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Two on a Tower

T >> Thomas Hardy >> Two on a Tower




Swithin came forward, and took her by the hand, which she passively
allowed him to do.

'Swithin, you don't love me,' she said simply.

'O Viviette!'

'You don't love me,' she repeated.

'Don't say it!'

'Yes, but I will! you have a right not to love me. You did once.
But now I am an old woman, and you are still a young man; so how can
you love me? I do not expect it. It is kind and charitable of you
to come and see me here.'

'I have come all the way from the Cape,' he faltered, for her
insistence took all power out of him to deny in mere politeness what
she said.

'Yes; you have come from the Cape; but not for me,' she answered.
'It would be absurd if you had come for me. You have come because
your work there is finished. . . . I like to sit here with my
little boy--it is a pleasant spot. It was once something to us, was
it not? but that was long ago. You scarcely knew me for the same
woman, did you?'

'Knew you--yes, of course I knew you!'

'You looked as if you did not. But you must not be surprised at me.
I belong to an earlier generation than you, remember.'

Thus, in sheer bitterness of spirit did she inflict wounds on
herself by exaggerating the difference in their years. But she had
nevertheless spoken truly. Sympathize with her as he might, and as
he unquestionably did, he loved her no longer. But why had she
expected otherwise? 'O woman,' might a prophet have said to her,
'great is thy faith if thou believest a junior lover's love will
last five years!'

'I shall be glad to know through your grandmother how you are
getting on,' she said meekly. 'But now I would much rather that we
part. Yes; do not question me. I would rather that we part. Good-
bye.'

Hardly knowing what he did he touched her hand, and obeyed. He was
a scientist, and took words literally. There is something in the
inexorably simple logic of such men which partakes of the cruelty of
the natural laws that are their study. He entered the tower-steps,
and mechanically descended; and it was not till he got half-way down
that he thought she could not mean what she had said.

Before leaving Cape Town he had made up his mind on this one point;
that if she were willing to marry him, marry her he would without
let or hindrance. That much he morally owed her, and was not the
man to demur. And though the Swithin who had returned was not quite
the Swithin who had gone away, though he could not now love her with
the sort of love he had once bestowed; he believed that all her
conduct had been dictated by the purest benevolence to him, by that
charity which 'seeketh not her own.' Hence he did not flinch from a
wish to deal with loving-kindness towards her--a sentiment perhaps
in the long-run more to be prized than lover's love.

Her manner had caught him unawares; but now recovering himself he
turned back determinedly. Bursting out upon the roof he clasped her
in his arms, and kissed her several times.

'Viviette, Viviette,' he said, 'I have come to marry you!'

She uttered a shriek--a shriek of amazed joy--such as never was
heard on that tower before or since--and fell in his arms, clasping
his neck.

There she lay heavily. Not to disturb her he sat down in her seat,
still holding her fast. Their little son, who had stood with round
conjectural eyes throughout the meeting, now came close; and
presently looking up to Swithin said--

'Mother has gone to sleep.'

Swithin looked down, and started. Her tight clasp had loosened. A
wave of whiteness, like that of marble which had never seen the sun,
crept up from her neck, and travelled upwards and onwards over her
cheek, lips, eyelids, forehead, temples, its margin banishing back
the live pink till the latter had entirely disappeared.

Seeing that something was wrong, yet not understanding what, the
little boy began to cry; but in his concentration Swithin hardly
heard it. 'Viviette--Viviette!' he said.

The child cried with still deeper grief, and, after a momentary
hesitation, pushed his hand into Swithin's for protection.

'Hush, hush! my child,' said Swithin distractedly. 'I'll take care
of you! O Viviette!' he exclaimed again, pressing her face to his.

But she did not reply.

'What can this be?' he asked himself. He would not then answer
according to his fear.

He looked up for help. Nobody appeared in sight but Tabitha Lark,
who was skirting the field with a bounding tread--the single bright
spot of colour and animation within the wide horizon. When he
looked down again his fear deepened to certainty. It was no longer
a mere surmise that help was vain. Sudden joy after despair had
touched an over-strained heart too smartly. Viviette was dead. The
Bishop was avenged.

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