, in the course of a year, than 
 from all the five oceans put together." 
 
 They really start now, and the dead looks of all the 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. ' 29 1 
 
 throng coine to life immediately. The man who has been 
 
 frantically hauling in a rope that bade fair to have no end 
 ceases his labors, and they glide down the serpentine bends 
 of the Thames. 
 
 Anything anywhere was a mine of interest to Elfride, 
 and so was this. 
 
 " It is well enough now," said Mrs. Swancourt, after 
 they had passed the Nore, "but I can't say I have cared for 
 my voyage hitherto." For being now in the open sea a 
 slight breeze had sprung up, which cheered her as^ well as 
 her two younger companions. But unfortunately it had a 
 reverse effect upon the vicar, who, after turning a sort of 
 'apricot-jam color, interspersed with dashes of raspberry 
 ditto, pleaded indisposition, and vanished from their sight. 
 
 The afternoon wore on. Mrs. Swancourt kindly sat 
 apart by herself reading, and the betrothed pair were left to 
 themselves. Elfride clung trustingly to Knight's arm, and 
 proud was she to walk with him up and down the deck, or 
 to go forward, and leaning with him against the forecastle 
 rails, watch the setting sun gradually withdrawing itself 
 over their stern into a huge bank of livid cloud with golden 
 edges that rose to meet it. 
 
 She was childishly full of life and spirits, though in 
 walking up and down with him before the other passengers, 
 and getting noticed by them, she was at starting rather con- 
 fused, it being the first time she had shown herself so open- 
 ly under that kind of protection. " I expect they are envi- 
 ous and saying things about us, don't you ? " she would 
 whisper to Knight, with a stealthy smile. 
 
 " O, no," he would answer unconcernedly. " Why should 
 they envy us, and what can they say ? " 
 
 "Not any harm, of course'," Elfride replies ; " except 
 such as this r* How happy those two are! she is proud 
 enough now.' What makes it worse," she continued, in the 
 extremity of confidence, " I heard those two cricketing men 
 say just now, ' She's the nobbiest girl on the be at.' But I 
 don't mind it, j^ou know, Harry." 
 
 " I should hardly have supposed you did, even if you 
 had not told me," said Knight, with great blandness. 
 
 She was never tired of asking her lover questions and 
 admiring his answers, good, bad, or indifferent, as they 
 
2Q2 ^ PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 might be. The evening grew dark and the night came on, 
 and lights shone upon them from the horizon and the sky. 
 
 '' Now look there ahead of us, at that halo in the air, of 
 silvery brightness. Watch it, and you will see what it 
 comes to. 
 
 She watched for a few minutes, when two white lights 
 emerged from the side of a hill, and showed themselves to 
 be the origin of the halo. 
 
 " What a dazzling brilliance ! What do they mark ? '* 
 
 " The South Foreland ; they were previously covered 
 by the cliff." 
 
 " What is that level line of little sparkles— a town, I 
 suppose ? " 
 
 " That's Dover." 
 
 All this time, and later, soft sheet lightning expanded 
 from a cloud in their path, enkindling their faces as they 
 paced up and down, shining over the water, and for a mo- 
 ment, showing the horizon as a keen line. 
 
 Elfride slept soundly that night. Her first thought the 
 next morning was the thrilling one that Knight v/as as close 
 at hand as when they were at home at Endelstow, and her 
 first sight, on looking out of the cabin window, was the per- 
 pendicular face of Beachy Head, gleaming white in a bril- 
 liant six-o'clock-in-the-morning sun. This fair daybreak, 
 however, soon changed its aspect. A cold wind and a pale 
 mist descended upon the sea, and seemed to threaten a 
 dreary day. 
 
 When they were nearing Southampton, Mrs. Swancourt 
 came to say that her husband was so ill that he v/ished to 
 be put on shore here, and left to do the remainder of the 
 journey by land. " He will be perfectly well directly he 
 treads firm ground again. W^hich shall we do — go with him, 
 or finfsh our voyage as we intended ? " 
 
 Elfride was comfortably housed under an umbrella which 
 Knight was holding over her to keep off the wind. " O, 
 don't let us go on shore!" she said with dismay. "It 
 would be such a pity ! " 
 
 "That's very fine," said Mrs. Swancourt archly, as to a 
 child. " See, the wind has increased her color, the sea her 
 appetite and spirits, and somebody her happiness. Yes, it 
 would be a pity, certainly." 
 
A PAIR OF BJ UE EYES. 293 
 
 " 'lis my misfortune to be always spoken to from a pe- 
 de.'Ual," sighed Elfride. 
 
 " Well we will do as you like, Mrs. Swancourt," said 
 Knight, "but—" 
 
 '^ I myself would rather remain on board," interrupted 
 the elder lady. ^' And Mr. Swancourt particularly wishes 
 to go by himself So that shall settle the matter." 
 
 The vicar, now a drab color, was put ashore, and became 
 as well as ever forthwith. 
 
 Elfride, sitting alone in a retired part of the vessel, saw 
 a woman walk aboard among the very latest arrivals at this 
 port. She was clothed in black silk, and carried a dark 
 shawl upon her arm. The woman, without looking around 
 her, turned to the quarter allotted to the second-cabin passen- 
 gers. All the carnation Mrs. Swancourt had complimented 
 h?r step-daughter upon possessing left Elfride's cheeks, and 
 sf t trembled visibly. 
 
 She ran to the other side of the boat, where Mrs. Swan- 
 court was standing. 
 
 " Let us go home by railway with papa, after all," she 
 pleaded earnestly. " I would rather go with him — shall Vv'e ? " 
 
 Mrs. Swancourt looked around for a moment, as if un- 
 able to decide. " Ah," she exclaimed, " it is too late now. 
 Why did not you say so befpre, when we had plenty of time ? " 
 
 The Juliet had at that minute let go, the engines had 
 started, and they were gliding slowly away from the quay. 
 There was no help for it but to remain, unless the Juliet 
 could be made to put back, and that would create a great 
 disturbance. Elfride gave up the idea and submitted 
 quietly. Her happiness was sadly mutilated now. 
 
 The woman whose presence had so disturbed her was 
 Mrs. Jethway. She seemed to haunt Elfride like a shadow. 
 After several minutes' vain endeavor to account for any de- 
 sign Mrs. Jethway could have in watching her, Elfride de- 
 cided to think that the encounter was accidental. She re 
 membered that the widow in her restlessness was often 
 visiting the village near Southampton which was her origi- 
 nal home, and it was possible that she chose water-transit 
 with the idea of saving expense. 
 
 " What is the matter, Elfride ? " Knight inquired, stand- 
 ing before her. 
 
294 
 
 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 "Nothing more than that I am rather depressed." 
 
 " I don't much wonder at it ; that wharf was depressing. 
 We seemed underneath and inferior to everything around 
 US- But we shall be in the sea breeze again soon, and that 
 will freshen you, dear." 
 
 The evening closed in and dusk increased as they made 
 way down Southampton Water and through the Solent. 
 Elfride's disturbance of mind was such that her light spirits 
 of the foregoing four-and-twenty hours had entirely desert- 
 ed her. The weather too had grown more gloomy, for 
 though the showers of the morning had ceased, the sky was 
 covered more closely than ever with dense leaden clouds. 
 How beautiful was the sunset when they rounded the North 
 Foreland the previous evening ! now it was impossible to 
 tell within half an hour the time of the luminary's going down. 
 Knight led her about, and being by this time accustomed 
 to her sudden changes of mood, overlooked the necessity 
 of a cause in regarding the conditions — impressionableness 
 and elasticity. 
 
 Elfride looked stealthily to the other end of the vessel 
 Mrs. Jethway was sitting at the stern — her eyes steadily re 
 garding Elfride. 
 
 "Let us go to the forepart," she said quickly to Knight. 
 " See there — the man is fixing the lights for the night." 
 
 Knight assented, and after watching the operation of 
 fixing the red and the green lights on the port and starboard 
 bows, and the hoisting of the white light to the masthead, 
 he walked up and down with her till the increase of wind 
 rendered promenading difficult. Elfride's eyes were occa- 
 sionally to be found furtively gazing abaft, to learn if her 
 enemy still sat there. Nobody was visible now. 
 
 " Shall we go below ? " said Knight, seeing that the 
 deck was nearly deserted. 
 
 " No," she said. " If you will kindly get me a rug from 
 Mrs. Swancourt, I should like, if you don't mind, to stay 
 here." She had recently fancied Mrs. Jethway might be a 
 first-class passenger, and dreaded meeting her by accident. 
 
 Knight appeared with the rug, and they sat down be- 
 hind a weather-cloth on the windward side, just as the two 
 red eyes of the Needles glared upon them from the gloom, 
 their pointed summits rising like shadowy phantom figures 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 295 
 
 against the sky. It became necessary to go below tu an 
 eight-o'clock meal of nondescript kind, and Elfride was im- 
 mensely relieved at finding no sign of Mrs. Jethway there. 
 They again ascended and remained above till Mrs. Snew- 
 3011 staggered up to them with the message that Mrs. Swan- 
 court thought it was time for Elfride to come below. 
 Knight accompanied her down, and returned again to pass 
 a little more time on deck. 
 
 Elfride partly undressed and lay down, and soon be- 
 came unconscious, though her sleep was light. How long 
 she had lain, she knew not, when by slow degrees she be- 
 came cognizant of a whispering in her ear. 
 
 " You are well on with him, I can see. Well, provoke 
 me now, but my time will come, you will find." That was 
 the utterance, or words to that effect. 
 
 Elfride became broad awake, and terrified. She knew 
 the words could be only those of one person, and that per- 
 son the widow Jethway. 
 
 The lamp had gone out and the place was in darkness. 
 In the next berth she could hear her step-mother breathing 
 heavily, farther on Snewson breathing more heavily. These 
 were the only other legitimate occupants of the cabin, and 
 Mrs. Jethway must have stealthily come in by some means 
 and retreated again, or else she had entered an empty 
 berth next Snewson's. The fear that this was the case in- 
 creased Elfride's perturbation, till it assumed the dimen- 
 sions of a certainty, for how could a stranger from the 
 other end of the ship possibly contrive to get in ? Could 
 •t have been a dream ? Impossible. 
 
 Elfride raised herself higher and looked out of the win- 
 c:()w. There was the sea, floundering and rushing against 
 ine ship's side, just by her head, and thence stretching 
 away, dim and moaning, into an expanse of indistinctness ; 
 and' far beyond all this two placid lights like rayless stars. 
 No^ almost fearing to turn her face inwards again, lest 
 Mrs. Jethway should appear at her elbow, Elfride medi- 
 "ated whether or not to call Snewson to kedf) her company. 
 The " four bells " sounded, and she heard voices, which 
 gave her a little courage. It was not worth while to call 
 Snewson. 
 
 At any rate Elfride could not stay there panting longer, 
 
^1^6 ^ P^^R OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 at the risk of being again disturbed by that dreadful whis- 
 pering. So wrapping herself up hurrie'dly she emerged 
 into the passage, and by the aid of a faint light burning at 
 the entrance to the saloon found the foot of the stairs, and 
 ascended to the deck. Dreary the place was in the ex- 
 treme. It seemed a new spot altogether in contrast with 
 its daytime self. She could see the glow-worm light from 
 the compass, and the dim outline of the man at the wheel ; 
 also a form at the bows. Not another soul was apparent 
 from stem to stern. 
 
 Yes, there were two more — ^by the bulwarks. One 
 proved to be her Harry, the other the mate. She was glad 
 indeed, and on drawing closer found they were holding 
 a low slow chat about nautical affairs. She ran up and 
 slipped her hand through Knight's arm, partly for love, 
 partly for stability. 
 
 " Elfie ! not asleep?" said Knight, after moving a few 
 steps aside with her. 
 
 " No : I cannot sleep. May I stay here? It is so dis- 
 mal down there, and — and I was afraid. Where are we 
 now?" - 
 
 "Due south of Portland Bill. Those are the lights 
 abeam of us : look. A terrible spot, that, on a stormy 
 night. And do you see a very small light that dips and 
 rises to the right ? That's a light-ship on the dangerous 
 shoal called the Shambles, where many a good boat has 
 gone to pieces. Between it and ourselves is the Race — a 
 place where antagonistic currents meet and form whirl- 
 pools — a spot which is rough in the smoothest weather, 
 and terrific in a wind. That dark dreary horizon we just 
 discern to the left is the West Bay, terminated landwards 
 by the Chesil Beach." 
 
 " What time is it, Harry? " 
 
 " Just past two." 
 
 " Are you going below ? " 
 
 *' O no ; not to-night. I prefer pure air." 
 
 She fancied he might be displeased with her for coming 
 to him at this unearthly hour. " I should like to stay here 
 too, if you will pIIow me," she said timidly. " I want to 
 ask you things." 
 
 " Allow you, Elfie 1 " said Knight, putting his arm 
 
A FAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 297 
 
 round her and drawing her closer. *' I am twice as happ)i 
 with you by my side. Yes : we will stay, and watch the 
 approach of day." 
 
 So they again sought out the sheltered nook, and sit- 
 ting down wrapped themselves in the rug as before. 
 
 " What v;ere you going to ask me.?'' he inquired, as 
 they undulated up and down. 
 
 " O, it was not much — perhaps a thing I ought not to 
 ask," she said hesitatingly. Her sudden wish had really 
 been to discover at once whether he had ever before been 
 engaged to be married. If he had, she would make that a 
 ground for telling him a little of her conduct with Stephen. 
 Mrs. Jethway's words had so depressed the girl that she 
 herself now painted her flight in the darkest colors, and 
 longed to ease her burdened mind by an instant confession. 
 If Knight had ever been imprudent himself, he might, she 
 hoped, forgive all. 
 
 " I wanted to ask you," she went on, " if — you had ever 
 been engaged before:" she added tremulously, "1 hope 
 you have — 1 mean, I don't mind at all if you have." 
 
 "No, I never was," Knight instantly and heartily re- 
 plied. " Elfride " — and there was a certain happy pride in 
 his tone — " I am twelve years older than you, and I have 
 been about the world, and into society, and you have not. 
 And yet I am not so unfit for you as strict-thinking people 
 might imagine, who would assume the difference in age to 
 signify most surely an equal addition to my practice in 
 love-making." 
 
 Elfride shivered. 
 
 " You are cold — is the wind too much for you .? " 
 
 "No," she said gloomily. The belief which had been 
 her sheet-anchor in hoping for forgiveness had proved false. 
 This account of the exceptional nature of his experience, a 
 matter which would have set her rejoicing two years ago, 
 chilled her now like a frost. 
 
 " You didn't mind my asking you ? " she continued. 
 
 " O, no— not at all." 
 
 "And have you never kissed many ladies?" she whis- 
 pered, hoping he would say a hundred at the least. 
 
 The time, the circumstances, and the scene were such 
 as to draw confidences from the most reserved. " Elfride," 
 
 
298 ^ PAIR OF BL UE E YES. 
 
 whispered Knight in reply, "it is strange you should have 
 asked that question. But I'll answer it, though I have 
 never told such a thing before. I have never given a wo- 
 man a kiss in my life, except yourself and my mother." 
 The man of two-and-thirty with the experienced mind 
 warmed all over with a boy's ingenuous shame as he made 
 the confession. 
 
 " What, not one t " she faltered. 
 
 "No ; not one." 
 
 " How very strange ! " 
 
 " Yes, the reverse experience may be commoner. And 
 yet, to those who have observed their own sex, as I have, 
 my case is not remarkable. Men about town are women's 
 favorites — that's the postulate — and superficial people don't 
 think far enough to see that there may be exceptions." 
 
 " Are you proud of it, Harry? " 
 
 " No, indeed. Of late years I have wished I had gone 
 my ways and trod out my measure like lighter-hearted men. 
 I have thought of how many happy experiences I may have 
 lost through never going to woo." 
 
 " Then why did you hold aloof.? " 
 
 "I cannot say. 1 don't think it was my nature to: 
 circumstances hindered me, perhaps. I have regretted it 
 for another reason. This great remissness of mine has had 
 its effect upon me. The older I have grown, the more dis- 
 tinctly have I perceived that it was absolutely preventing 
 me from liking any woman who was not as unused as I \ 
 and I gave up the expectation of finding a nineteenth-cen- 
 tury young lady in my own raw state. Then I found you, 
 Elfride, and I felt for the first time that my fastidiousness 
 was a blessing. And it helped to make me worthy of you. 
 I felt at once that, differing as we did in other experiences, 
 in this matter I resembled you. " Well, aren't you glad to 
 hear it, Elfride?" 
 
 " Yes, I am," she answered in a forced voice. " But I 
 always had thought that men made lots of engagements be- 
 fore they married — especially if they don't marry very 
 young." 
 
 " So all women think, I suppose — and rightly, indeed, 
 of the majority of bachelors, as I said before^ But an ap- 
 preciable minority of slow-coach men do not — and it makes 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 299 
 
 them very awkward when they do come to the point. How- 
 ever, it didn't matter in my case." 
 
 " Why ? " she asked uneasily. 
 
 " Because you know even less of love-making and matri- 
 monial pre-arrangement than I, and so you can't draw in- 
 vidious comparisons if I ao my engaging improperly." 
 
 '' I think you do it beautifully." 
 
 " Thank you, dear. But," continued Knight laughing- 
 ly, " your opinion is not that of an expert, which alone is 
 of value." 
 
 Had she answered, "Yes, it is," half as strongly as she 
 felt it. Knight might have been a little astonished. 
 
 »' If you had been engaged to be married before," he went 
 on, " I expect your opinion of my addresses would be dif- 
 ferent. But then, I should not — " 
 
 " Should not what, Harry ? " 
 
 " O, I was merely going to say that in that case I should 
 never have given myself the pleasure of proposing to you, 
 since your freedom from that experience was your attrac- 
 tion, darling." 
 
 " You are severe on woman, are you not ? " 
 
 " No, I think not. I had a right to please my taste, 
 and that was for untried lips. .Other men than those of 
 my sort acquire the taste as they get older — but don't find 
 an Elfride— " 
 
 • " What horrid sound is that we hear when we pitch for- 
 ward?" 
 
 " Only the screv/— don't find an Elfride as I did. To 
 think that I should have discovered such an unseen flower 
 down there in the W^est — to whom a man is as much as a 
 multitude to some, and a trip down the English Channel 
 like a voyage round the world ! " 
 
 " And would you," she said, and her voice was tremu- 
 lous, "have given up a sweetheart — if you had become en- 
 gaged to her — and then found she had had o?ie kiss before 
 yours — and would you have — gone away and left her ? " 
 
 " One kiss — no, hardly for that." 
 
