Hardy_A_Pair_of_Blue_Eyes.txt topic ['13', '324', '378', '393']

, that cost some
money!'

'' as fine a bit of metal work as ever see--that 'tis.'

' came from the same people as the coffin, you know, but was not ready
soon enough to be sent round to the house in yesterday. 've got
to fix it on this very night.'

carefully-packed articles were a coffin-plate and coronet.

and came forward. 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:

,
of ,
:
10, 18--.

read it, and read it, and read it again-- and --as if
animated by one soul. put his hand upon 's arm, and
they retired from the yellow glow, further, further, till the chill
darkness enclosed them round, and the quiet sky asserted its presence
overhead as a dim grey sheet of blank monotony.

' shall we go?' said .

' don't know.'

long silence ensued....' married!' said then in a thin
whisper, as if he feared to let the assertion loose on the world.

',' whispered .

' dead. us both. hate "false"-- hate it!'

made no answer.

was heard by them now save the slow measurement 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.

' we follow any further?' said.

': let us leave her alone. is beyond our love, and let her be
beyond our reproach. we don't know half the reasons that made her
do as she did, , how can we say, even now, that she was not pure
and true in heart?' 's voice had now become mild and gentle as a
child's. went on: ' we call her ambitious? . has,
as usual, overpowered her purposes--fragile and delicate as she--liable
to be overthrown in a moment by the coarse elements of accident. know
that's it,--don't you?'

' may be--it must be. us go on.'

began to bend their steps towards , whither they
had sent their bags from . wandered on in silence for many
minutes. then paused, and lightly put his hand within 's
arm.

' wonder how she came to die,' he said in a broken whisper. ' we
return and learn a little more?'

turned back again, and entering a second time, came to a
door which was standing open. was that of an inn called the
, and the house appeared to have been recently repaired and entirely
modernized. name too was not that of the same landlord as formerly,
but 's.

and entered. inn was quite silent, and they followed
the passage till they reached the kitchen, where a huge fire was
burning, which roared up the chimney, and sent over the floor, ceiling,
and newly-whitened walls a glare so intense as to make the candle quite
a secondary light. woman in a white apron and black gown was standing
there alone behind a cleanly-scrubbed deal table. first, and
afterwards, recognized her as , who had been parlour-maid at
the vicarage and young lady's-maid at the .

',' said softly, 'don't you know me?'

looked inquiringly a moment, and her face cleared up.

'. --ay, that it is!' she said. ' that's . . beg you
to sit down. you know that since saw you last have married
.'

' long have you been married?'

' five months. were married the same day that my dear
became .' appeared in 's eyes, and filled them,
and fell down her cheek, in spite of efforts to the contrary.

pain of the two men in resolutely controlling themselves when thus
exampled to admit relief of the same kind was distressing. both
turned their backs and walked a few steps away.

said, ' you go into the parlour, gentlemen?'

' us stay here with her,' whispered, and turning said, '; we
will sit here. want to rest and dry ourselves here for a time, if you
please.'

evening the sorrowing friends sat with their hostess beside the
large fire, in the recess formed by the chimney breast, where he
was in shade. by showing a little confidence they won hers, and
she told them what they had stayed to hear--the latter history of poor
.

' day--after you, . , left us for the last time--she was
missed from the , and her father went after her, and brought her
home ill. she went to, never knew--but she was very unwell for
weeks afterwards. she said to me that she didn't care what became of
her, and she wished she could die. she was better, said she would
live to be married yet, and she said then, "; 'll do anything
for the benefit of my family, so as to turn my useless life to some
practical account." , it began like this about
courting her. first had died, and he was in great
trouble because the little girls were left motherless. 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.
used to call her "little mamma." children made her a shade
livelier, but she was not the girl she had been-- could see that--and
she grew thinner a good deal. , my lord got to ask the
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. , people say that the little girls asked their father to let
come and live with them, and that he said perhaps he would
if they were good children. , the time went on, and one day
said, " , you don't look so well as you used to; and though
nobody else seems to notice it do." laughed a little, and said, "
shall live to be married yet, as you told me."

'" you, miss? am glad to hear that," said.

'" do you think am going to be married to?" she said again.

'". , suppose," said .

'"!" she cried, and turned off so white, and afore could get to her
she had sunk down like a heap of clothes, and fainted away. , then,
she came to herself after a time, and said, ", now we'll go on with
our conversation."

'" not to-day, miss," said.

'", we will," she said. " do you think am going to be married
to?"

'" don't know," said this time.

'"," she said.

'"''t my lord, is it?" says .

'", 'tis," says she, in a sick wild way.

'" he don't come courting much," said.

"'! you don't know," she said, and told me 'twas going to be in
. that she freshened up a bit--whether 'twas with the
thought of getting away from home or not, don't know. , perhaps,
may as well speak plainly, and tell you that her home was no home to her
now. father was bitter to her and harsh upon her; and though .
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. 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, never saw him once
with her unless the children were with her too--which made the courting
so strange-looking. , and my lord is so handsome, you know, so that at
last think she rather liked him; and have seen her smile and blush a
bit at things he said. wanted her the more because the children did,
for everybody could see that she would be a most tender mother to them,
and friend and playmate too. my lord is not only handsome, but
a splendid courter, and up to all the ways o't. he made her the
beautifullest presents; ah, one can mind--a lovely bracelet, with
diamonds and emeralds. , how red her face came when she saw it!
old roses came back to her cheeks for a minute or two then. helped
dress her the day we both were married--it was the last service did
her, poor child! she was ready, ran upstairs and slipped on my
own wedding gown, and away they went, and away went and ; and no
sooner had my lord and my lady been married than the parson married us.
was a very quiet pair of weddings--hardly anybody knew it. ,
hope will hold its own in a young heart, if so be it can; and my lady
freshened up a bit, for my lord was handsome and kind.'

' came she to die--and away from home?' murmured .

''t you see, sir, she fell off again afore they'd been married long,
and my lord took her abroad for change of scene. were coming home,
and had got as far as , when she was taken very ill and couldn't
be moved, and there she died.'

' he very fond of her?'

', my lord? , he was!'

' fond of her?'

', beyond everything. suddenly, but by slow degrees. ' her
nature to win people more when they knew her well. 'd have died for
her, believe. my lord, he's heart-broken now!'

' funeral is to-morrow?'

'; my husband is now at the vault with the masons, opening the steps
and cleaning down the walls.'

next day two men walked up the familiar valley from
to . when the funeral was over, and every one
had left the lawn-like churchyard, the pair went softly down the steps
of the vault, and under the low-groined arches they had beheld
once before, lit up then as now. the new niche of the crypt lay a
rather new coffin, which had lost some of its lustre, and a newer coffin
still, bright and untarnished in the slightest degree.

the latter was the dark form of a man, kneeling on the damp
floor, his body flung across the coffin, his hands clasped, and his
whole frame seemingly given up in utter abandonment to grief. was
still young--younger, perhaps, than --and even now showed how
graceful was his figure and symmetrical his build. murmured a prayer
half aloud, and was quite unconscious that two others were standing
within a few yards of him.

and had advanced to where they once stood beside
on the day all three had met there, before she had herself gone down
into silence like her ancestors, and shut her bright blue eyes for ever.
until then did they see the kneeling figure in the dim light.
instantly recognized the mourner as , the bereaved husband
of .

felt themselves to be intruders. pressed back, and
they silently withdrew as they had entered.

' away,' he said, in a broken voice. ' have no right to be there.
stands before us--nearer to her than we!'

side by side they both retraced their steps down the grey still
valley to .