 " Two ? " 
 
 " Well— I could hardly say inventorially like that. ^ Too 
 much of that sort of thing certainly would make me dislike 
 % woman. But let us confine our attention to ourselves, not 
 
300 
 
 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 go thinking of might-have-beens." So Elfride had allowed 
 her thoughts to "dally with false surmise," and every one 
 of Knight's words fell upon her like a weight. After this 
 they were silent for a long time, gazing upon the black 
 mysterious sea, and hearing the strange voice of the rest- 
 less wind. A rocking to and fro in the wind, when it is not 
 too violent and cold, produces a soothing effect even upon 
 the most highly-wrought mind. Elfride slowly sank against 
 Knight, and looking down, he found by her soft regular 
 breathing that she had fallen asleep. Not wishing to dis- 
 turb her, he continued still, and took an intense pleasure in 
 supporting her warm young form as it rose and fell with her 
 every breath. It was pleasant to realize the implicit trust 
 she placed in him, and to think of the charming innocence 
 of one who could sink to sleep in so simple and unceremo- 
 nious a manner. More than all, the musing unpractical stu- 
 dent felt the immense responsibility he was taking upon 
 himself by becoming the protector and guide of such a 
 trustful creature. The quiet slumber of her soul lent a 
 quietness to his own. Presently her mutterings became 
 distinct : 
 
 " Don't tell him — he will not love me. ... I did not 
 mean any disgrace — indeed I did not, so don't tell Harry. 
 We were going to be married — that was why I ran away. 
 .... And he says he will not have a kissed woman. . . . 
 And if you tell him he will go away, and I shall die. I 
 pray have mercy — O ! " 
 
 Elfride started up wildly. 
 
 The previous moment a musical ding-dong had spread 
 into the air from their right hand, and awakened her. 
 
 " What is it ? " she exclaimed in terror. 
 
 *' Only ' eight bells,' " said Knight soothingly. " Don't 
 be frightened, little bird, you are «afe. What have you 
 been dreaming about? " 
 
 " 1 can't tell, I can't tell ! " she said, with a shudder. 
 " O, I don't know what to do ! " 
 
 " Stay quietly with me. We shall soon see the dawn 
 now. Look, the morning star is lovely over there. The 
 clouds have completely cleared off while you have been 
 sleeping. What have you been dreaming of?" 
 
 " A woman in our parish." 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 301 
 
 *' Don't you like her ? " 
 
 '* I don't. She doesn't bke me. Where are we ? " 
 
 " About south of Exeter." 
 
 Knight said no more on the words of her dream. They 
 watched the sky till Elfride grew calm, and the dawn ap- 
 peared. It was mere wan lightness first. Then the wind 
 blew in a changed spirit, and died away to a breeze. The 
 star dissolved into the day. 
 
 "That's how I should like to die," said Elfride, rising 
 from her seat and leaning over the bulwark to watch the 
 star's last expiring gleam. 
 
 *' As the lines say," Knight replied, 
 
 " To set as sets the morning star, which goes 
 Not down behind the darkened west, nor hides 
 Obscured among the tempests of the sky, 
 But melts away into the light of heaven.' " 
 
 " O, Other people have thought the same thing, have 
 they.? That's always the case with my originalities — they 
 are original to nobody but myself." 
 
 " Not only the case with yours. When I was a young 
 hand at reviewing I used to find that a frightful pitfall — di- 
 lating upon subjects I met with which were novelties to 
 me, and finding afterwards they had been exhausted by the 
 thinking world when I was in pinafores." 
 
 " That is delightful. Whenever I find you have done a 
 foolish thing I am glad, because it seems to bring you a 
 little nearer to me, who have done many." And Elfride 
 thought again of her enemy asleep under the deck thev 
 trod. 
 
 All up the coast, prominences singled themselves out 
 from recesses. Then a rosy sky spread over the eastern 
 sea and behind the low line of land, flinging its livery in 
 dashes upon the thin airy clouds in that direction. Every 
 projection on the land seemed now so many fingers anx- 
 ious to catch a little of the liquid light thrown so prodi- 
 gally over the sky, and after a fantastic time of lustrous 
 yellows in the east, the higher elevations along the shore 
 were flooded with the same hues. The oluff and bare con- 
 tours of Start Point caughtthe brightest, earliest glow of 
 all, and so also did the sides of its white light-house, perch- 
 
302 
 
 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 ed upon a shelf in its precipitous front like a mediaeval 
 saint in .i niche. Their lofty neighbor Bolt Head on the 
 left remained as yet ungilded, and retained its grey. 
 
 Then up came the sun, as it were in jerks, just to sea- 
 ward of the easternmost point of land, flinging out a 
 Jacob's-ladder path of light from itself to Elfride and 
 Knight, and deluging them with rays in a few minutes. 
 The inferior dignitaries of the shore— Froward Point, Berry 
 Head, and Prawle — all had acquired their share of the illu- 
 mination ere this, and at length the very smallest protuber- 
 ance of wave, cliff, or inlet, even to the innermost recesses 
 of the lovely valley of the Dart, had its portion ; and sun- 
 light, now the common possession of all, ceased to be the 
 wonderful and coveted thing it had been a short half-hour 
 before. 
 
 After breakfast, Plymouth arose into view, and grew 
 more distinct to their nearing vision, the Breakwater ap- 
 pearing like a streak of phosphoric light upon the surface 
 of the sea. Elfride looked furtively around for Mrs. Jeth- 
 way, but could discern no sign of her form. Afterwards, 
 in the bustle of landing, she looked again with the same re- 
 sult, by which time the woman had probably glided upon 
 the quay unobserved. Expanding with a sense of relief, 
 Elfride waited while Knight looked to their luggage, and 
 then saw her father approaching through the crowd, twirl- 
 ing his walking-stick to catch their attention. Elbowing 
 their way to him they all entered the town, which smiled- 
 as sunny a smile upon Elfride as it had done between one 
 and two years earlier, when she had entered it at precisely 
 the same hour as the bride elect of Stephen Smith. 
 
CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 "VASSAL UNTO LOVE." 
 
 ELFRIDE clung closer to Knight as day succeeded 
 day. Whatever else might admit of question, there 
 could be no dispute that the allegiance she bore him ab- 
 sorbed her whole soul and existence. A greater than 
 Stephen had arisen, and she had left all to follow him. 
 
 The unreserved girl was never chary of letting her lov- 
 er discover how much she admired him. She never held 
 an idea in opposition to any one of his, or insisted on any 
 point, showed any independence, or held her own on any 
 subject. His lightest whim she respected and obeyed as 
 law, and if, expressing her opinion on a matter, he took up 
 the subject and differed from her she instantly threw down 
 her own opinion as wrong and untenable. Even her am- 
 biguities and espiegleries were but media of the same mani- 
 festation ; acted charades embodying the words of her 
 prototype, the tender and susceptible daughter-in-law of 
 Naomi : "Let me find favor in thy sight, my lord ; for that 
 thou hast comforted me, and for that thou hast spoken 
 friendly unto thine handmaid." 
 
 She was syringing the plants one wet day in the green- 
 house. Knight was sitting under a great passion flower 
 observing the scene, and sometimes looking out at the rain 
 from the sky, and a secondary rain of larger drops from 
 trees and shrubs, which drops had previously hung from 
 the twigs like small silver fruit. 
 
 " I must give you something to make you think of me 
 during this autumm at your chambers," she was saying. 
 " What shall it be ? Portraits do more harm than good, 
 by selecting the worst expression of which your face is ca- 
 pable. Hair is unlucky. And you don't like jev;elry." 
 
 " Something which shall bring back to my mind the 
 
304 ^ P"^^^ 0^ BLUE EVES. 
 
 many scenes we have enacted in this conservatoiy. I see 
 what I should prize very much. That dwarf myrtle-tree in 
 the pot, which you have been so carefully tending." 
 
 Elfride looked thoughtfully at the myrtle.^ 
 
 " I can carry it comfortably in my hat-box," said 
 Knight. " And I will put it in my window, and so, it be- 
 ing always before my eyes, I shall think of you continu-* 
 ally." 
 
 Now it so happened that the myrtle Knight unluckily 
 had singled out had a peculiar beginning and history. It 
 had originally been a twig worn in Stephen Smith's button- 
 hole, and he had taken it thence, stuck it into the pot, 
 and told her that if it grew, she was to take care of it, and 
 keep it in remembrance of him when he was far away. 
 
 She looked wistfully at the flower, and a sense of fair- 
 ness to Smith's memory caused her a pang of regret that 
 Knight should have asked for that very one. It seemed 
 exceeding a common heartlessness to let it go. 
 
 *' Is there not anything you like better ? " she said. 
 " That is only an ordinary myrtle." 
 
 "No : I am fond of myrtle." Seeing that she did not 
 take kindly to the idea, he said again, " Why, do you ob- 
 ject to my having that?" 
 
 " O, no — I don't object precisely — it was a feeling — 
 Ah, here's another cutting lately struck, and just as small 
 — of a better kind, and with prettier leaves — myrlus mi- 
 crophylla." 
 
 "That will do nicely. Let it be put in my room, that 
 I may not forget it. What romance attaches to the other ? " 
 
 " It was a gift to me." 
 
 The subject then dropped. Knight thought no more 
 of the matter till, on entering his bedroom in the evening 
 he found the second myrtle placed upon his dressing-table 
 as he had directed. He stood for a moment admiring the 
 fresh appearance of the leaves by candlelight, and then he 
 thought of the transaction of the day. 
 
 Male lovers as well as female can be spoiled by too 
 much kindness, and Elfride's uniform submissiveness had 
 given Knight a rather exacting manner at crises, attached 
 to her as he was. " Why should she have refused the one 
 I first chose ? " he now asked himself. Even such slig^:^ 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EVES. 
 
 30s 
 
 opposition as she had shown then was exceptional enough 
 to make itself noticeable. He was not vexed with her in 
 the least: the mere variation of her way to-day from her 
 usual ways kept him musing on the subject, because it per- 
 plexed him. " It was a gift" — those were her words. 
 Admitting it to be a gift, he thought she could hardly 
 value a friend more than him, and giving the flower into 
 his charge would have made no difference. " Except, in- 
 deed, it was the gift of a lover," he murmured. 
 
 "I wonder if Elfride ever has had a lover before?" he 
 said aloud, as a new idea, quite. This and companion 
 thoughts were enough to occupy him completely till he fell 
 asleep — rather later than usual. 
 
 The next day, when they were again alone, he said to 
 hei rather suddenly : 
 
 *' Do you love me more or less, Elfie, for what I told 
 you on board the steamer .? " 
 
 "You told me so many things," she returned, lifting 
 her eyes to his and smiling. 
 
 "I mean the confession you coaxed out of me— that I 
 had never had a sweetheart before." 
 
 " It is a satisfaction, I suppose, to be the first in youi 
 heart," she said to him, with an attempt to continue her 
 smiling. 
 
 " I am going to ask you a question now," said Knight, 
 somewhat awkwardly. " I only ask it in a whimsical way, 
 you know ; not with great seriousness, Elfride. You may 
 think it odd, perhaps." 
 
 Elfride tried desperately to keep the coicr in her face. 
 She could not, though distressed to think that getting pale 
 showed consciousness of deeper guilt than merely getting 
 red. 
 
 "O, no — I shall not think that," she said, because 
 obliged to say something to fill the pause which followed 
 her questioner's remark. 
 
 "It is this: have you ever had a lover? I am almost 
 sure you have not ; but, have you ? " 
 
 "Not, as it were, a lover; I mean, not worth mention- 
 ing, Harry," she faltered. 
 
 Knight, overstrained in sentiment as he knew the feel 
 ing to be, felt some sickness of heart 
 
3o6 ^ P^/i? OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 " Still, he was a lover ? " 
 
 "Well, a sort of lover, I suppose," she responded 
 tardily. 
 
 *' A man, I mean, you know." 
 " Yes ; but only a mere person, and — " 
 *'But truly your lover?" 
 
 " Yes ; a lover certainly — he was that. Yes, he might 
 have been called my lover." 
 
 Knight said nothing to this for a minute or more, and 
 kept silent time with his finger to the tick of the library 
 clock, in which room the colloquy was going on. 
 
 " You don't mind, Harry, do you ? " she said anxiously \ 
 nestling close to him, and watching his face. 
 
 "Of course, I don't seriously mind. In reason, a man 
 cannot object to such a trifle. I only thought you hadn't 
 — that was all." 
 
 However, one ray was abstracted from the glory about 
 her head. But afterwards, when Knight was wandering 
 by himself over the bare and breezy hills, and meditating 
 on the subject, that ray suddenly returned. For she might 
 have had a lover, and never have cared in the least for 
 him. She might have used the word improperly, and 
 meant " admirer" all the time. Of course she had been 
 admired; and one man might have made his admiration 
 more prominent than that of the rest — a very natural case. 
 
 They were sitting on one of the garden seats when he 
 found occasion to put the question to the test. " Did you 
 love that lover or admirer of yours ever so little, Elfie ? " 
 
 She murmured reluctantly, "Yes, I think I did." 
 
 Knight felt the same faint touch of misery. "Only a 
 very little ? " he said. 
 
 "I am not sure how much" (writhing slightly). 
 
 "But you are sure, darling, you loved him a little? " 
 
 " I think I am sure I loved him a little." 
 
 *' And not a great deal, Elfie " 
 
 " My love was not supported by reverence for his 
 powers." 
 
 " But, Elfride, did you love him deeply?" said Knight 
 restlessly. 
 
 " I don't exactly know how deep you mean by deeply," 
 
 " That's nonsense." 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 307 
 
 " You misapprehend ; and you have let go my hand ! " 
 she cried, her eyes filling with tears. " Harry, don't be 
 severe with me, and don't question m.e. I did not love 
 him as I do you. And could it be deeply if I did not 
 think him cleverer than myself? For I did not. You 
 grieve me so much — you can't think." 
 
 *'I will not say another word about it." 
 
 " And you will not think about it either, will you ? I 
 know you think of weaknesses in me after I am out of your 
 sight ; and not knowing what they are, I cannot combat 
 them. I almost wish you were of a grosser nature, Harry ; 
 in truth I do. Or rather, I wish I could have the advan- 
 tages such a nature in you would afford me, and yet have 
 you as yoxi are." 
 
 " What advantages would they be ? " 
 
 " Less anxiety, and more security. Ordinary men are 
 not so delicate in their tastes as you ; and where the lover 
 or husband is not fastidious and refined and of a deep 
 nature, things seem to go on better, I fancy — as far as 1 
 have been able to observe the world." 
 
 "Yes; I suppose it is right. Shallowness has this 
 advantage, that you can't be drowned there." 
 
 " But I think 111 have you as you are ; yes, I will ! " 
 she said winsomely. "The practical husbands and wives 
 who take things philosophically are very humdrum, are 
 they not ? Yes, it w^ould kill me quite. You please me 
 best as you are." 
 
 " Even though I wish you had never cared foi. one 
 before me ? " 
 
 *' Yes. And you must not wish it. Don't ! " 
 
 "I II try not to, Elfride." 
 
 So she hoped, but her heart was troubled. If he felt 
 so deeply on this point, what would he say did he know 
 ail, and see it as Mrs. Jethway saw it ? He would never 
 make her the happiest girl in the world by taking her to 
 be his own for aye. The thought enclosed her as a tomb 
 whenever it presented itself to her perturbed brain. She 
 tried to believe that Mrs. Jethway would never do her such 
 a cruel wrong as to increase the bad appearance of her 
 folly by innuendoes ; and concluded that concealment, 
 having been begun, must be persisted in, if possible. For 
 
3o8 ^ P^^^ OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 what he might consider as bad as the fact, was her previous 
 concealment of it by strategy. 
 
 But Elfride knew Mrs. Jethway to be her enemy, and 
 to hate her. It was possible she might do her worst. 
 And should she do it, all would be over. 
 
 Would the woman hsten to reason, and be persuaded 
 not to ruin one who had never intentionally harmed her? 
 
 It was night in the valley between Endelstow Crags 
 and the shore. The brook which trickled that way to the 
 sea was distinct in its murmurs now, and over the line of 
 its course there began to hang a white ribbon of fog. 
 Against the sky, on the left hand of the vale, the black 
 form of the church could be seen. On the other rose 
 hazel bushes, a few trees, and where those were absent, 
 furze-tufts — as tall as men — on stems nearly as stout as 
 timber. The shriek of some bird was occasionally heard, 
 as it flew terror-stricken from its first roost, to seek a new 
 sleeping-place, where it might pass the night unmolested. 
 
 In the evening shade, some way down the valley, and 
 under a row of scrubby oaks, a cottage could still be dis- 
 cerned. It stood absolutely alone. The house was rather 
 large, and the windows of some of the rooms were nailed 
 up with boards on the outside, which gave a particularly 
 deserted appearance to the whole erection. From the front 
 door an IVregular series of rough and misshapen steps, cut 
 in the solid rock, led down to the edge of the stream- 
 let, which, at their extremity, was hollowed into a basin 
 through which the water trickled. This was evidently 
 the means of water-supply to the dweller or dwellers in the 
 cottage. 
 
 A light footstep was heard descending from the higher 
 slopes of the hillside. Indistinct in the pathway appeared 
 a moving female shape, who advanced and knocked timidly 
 at the door. No answer being returned, the knock was re- 
 peated, with the same result, and it was then repeated a 
 third time. This also was unsuccessful. 
 
 From one of the only two windows on the ground floor 
 v/hich were not boarded up came rays of light, no shutter or 
 curtain obscuring the room from the eyes of a passer on the 
 outside. So few walked that way after nightfall, that anj 
 
A PAIR OF BLUR EYES. 309 
 
 such means to secure secrecy were probably deemed un- 
 necessary. 
 
 The inequality of the rays falling upon the trees outside 
 told that the light had its origin in a flickering fire only. 
 The female, after the third knocking, stepped a little to the 
 left in order to gain a* view of the interior, and threw back 
 *he hood from her face. The dancing yellow sheen revealed 
 iie fair and anxious countenance of Elfride. 
 
 Inside the house this firelight was enough to illumine 
 the room distinctly, and to show that the furniture of the 
 cottage was superior to what might have been expected 
 from so unpromising an exterior. It also showed to Elfride 
 that the room was empty. Beyond the light quiver and flap 
 of the flames nothing moved or was audible therein. 
 
 She turned the handle and entered, throwing off the 
 cloak which enveloped her, under which she appeared with- 
 out hat or bonnet, and in the sort of half-toilette country 
 people ordinarily dine in. Then advancing to the foot of 
 the staircase, she called distinctly, but somewhat fearfully, 
 " Mrs. Jethway ! " 
 
 No answer. 
 
 With a look of relief and regret combined, denoting that 
 ease came to the heart and disappointment to the brain, 
 Elfride paused for several minutes, as if undecided how to 
 act. Determining to wait, she sat down on a chair. The 
 minutes drew on, and after sitting on the thorns of impa- 
 tience for half an hour, she searched her pocket, took there- 
 from a letter, and tore ofi" the blank leaf. Then taking out 
 a pencil she wrote upon the paper : 
 
 " 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 any one 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." 
 
 She folded the note cornerwise, directed it, and placed 
 it on the table. Then again drawing the hood over her 
 curly head she emerged silently as she had come. 
 
 While this episode had been in action at Mrs. Jethway's 
 
3IO 
 
 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 cottage. Knight had gone from the dining-room into the 
 drawing-room, and found Mrs. Swancourt there alone. 
 
 " Elfride has vanished up stairs or somewhere,'*' she saidr 
 *' And I have been reading an article in an old number of 
 the Present I lighted on by chance a short time ago; it is 
 an article you once told us was yours. Well, Harry, with 
 due deference to your literary powers, allow me to say that 
 this effusion is all nonsense, in my opinion." 
 
 " What is it about ? " said Knight, taking up the paper 
 and reading. 
 
 " There : don't get red about it. Own that experience 
 has taught you to be more charitable. I have never read 
 such unchivalrous sentiments in my life — from a man, I 
 mean. There, I forgive you \ it was before you knew El- 
 fride." 
 
 " O, yes," said Knight, looking up, " I remember now. 
 The text of that sermon was not my own at all, but was 
 suggested to me by a young man named Smith — the same 
 one I have mentioned to you as coming from this parish. 
 I thought the idea rather ingenious at the time, and enlarged 
 it to the weight of a few guineas, because I had nothing else 
 m my head." 
 
 " Which idea do you call the text ? I am curious to 
 know that." 
 
 " Well, this," said Knight, somewhat unwillingly. " That 
 experience teaches that your sweetheart, no less than your 
 tailor, is necessarily very imperfect in her duties, if you are 
 her first patron : and conversely, the sweetheart who is 
 graceful under the initial kiss must be supposed to have had 
 some practice in the trade." 
 
 " And do you mean to say that you wrote that upon the 
 strength of another man's remark, without having tested it 
 by practice ? " 
 
 " Yes— indeed I do." 
 
 " Then I think it was uncalled for and unfair. And 
 how do you know it is true ? I expect you regret it now." 
 
 " Since you bring me into a serious mood, I will speak 
 candidly. I do believe that remark to be perfectly true, 
 and, having written it, I would defend it anywhere. But I 
 do often regret having ever written it, as well as others of 
 ^he sort. I have grown older since, and I find such a tone 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 3" 
 
 of writing is calculated to do harm in the world. Every 
 literary Jack becomes a gentleman if he can only pen a few 
 indifferent satires upon womankind : women themselves, too, 
 have taken to the trick ; and so, upon the whole, I begin to 
 be rather ashamed of my companions." 
 
 " Ah, Henry, you have fallen in love since, and it makes 
 a difference," said Mrs. Swancourt with a faint tone of 
 banter. 
 
 "That's true ; but that is not my reason." 
 
 " Having found that, in a case of your own experience, 
 a so-called goose was a swan, it seems absurd to deny such 
 a possibility in other men's experiences." 
 
 " You can hit palpably, cousin Charlotte," said Knight 
 " You are like the boy who puts a stone inside his snowball, 
 and I shall play with you no longer. Excuse me — I am go- 
 ing for my evening stroll." 
 
 Though Knight had spoken jestingly, this incident and 
 conversation had caused him a sudden depression. Com- 
 ing, rather singularly, just after his discovery that Elfride 
 had known what it was to love warmly before she had 
 known him, his mind dwelt upon the subject, and the fa- 
 miliar pipe he smoked, while pacing up and down the shrub- 
 bery-path, failed to be a solace. He thought again of those 
 idle words — hitherto quite forgotten — about the first kiss 
 of a girl, and the theory seemed more than reasonable. Of 
 course their sting now lay in their bearing on Elfride. 
 
 Elfride, under Knight's kiss, had certainly been a very 
 different woman from herself under Stephen's. Whether 
 for good or for ill, she had marvellously well learned a 
 sweetheart's part; and the fascinating finish of her deport- 
 ment in this second campaign did probably arise from her 
 unreserved practice with Stephen. Knight, with all the 
 rapidity of jealous sensitiveness, pounced upon some words 
 she had inadvertently let fall, which he had only partially 
 understood at the time. It was during that " initial kiss" 
 by the little waterfall : 
 
 " We m.ust be careful. I lost the other by doing this ! " 
 
 A flush, which had in it as much of wounded pride as 
 of sorrow, passed over Knight as he thought of what he 
 had so frequently said to her in his simplicity. " I always 
 meant to be the first comer in a woman's heart : fresh lips 
 
312 A PAIR OF BL UE E YES. 
 
 or none for me." How childishly blind he must have 
 seemed to this mere girl ! How she must have laughed at 
 him inwardly ! He absolutely writhed as he thought of 
 the confession she had wrung from him on the boat in the 
 darkness of night. The one conception which had sus- 
 tained his dignity when drawn out of his shell on that 
 occasion — that of her charming ignorance of all such mat- 
 ters — how absurd it was ! 
 
 This man, whose imagination had been fed up to pre- 
 ternatural size by lonely study and silent observations of 
 his kind — whose emotions had been drawn out long and 
 delicate by his seclusion, like plants in a cellar — was now 
 absolutely in pain. Moreover, several years of poetic 
 study, and, if the truth must be told, poetic pains, had 
 tended to develop the affective side of his constitution 
 still farther in proportion to his active faculties. It was 
 his belief in the absolute newness of male blandishment 
 to Elfride which had constituted her primary charm. He 
 began to think it was as hard to be earliest in a woman's 
 heart as to be first in the Pool of Bethesda. 
 
 Heaven save Elfride, notwithstanding her inconstancy ! 
 It was surely one of the crudest contrivances of destiny 
 that Knight should have been thus constituted : that her 
 second lover should not have been one of the great mass 
 of bustling males, less given to introspection, whose good- 
 nature might have compensated for any lack of apprecia- 
 tiveness. That her throbbing, self-confounding, indiscreet 
 heart should have to defend itself unaided against the keen 
 scrutiny and logical power which Knight, now that his 
 suspicions were awakened, would sooner or later be sure 
 to exercise against her, was pitiable. A miserable incon- 
 gruity is apparent in the circumstance of a strong mind 
 practicing its unerring archery upon a heart which the 
 owner of that mind loved better than his own. 
 
 Elfride's docile devotion to Knight was now its own 
 enemy. Clinging to him so dependently, she taught him 
 in time to presume upon that devotion — a lesson men are 
 not slow to learn. A slight rebelliousness or Jasionally 
 would have done him no harm, and viould have been a 
 world of advantage to her. But she idolized him, and 
 was proud to be his bond-servant. 
 
CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 "A WORM I' THE BUD." 
 
 ONE day the reviewer said, " Let us go to the cliffs 
 again, Elfride ;" and without consulting her wishes, 
 he moved as if to start at once. 
 
 " The cliff of our dreadful adventure ? " she inquired, 
 with a shudder. " Death stares me in the face, in the per- 
 son of that cliff." Nevertheless, so entirely had she sunk 
 her individuality in his, that the remark was not uttered 
 as an expostulation, and she immediately prepared to ac- 
 company 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 that 
 coast, and, as is frequently the case with natural features 
 of the globe, and intellectual ones of men, enjoyed the 
 reputation of being the first. Moreover, it was the cliff to 
 which Elfride had ridden with Stephen Smith, on a well- 
 remembered morning of his summer visit. So, though 
 thought of the former cliff had caused her to shudder at 
 the perils to which her lover and herself had there been 
 exposed, being associated with Knight only, it was not so 
 objectionable as Windy Beak. That place was worse than 
 gloomy, it was a perpetual reproach to her.. 
 
 But not liking to refuse, she said, " It is farther than 
 the other cliff? " 
 
 *' Yes ; but you can ride." 
 
 " And will you too ? " 
 
 *' No, ril walk." 
 
 A duplicate of her original arrangement with Stephen. 
 Some fatality must be hanging over her head. 
 
 Had Elfride been a little more fickle than she really 
 
214 ^ PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 was, it would have been better for her by far. Morbidly* 
 conscientious sentiments of this water would have been 
 powerless to trouble the mind of a perfect jilt, who would 
 have carried this engagement with Knight to a triumphant 
 issue in the face of twice as many complications. Elfride 
 had still too lively a sense of the past to enjoy the idea of 
 imitating to the letter peculiar actions she had lately gone 
 through with another lover and other hopes. 
 
 " Very well, Harry, I'll ride," she said meekly. 
 
 A quarter of an hour later she was in the 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 vassal of the greater. Here 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. El 
 fride silently listened, and entirely resigned herself to the 
 motions of the ambling horse upon which she sat, alter- 
 nately rising and sinking gently, like a sea bird upon a sea 
 wave. 
 
 When they had reached the limit of a quadruped's pos- 
 sibilities in 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 eter- 
 nally level 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 or enkindle, as is usual at sun- 
 sets. This sheet of sky was met by the salt mass of grey 
 water, flecked here and there with white. A waft of damp- 
 ness 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 passionata 
 feaT=". which were chronic with her now. 
 
A PAIR OF BL UE E YES. 3 I 5 
 
 Yet Knight was very tender this evening, and sus- 
 tained her close to him 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 at 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 do not often find it. Elfride, in 
 turning her head, saw something shine weakly from a cre- 
 vice in the rocky sedile. 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 its level rays did 
 Elfride the good or evil turn of revealing the lost ornament. 
 
 Now Elfride's thoughts instantly reverted to the words 
 she had unintentionally uttered upon what had been going 
 on when the ear-ring was lost. And she was immediately 
 seized with a misgiving that Knight, on seeing the object, 
 would be reminded of her words. Her instinctive act was 
 therefore to secure it privately. 
 
 It was so deep in the crack that Elfride could not pull 
 it out with her hand, though she made several surreptitious 
 trials. 
 
 " What are you doing, Elfie ? ^' said Knight, noticing her 
 attempts at length, and looking behind him likewise. 
 
 She had relinquished the endeavor, but it was too late. 
 
 Knight peered into the joint from which her hand had 
 been withdrawn, and saw what she had seen. He instantly 
 took a penknife from his pocket, and by dint of probing and 
 dragging, brought the ear-ring out upon open ground. 
 
 '• It is not yours, surely ? " he inquired. 
 
 " Yes, it is," she said quietly. 
 
 " Well, that is a most extraordinary thing, that we should 
 find it like this ! " Knight then remembered more circum- 
 stances : " Wliat, is it the one you have told me of? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
3i6 
 
 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 The unfortunate remark of hers at the kiss came into 
 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 that what it had seemed to imply was not 
 true than from a wish to pry into by-gones. 
 
 " Were you really engaged to be married to that lover ? " 
 1)6 said, looking straight forward at the sea again. 
 
 ''Yes — but not exactly. Yet I think I was." 
 
 " O, 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. 
 A kiss is not much, I suppose, and it happens to few 
 young people to be able to avoid all blandishment and caress- 
 ing, except from the one they afterwards marry. But I 
 have peculiar weaknesses, Elfride ; and because I have led 
 a peculiar life, I must suffer for it, I suppose. I had 
 hoped — well, what I had no right to hope in connection with 
 you. You naturally granted your former lover the privi- 
 leges 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 " (very weakly). 
 
 " 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 with cold, 
 
A PAIR OF BL UE E YES. 3 1 7 
 
 Aler dread that the whole story, with random additions, 
 w^ould become known to him, caused her manner to be so 
 agitated, that Knight was alarmed and perplexed into still- 
 ness. The actual innocence which made her think so fear- 
 fully 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 lam absurdly scrupu- 
 lous about you — that I want you too exclusively mine. In 
 your past before you knew me — from your very cradle — I 
 wanted to think you 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 must be so, 
 and I hate the fact that you have been caressed before : yes, 
 hate it!" 
 
 She drew a long deep breath, which was half a 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 
 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." 
 
 " Elfride, 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 confidences of mine should 
 have suggested confidence in return ? On board the Juliet, 
 why were you so secret? It seems 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 in 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 
 
3i8 ^ P^^^ OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 everything, and I shall question you. Did you live at En- 
 delstow 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 con- 
 tinued : " What a poor mortal I am, to play second fiddle 
 in everything, and to be deluded by fibs ! " 
 
 " O, 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 the slow recklessness of de- 
 spair. 
 
 *' Never mind, never mind," he exclaimed, on seeing 
 her tears and perturbation. " I don't want to grieve you. 
 I don't care." 
 
 But Knight did care. How much he cared, few who 
 have failed to realize the man's nature will be able to im- 
 agine. 
 
 " It makes no difference, you know," he continued, see- 
 ing 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 dare say the horse is impatient." 
 
 Knight spoke the merest commonplace to her now. 
 He had hoped to the last moment that she would have vol- 
 unteered 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 inno- 
 cent young wife who had known no lover's tones save his 
 — was this its beginning? He lifted her upon the horse, 
 and they went along constrainedly. The poison of suspi- 
 cion was doing its work well. 
 
 An incident occurred on this homeward journey which 
 was long remembered by both, as adding a shade to shad- 
 ow. Knight could not keep from his mind the words of 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 319 
 
 Adam's reproach to Eve in Paradise Lost, and at last whis- 
 pered them to hhiiself: 
 
 *• 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 church-restorers have done it ! " said Elfride. 
 
 At this minute Mr. Swancourt was seen approaching 
 them. He came up, with a bustling demeanor, apparently 
 much engrossed by some business in hand. 
 
 " We have got the tower down ! " he exclaimed. "It 
 came rather quicker than we 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 at the weakest corner this afternoon. 
 They had left off for the evening, intending to give the 
 final blow to-morrow 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 
 Jiteresting piece of antiquity — a local record of local art.'* 
 
320 ^ r*^//? OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 •* Ah, but, my dear sir, we shall have a new one," ex- 
 postulated Mr. Swancourt; "a splendid tower — designed 
 by a first-rate London man — in the newest style of Gothic 
 art, and full of Christian feeling." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said Knight. 
 
 " O, yes. Not in the barbarous clumsy architecture of 
 this neighborhood j 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 
 farther 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 signifi- 
 cantly, "if a wedding were performed at the altar to-mor- 
 row morning, it might be witnessed from the deck of a ship 
 on a voyage to the South Seas, with a good glass. How- 
 ever, after dinner, when the moon has risen, go up and see 
 for yourselves." 
 
 Knight assented with feverish readiness. He had de- 
 cided within the last few minutes that he could not rest 
 another night without farther talk with Elfride upon the 
 subject which now divided them : 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 moonrise they left the house. How little any 
 expectation of the moolight prospect — which was the os- 
 tensible reason of their pilgrimage — had to do with Knight's 
 real motive in getting the gentle girl again upon his arm, 
 Elfride no less than himself well knew. 
 
CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 •' HAD I WIST BEFORE I KIST I " 
 
 IT was now October, and the night air was chill. Aftef 
 looking to see that Elfride 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 un- 
 known. On reaching the church they found that one side 
 of the tower was as the vicar had stated, entirely removed, 
 and lying hi the shape of rubbish at their feet. The tower 
 on its eastern side was still 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, v;ent eastward, and sat down by the altar-steps. 
 
 The heavy arch spanning the junction of tower and nave 
 formed to-night 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 mediaeval 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 iwall 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, wherein saints and 
 angels vied with each other in gorgeous surroundings of 
 landscape and sky, and threw upon the pavement at the 
 sitters' feet a softer reproduction of the same translucent 
 hues, amid which the shadows of the two living heads of 
 Knight and Elfride were opaque and prominent blots. ^ Pres- 
 ently the moon became covered by a cloud, and the irides- 
 cence died away. 
 
222 A P/f/A- OF BLUE EYES 
 
 " There, it is gone ! " said Knight. " I've been think 
 ing, Elfride, 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, irradia- 
 ting that portion of churchyard within their view. It bright- 
 ened 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 Felix Jethway. 
 
 Knight, still ahve on the subject of Elfride's secret, 
 thought of her words concerning the kiss — that it once had 
 occurred on a tomb in this churchyard. 
 
 " Elfride," he said, with a superficial archness which did 
 not half cover an undercurrent of reproach, " do you know, 
 I think you might have told me voluntarily about that past 
 — of kisses and betrothing — without giving me so much un- 
 easiness and trouble. Was that the tomb you alluded to as 
 having sat on with him ? " 
 
 She breathed slowly. "Yes," she said. 
 
 The correctness of his random shot startled Knight ; 
 though, considering that 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 lec- 
 ture. 
 
 " Why don't you tell me all ? " he said, somewhat indig- 
 nantly. " 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 hus- 
 band and wife. See how desirable and wise a course is, 
 in order to avoid disagreeable contingencies in the form of 
 discoveries afterwards. For, Elfride, a secret of no impor- 
 tance at all may be made the basis of some fatal misunder- 
 standing 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 or was intended to know. 
 This may or may not 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 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 323 
 
 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 accident- 
 ally fainted into his arms, as if she had said it long ago, be- 
 fore the circumstance occurred which forced it from her ? 
 Suppose that admirer 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 so stern a mood, 
 and she trembled. In a confusion of ideas, probably not 
 intending a wilful prevarication, she answered hurriedly : 
 *' If he's dead, how can you meet him ?" 
 "Is he dead? O, that's different altogether!" said 
 Knight, immensely relieved. " But, let me see— 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, El- 
 fride." 
 
 She made no reply. 
 
 " Why," said Knight, recollecting circumstances by de- 
 grees, " 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 lea\ e 
 her. 
 
 She jumped up and clutched his arm. 
 
 " Don't go, Harry— don't ? " 
 
 "Tell me, then," said Knight sternly. "And remem- 
 
324 ^ ^^^^ OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 ber this, no more fibs, or, upon my soul, I shall hate yoa 
 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 ! O, Harry, Harry 
 have pity, and withdraw those dreadful words ! I am truth- 
 ful by nature — I am — and I don't know how I came to make 
 you misunderstand ! But I was frightened ! " She quiver- 
 ed so in her perturbation that she shook him with her. 
 
 "Did you say you were sitting on that tomb?" he 
 asked moodily. 
 
 " Yes j 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 ? " 
 
 " 0—0— yes ! " 
 
 "Then there were two before me." 
 
 " I — suppose so." 
 
 " Now, don't be a silly woman with your 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 con- 
 science 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 wrong me — O, so grievously ! " she cried. " 1 
 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 m^e/id 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 forever ? " 
 
 Elfride only replied by quick heavy breaths, showing she 
 was on the brink of a sob. 
 
 " You don't choose to be anything but reserved, then ? " 
 he said, imperatively. 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 325 
 
 " 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 ! O, Harry, how can you expect it when so 
 little of it makes you so harsh with me "i " 
 
 " 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 senti- 
 mentality ; and I don't want you to suppose that an ordi- 
 nary previous engagement of a straight-forward 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. 
 
 Knight preserved a grave silence for a minute. " ' Not 
 much more,' " he said at last. " I should think not, 
 indeed ! " His voice assumed a low and steady pitch. 
 *' Elfride, you must not mind my saying a strange-sounding 
 thing, for say it 1 shall. It is this : that if there 7uere much 
 more to add to an account which already includes all the 
 particulars a broken marriage engagement could possibly 
 include with propriety, it must be some exceptional thing 
 which might make it impossible for me or any one else to 
 ]ove you and marry you." 
 
 Knight's disturbed mood led him much farther 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 peremptory ; 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 in- 
 fluence 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 argu- 
 ment of her own. 
 
 " Well, well," he murmured cynically ; " I won't say it 
 
226 ^ P^^^ ^P BLUE EYES. 
 
 is your fault : it is my ill-luck, I suppose. I had no real 
 right to question you — everybody would say it was pre- 
 suming. But when we have misunderstood, we feel injur- 
 ed by the subject of our misunderstanding. You never said 
 you had had nobody else, so why should I blame you ? El- 
 fride, 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 con- 
 fidence ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but I did not ask you a single question with re- 
 gard 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 unused state had a great charm for me. But I think 
 this : that if I had known there was any phase of your past 
 love 5^ou would refuse to reveal if I asked to know it, J 
 should never have loved you." 
 
 Elfride sobbed bitterly. " Am I such a — mere character • 
 less toy — as to have no attrac — tion in me, apart from— 
 freshness ? Haven't I 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 knov/ 1 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!" 
 
 " O, come, Elfride. ' 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, Elfride ? " 
 
 " You have no right to question me so — you said so. 
 It is unfair. Trust me as I trust you." 
 
 " That's not at all." 
 
 " I shall not love you if you are so cruel. It is cruel 
 to me to argue like this." 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 327 
 
 " Perhaps it is. Yes, it is. I was carried away by my 
 feeCing for you. Heaven knows that I didn'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 used me harshly if you will for- 
 give me, and not be vexed with me any more. J 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 a nunnery 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 on. " Di- 
 ogenes Laertius says that philosophers used 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 laconically to me," she said, with deprecation. 
 
 "Why? Because they would never then be distracted 
 by discovering their idol was second-hand." 
 
 She looked down and sighed ; and they passed out of 
 the crumbling old place, and slowly crossed to the church- 
 yard entrance. Knight was not himself, and he could not 
 pretend to be. She had not told. 
 
 He supported her lightly over the stile, and was practi- 
 cally as attentive as a lover could be. But there 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 life-long 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 undiscernible even by himself. Or 
 whether the mere smashing of any bright illusion, however 
 unjustified its existence, depreciates ipso facto the unexag- 
 gerated and proper brightness which justly belongs to its 
 basis, one cannot say. Certain it was that Knight's dis- 
 appointment at finding himself second, at Elfride's momen- 
 tary equivoque, and at her reluctance to be candid, 
 brought him to Lhe verge of cynicism. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 ** O DAUGHTER OF BABYLON, WASTED WITH 
 
 misery!" 
 
 A HABIT of Knight's when 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 the stile, she said gently, 
 " If you wish to take your usual turn on the hill, Harry, I 
 can run down to the house alone." 
 
 '' Thank you, Elfie ; then I think I will." 
 Her form diminished to blackness in the moonlight, 
 and Knight, after remaining upon the churchyard stile a 
 few minutes longer, turned back again towards the build- 
 ing. His usual course was now to light a cigar or pipe, 
 and indulge in a quiet meditation. But to-night his mind 
 was too tense to bethink itself of such a solace. He 
 merely walked round to the site of the fallen tower, and sat 
 himself down upon some of the large stones which had 
 composed it, until this day that the concatenation of cir- 
 cumstance originated by Stephen Smith, when in the em- 
 ploy of Mr. Hewby, the London man of art, had brought 
 about its overthrow. 
 
 Pondering on the possible episodes of Elfride's past 
 life, 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 
 among the insulated stacks of rock which dotted the water's 
 edge — the miserable skeletons of tortured old cliffs that 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EVES. 329 
 
 would not even yet succumb to the wear and tear of the 
 tides. 
 
 As a 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 arris of a larger block than ordinary, and so 
 help himself up, when his hand lighted plump upon a sub- 
 stance differing in the greatest possible degree from what 
 he had expected to seize — hard stone. It was filamentous 
 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. " It 
 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. 
 
 " It 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 farther in. It was somewhat warm. Knight 
 instantly felt somewhat cold. 
 
 To find the coldness of inanimate matter where you ex- 
 pect warmth is startling enough ; but a colder temperature 
 than that of the body being rather the rule than the excep- 
 tion in common substances, it hardly conveys such a shock 
 to the system as finding warmth where utter frigidity is an- 
 ticipated. 
 
 " God only knows what it is ! " he said. 
 
 He felt farther and thought more. And he put his 
 hand upon a human head. The head was warm, but mo- 
 tionless. The thready mass was the hair of the head-^ 
 long and straggling. It was the head of a woman. 
 
 Knight recoiled. 
 
 He stood still for a moment, and collected his thoughts. 
 The vicar's account of the fall of the tower had been that 
 the workmen had been undermining it all the day, and 
 
330 
 
 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 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 leaped up and began endeavoring 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 cross- 
 ed 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 
 sky-line. At the moment that Knight arrived at the cross- 
 ing 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 some- 
 body, 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 two are enough to extricate her. Do you 
 knov/ 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 round to the west end, 
 Knight signified the spot of the tragedy. 
 
 " We ought to have brought a lantern," he exclaimed. 
 ''But we maybe able to do without." And he set to work 
 removing the superincumbent mass. 
 
 The other man, who had looked on somewhat helpless- 
 ly 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 eftbrts it was quite ten minutes 
 before the body of the unfortunate creature could be extri- 
 cated. They lifted her as carefully as they could, breath- 
 lessly carried her to Felix Jeth way's tomb, which was only 
 a few steps westward, and laid her thereon. 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 331 
 
 "Is she dead indeed?" said the stranger. 
 
 " She appears to be," said Knight. " Which is tlie 
 nearest house ? The vicarage, I suppose." 
 
 " Yes : but since we shall have to call a surgeon from 
 Stranton, I think it would be better to carry her in that di- 
 rection, instead of away from the town." 
 
 " But is it not much farther 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 mi::d joining 
 hands with me." 
 
 " Not in the least ; I am glad to assist." 
 
 " Making a kind of cradle, by clasping their hands 
 crosswise under the inanimate woman, they lifted her, and 
 walked on side by side down a path indicated by the stran- 
 ger, who appeared to know the locality well. 
 
 " I had 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 that I unconscious- 
 ly 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 visitin-T; the churchyard then ? " 
 
 " It is difficult to say." The stranger looked inquiring- 
 ly into the reclining face of the motionless form they bore. 
 " Would you turn her round for 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 1 " 
 
 " 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 Stranton 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? " 
 
-^2 ^ PA^^ OP BLUE EYES, 
 
 " Yes, it was. Yes, I see it now. She was there to viS' 
 it the tomb. Since the death of that son she has been a 
 desolate crazed 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 fortunes 
 seemed in some strange way to be interwoven with those of 
 this Jethway family, through the influence of Elfride 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 can- 
 not recollect. May I ask who you are .? " 
 
 " O yes. I am Lord Luxellian. Who are you ? " 
 " I am a man visiting at the Crags— Mr. Knight." 
 <' I have heard of you, Mr. Knight." 
 " And I of you. Lord Luxellian. I am glad to meet 
 you." 
 
 *' I may say the same. I am familiar with your name 
 in print." 
 
 " And I with yours. Is this the house ? " 
 " Yes." 
 
 The door was locked. Knight, reflecting a moment, 
 searched the pocket of the lifeless woiuan, and found there- 
 in a large key, which, on being applied to the door, open- 
 ed it easily. The fire was out, but the moonlight enteied 
 the quarried window, and made patterns upon the floor. 
 The rays enabled them to see that the room into which they 
 had entered was pretty well furnished, it being the same 
 room Elfride had visited alone two or three evenings earlier. 
 They deposited their still 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 a shelf, light- 
 ed it, and placed it on the table. 
 
 Both Knight and Lord Luxellian exan>ined the pale 
 countenance attentivel}-, and both were nearly convinced 
 that there was no hope. No marks of violence were visible 
 in the casual examination they made. 
 
 *' 1 think that as I know where Doctor Granson lives," 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 333 
 
 said Lord Luxellian, " I had belter run for him while you 
 stay here." 
 
 Knight agreed to this. Lord Luxellian then 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 be- 
 yond the reach of the lancet and the drug. Her extremi- 
 ties 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 re- 
 linquished, 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, open upon the table, it was possible, as he sat, 
 to read the following words written on each. One ran 
 thus : 
 
 " Sir, — As a woman who was once blest with a dear son of hef 
 own, I implore you to accept a warning — " 
 
 Another : 
 
 "Sir, — If you will design to receive warning from a stranger be« 
 fore it is too late to alter your course, listen to — " 
 
 The third : 
 
 " Sir, — With this letter I inclose to you another which, unaided by 
 any explanation from 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 despatched, 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 drooping 
 
334 ^ ^^^^ ^P BLUE EYES, 
 
 showing that the wax was placed there while 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 com- 
 municate 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 Knight, even though he was the affianced of a 
 fair and winning girl, and though so lately he had been in 
 her company. While sitting on the remains of the demol- 
 ished tower, he had defined a new sensation; that the 
 lengthened course of inaction he had lately been indulging 
 in on Elfride's account might probably not be good for him 
 as a man who had work to do. It could quickly be put an 
 end to 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 into a more practical channel, and thus correct the 
 introspective tendencies which had never brought himself 
 much happiness, or dene his fellow-creatures any great good. 
 To make a start in this new direction by marriage, which, 
 since knowing Elfride, had been so entrancing an idea, was 
 less exquisite to-night. 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 brcken by the sound of wheels, and a 
 horse's tramp. The door opened to admit the surgeon, 
 Lord Luxellian, and a Mr. Coole, coroner for the division 
 (who had been attending at Stranton that very day, and was 
 having an after-dinner chat with the doctor when Lord Lux- 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 335 
 
 elHan aiiived): next came two female nurses and some 
 idlers. 
 
 Mr. Granson, after a cursor}' examination, pronounced 
 the woman dead from suffocation, induced by intense pres- 
 sure on the respiratory organs ; and arrangements were 
 made that the inquiry should take pi ace on the following 
 m;;rning, before the retun. of the coroner to St. Kirrs. 
 
 Shortly afterwaids the house of the widow was deserted 
 by all its living occupants, r.nd she abode in death, as she 
 bad in her life during: the past two years, entirely alone. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 VEA, HAPPY SHALL HE BE THAT REWARDETH THEE 
 
 AS THOU HAST SERVED US. 
 
 SIXTEEN hours had passed. Knight was entering the 
 ladies' room at the Crags, upon his return from attend- 
 ing the inquest touching the death of Mrs. Jethway. El- 
 fride 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, turned cold, murmured a few 
 words, and left the room. 
 
 The letter was fastened with a black seal. The hand- 
 writing 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 v;here he might be secure from interruption. It was 
 the season of heavy dews, which lay on the herbage in 
 shady places all the day long ; nevertheless, he entered a 
 small patch of neglected grass-plat enclosed by the shrub- 
 bery, 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 yesternight were intended for no- 
 body but himself. He had remembered some of the words 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 337 
 
 of Elfride in her sleep on the steamer, that somebody was 
 not to tell him of something, or it would be her ruin — -2. 
 circumstance hitherto deemed so trivial and meaningless, 
 that he had well-nigh forgotten it. All these things infused 
 into him an emotion matchless in power, and supremely 
 distressing in quality. The paper in his hand quivered as 
 he read : 
 
 " The Valley, Endelstow. 
 
 " 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 be- 
 fore 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 youth to love her, then slighted 
 him, so that he died. 
 
 " One who next took a man of low birth as a lover, who was forbid- 
 den the house by her father. 
 
 " One who secretly left her 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 me, who, better than any- 
 body else, knows the story, to keep the scandal a secret. 
 
 " I hope soon to be beyond the reach of either blame or praise. 
 But before removing me, God has put it in my power to avenge the 
 death of my son. 
 
 " Gertrude Jethway." 
 
 The letter enclosed was the note in 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. 1 came to beg you not to 
 execute the threats you have repeated to me. Do not, I beseech you, 
 Mrs, Jethway, let any one know I ran away from home ! It would 
 ruin me with him, and break my heart. 1 will do anything for you, 
 if you will be so kind to me. In the name of our common woman- 
 hood, do not, I implore you, make a scandal of me. — Yours, 
 
 " E. SWANCOURT." 
 
 Knight turned his head wearily towards the house. 
 The ground rose 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 
 
 IS 
 
338 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 a position that, from Knight's standing-place, his sight 
 passed through both windows, and raked the room. El- 
 fride was there ; she was pausing between the two win- 
 dows, looking at her figure in the cheval-glass. She re- 
 garded herself long and attentively in front ; turned, flung 
 back her head, and observed the reflection over her shoul- 
 der. 
 
 Nobody can predicate as to her object or fancy ; she 
 may have done the deed in the very abstraction of deep 
 sadness. She may hav^e 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. I'he 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 piti- 
 less justice echoing from the grave. Knight could not 
 endure their possession. He tore the letter into frag 
 ments. 
 
 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 
 forcedly 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, Harrj'," she said tim- 
 idly. 
 
 " The dew will make your feet wet," he observed, as 
 one deaf 
 
 " I don't mind it." 
 
 ** There is danger in getting wet feet." 
 • "Yes . . . Harry, what is the matter ? " 
 
 " O, nothing. Shall I resume the serious conversation 
 I had with you last night ? No, perhaps not ; perhaps I 
 had better not." 
 
 " O, I cannot tell ! How wretched 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 t " 
 
 "Too free in manner by half," he heard murmur the 
 voice within him. 
 
 " It was that hateful conversation last night," she went 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EVES, 339 
 
 on. '* O, 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 whose you have accepted." 
 
 She became very pale, and a rigid and desolate look 
 took possession of her face. That face was so delicate 
 and tender in appearance now, that one could fancy the 
 pressure of a finger upon it would cause a livid spot. 
 
 Knight walked on, and Elfride with him, silent and un- 
 opposing. He opened a gate, and they entered a path 
 across a stubble-field. 
 
 *' Perhaps I intrude upon you?" she said, as he closed 
 the gate. " Shall I go away 1 " 
 
 " No. Listen to me, Elfride." Knight's voice was low 
 and unequal. '* I have been honest with you : will you be 
 so with me ? If any — strange — connection has existed 
 between yourself and a 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. A 
 discovery of any mystery of your past would embitter our 
 lives." 
 
 Knight waited, with a slow manner of calmness. His 
 eyes were sad and imperative. They went farther along 
 the path. 
 
 " Will you forgive me if I tell all?" she exclaimed en- 
 treatingly. 
 
 " I can't promise ; so much depends upon what you 
 have to tell." 
 
 Elfride could not endure the silence which followed. 
 " Are you not going to love me ? " she burst out. 
 " Harry, Harry, love me, and speak as usual ! Do ; I be- 
 seech you, Harry ! " 
 
 " Are you going to act fairly by me?" said Knight, 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 springe ; everything intended to be hidden from me 
 Why is it, Elfride ? 1 hat's what I ask you." 
 
340 
 
 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 In their agitation they had left the path, and were wan« 
 dering among the wet and obstructive stubble, without know« 
 ing or heeding it. 
 
 " What have / done ? " she faltered, with the utmost 
 distress in her eyes. 
 
 "What? How can you ask what, when you know so 
 well? You kfzow that I have designedly been kept in ig- 
 norance of something attaching to you, which, had I known 
 of it, might have altered all my conduct ; and yet you say, 
 what ? " 
 
 She drooped visibly, and made no answer. 
 
 " Not that I believe in malicious letter-writers and whis- 
 perers ; 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 build- 
 ing itself upon you in my heart. I looked into your eyes, 
 and thought I saw there truth and innocence as pure and 
 perfect as ever embodied by God in the flesh of a woman. 
 Perfect truth is too much to expect, but ordinary truth I 
 will have^ or 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 hid- 
 den anything from you, it has been because I loved you 
 so, and I feared — feared — to lose you." 
 
 " Since you are not given to confidence, I want to ask 
 some plain questions. Have I your permission ? " 
 
 " Yes," she said, and there came over her face a weary 
 resignation. " Say the harshest words you can ; I will 
 bear them ! " 
 
 "There is a scandal in the air concerning you, Elfride ; 
 and 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, Pariseau, a ballet-mas- 
 ter, was beheaded by mistake for Parisot, a captain of the 
 King's Guard. I v/ish there was another ' E. Swancourt ' 
 in the neighborhood. Look at this." 
 
 He handed her the letter she had written and left on 
 the table at Mrs. Jethway's. 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 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 34I 
 
 not to endanger our love. O 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." 
 
 " What remarks ? " 
 
 " Those she wrote me — now torn to pieces. Elfride, 
 did yoM run away with a man you loved .? — that was the 
 damnable statement. Has such an accusation life in it — 
 really, truly, Elfride?" 
 
 "Yes," she whispered. 
 
 Knight's countenance sank. " To be married to him ? " 
 came huskily from his lips. 
 
 "Yes. b, 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 did you do it .? " 
 
 A feeble red passed over her face. 
 
 " Yes," she said. 
 
 "And after that — did you — write to him as your hus- 
 band ; and did he address 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. O, so well 1 You 
 have been everything in the world to me — and you are now. 
 Will you not forgive me ? " 
 
 It is a melancholy thought, that men who at first will 
 not allow the verdict of perfection they pronounce 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 sim- 
 plicity in thinking herself so much more culpable than she 
 seally was, had been doing fatal work in Knight's mind. 
 The man of many ideas, now that his first dream of im 
 
342 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 possible things was over, vibrated too far in the contrary 
 direction ; and her every movement of feature — every 
 tremor — every confused word— were 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 in 
 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 word fell like a fatal 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 they would seem 
 no more than they really were, — a despair which not only 
 relinquishes the hope of direct explanation, but wearily 
 gives up all collateral chances of extenuation. 
 
 The scene was engraved for years on the retina of 
 Knight's eye : the dead and brown stubble, the weeds 
 among it, the distant belt of beeches 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 him was told by the look of supreme torture she 
 wore. 
 
 " What meaning have you, Harry } You only say so, 
 do you ? " 
 
 She looked doubtingly up at him, and tried to laugh, as 
 if the unreality of his words must be unquestionable. 
 
 " You are not in 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 ; 1 
 have said what I ought only to 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 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 343 
 
 between you. Do you think I would — do you think 1 
 could for a moment ? If you cannot marry him now, and 
 another makes you his wife, do not reveal this seciet to 
 him after marriage, if you do not before. Honesty would 
 be damnation then." 
 
 Bewildered by his expressions, she exclaimed, 
 
 " No, no ; I will not be a wife unless I am yours ; and 
 I must be yours ! " 
 
 " If we had married — " 
 
 " But you don't 7nean — that — that — you will go away 
 and leave me, and not be anything more to me — O, you 
 don't ! " 
 
 Convulsive sobs took all 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 in-doors," said Knight. " You will not 
 follow me, Elfride ; I wish you not to." 
 
 " O no ; indeed I will not." 
 
 " And then I am going to Stranton. Good-bye." 
 
 He spoke the farewell as if it were but for the day — 
 h'ghtly, 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 lie 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 con- 
 quer 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 direc- 
 tions that if he did not return in the evening his luggage 
 was to be sent to his chambers in London, whence he in- 
 tended to write 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 mi-dst 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. 
 
CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 "AND WILT THOU LEAVE ME THUS ?— SAY NAY- 
 SAY NAY ! " 
 
 THE scene shifts to Knight's chambers in Bede's Inn. 
 It was kite in the evening of the day following his 
 departure from Endelstow, A drizzling rain descended 
 upon the metropolis, forming a humid and dreary halo 
 over every well-lighted street. The rain had not yet been 
 prevalent long enough to give to rapid vehicles that clear 
 and distinct rattle which follows the thorough washing of 
 the stones by a drenching rain, but was just sufficient to 
 make footway and roadway slippery, adhesive, and clogging 
 to both feet and wheels. 
 
 Knight was standing by the tire, looking into its expir- 
 ing embers, previous 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, 
 v/hich shone over the ceiling of the room, came, in place of 
 the usual babble, only the reduced clatter and quick speech 
 which were the result of necessity rather than choice. 
 
 While he thus stood, waiting for the expiration of the 
 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, Knight crossed the lobby, crowded with 
 books and rubbish, and opened the door. 
 
 A woman, closely muffled up, but visibly of fragile build, 
 was standing on the landing under the gaslight. She 
 sprang forward, flung her arms round the neck of Knight, 
 and uttered a low cry. 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 345 
 
 " O 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 ! " 
 
 Knight's agitation and astonishment mastered him for 
 a few moments. 
 
 " Elfride ! " he cried, " what does this mean ? What 
 have you done ! " 
 
 " Do not hurt me and punish me — O, do not I I couldn't 
 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 eyelfds were hot, heavy, and thick with excessive 
 weeping, and the delicate rose-red of her cheeks was disfig- 
 ured and inflamed by the constant chafing of the handker- 
 chief in wiping her many tears. 
 
 " Who is with you ? Have you come alone ? " he hur- 
 riedly inquired. 
 
 " Yes. When you did not come 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, T could 
 not endure it; and I ran away from them to St. Kirrs, and 
 came by the 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. O, 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 soon die, and what good 
 will my name be to me then ? O, could / but b^ the man 
 and you the woman, I would not leave you for such a little 
 fault as nine ! Do not think it was so vile a thing 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. Can- 
 not I be yours ? Say you love me just the same, and don't 
 let me be separated from you again, will you ? I cannot 
 
 IS* 
 
346 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 beat 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 
 endeavor 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 ringing 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 ascended the stairs. 
 
 The face of Mr. Swancourt, flushed, grieved, and stern, 
 appeared round the landing of the staircase. He came 
 higher up, and stood beside them. Glancing over and past 
 Knight with silent indignation, he turned to the trembling 
 girl. 
 
 " O, Elfride, and have I found you at last ! Are these 
 your tricks, madam ? When will you get rid of your idiocies, 
 and conduct yourself like a decent woman t Is my family 
 name and house to be disgraced by acts that would be a 
 scandal to a washerwoman's daughter? Come along, 
 madam ; come ! " 
 
 '' She is so weary ! " said Knight in a voice of intensest 
 anguish. " Mr. Swancourt, don't be harsh with her — let me 
 beg of 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 belter 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 inexperienced girl— 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 347 
 
 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 tlie marriage 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 in reply. How should he defend 
 himself when his defence was the accusation 4of 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 gloominess 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 led her down the stairs. Knight'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 murmured direction follow- 
 ed. The door was slammed together, the wheels moved, 
 and they rolled away. 
 
 From that hour of her reappearance a dreadful con- 
 flict raged within the breast of Henry Knight. His in- 
 stinct, emotion, affectiveness — 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 child- Hke, un- 
 reasoning, 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 v/hat so likely as that 
 such a woman had been deceived in the past .? He said 
 to himself, in a mood of the bitterest cynicism : "The sus- 
 picious discreet woman who imagines dark and evil things 
 
348 ^ PAIR OF BL UE E YES, 
 
 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 inac- 
 tive. Lengthening time, which made fainter the heart- 
 awakening power of her presence, strengthened the men- 
 tal 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 El- 
 fride — 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 origi- 
 nally seen her as she was, would have been barely an inter- 
 esting pitiable acquaintance in his eyes — no more ? 
 
 It cankered 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 purity 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 P^l- 
 fride to be peerless, nothing on earth could make hini 
 believe she was not so very bad after all. 
 
 He lingered in town a fortnight, doing little else than 
 vibrate between passion and opinions. One idea re- 
 mained intact — that it was better Elfride and himself 
 should not meet. 
 
 When he surveyed the volumes on his shelves — few of 
 which had been opened since Elfride first took possession 
 of his heart — their untouched and orderly arrangement 
 reproached him 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 bitter- 
 ness. The spirit of self-denial, verging on asceticism, 
 which had ever animated Knight in old times, announced 
 itself as having departed with the birth of love, and that 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 349 
 
 with it had gone the self-respect which had compensated 
 for the lack of selfgratification. Poor little Elfride, 
 instead of having, as formerly, a place in his 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 unchary devotion in saving his life. 
 
 With a consciousness of having thus, like Antony, 
 kissed away kingdoms and provinces, he next considered 
 how he had revealed his higher secrets and intentions to 
 her, an unreserve 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 perceive that his own 
 love, as well as other people's, could be reduced by change 
 of scene and circumstances. At the same time the per- 
 ception was a superimposed sorrow : 
 
 " O last regret, regret can die ! " 
 
 But being convinced that the death of this 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. 
 
CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 " THE PENNIE'S the JEWEL THAT BEAUITFIES A." * 
 
 " T CAN'T think what's coming to these St. Kirrs shop- 
 J[ people nohow at all." 
 " With their ' How-d'ye-do's,' do you mane ? " 
 " Ay, with their ' How-d'ye-do's,' and shaking of hands, 
 asking me in, and tender inquiries for you, John." 
 
 These words formed part of a conversation between 
 John Smith and his wife Maria on a Saturday evening in 
 the spring which followed Knight's departure from Eng- 
 land. Stephen had long since returned to India ; and the 
 wrinkled couple themselves had migrated from Lord Lux- 
 ellian's park at Endelstow to a comfortable roadside 
 dwelling about a mile out of St. Kirrs, where John had 
 opened a small stone and slate yard in his own name. 
 
 *' When we came here six months ago," continued Mrs. 
 Smith, •' though I had paid upright gold so many years in 
 the town, they'd only speak over the counter. Meet 'em 
 in the street half an hour after, and they'd treat me with 
 staring ig;norance of my face." 
 
 " Look through ye as through a glass winder ? " 
 *' Ay, the brazen ones would. The quiet-cool would 
 glare over the top of me head, past me side, over me 
 shoulder, but never meet me eye. The gentle-modest 
 would turn their faces south if I were coming east, flit 
 down a passage if I was about to halve the pavement with 
 them. There's that Joakes's wife — knew me a girl — mar- 
 ried a poor little calico-needles-and-pins sort of drapery 
 man, with nothing between him and starvation but his 
 counter and yard measure. They scrimped and they 
 pimped in that mite of a shop ; entreated for my custom ; 
 and so they got on, till he's now Lord Mayor of St. Kirrs ; 
 and as for she, she's Lord — " 
 
A PAIR OF BL UE E YES, 3 5 1 
 
 " Lord knows what, you may as well say." 
 
 " Well, that woman, after talking to me by the half- 
 hour in her shop, and getting her shop-maids to push all 
 sorts of rubbish into my hands, which I have bought only 
 to oblige them many a time, has met me an hour after, 
 when sunning herself among her dress acquaintance on 
 the pavement, looked as if she'd been shot at catching 
 sight of me, with my honest bundles and baskets a-coming 
 along, and edged all in a consternation round the corner, 
 to escape meeting and speaking to me. You see they 
 can't afford very well to do the stranger to your face, for 
 fear of losing your custom, so they wamble off. There 
 was the spruce young bookseller would play the same 
 tricks ; the butcher's daughters ; the upholsterer's young 
 men. Hand in glove when out of sight with you ; but 
 ready to spend money rather than speak when cutting 
 their dash outside the door.'* 
 
 " True enough, Mariar." 
 
 " Well, to-day 'tis all different. I'd no sooner got to 
 market than that same miserable Mother Joakes 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 ! 1 insist upon it ; knowing you so 
 many years as I have ! Don't you remember when we 
 used to go looking for even-ashes together in Benvil Lane t " 
 There's no knowing what you may need, so 1 answered the 
 woman civil. I hadn't got to the corner before that young 
 grocer, Sweet, who's quite the dand, 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 youVe 
 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 on't ? " 
 
 " Can't say ; unless 'tis repentance." 
 
 " Repentance ! was there ever such a fool as you, John r 
 Did anybody ever repent wi' money in's pocket? " 
 
 "Now, I've been thinking too," said John, passing 
 over the query as hardly pertinent, " that I've had more 
 loving-kindness from those large-windered gentry today 
 than I ever have before since we moved here. Why, old 
 Alderman Tope walked out to the middle of the street 
 
252 ^ P^IR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 where I were, to shake hands with me — so 'a did. Having 
 on my working clothes, I thought 'twas odd. Ay, and 
 there were Porphinham." 
 "Who's he.?" 
 
 " Why, the music-man in North-street, who d'sell drums, 
 trumpets, and fiddles, and grate varnished pehanners. He 
 was talking to Tinkleton, that very small bachelor-man 
 with money in the funds. I was going by, I'm sure, with- 
 out thinking or expecting a nod from men of that class 
 when I was in my working clotheS: — " 
 
 "You always will go poking into town in your working 
 clothes. Beg ye to change how I will, 'tis no use." 
 
 " Well, however, 1 were in my working clothes. Por- 
 phinham seed me. 'Ah, Mr. Smith! a fine morning; 
 excellent weather for building,' says he, out as loud and 
 friendly as if I'd n.et 'em in some deep hoilow, where no- 
 body could have seen him speak at all. 'Twas odd ; for 
 Porphinham is one of the very rii gleadeis of the uppish 
 class." 
 
 At that moment a tap came at the door. Mrs. Smith 
 immediately rose and opened it. 
 
 " You'll excuse us, I'm sure, Mrs. Smith, but this beau- 
 tiful spring weather was too much for us. Yes, and we 
 could stay in no longer ; and I took Mrs. Trigg upon my 
 arm directly my assistant came back from tea, and out we 
 came. And seeing your beautiful crocuses in such a bloom, 
 we've took the liberty to enter. We'll step round the gar- 
 den, if you don't mind." 
 
 "Not at all," said Mrs. Smith; and they walked round 
 the garden. She lifted her hands in amazement directly 
 their backs were turned. " Goodness send us grace ! " 
 " Who be they ? " said her husband. 
 "Actually Mr. Trigg, the gentleman-barber, and his 
 lady. Till to-day they'd have fallen over us afore they'd 
 have spoke, even out here in the country, leave alone on 
 the pavement." 
 
 John Smith, staggered in mind, went out of doors and 
 looked over the garden gate, to collect his astounded ideas. 
 He had not been there two minutes when wheels were 
 heard, and a carriage and pair rolled along the road. A 
 distu»2uished-looking female, with a demeanor somewhere 
 
A PAIR OF BL UE E YES, 353 
 
 between that of a duchess and an honorable, reclined 
 within. When opposite Smith's gate she turned her head, 
 and instantly commanded the coachman to stop. 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Smith, I am glad to see you looking so well. 
 T could not help stopping a moment to congratulate you 
 and Mrs. Smith upon the happiness you must enjoy. Ah ! 
 — eh — good evening. Joseph, you may drive on." 
 
 And the carriage rolled away towards St. Kirrs. 
 
 Out rushed Mrs. Smhh from behind a laurel-bush, 
 where she had squatted, listening. 
 
 "Just going to touch my hat to her ! " said John ; "just 
 for all the world as I would have to poor Lady Luxellian 
 years ago." 
 
 "Lord, who is she?" 
 
 " The public-house woman — what's her name ? Mrs. — 
 Mrs. at the Falcon." 
 
 " Public-house ! The ignorance of the Smith family, I 
 never ! You might say the proprietor of the Falcon Hotel's 
 lady, and cost no more. The St. Kirrs people are ridicu- 
 lous 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. Kirrs. 
 
 By this time Mr. and Mrs. Trigg were returning from 
 the garden. 
 
 " ril ask 'em flat," whispered John to his wife. " I'll 
 say, * We be in a fog — you'll excuse my asking a question, 
 Mr. and Mrs. Trigg. How is it all you gentlemen-shop- 
 men be so friendly to-day?' Hey? 'Twould sound right 
 and sensible, wouldn't it, Mariar ? " 
 
 " Not a word ! Good mercy, when will the man have 
 manners ! " 
 
 " It must be a proud moment for you, I am sure, Mr. 
 and Mrs. Smith, to have a son so celebrated," said the 
 gentleman-barber, advancing. 
 
 " Ah, 'tis Stephen — I knew it ! '* cried Mrs. Smith tri- 
 umphantly. 
 
 " We don't know particulars," said John eagerly. 
 
 " Not know ! " 
 
 *' No." 
 
 " Why, 'tis all over town. Our worthy mayor alluded 
 
354 
 
 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 to it in 3 speech at the dinner last night of the Every-Man- 
 his-own-IIero Club, which lately presented hira with a 
 beautiful silver smoking service and embossed set of spit- 
 toons, for his able support of the Soul-above-Shops Associ- 
 ation ; which I am happy to say we have started in oppo- 
 sition to the old Honor-your-Betters Society, kept up by 
 the country squires." 
 
 " And what about Stephen ? " screamed Mrs. Smith ec- 
 statically, cutting a caper. 
 
 " Why your son has been feeted by deputy-governors 
 and Parsee princes and nobody-knows-who in India ; is 
 hand in glove with nabobs, and is to design a large palace, 
 cathedral, hospitals, colleges, halls, fortifications, by the 
 general consent of the ruling powers, Christian, Pagan, 
 and Devilish, all alike." 
 
 " 'Twas sure to come to the boy," said Mrs. Smith 
 grandly. 
 
 "'Tisin yesterday's A'/rrj Chronicle; and our worthy 
 mayor in the chair introduced the subject into his speech 
 last night in a masterly manner. * Yes,' said he, ' St. Kirrs 
 has her glories, gentlemen. And I blush with pleasure 
 when I find recorded in to-day's paper the intellectual and 
 artistic prowess of our friend Mr. Stephen Smith, son of 
 Mr. John Smith, so well known to us all. Stratford has 
 her Shakespeare, Penzance has her Davy, Bristol has her 
 Chatterton, London has her Heaven-knows-who, and St. 
 Kirrs has her Smith. Yes, fellow townsmen,' he went on in 
 the chair, ' we may well be proud to find that Mr. John 
 Smith, to whom, humble in life as he is, / am related on the 
 mother''s side^ was a native of this town — ' " 
 
 " Not at all ! " said John. *' I wer born in Snoke's 
 Hut, Duddlecome-lane, half a mile out of St. Kirrs; I'll 
 take my oath I wer ! " 
 
 " Half a mile's nothing where glory's concerned ; don't 
 be so foolish particular, John ! Quarrel wi' your own bread 
 and cheese — that's you. 'Twas very good of the worthy 
 mayor in the chair, I'm sure." 
 
 '* 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 are to make our house as 
 your own There will be alwn^s a teacup and saucer foi 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 35S 
 
 you, as you know there has been for years, thougli fou may 
 have forgotten it. I am a plain-speaking woman, and what 
 I say I mean." 
 
 When the visitors were gone, and the sun was 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 the boy, never by any means mention the 
 name of Elfride Swancourt again. We've left the place, 
 and know no more about her except by hearsay. He seemed 
 to be getting free of her, and glad am I 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 them 
 keep their blood to themselves if they want to. He thinks 
 of her, I know, but not so hopeless-like. So don't try 
 to know anything about her, and we can't answer his ques- 
 tions. She may die out of him then." 
 
 " That shall be it," said John. 
 
CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 "AFTER MANY DAYS." 
 
 KNIGHT roamed south, under color of studying Con- 
 tinental antiquities. 
 He paced the loft}^ aisles of Amiens, loitered by Arden- 
 nes Abbey, climbed into the strange towers of Laon, analyz- 
 ed Noyon and Rheims. Then he went to Chartres, and ex- 
 amined its scaly spires and quaint carving: then he idled 
 about Coutances. He rowed beneath the base of Mont 
 St. Michel, and caught the varied sky-line of the crumbling 
 edifices encrusting it. St. Ouen's, Rouen, knew him for 
 days ; so did Vezelay, Sens, and many a hallowed monu- 
 ment besides. Abandoning the inspection of early French 
 art with the same purposeless haste as he had undertaken 
 it, he went farther and lingered about Ferrara, Padua, and 
 Pisa. Satiated with medisevalism, he tried Rome. 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 on the declivities of the Carpa- 
 thians. Then he found himself in Greece. He visited the 
 plain of Marathon, and strove to imagine the Persian de- 
 feat ; to Mars Hill, to picture St. Paul addressing the 
 ancient Athenians; to Thermopylae and Salamis, to run 
 tlirough the facts and traditions of the Second Invasion— 
 the result of his endeavors being all more or less a failure. 
 Knight grew as weary of these places as of all others. 
 Then he felt the 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 loitered on calle and piazza at night, when the 
 lagunes were undisturbed by a ripple, and no sound was to 
 be heard but the stroke of the midnight clock. Afterwards, 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 357 
 
 he lemained for weeks in the museums, galleries, and libra 
 ries of Vienna, Berlin, and Paris ; and thence came home. 
 
 Time thus rolls us on to a February afternoon, divided 
 by fifteen months from the parting of Elfride and her lover 
 in the brown stubble-field towards the sea. 
 
 Two men with weather-stained faces met by accident 
 on one of the gravel walks .eading 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 1" said Knight. 
 
 Simultaneous operations might now have been observed 
 to be going on in both. They collected their thoughts, the 
 result being that an expression less frank and impulsive 
 than the first took possession of their features. It was 
 manifested that the first 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 ev^er since? " 
 
 " Nearly ever since." 
 
 "They were making a fuss about you at St. Kirrs last 
 year. I fancy I saw something of the sort in the papers." 
 
 " Yes ; I believe something was said about me. People 
 will, you know." 
 
 " I must congratulate you on your achievements." 
 
 "Thanks, but they are nothing very extraordinary. A 
 natural professional progress where there was no opposition." 
 
 There followed that want of words which will always 
 assert itself between nominal friends who find they have 
 ceased to be real ones, and have not yet sunk to the level of 
 ■casual acnuaintance. Each looked up and down the Park. 
 Knight may possibly have borne in mind during the inter- 
 vening months Stephen's manner towards him the last time 
 they had met, and may have encouraged his former interest 
 in Stephen's welfare to die out of him as misplaced. Ste- 
 phen certainly was full of the feelings begotten by the 
 
358 ^ P^^P- OP BLUE EYES. 
 
 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 
 even lowered those emotions down to the point of control. 
 
 " It was broken off," came quickly from Knight. " En- 
 gagements to marry often end like that — for better or for 
 worse." 
 
 " Yes : so they do. And what have you been doing 
 lately .? " 
 
 • "Doing? Nothing." 
 
 " Where have you been ? " 
 
 " I can hardly tell you. In the main, going about Eu- 
 rope ; and it may perhaps interest you to know that I have 
 been attempting the serious study of Continental art of the 
 ISIiddle Ages. My notes on each example I visited are at 
 your service. They are of no use to me." 
 
 *' I shall be pleased with them. . . O, travelling far and 
 near ! " 
 
 " Not far," saia Knight, with moody carelessness. 
 "You know, I dare say, that sheep occasionally become 
 giddy — hydatids in the head, 'tis called, in which their 
 brains become eaten up, and the animal exhibits the 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 359 
 
 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 changed man. He himself had changed 
 much, but not as Knight had changed. 
 
 " Yesterday I came home," continued Knight, " with- 
 out having, to the best of my belief, imbibed half a dozen 
 ideas worth retaining." * 
 
 "You out-Hamlet Hamlet in morbidness of mood, 
 said Stephen, with re^-etful frankness. 
 
 Knight made no reply. 
 • " Do you know," Stephen continued, " I could almost 
 have sworn that you would 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 jilt you ? " 
 
 " Smith, now one word to you," Knight returned stead- 
 ily. " 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." 
 
 " O, I don't for a moment wish to ask what is unpleas- 
 ant 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." ^j 
 
 " I have never asked you a word about the case. 
 " I know that." 
 
360 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 " 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 rea- 
 son." 
 
 *' Doubtless. As good a reason as you had for not mar- 
 rying her." 
 
 " You talk insidiously. I had a good one — a miserably 
 good one ! " 
 
 Smith's anxiety urged him to venture one more ques- 
 tion. 
 
 " Did she not love you enough T" He drew his breath 
 in a slow and attenuated stream, as he waited in timorous 
 hope for the answer. 
 
 "Stephen, you pass all the bounds of ordinary courtesy 
 in 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 any- 
 body who had better claims to her than you ! " 
 
 " What do you mean by that .'' " said Knight, with a 
 puzzled air. " What have you heard } " 
 
 " Nothing. I 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 need never have be- 
 come so estranged as we have." 
 
 " And have 1 ever been anything but well disposed to- 
 wards 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 reserved to me, though I was 
 confidential to you. That was, I suppose, the natural is- 
 sue of our differing positioUiS 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." 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. ^^I 
 
 *' So am I." 
 
 " That's convenient, not to say odd. Well, I am de- 
 tained in London for a day or two ; then I am going down 
 to see my father and mother, who live at St. Kirrs now. 
 Will you see me this evening .? " 
 
 " I may ; but T will not promise. I was wishing to be 
 alone for an hour oi two ; but I shall kno':/ where to find 
 you, at any rate. Good-bye." 
 
CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 "JEALOUSY IS CRUEL AS THE GF tVE 
 
 *f 
 
 STEPHEN pondered not a little on this meeting with 
 his old friend and once-beloved exemplar. He was 
 grieved ; for amid all the distractions of his latter years a 
 still small voice of fidelity to Knight had lingered on in 
 him. Perhaps this staunchness was because Knight ever 
 treated him as a mere disciple — even to snubbing him 
 sometimes ; and had at last, though unwittingly, inflicted 
 upon him the greatest snub of all, that of taking away his 
 sweetheart. The affective side of his constitution was 
 built rather after a feminine than a male model ; and that 
 tremendous wound from Knight's hand may have tended 
 to keep alive a warmth which solicitousness would have 
 extinguished altogether. 
 
 Knight, on his part, was vexed, after they had parted, 
 that he had not taken Stephen in hand a little after the 
 old manner. Those words which Smith had let fall con- 
 cerning somebody having a prior claim to Elfride would, if 
 uttered when the man were younger, have provoked such 
 a query as, " Come, tell me all about it, my lad," from 
 Knight, and Stephen would straightway have delivered 
 himself of all he knew on the subject. 
 
 Stephen the ingenuous boy, though now obliterated ex- 
 ternally by Stephen the contriving man, returned to 
 Knight's memory vividly that afternoon. He was at pres- 
 ent but a sojourner in London ; and after attending to the 
 two or three matters of business which remained to be 
 done that day, he walked abstractedly into the gloomy 
 corridors of the British Museum for the half-hour previous 
 to their closing. That meeting with Smith had reunited 
 the present with the past, closing up the chasm of his ab- 
 sence from England as if it had never existed, until the 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 3^ 3 
 
 final circumstances of his previous time of residence in 
 London formed but a yesterday to the circumstances now. 
 The conflict that then had raged in him concerning El- 
 fride Swancourt revived, strengthened by its sleep. In- 
 deed, in those many months of absence, though quelling 
 the intention to make her his wife, he had never forgotten 
 that she was the type of woman adapted to his nature ; 
 and instead of trying to obliterate thoughts of her altogeth- 
 er, he had grown to regard them as an infirmity it was ne- 
 cessary to tolerate. 
 
 Knight returned to his hotel much earlier in the even- 
 ing than he would have in the ordinary course of things. 
 He did not care to think whether this arose from a friendly 
 wish to close the gap that had slowly been widening be- 
 tween himself and his earliest acquaintance, or from a 
 hankering desire to hear the meaning of the dark oracles 
 Stephen had hastily pronounced, betokening that he knew 
 something more of Elfride than Knight had supposed. 
 
 He made a hasty dinner, inquired for Smith, and soon 
 was ushered into the young man's presence,^ whom he 
 found sitting in front of a comfortable fire, beside^ a table 
 spread with a few scientific periodicals and art reviews. 
 
 " I have come to you after all," said Knight. " My 
 manner was odd this morning, and it seemed desirable to 
 call ; but that you had too much sense to notice, Stephen, 
 I know. Put it down to my wanderings in France and 
 Italy." 
 
 " Don't say another word, but sit down. I am only too 
 glad to see you again." 
 
 Stephen would hardly have cared to tell Knight just 
 then that the minute before Knight was announced he had 
 been reading over some old letters of Elfride's. They 
 were not many ; and until to-night had been sealed up, 
 and stowed away in a corner of his leather trunk, with a 
 few other mementoes and relics which had accompanied 
 him in his travels. The familiar sights and sounds of 
 London, the meeting with his friend, had with him also re- 
 vived that sense of abiding continuity with regard to El- 
 fride and love which his absence at the other side of the 
 world had to some extent suspended, though never rup- 
 tured. He at first intended only to look over these letters 
 
^64 ^ P^^^ OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 on the outside ; then he read one ; then another ) until the 
 whole were thus reused as a stimulus to sad memories. 
 He folded them away again, placed them in his pocket, 
 and instead of going on with an examination into the state 
 of the artistic world, had remained musing on the strange 
 circumstance that he had returned to find Knight not the 
 husband of Elfride after all. 
 
 The possibility of any given gratification begets a cres- 
 cent sense of its necessity. Stephen gave the rein to his 
 imagination, and felt more intensely than he had for many 
 months that, without Elfride, his life would never be any 
 great pleasure to himself, or honor to his Maker. 
 
 They sat by the fire, chatting on external and random 
 subjects, neither caring to be the first to approach the 
 matter each most longed to discuss. On the table with 
 the periodicals lay two or three pocket-books, one of them 
 being open. Knight, seeing from the exposed page that 
 the contents were sketches only, began turning the leaves 
 over carelessly with his finger. When, some time later, 
 Stephen was out of the room, Knight proceeded to pass the 
 interval by looking at the sketches more carefully. 
 
 The first crude ideas, pertaining to dwellings of all 
 kinds, were roughly outlined on the difi'erent pages. An- 
 tiquities had been copied ; fragments of Indian columns, 
 colossal statues, and outlandish ornament in general, from 
 the temples of Elephanta and Kenneri, were carelessly in- 
 truded upon by outlines of modern doors, windows, roofs, 
 cooking-stoves, and household furniture ; everything, in 
 short, which comes within the range of a modern archi- 
 tect's experience, who travels with his eyes open. Among 
 these occasionally appeared rough delineations of mediaeval 
 subjects, for carving or illumination — heads of Virgins, 
 Saints, and Prophets. 
 
 Stephen was not professedly a free-hand draughthuvjin, 
 but he drew the human figure with correctness and skill. 
 In its numerous repetitions on the sides and edges of the 
 leaves. Knight began to notice a peculiarity. All the fem- 
 inine Saints had one type of feature. There were large 
 nimbi and small nimbi about their drooping heads, but the 
 face was always the same. That profile — how well Knight 
 knew that profile I 
 
A FAIR OF BLUE EYES. 365 
 
 Had there been but one specimen of the familiar coun- 
 tenance, he might have passed over the resemblance as 
 accidental ; but a repetition meant more. Knight thought 
 anew of Smith's hasty words earlier in the day, and looked 
 at the sketches again and again. 
 
 On the young man's entry, Knight said with palpable 
 agitation, 
 
 " Stephen, who are those intended for? '* 
 
 Stephen looked over the book with utter unconcern : 
 
 " Saints and angels done in my leisure moments. They 
 were intended as designs for the stained glass of an Eng- 
 lish church." 
 
 " But whom do you idealize by that type of woman you 
 always adopt for the Virgin ? " 
 
 " Nobody." 
 
 And then a thought raced along Stephen's mind, and 
 he looked up at his friend. 
 
 The truth is, Stephen's introduction of Elfride's linea- 
 ments had been so unconscious, that he had not at first un- 
 derstood his companion's drift. The hand, like the tongue, 
 easily acquires the trick of repetition by rote, without call- 
 ing in the mind to assist at all, and this had been the 
 case here. Young men who cannot write verses about 
 their Loves generally take to portraying them, and in the 
 early days of his attachment Smith had never been weary 
 of outlining Elfride. The lay-figure now initiated an 
 adjustment of many things. Knight had recognized 
 her. The opportunity of comparing notes had come 
 unsought. 
 
 " Elfride Swancourt, to whom I was engaged," he said 
 quietly. 
 
 "Stephen!" 
 
 " I know what you mean by speaking like that." 
 
 " Was it Elfride ? You the man, Stephen ? " 
 
 " Yes : and you are thinking why did I conceal the 
 fact from you that time at Endelstow, are you not ? " 
 
 "Yes, and more— more." 
 
 " I did it for the best ; blame me if you will ; I did it 
 for the best. And now say how could I be with you after- 
 wards as I had been before ! " 
 
 " I don't know at all ; 1 can't say ? " 
 
366 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 " Knight remained fixed in thought, and once he miir« 
 mured, 
 
 " I had a suspicion this afternoon that there might be 
 some such meaning in your words about my taking her 
 away. But I dismissed it. How came you to know her? '* 
 he presently asked, in almost a peremptory tone. 
 
 '* I went down about the church ; years ago now." 
 
 "When you were with Hewby, of course, of course. 
 Well, I can't understand it." His tones rose. " I don't 
 know what to say, your hoodwinking me like this for so 
 long ! " 
 
 " T don't see that I have hoodwinked you at all." 
 
 " Yes, yes, but—" 
 
 Knight arose from his seat, and began pacing up and 
 down the room. His face was markedly pale, and his voice 
 perturbed, as he said, 
 
 " You did not act as I should have towards you under 
 those circumstances. I feel it deeply ; and I tell you plain- 
 ly, I shall never forget it ! " 
 
 "What.?" 
 
 "Your behavior at that meeting in the family vault, 
 when I told you we were going to be married. Deception, 
 dishonesty, everywhere ; all the world's of a piece ! " 
 
 Stephen did not much like this misconstruction of his 
 motives, even though it was but the hasty conclusion of a 
 friend disturbed by emotion. 
 
 " I could do no otherwise than I did, with due regard 
 to her," he said stiffly. 
 
 " Indeed ! " said Knight, in the bitterest tone of re- 
 proach. "Nor could you with due regard have married 
 her, I suppose ! I have hoped— longed — that he, who turns 
 out to be you, would ultimately have done that." 
 
 " I am much obliged to you for that hope. But you 
 talk very mysteriously. I think I had about the best reason 
 anybody could have for not doing that." 
 
 " O, what reason was it ? " 
 
 " That I could not." 
 
 " You ought to have made an opportunity ; you ought 
 to do so now, in bare justice to her, Stephen!" cried 
 Knight, carried beyond himself "That 3'ou know very 
 well, and it hurts and wounds me more than you know to 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 367 
 
 find you never have tried to make any reparation to a wo- 
 man of that kind— so trustful, so apt to be run away with by 
 her feelings— poor little fool, so much the worse for her ! " 
 
 "Wljyyou talk like a madman! You took her away 
 from me, did you not ? " 
 
 *' Picking up what another throws down can scarcely be 
 called, ' taking away.' However, we shall not agree too 
 well upon that subject, so we had better part." 
 
 "But I am quite certain you misapprehend something 
 most grievously," said Stephen, shaken to the bottom of 
 his heart. " What have I done ? tell me. I have lost El- 
 fride, but is that such a sin ? " 
 
 " Was it her doing or yours ? " 
 
 " Was what ? " 
 
 " That you parted." 
 
 *' I will tell you honestly. It was hers entirely, entirely.*' 
 
 "What was her reason.?" 
 
 " I can hardly say. But I'll tell the story without re- 
 serve." 
 
 Stephen until to-day had unhesitatingly held that she 
 tired of him and turned to Knight ; but he did not like to 
 advance the statement now, or even to think the thought. 
 To fancy otherwise accorded better with the hope to which 
 Knight's estrangement had given birth : that love for his 
 friend was not the direct cause, but a result of her suspen- 
 sion of love for himself. 
 
 " Such a matter must not be allowed to breed discord 
 between us," Knight returned, relapsing into a manner 
 which concealed all his true feeling, as if confidence now 
 was intolerable. " I do see that your reticence towards me 
 in the vault may have been dictated by considerations.'* 
 He concluded artificially, "It was a strange thing altogeth- 
 er , but not of much importance, I suppose, at this dis- 
 tance of time ; and it does not concern me now, though J 
 don't mind hearing your story." 
 
 These words from Knight, uttered with such an air of 
 renunciation and apparent indifference, prompted Smith to 
 speak on — perhaps with a little complacency — of hispid se- 
 cret engagement to Elfride. He told the details of its ori- 
 gin, and the peremptory words and actions of her father to 
 extinguish their love. 
 
^68 ^ P^IR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 Knight persevered in the tone and manner of a disinter- 
 ested outsider. It had become more than ever imperative 
 to screen his emotions from Stephen's eye ; the young man 
 would be less frank, and their meeting would be again em- 
 bittered. What was the use of untoward candor ? 
 
 Stephen had now arrived at the point in his ingenuous 
 narrative where he left the vicarage because of her father's 
 manner. Knight's interest increased. Their love seemed 
 so innocent and childlike thus far. 
 
 " It is a nice point in casuistry," he observed, " to de- 
 cide whether you were culpable or not in not telling Swan- 
 court that your friends were poor parishioners of his. It 
 was only human nature to hold your tongue under the cir- 
 cumstances. Well, what was the result of your dismissal 
 by him?" 
 
 "That we agreed to be secretly faithful. And to in- 
 sure this we thought we would marry." 
 
 Knight's suspense and agitation rose higher when Ste- 
 phen entered upon this phase of the subject. 
 
 " Do you mind telling on ? " he said, steadying his man- 
 ner as by a gymnastic feat. 
 
 " O, not at all." 
 
 Then Stephen gave in full the particulars of the meeting 
 with Elfride at the railway station ; the necessity they were 
 under of going to London, unless the ceremony were to be 
 postponed. The long journey of the afternoon and even- 
 ing ; her timidity and revulsion of feeling ; its culmination 
 on reaching London ; the crossing over to the down-plat- 
 form and their immediate departure again, solely in obedi- 
 ence to her wish ; the journey all night j their anxious 
 watching for the dawn ; their arrival at St. Kirrs at last — 
 were detailed. And he told how a village woman named 
 Jethway was the only person who recognized them, either 
 going or coming ; and how dreadfully this terrified Elfride. 
 He told how he waited in the fields while his then reproach- 
 ful sweetheart went for her pony, and how the last kiss he 
 ever gave her was given a mile out of town, on the way to 
 Endelstow. 
 
 These things Stephen related with a will. He believed 
 that in doing so he established word by word the reasona- 
 bleness of his claim to Elfride. 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 369 
 
 " Curse her ! curse that woman ! — that miserable letter 
 that parted us ! O God ! " 
 
 Knight began pacing the room again, and uttered this 
 at the farther end. 
 
 '' What did you say ? " said Stephen, turning round. 
 
 " Say ? Did 1 say anything ? O, I was merely think- 
 ing about your story, and the oddness of my having a fan- 
 cy for the same woman afterwards. And that now I — I have 
 forgotten her almost ; and neither of us cares about her, ex- 
 cept just as a friend, you know, eh?" 
 
 Knight still continued at the farther end of the roomj 
 somewhat in shadow. 
 
 " Exactly," said Stephen, inwardly exultant, for he was 
 really deceived by Knight's off-hand manner. 
 
 Yet he was deceived less by the completeness of 
 Knight's disguise than by the persuasive power which lay 
 in the fact that Knight had never before deceived him in 
 anything. So this supposition that his companion had 
 ceased to love Elfride was an enormous lightening of the 
 weight which had turned the scale against him. 
 
 "Admitting that YXh'ide cou/d love another man after 
 you," said the elder, under the same varnish of careless crit- 
 icism, " she was none the worse for that experience." 
 
 " The worse ? Of course she was none the worse." 
 
 " Did you ever think it a wild and thoughtless thing for 
 her to do ? " 
 
 " Indeed I never did," said Stephen. " I persuaded 
 her. She saw no harm in it until she decided to return, 
 nor did I j nor was there, except to the extent of indiscre- 
 tion ! " 
 
 " Directly she thought it was wrong she would go no 
 farther ? " 
 
 " That was it. I had just begun to think it wrong too." 
 
 " Such a childish escapade might have been misrepre- 
 sented by any evil-disposed person, might it not ? " 
 
 "It might; but I never heard that it was. Nobody 
 who really knew all the circumstances would have done 
 otherwise than smile. If all the world had known it, El- 
 fiide would still have remained the only one who thought 
 her action a sin. Poor child, she always persisted in think- 
 ing so, and was frightened more than enough.'* 
 16* 
 
370 
 
 A PAIR OF BL UE E YES. 
 
 " Stephen, do you love her now ? " 
 
 " Well, I like her ; 1 always shall, you know," he said 
 evasively, and with all the strategy love suggested. '' But 
 I have not seen her for so long that I can hardly be ex- 
 pected to love her. Do you love her still ? " 
 
 *' How shall 1 answer without being ashamed ? What 
 fickle beings we men are, Stephen ! Men may love strong- 
 est for a while, but women love longest. I used to love 
 her — in my way, you know." 
 
 " Yes, I understand. Ah, and I used to love her in 
 my way. In fact, I loved her a good deal at one time j 
 but travel has a tendency to obliterate early fancies." 
 
 " It has— it has, truly." 
 
 Perhaps the most extraordinary feature in this conver- 
 sation was the circumstance that, though each interlocutor 
 had at first his suspicions of the other's abiding passion 
 awakened by several little acts, neither would allow him- 
 self to see that his friend might now be speaking deceit- 
 fully as well as he. 
 
 "Stephen," resumed Knight, "now that matters are 
 smooth between us, I think I must leave you. You won't 
 mind my hurrying off to my quarters ? " 
 
 " Youll stay to supper surely ? Why didn't you come 
 to dinner ? " 
 
 *' You must really excuse me this once." 
 
 "Then you'll drop in to breakfast to-morrow? " 
 
 " I shall be rather pressed for time." 
 
 " An early breakfast, which shall interfere with noth- 
 ing ? " 
 
 " I'll come," said Knight, with as much readiness as it 
 
 was possible to graft upon a huge stock of reluctance. 
 *' Yes, early j eight o'clock say, as we are under the same 
 roof." 
 
 ** Any time you like. Eight it shall be." 
 
 And Knight left him. To wear a mask, to dissemble 
 his feelings as he had in their late miserable conversation, 
 was such torture that he could support it no longer. It 
 was the first time in Knight's life that he had ever been so 
 entirely the player of a part. And the man he had thus 
 deceived vvas Stephen, who had docilely looked up to him 
 from youth as a superior of unblemished integrity. 
 
/f PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 371 
 
 He went to bed, and allowed the fever of his excite- 
 ment to rage uncontrolled. Stephen — it was only he who 
 was the rival — only Stephen ! There was an anti-climax 
 of absurdity which Knight, wretched and conscience-strick- 
 en as he was, could not help recognizing. Stephen was 
 but a boy to him. Where the great grief lay was, in per- 
 ceiving that the very innocence of Elfride in reading her 
 little fault as one so grave was what had fatally misled him. 
 Had Elfride, with any degree of coolness, asserted that she 
 had done no harm, the poisonous breath of the dead Mrs. 
 Je'.hway would have been inoperative. Why did he not 
 make his little docile girl tell more "i If on that subject he 
 had only exercised the imperativeness customary with him 
 on others, all might have been revealed. It smote his 
 heart like a switch when he remembered how gently she 
 had borne his scourging speeches, never answering him 
 with a single reproach, only assuring him of her unbound- 
 ed love. 
 
 Knight blessed Elfride for her sweetness, and forgot 
 her fault. He pictured with a vivid fancy those fair sum- 
 mer scenes with her. He again saw her as at their first 
 meeting, timid at speaking, yet in her eagerness to be ex- 
 planatory borne forward almost against her will. How she 
 would wait for him in green places, without showing any 
 of the ordinary womanly affectations of indifference ! How 
 proud she was to be seen walking with him, bearing legibly 
 in her eyes the thought that he was the greatest genius in 
 the world ! 
 
 He formed a resolution j and after that he could make 
 pretence of slumber no longer. Rising and dressing him- 
 self, he sat down and waited for day. 
 
 That night Stephen was restless too. Not because of 
 the unwontedness of a return to English scenery ; not be- 
 cause he was about to meet his parents, and settle down 
 for a while to English cottage life. He was indulging in 
 dreams, and for the nonce the warehouses of Bombay and 
 the plains and forts of Poonah were but a shadow's shad- 
 ow. His dream was based on this one atom of fact ; El- 
 fride and Knight had become separated, and their engage- 
 ment was as if it had never been. Their rupture must have 
 occurred soon after Stephen's discovery of the fact of iheir 
 
372 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 union, and, Stephen went on to think, what so probable as 
 that a return of her errant affection to himself was the 
 cause ? 
 
 We must remember that Stephen's opinions in this 
 matter were those of a lover, and not the balanced judg- 
 ment of an unbiassed spectator. His naturally sanguine 
 spirit built hope upon hope, till scarcely a doubt remained 
 in his mind that her lingering tenderness for him had in 
 some way been perceived by Knight, and had provoked 
 their parting. 
 
 To go and see Elfride was the suggestion of impulses it 
 was impossible to withstand. At any rate, to run down by 
 rail from St. Kirrs to Stranton, a distance of less than 
 twenty miles, and glide like a ghost about their old haunts, 
 making stealthy inquiries about her, would be a fascinating 
 way of passing the first spare hours after reaching home on 
 the day after the morrow. 
 
 He was now a richer man than heretofore, standing on 
 his own bottom ; and the definite position in which he had 
 rooted himself nullified all suckers of derivation from peas- 
 ant ancestors. He had become illustrious, even sanguine 
 clarusy]\idgmg from the tone of the worthy mayor of St 
 Kirrs. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 ** EACH TO THE LOVED ONE'S SIDE." 
 
 THE friends and rivals breakfasted together the next 
 morning. Not a word was said on either side upon 
 the matter discussed the previous evening so glibly and so 
 hollowly. Stephen was absorbed the greater part of the 
 time in wishing he were not forced to stay in town yet an- 
 other day. 
 
 " I don't intend to leave for St. Kirrs till to-morrow, as 
 you know," he said to Knight at the end of the meal. 
 " What are you going to do with yourself to-day ?^ " 
 
 " I have an engagement just before ten," said Knight 
 deliberately. " And after that time I must call upon two or 
 three people." 
 
 '' I'll look for you this evening," said Stephen. 
 
 " Yes, do. You may as well come and dine with me ; 
 that is, if we can meet. I may not sleep in London to- 
 night : in fact, I am absolutely unsettled as to my move- 
 ments yet. However, the first thing I am going to do is to 
 get my baggage shifted from this place to Bede's Inn. 
 Good-bye for the present. I'll write, you know, if I can't 
 meet you." 
 
 It now wanted a quarter to nine o'clock. When Knight 
 was gone, Stephen felt yet more impatient of the circum- 
 stance that another day would have to drag itself away 
 wearily before he could set out for the spot of earth where- 
 on a soft thought of him might perhaps be nourished still. 
 On a sudden he admitted to his mind the possibility that 
 the engagement he was waiting in town to keep might be 
 postponed without any particular harm. 
 
 It was no sooner perceived than attempted. Looking at 
 his watch he found it wanted forty minutes to the departure 
 of the ten-o'clock train from Paddington, which left him a 
 
374 
 
 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 surplus quarter of an hour before it would be necessary to 
 
 start for the station. 
 
 Scribbling a hasty note or two — one putting off the meet 
 ing, another to Knight, apologizing for not being able to see 
 him in the evening— paying his bill, and leaving his heavier 
 luggage to follow him by goods-train, he jumped into a cab 
 and raided off to the Great Western Station. 
 
 Shortly afterwards he took his seat in the railway-car- 
 riage. 
 
 The guard paused on his whistle, to let into the next 
 compartment to Smith's a man of whom Stephen had caught 
 but a hasty glimpse as he ran across the platform at the last 
 moment. 
 
 Smith sank back into the carriage stilled by perplexity. 
 The man was like Knight ; astonishingly like him. Was it 
 possible it could be he ? To have got there, he must have 
 driven like the wind to Bede's Inn, and hardly have alighted 
 before starting again. No, it could not be he ; that was not 
 his way of doing things. 
 
 During the early part of the journey, Stephen Smith's 
 thoughts busied themselves till his brain seemed swollen. 
 One subject was concerning his own approaching actions. 
 He was a day earlier than his letter to his parents had 
 stated, and his arrangement with them had been that they 
 should meet him at Plymouth ; a plan which pleased the 
 worthy couple beyond expression. Once before the same 
 engagement had been made, which he had then quashed by 
 ante-dating his arrival. This time he would go right on to 
 Stranton ; ramble in that well-known neighborhood during 
 the evening and next morning, making inquiries ; and re- 
 turn to Plymouth to meet them as arranged : a contrivance 
 which would leave their cherished project undisturbed; re- 
 lieving his own impatience also. 
 
 At Chippenham there was a little waiting, and son^e 
 loosening and attaching of carriages. 
 
 Stephen looked out. At the same moment anothei 
 man's head emerged from the adjoining window. Each 
 looked in the other's face. 
 
 Knight and Stephen confronted one another. 
 
 " You here ! " said the younger man. 
 
 *^ Yes. It seems that you are too," said Knight strangely* 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 375 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Never were the selfishness of love and the cruelty of 
 jealousy more clearly exemplified than at this moment. 
 Each of the two men looked at his friend as he had never 
 looked at him before. Each was troubled 2i\. the other's pres- 
 ence. 
 
 " I thought you said you were not coming till to mor- 
 row," remarked Knight. 
 
 " I did. It was an afterthought to come to-day. This 
 journey was your engagement then ? " 
 
 " No, it was not. This is an afterthought of mine too. 
 I left a note to explain it, and account for my not being 
 able to meet you this evening as we arranged." 
 
 " So did I for you." 
 
 " You don't look well ; you did not this morning.'' 
 
 " I have a headache. You are paler to-day than you 
 were." 
 
 *' I, too, have been suffering from headache. We have 
 to wait here a few minutes, I think." 
 
 They walked up and down the platform, each one more 
 and more embarrassingly concerned with the awkwardness 
 of his friend's presence. They reached the end of the foot- 
 way, and paused in sheer absent-mindedness. Stephen's 
 vacant eyes rested upon the operations of some porters who 
 were shifting a dark and richly-finished van from the rear 
 of the train, to shunt another which was between it and the 
 fore part of the train. This operation having been con- 
 cluded, the friends returned to the side of their carriage. 
 
 "Will you come in here?" said Knight, not very 
 warmly. 
 
 " 1 have my rug and portmanteau and umbrella with me : 
 it is rather bothering to move now," said Stephen reluctantly. 
 " Why not you come here ? " 
 
 "I have my traps too. It is hardly worth while to 
 sliift them, for I shall see you again, you know." 
 
 " O yes." 
 
 And each got into his own place. Just at starting, a 
 man on the platform held up his hands and stopped the 
 train. 
 
 Stephen looked out to see what was the matter. 
 
 One of the officials was exclaiming to another, " That 
 
376 
 
 A PAIR OF BL UE E YES, 
 
 carrLige should have been attached again. Can't you see 
 it is for the main line ? Quick 1 What fools there are in 
 the world ! " 
 
 " What a confounded nuisance these stoppages are ! *' 
 exclaimed Knight impatiently, looking out from his com- 
 partment. " What is it ? " 
 
 " That singular carriage we saw has been unfastened 
 from our train by mistake, it seems," said Stephen. 
 
 He was watching the process of attaching it. The van 
 or cariiage, which he now recognized as having seen at 
 Paddington before they started, was rich and solemn rather 
 than gloomy in aspect. It seemed to be quite new, and of 
 modern design, and its impressive personality attracted 
 the notice of others besides himself. He beheld it gradu- 
 ally wheeled forward by two men on each side ; slower 
 and more sadly it seemed to approach : then a slight con- 
 cussion, and they were connected with it, and off again. 
 
 Stephen sat all the afternoon pondering upon the reason 
 of Knight's unexpected reappearance. Was he going as far 
 as Stranton? If so, he could only have one object in view 
 — a visit to Elfride. And what an idea it seemed ! 
 
 At Plymouth, Smith partook of a little refreshment, and 
 then went round to the side from which the Stranton train 
 started. 
 
 Knight was already there. 
 
 Stephen walked up, and stood beside him without speak- 
 ing. Two men at this moment crept out from among the 
 wheels of the waiting train. 
 
 "The carriage is light enough," said one in a grim 
 tone. "Light as vanity: full of nothing." 
 
 " Nothing in size, but a good deal in signification/* 
 said the other, a man of brighter mind and manners. 
 
 Smith then perceived that to their train was attached 
 that same carriage of grand and dark aspect which had 
 haunted them all the way from London. 
 
 " You are going on, I suppose ? " said Knight, turning 
 to Stephen, after idly looking at the same object. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " We may as well travel together for the remaining dis- 
 tance, may we not ? " 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES 377 
 
 "Ceitainly wewill;"and they both entered the same 
 door. 
 
 Evening drew on apace. It chanced to be the eve of 
 St. Valentine's — that bishop of blessed memory to youthful 
 lovers — and the sun shone low under the rim of a thick 
 hard cloud, decorating the eminences of the landscape 
 with crowns of orange fire. As the train changed its 
 direction on a curve, the same rays stretched in through 
 the window, and coaxed open Knight's half-closed eyes. 
 
 " You will get out at St. Kirrs, I suppose ? " he mur- 
 mured. 
 
 " No," said Stephen. " I am not expected till to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 Knight was silent. 
 
 " And you — are you going to Endelstow ? " said the 
 younger man pointedly. 
 
 " Since you ask, I can do no less than say I am. 
 Stephen," continued Knight slowly, and with more reso- 
 lution of manner than he had shown all the day, " I am 
 going to Endelstow to see if Elfride Swancourt is still free ; 
 and if so, to ask her to be my wife." 
 
 " So am I," said Stephen Smith. 
 
 " I think you'll lose your labor," Knight returned with 
 decision. 
 
 "Naturally you do." There was a strong accent of 
 bitterness in Stephen's voice. " You might have said hope 
 mstead oi think ^"^ he added. 
 
 " I might have done no such thing. I gave you my 
 opinion. Elfride Swancourt may have loved you once, no 
 doubt, but it was when she was so young that she hardly 
 knew her ov/n mind." 
 
 " Thank you," said Stephen laconically. " She knew 
 her mind as well as I did. We are the same age. If you 
 hadn't interfered — " 
 
 " Don't say that— don't say it, Stephen I How can 
 you make out that I interfered ? Be just, please." 
 
 " Well," said his friend, " she was mine before she was 
 yours — you know that ! And it seemed a hard thing to 
 find you had her, and that if it had not been for you all 
 might have turned out well for me." 
 
 Stephen spoke with a swelling heart, and looked out 
 
378 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 
 
 of the window to hide the emotion that would make itself 
 visible upon his face. 
 
 " It is absurd," said Knight in a kinder tone, " for you 
 to look at the matter in that light. What I tell you is for 
 your good. You naturally do not like to realize the truth 
 — that her liking for you was only a girl's first fancy, which 
 has no root ever." 
 
 " It is not truel" said Stephen passionately. "It was 
 you put me out. And now you'll be pushing in again 
 between us, and depriving me of my chance again ! My 
 right, that's what it is ! How ungenerous of you to come 
 anew and try to take her away from me ! When you had 
 her, I did not interfere ; and you might, I think, Mr. 
 Knight, do by me as I did by you ! " 
 
 " Don't *Mr.' me; you are as well in the world as I 
 am now." 
 
 " First love is deepest ; and that was mine." 
 
 " Who told you that 1 " said Knight superciliously. 
 
 " I had her first love. And it was through me that 
 you and she were parted. I can guess that well enough.'* 
 
 " It was. And if I were to explain to you in what way 
 that operated in parting us, I should convince you that 
 you do quite wrong in intruding upon her — that, as I said 
 at first, your labor will be lost. I don't choose to explain, 
 because the particulars are painful. But if you won't 
 listen to me, go on, for heaven's sake. I don't care what 
 you do, my boy." 
 
 " You have no right to domineer over me as you do ! 
 Just because, when I was a lad, I was accustomed to look 
 up to you as a master, and you helped me a little, for 
 which I cared for you and have loved you too much, you 
 assume too much now, and step in before me. It is cruel 
 — it is unjust — of you to injure me so ! " 
 
 *' Knight showed himself keenly hurt at this. " Ste- 
 phen, those words are untrue and unworthy of any man, 
 and they are unworthy of you. You know you wrong me. 
 If you have ever profited by any instruction of mine, I am 
 only too glad to know it. You know it was given un- 
 grudgingly, and that I have never once looked upon it as 
 making you in any way a debtor to me." 
 
 Stephen's naturally gentle nature was touched, and it 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 379 
 
 was in a troubled voice that he said, " Ves, yes. I am 
 unjust in that — I own it." 
 
 " This is St. Kirrs Station, I think. Are you going to 
 get out ? " 
 
 Knight's manner of returning to the matter in hand 
 drew Stephen again into himself. " No ; I told you I was 
 going to Stranton," he resolutely replied. 
 
 " Knight's features became impassive, and he said no 
 more. The train continued rattling on, and Stephen 
 leaned back in his corner and closed his eyes. The yel- 
 lows of evening had turned to browns, the dusky shades 
 thickened, and a flying cloud of dust occasionally stroked 
 the window — borne upon a chilling breeze whicli blew 
 from the northeast The previously gilded but now 
 dreary hills began to lose their daylight aspects of rotun- 
 dity, and to become black discs vandyked against the sky, 
 all nature wearing the cloak that six o'clock casts over the 
 landscape at this time of the year. 
 
 Stephen started up in bewilderment after a long still- 
 ness, and it was some time before he recollected him- 
 self. 
 
 " Well, how real, how real I " he exclaimed, brushmg 
 his hand across his eyes. 
 
 "What is?" said Knight. 
 
 " That dream. I fell asleep for a few minutes, and 
 have had a dream — the most vivid I ever remember." 
 
 He wearily looked out into the gloom. They were 
 now drawing near to Stranton. The lighting of the lamps 
 was perceptible through the veil of evening — each flame 
 starting into existence at intervals, and blinking weakly 
 against the gusts of wind. 
 
 " What did you dream," said Knight moodily. 
 
 "O, nothing to be told. 'Twas a sort of incubus. 
 There is never anything in dreams." 
 
 " I hardly supposed there was." 
 
 " I know that. However, what I so vividly dreamt was 
 this, since you would like to hear. It was the brightest of 
 bright mornings at East Endelstow church, and you and I 
 stood by the font. Far away in the chancel Lord Luxellian 
 was standing alone, cold and impassive, and utterly unlike 
 his usual self; but I knew it was he. Inside the altar rail 
 
jgQ A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 Stood a strange clergyman with his book open. He looked 
 up and said to Lord Luxellian, ' Where's the bride ? ' Lord 
 Luxellian said, * There's no bride.' At that moment some- 
 body came in at the door, and I knew her to be Lady Lux- 
 ellian who died. He turned and said to her, ' I thought 
 you were in the vault below us ; but that could have been 
 only a dream of mine. Come on.' Then she came on. 
 And in brushing between us she chilled me so with cold 
 that I exclaimed, ' The life is gone out of me ! ' and, in the 
 way of dreams, I awoke. But here we are at Stranton." 
 
 They were slowly entering the station. 
 
 " What are you going to do ? " said Knight. Do you 
 really intend to call on the Swancourts ? " 
 
 *' By no means. I am going to make inquiries first. 1 
 shall stay at the Luxellian Arms to-night. You will go right 
 on to Endelstow, I suppose, at once ? '• 
 
 " I can hardly do that at this time of the day. Perhaps 
 you are not aware that the family — her father at any rate. 
 — is at variance with me as much as with you." 
 
 " I didn't know it." 
 
 ** And that I cannot rush into the house as an old friend 
 any more than you can. Certainly I have the privileges of 
 a distant relationship, whatever they may be." 
 
 Knight let down the window, and looked ahead. " There 
 are a great many people at the station," he said. " They 
 seem all to be on the look-out for us." 
 
 "When the train stopped, the half-estranged friends 
 could perceive by the lamplight that the assemblage of 
 idlers enclosed as a kernel a group of men in black cloaks. 
 A side gate in the platform-railing was open, and outside 
 this stood a dark vehicle, which they could not at first char- 
 acterize. Then Knight saw on its upper part forms against 
 the sky like fir-trees by night, and knew the vehicle to be a 
 hearse. Few people were at the carriage-doors to meet the 
 passengers ; the majority had congregated at this upper 
 end. Knight and Stephen alighted, and turned for a mo- 
 ment in the same direction. 
 
 The sombre van, which had accompanied them all day, 
 now began to reveal that their destination was also its own. 
 It had been drawn up exactly opposite the open gate. The 
 bystanders all fpll hark, forming a clear lane from the gate- 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 38: 
 
 way to the van, and the men in cloaks entered the latter 
 conveyance, 
 
 " They are laborers, I fancy," said Stephen. " Ah, it is 
 strange ; but I recognize three of them as Endelstow men. 
 Rather remarkable, this." 
 
 Presently they began to come out, two and two ; and 
 under the rays of the lamp they were seen to bear between 
 them a light-colored coffin of satin-wood, brightly polished, 
 and without a nail. The eight men took the burden upon 
 their shoulders, and slowly crossed with it over to the gate. 
 
 Knight and Stephen went outside, and came close to 
 the procession as it moved off. A carriage belonging to the 
 cortege turned round close to a lamp. The rays shone in 
 upon the face of the vicar of Endelstow, Mr. Swancourt — 
 looking many years older than when they had last seen him. 
 Knight and Stephen involuntarily drew back. 
 
 Knight spoke to a bystander. " What has Mr. Swan- 
 court to do with that funeral ? " 
 
 " He is the lady's father," said the bystander. 
 
 "What lady's father?" said Knight, in a voice so hol- 
 low that the man stared at him. 
 
 " The father of the lady in the coffin. She died in Lon- 
 don, you know, and has been brought here by this train. 
 She is to be taken home to-night, and buried to-morrow." 
 
 Knight stood staring blindly at where the hearse had 
 been ; as if he saw it, or some one, there. Then he turned, 
 and beheld the lithe form of Stephen bowed down like that 
 of an old man. He took his young friend's arm, and led 
 him away from the light. 
 
CHAPTER XL. 
 
 WELCOME, PROUD LADY." 
 
 HALF an hour has passed. Two miserable men are 
 wandering in the darkness up the road from Stran- 
 ton to Endelstow. 
 
 " Has she broken her heart ; " said Harry Knight 
 " Can it be that I have killed her ? I was bitter with her, 
 Stephen, and she has died ! And may God have no mercy 
 upon me ! " 
 
 " How can you have killed her more than I ? " 
 
 " Why, I went away from her — stole away almost — and 
 didn't tell her I should not come again \ and at that last 
 meeting I did not kiss her once, but let her miserably go. 
 I have been a fool — a fool ! I wish the most abject con- 
 fession of it before crowds of my countrymen could in any 
 way make amends to my darling for the intense cruelty I 
 have shown her." 
 
 " Your darling ! " said Stephen, with a sort of wild laugh. 
 " Any man can say that, I suppose ; any man can. I know 
 this, she was my darling before she was yours ; and after too. 
 If anybody has a right to call her his own, it is 1." 
 
 " You talk like a man in the dark ; which is what you 
 are. Did she ever do anything for you 1 Risk her name, 
 for instance, for you ? " 
 
 " Yes, she did," said Stephen emphatically. 
 
 " Not entirely. Did she ever live for you — prove that 
 she could not live v/ithout you — laugh and weep for you } " 
 
 *' Yes." 
 
 " Never ! Did she ever risk her life for you — no ! My 
 dailing did for me." 
 
 " Then it was in kindness only. When did she risk her 
 life for you ? " 
 
 *' To save mine on the cliff yonder. The poor child was 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 3 S3 
 
 with me looking at the approach of the Puffin steamboat, 
 and I slipped down. We both had a narrow escape. I 
 wish we had died there." 
 
 " Ah, but wait," Stephen pleaded, with wet eyes. " She 
 went on that cliff to see me arrive home : she had promis- 
 ed it. She told me she would months before. And would 
 she have gone there if she had not cared for me at all ?" 
 
 " You have an idea that Elfride died for you, no doubt," 
 said Knight with a mournful sarcasm too nerveless to sup- 
 port itself. 
 
 " Never mind. If we find that — that she died yours, I'll 
 say no more ever." 
 
 " And if we find she died yours, I'll say no more." 
 
 " Very well — so shall it be." 
 
 The dark clouds into which the sun had sunk had begun 
 to drop rain in an increasing volume. 
 
 " Can we wait somewhere here till this shower is over?" 
 said Stephen desultorily. 
 
 " As you will. But it is not worth while. We'll hear 
 the particulars, and return. Don't let people know who we 
 are. I am not much now." 
 
 They had reached a point at which the road branched 
 into two — ^just outside the west village, one fork of the di- 
 verging routes passing into the latter place, the other 
 stretching on to East Endelstow. Having come some of 
 the distance by the footpath, they now found that the hearse 
 was only a little in advance of them. 
 
 " I fancy it has turned off to East Endelstow. Can you 
 see ? " 
 
 *' I cannot. You must be mistaken." 
 
 Knight and Stephen entered the village. A bar of fiery 
 light lay across the road, proceeding from the half-open 
 door of a smithy, in which bellows were heard blowing and 
 a hammer ringing. The rain had increased, and they me- 
 chanically turned for shelter towards the warm and cosy 
 scene. 
 
 Close at their heels came another man, without overcoat 
 or umbrella, and with a parcel under his arm. 
 
 " A wet evening," he said to the two friends, and passed 
 by them. They stood in the outer penthouse, but the man 
 went in to the fire. 
 
284 ^ /'^/i? OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 The smith ceased his blowing, and began talking to the 
 man who had entered. 
 
 " I have come from Stranton," he said. " Was obliged 
 to come to-night, you know." 
 
 He held the parcel, which was a flat one, towards the 
 firelight, to learn if the rain had penetrated it. Resting it 
 edgewise on the forge, he supported it perpendicularly with 
 one hand, wiping his face with the handkerchief he held in 
 the other. 
 
 " I suppose you know what I've got here ? " he observed 
 to the smith. 
 
 " No, I don't," said the smith, pausing again on his 
 bellows. 
 
 " As the rain's not over, I'll show you," said the bearer. 
 
 He laid the thin and broad package, which had acute 
 angles in different directions, flat upon the anvil, and the 
 smith blew up the fire to give him more light. First, after 
 untying the package, a sheet of brown paper was removed : 
 this was laid flat. Then he unfolded a piece of baize : this 
 also he spread flat on the paper. The third covering was 
 a wrapper of tissue paper, which was spread out in its turn. 
 The enclosure was revealed, and he held it up for the smith's 
 inspection. 
 
 " O,— I see ! " said the smith, kindling with a chastened 
 interest, and drawing close. " Poor young lady— ah, a ter- 
 rible melancholy thing, so soon too ! " 
 
 Knight and Stephen turned their heads and looked. 
 
 " And what's that 1 " continued the smith. 
 
 "That's the coronet— beautifully finished, isn't it? Ah, 
 that cost some money ! " 
 
 " 'Tis as fine a bit of metal-work as ever I see— that 
 'lis." 
 
 " It came from the same people as the coffin, you know, 
 but was not ready soon enough to be sent round to the 
 Lown-house yesterday. I've got to fix it on this very night." 
 
 The care fully -packed articles were a coffin-plate and 
 coronet 
 
 Knight and Stephen came forward. The undertaker's 
 man, on seeing them look for the inscription, civilly turned 
 it round towards them, and each read, almost at one 
 moment, by the ruddy light of the coals : 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES, 385 
 
 ESIift of ^ptitjstr l^ujao BLuiriKan, 
 
 jFiftwntj) 33aron HLuirilfou: 
 
 Mih jF^iruars 10, 1867. 
 
 They read it, and read it, and read it again— Stephen 
 and Xnight — as if animated by one soul. Then Stephen 
 put his hand upon Knight's arm, and they retired from the 
 yellow glow, farther, farther, till the chill darkness enclosed 
 them round, and the quiet sky asserted its presence over- 
 *head as a dim grey sheet of blank monotony. 
 
 " Where shall we go ? " said Stephen. 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 A long silence ensued. " Elfride married," said Ste- 
 phen then in a whisper, as if he feared to let the assertion 
 loose on the world. 
 
 " False," whispered Knight. 
 
 " And dead. Denied us both. I hate * false ' — I hate 
 it J" 
 
 Knight made no answer. 
 
 Nothing was heard by them now save the slow measure- 
 ment of time by their beating pulses, the soft touch of the 
 dribbling rain upon their clothes, and the low purr of the 
 blacksmith's bellows hard by. 
 
 " Shall we follow Elfie any farther ? " Stephen said. 
 
 *' No : let us leave her alone. She is beyond our love, 
 and let her be beyond our reproach. Since we don't know 
 half the reasons that made her do as she did, Stephen, how 
 can we say, even now, that she was not pure and true in 
 heart?" Knight's voice had now become mild and gentle 
 as a child's. He went on : " Can we call her ambitious ? 
 No. Circumstance has, as usual, overpowered her pur- 
 poses — fragile and delicate as she — liable to be overthrown 
 in a moment by the coarse elements of accident. I know 
 that's it— don't you ? " 
 
 " It may be — it must be^ Let us go on." 
 
 They proceeded to retrace their steps towards Stranton, 
 and wandered on in silence for many minutes. Stephen 
 then paused, and lightly put his hand within Knight's arm. 
 
 17 
 
386 ^ P^^R OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 " I wonder how she came to die," he said in a broken 
 whisper. " Shall we return and learn a little more ? " 
 
 They turned back again, and entering Endelstow a second 
 time, came to a door which was standing open. It was 
 that of an inn called the Welcome Home, and the house 
 appeared to have been recently modernized. The name 
 too was not that of the same landlord as formerly, but Mar- 
 tin Cannisters. 
 
 Knight and Smith entered. The inn was quite silent, 
 and they followed the passage till they reached the kitch- 
 en, where a huge fire was burning, which roared up the^ 
 chimney, and sent over the floor, ceiling, and newly-whit- 
 ened walls a glare so intense as to make the candle quite 
 a secondary light. A woman in a white apron and black 
 gown was standing there alone behind a cleanly-scrubbed 
 deal-table. Stephen first, and Knight afterwards, recog- 
 nized her as Unity, who had been parlor maid at the vic- 
 arage and young-lady's maid at the Crags. 
 
 " Unity," said Stephen softly, " don't you know me ? " 
 
 She looked inquiringly a moment, and her face cleared 
 up. 
 
 " Mr. Smith— ay that it is ! " she said. " And that's 
 Mr. Knight. I beg you to sit down. Perhaps you know 
 that since I saw you last I have married Martin Cannis- 
 ter." 
 
 " How long have you been married ? " 
 
 "About five months. We were married the same day 
 that my dear Miss Elfie became Lady Luxellian." Tears 
 appeared in Unity's eyes, and filled them, and fell down 
 her cheeks in spite of efforts to the contrary. 
 
 The agony of the two men in resolutely controlling 
 themselves when thus exampled to admit relief of the 
 same kind was distressing. They both turned their backs 
 and walked a few steps away. 
 
 Then Unity said, " Will you go into the parlor, gentle- 
 men ? " 
 
 *' Let us stay here with her," Knight whispered, and 
 turning said, "No; we will sit here. We want to rest 
 here for a time, if you please." 
 
 That evening the sorrowing friends sat with their host- 
 ess beside the large fire, Knight in the recess formed by 
 
A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 387 
 
 the chimney breast, where he was in the shade. And by 
 showing a little confidence they won hers, and she told 
 them what they had staid to hear — the latter history of 
 poor Elfride. 
 
 " One day — after you, Mr. Knight, left us for the last 
 time — she was missed from the Crags, and her father went 
 after her, and brought her home ill. Where she went to, I 
 never knew — but she was very unwell for weeks afterwards. 
 And she said to me that she didn't care what became of 
 her, and she wished she could die. When she was better, 
 I said she would live to be married yet, and she said then, 
 " Yes j I'll do anything for the benefit of my family so as to 
 turn my useless life to some practical account." Well, it be- 
 gan like this about Lord Luxellian courting her. The first 
 Lady Luxellian had died, and he was in great trouble be- 
 cause the little girls were left motherless. After a while 
 they used to come and see her in their little black frocks, 
 for they liked her as well or better than their own mother 
 — that's true. They used to call her " little mamma." These 
 children made her a shade livelier, but she was not the girl 
 she had been — I could see that — and she grew thinner a 
 good deal. Well, my lord got to ask the Swancourts oftener 
 and oftener to dinner — nobody else of his acquaintance — 
 and at last the vicar's family were backwards and forwards 
 at all hours of the day. Well, people say that the little girls 
 asked their father to let Miss Elfride come and live with 
 them, and that he said perhaps he would if they were good 
 children. However, the time went on, and one day I said, 
 " Miss Elfride, you don't look so well as you used to ; and 
 though nobody else seems to notice it, I do.' 
 
 " She laughed a little, and said, I shall live to be mar- 
 ried yet, as you told me." 
 
 " Shall you, miss ? I am glad to hear that," I said. 
 
 " Who do you think I am going to be married to ? " she 
 said again. 
 
 " Mr Knight, I suppose," said I. 
 
 " O ! " she cried, and turned off so white, and afore I 
 could get to her she had sunk down like a heap of clothes, 
 and fainted away. Well then she came to herself after a 
 time, and said, 
 
 "Unity, now we'll go on with our conversation." 
 
388 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 " Better not to-day, miss," I said. 
 
 "Yes, we will," she said. Who do you think I am gomg 
 CO be married to ? " 
 
 " I don't know," I said this time. 
 
 *' Guess," she said. 
 
 " 'Tisnt my lord, is it ? " says I. 
 
 ** Yes, 'tis," says she, in a sick wild way. 
 
 " But he don't come courting much," I said. 
 
 " Ah, you don't kHow," she said, and told me 'twas go- 
 ing to be in October. After that she freshened up a bit — 
 whether 'twas with the thought of getting away from home 
 or not, I don't know. For, perhaps, I may as well speak 
 plainly, and tell you that her home was no home to her now. 
 Her father was bitter to her and harsh upon her; and 
 though Mrs. Swancourt was well enough in her way, 'twas 
 a sort of cold politeness that was not worth much, and the 
 little thing had a worrying time of it altogether. About a 
 month before the wedding, she and my lord and the two 
 children used to ride about together upon horseback, and a 
 very pretty sight they were ; and if you'll believe me, I 
 never saw him once with her unless the children were with 
 her too — which made the courting so strange-looking. Ay, 
 and my lord is so handsome, you know, so that at last I 
 think she rather liked him ; and I have seen her smile and 
 blush a bit at things he said. He wanted her the more be- 
 cause the children did, for everybody could see that she would 
 be a most tender mother to them and friend and playmate too. 
 And my lord is not only handsome, but a splendid courter, 
 and up to all the ways o't. So he made her the beautiful- 
 est presents ; ah, one I can mind — a lovely bracelet, with 
 diamonds and emeralds. O, how red her face came when 
 she saw it ! The old roses came back to her cheeks for a 
 minute or two then. I helped dress her the day we both were 
 married— it was the best service I did her, poor child ! 
 When she was ready, I ran up stairs and slipped on my 
 own wedding gown, and away they went, and away went 
 Martin and I ; and no sooner had my lord and my lady 
 been married than the parson married us. It was a very 
 quiet pair of weddings — hardly anybody knew it. Well, 
 hope will hold its own in a young heart, if so be it can ; and 
 
te3fer--peoKf;-i^^ 
 
 beheld onw hi "I?"" *« '°^ gro"n;. ■ . "^ ^^^ ^'- 
 
 of its lusVS: l!,-"^* '^^'''er new coffin wh,V^ k 5 ^^'^ "'che 
 nished n he,,?1,f "^^« coffin s^^h"? ^^^ '°=' some 
 
 "-1 ^-^^'b^o^tn?? °^^ -°. '^-Hn, 
 Ped, and his whole ftamfs^em?^ ,*« coffin. h"f ^ 
 ■Mment to grfef w^^^^^^'^^'y given up in 
 ";aps than aifeht-^ndT *'"' y°4- 
 
388 
 
 A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 
 
 « P ff kneeling figure in the dim light. Knight in 
 «f r ^^ ^nized the mourner as Lord Luxellian, the 
 "Yes, xyeu^j^dofElfride. ' 
 
 ^o „ y")f^",^^^.hemselves to be intruders. 
 
 u n „ essed Stephen back, and they silently with 
 „^^^^^^ nad entered. 
 
 « v^^"' •"^'S^^''" ^^ ^^^^» ^^ ^ broken voice. "We have 
 « -r*^^', ^^^i there. Another stands before us — nearer 
 " But he do i » 
 
 Ah, you Q y ^\^Q i^i^gy ijQ^jj retraced their steps down 
 mg o be in O^alley to Stranton.. . 
 
 whether *- ' 
 
 or nof 
 
 plain" 
 
 Her 
 
 thou 
 
 a so^ 
 
 lit 
 
 mc- 
 
 chilt 
 
 very 
 
 nev» 
 
 her 
 
 1 
 
 TBB ENOi. 
 
 S- 
 
 min< 
 marric 
 When s. 
 own wed. 
 Martin ana 
 been marrieu t- 
 quiet pair of w^ 
 hope will hold its 
 
 -autiful- 
 
 ilet, with 
 
 .ame when 
 
 cheeks for a 
 
 vve both were 
 
 poor child ! 
 
 pped on my 
 
 i away went 
 
 nd my lady 
 
 '^as a very 
 
 ^ it. Well, 
 
 it can ; and 
 
I 
 

 
 <etf 
 
 (Scitc. 
 
 JUHI 
 
 2 t33* 
 
 
 General L 
 Unlve«g°? 
 
THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY