^ ^ ^« «. j; «r ) $1 T$ 9* *% IWS University of California • Berkeley Purchased as the gift of Russell Miller 7 J ct^ip^ynt e^ [Page 42.1 "selecting a specially fine product of the 'BRITISH QUEEN ' TAUIETY, HE STOOD UP AND HELD IT DY THE STEM TO HER MOUTH." TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES A PUKE WOMAN Faithfully Presented By THOMAS HARDY AUTHOR OF A GROUP OF NOBLE DAMES " " THE AVOODLANDERS " ETC. ^^ Poor wozmded name! my bosom, as a bed. Shall lodge thee.'" W. Shakespeare. ILLUSTRATED NEW AXD COMPLETELY REVISED EDITIOS NEW YORK HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE 1893 Copyright, 1891, by Harper «S: Brothers. Coi3yright, 1892, by Harper & Brothers. Copyright, 1893, by Harper & Brothers. All rights reserved. CONTENTS p[)a5c tl)e i^irst. PAGE THE MAIDEN, I.-XI 1 lase tl)e Scconb. MAIDEN NO MORE, XII.-XV 81 THE RALLY, XYI.-XXIV 112 THE CONSEQUENCE, XXV.-XXXIV 172 pi)asc l\]c i'iftli. THE WOMAN PAYS, XXXV.-XLIV 258 THE CONVERT, XLV.-LII 348 FULFILMENT, LIII.-LIX 420 ILLUSTRATIONS. " SELECTING A SPECIALLY FINE PRODUCT OF THE * BRITISH QUEEN ' VARIETY, HE STOOD UP AND HELD IT BY THE STEM TO HER MOUTH " Frontispiece " so MATTERS STOOD WHEN TESS OPENED THE DOOR AND PAUSED UPON THE MAT WITHIN IT, SURVEYING THE SCENE" . . . FuceS p. 16 "TESS followed slowly IN THEIR REAR, AND ENTERED THE BARTON BY THE OPEN GATE THROUGH WHICH THEY HAD EN- TERED BEFORE her" " 118 " ' WHAT MAKES YOU DRAW OFF IN THAT WAY, TESS ?' SAID HE, 'ARE YOU AFRAID?'" " 138 "he WENT QUICKLY TOWARDS THE DESIRE OF HIS EYES " . . . " 170 "SHE FLUNG HERSELF DOWN UPON THE RUSTLING UNDERGROWTH OF SPEAR-GRASS AS UPON A BED " " 202 "they hung ABOUT HER IN THEIR FLOWING WHITE NIGHT- GOWNS" " 226 " * IN THE NAME OP HEAVEN, FORGIVE ME !' SHE WHISPERED " . . " 260 "his father and MOTHER WERE BOTH IN THE DRAWING-ROOM " " 298 " THE PREACHER WAS ALEC d'uRBERVILLE " " 348 "'what shall we do NOW, TESS?'" " 416 EXPLANATOEY NOTE TO THE FIEST EDITION. The main portion of tlie following story appeared — with slight modifications — in the GrapMc newspaper and Har- pei^s Bazar ; other chapters, more especially addressed to adnlt readers, in the Fortnightly Review and the Kational Ohserver, as episodic sketches. My thanks are tendered to the editors and proprietors of those periodicals for enabhng me now to piece the trnnk and hmbs of the novel together, and print it complete, as originally written two years ago. I will just add that the story is sent out in all sincerity of purpose, as an attempt to give artistic form to a true sequence of things ; and in respect of the book's opinions I would ask any too genteel reader who cannot endnre to have said what everybody nowadays thinks and feels, to remember a weU-worn sentence of St. Jerome's : ''If an offence come out of the truth, better is it that the offence come than that the truth be concealed." T. H. November, 1891. PREFACE TO THE FIFTH (ENGLISH) EDITION.* This novel being one wherein the great campaign of the heroine begins after an event in her experience wliich has usually been treated as extinguishing her, in the aspect of protagonist at least, and as the virtual ending of her career and hopes, it was quite contrary to avowed conventions that the public should welcome the book, and agree with me in holding that there was something more to be said in fiction than had been said about the shaded side of a well-known catastrophe. But the responsive spirit in w^hich Tess of the J>' UrherviUes has been received by the readers of England and America would seem to prove that the plan of laying down a story on the lines of tacit opinion, instead of mak- ing it to square with, the merely vocal formulae of society, is not altogether a wTong one, even when exemplified in so unequal and partial an achievement as the present. For this responsiveness I cannot refrain from expressing my thanks ; and my regfet is that, in a world where one so often hungers in vain for friendship, where even not to be wilfuUy misunderstood is felt as a kindness, I shall never meet in person these appreciative readers, male and female, and shake them by the hand. I include amongst them the reviewers — by far the ma- jority — who have so generously welcomed the tale. Their w^ords show that they, Uke the others, have only too largely repaired my defects of narration by their own imaginative intuition. Nevertheless, though the novel was intended to be neither * Eighth American Edition. X PREFACE. didactic nor aggressive, but in the scenic parts to be repre- sentative simply, and in the contemplative to be oftener charged with impressions than with opinions, there have been objectors both to the matter and to the rendering. Some of these maintain a conscientions difference of sentiment concerning, among other things, subjects fit for art, and reveal an inability to associate the idea of the title- adjective with any bnt the hcensed and derivative meaning which has resulted to it from the ordinances of civilization. They thus ignore, not only all Nature's claims, all aesthetic claims on the word, but even the spiritual interpretation afforded by the finest side of Christianity ; and drag in, as a vital point, the acts of a woman in her last dtiys of despera- tion, when all her doings he outside her normal character. Others dissent on grounds which are intrinsically no more than an assertion that the novel embodies the views of life prevalent at the end of the nineteenth century, and not those of an earlier and simpler generation — an assertion which I can only hope may be well founded. Let me repeat that a novel is an impression, not an argument ; and there the matter must rest; as one is reminded by a passage which occurs in the letters of Schiller to Goethe on judges of this class : " They are those w^ho seek only their own ideas in a representation, and prize that which should be as higher than what is. The cause of the dispute, therefore, lies in the ver}^ fij'st principles, and it would be utterly im- possil)le to come to an understanding with them." And again : '' As soon as I observe that any one, when judging of poetical representations, considers anything more im- portant than the inner Necessity and Truth, I have done with him." In the introductory words to the fii'st edition I suggested the possible advent of the genteel person who would not be able to endure the tone of these pages. That person duly appeared, mostly mixed up with the aforesaid objectors. In another of his forms he felt upset that it was not possi- PREFACE. xi ble for liim to read the book tlirougli tliree times, owing to my not having made that critical effort which " alone can prove the salvation of such an one/^ In another, he objected to such vnlgar articles as the devil's pitchfork, a lodging- honse carving-knife, and a shame-bought parasol appearing in a respectable story. In another place he was a gentle- man who tiu'ned Christian for half an hour the better to express his grief that a disrespectful phrase about the Im- mortals shoidd have been used ; though the same innate gentility compelled him to excuse the author in w^ords of pity that one cannot be too thankfid for : " He does but give us of his best." I can assui'e this great critic that to exclaim iUogically against the gods, singular or plural, is not such an original sin of mine as he seems to imagine. True, it may have some local originahty ; though if Shakespeare were an authority on history, which perhaps he is not, I could show that the sin was introduced into Wessex as early as the Heptarchy itself. Says Glo'ster to Lear, otherwise Ina, king of that country : It As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods ; Tliey Idll us for their sport." The remaining tw^o or three manipulators of Tess were of the sort whom most winters and readers would gladly forget : professed hterary boxers, who put on their convic- tions for the occasion ; modern '^ Hammers of Heretics '^ ; sworn discoui'agers of effort, ever on the watch to prevent the tentative half-success from becoming the whole success ; W'ho pervert plain meanings, and grow^ personal under the name of practising the great historical method. However, they may have causes to advance, pri^dleges to guard, tra- ditions to keep going; some of w^hich a mere tale-teller, who writes down how the things of the world strike him, without any ulterior intentions whatever, has overlooked, and may by pure inadvertence have run foul of when in xii PREFACE. the least aggressive mood. Perhaps some passing percep- tiorij the outcome of a dream-hour, would, if generally acted on^ cause such an assailant considerable inconvenience with respect to position, interests, family, servant, ox, ass, neighbor, or neighbor's wife. He therefore valiantly hides his personality behind a publisher's shutters, and cries "Shame ! " So densely is the world thronged that any shift- ing of positions, even the best warranted advance, hurts somebody's heels. Such shiftings of teix begin in sentiment, and such sentiment sometimes begins in a novel. T. H. July, 1892. TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. THE MAIDEN. I. On ail evening in the latter part of May a middle-aged man was walking homeward from Shaston to the village of Mario tt, in the adjoining Vale of Blakemore or Black- moor. The i^air of legs that carried him were rickety, and there was a bias in his gait that inclined him somewhat to the left of a straight line. He occasionally gave a smart nod, as if in confii*mation of some opinion, though he was not thinking of anything in particular. An empty egg- basket was slung upon his arm, the nap of his hat was ruffled, a patch being quite worn away at its brim where his thumb came in taking it off. Presently he was met by an elderly parson astride of a gray mare, who, as he rode, hummed a wandering tune. " Good-night t'ye," said the man with the basket. " Good-night, Sir John,'^ said the parson. The pedestrian, after another pace or two, halted, and turned round. 1 2 TESS OF THE D'URBEm^LLES. ''Now, sir, begging your pardon, we met last market-day on this road about this time, and I said ' Good-night,' and you made reply, '■ Good-night, Sir John,' as now." " I did," said the parson, '^ And once before that — near a month ago." '' I mav have." '' Then what might your meaning be in calling me ' Sir John ' these different times, when I be plain Jack Durbey^ field, the haggler ? " The parson rode a step or two nearer. " It was only my whim," he said : and, after a moment's hesitation : " It was on account of a discovery I made some little time ago, whilst I was hunting up pedigrees for the new county history. I am Parson Tringham, the antiquary, of Stagfoot Lane. Don't you really know, Durbeyfield, that you are the lineal representative of the ancient and knightly family of the D'Urbervilles, who derive their descent from Sir Pagan D'Urberville, that renoT^aied knight who came from Normandy mtli WiUiam the Conqueror, as appears by Battle Abbey Roll ? " '' Never heard it before, sir." " WeU, it's true. Throw up your chin a moment, so that I may catch the profile of yom' face better. Yes, that's the D'Urberville nose and chin — a little debased. Your ances- tor was one of the twelve knights who assisted the Lord of Estremavilla in Normandy in his conquest of Glamorgan- shire. Branches of vom* familv held manors over all this part of England ; their names appear in the Pipe Rolls in the time of King Stephen. In the reign of King John one of them was rich enough to give a manor to the Knights Hospitallers ; and in Edward the Second's time your fore- father Brian was summoned to Westminster to attend the great Council there. You declined a little in Oliver Crom- well's time, but to no serious extent, and in Charles the Second's reign yoii were made Knights of the Royal O^k for your loyalty. Aye, there have been generations of THE MAIDEN. 3 Sir Johns among you, and if kuigiitliood were hereditary, like a baronetcy, as it practically was in old times, when men were knighted from father to son, you would be Sir John now." ^' You don't say so ! " ^'In short," concluded the parson, decisively smacking his leg with his switch, " there's hardly such another family in England ! " '^ Daze my eyes, and isn't there ? " said Durbeyfield. " And here have I been knocking about, year after year, from pillar to post, as if I was no more than the common- est feller in the parish. . . . And how long hev this news about me been knowed, Pa'son Tringham "? " The clergyman explained that, as far as he was aware, it had quite died out of knowledge, and could hardly be said to be known at all. His own investigations had begun on a day in the preceding spring when, having been en- gaged in tracing the ^dcissitudes of the D'Urberville family, he had observed Dm-beyfiekVs name on his wagon, and had thereupon been led to make inquiiies al)Out his father and grandfather, till he had no doubt on the subject. "At first I resolved not to distiu'b you with such a useless piece of information," said he. "However, our impulses are too strong for oiu* judgment sometimes. I thought you might perhaps know something of it all the while." "Well, I have heard once or twice, 'tis true, that my family had seen better days before they came to Black- moor. But I took no notice o't, thinking it to mean that we had once kept two horses where we now keep only one. I've got a wold silver spoon at home, too ; and likewise a gi-aven seal; but. Lord, what's a spoon and seal? . . . And to think that I and these noble D'Urbervilles was one flesh. 'Twas said that my grandfer had secrets, and didn't care to talk of where he came from. . . . And where do we raise our smoke, now, parson, make so bold ; I mean, where do we D'Urber\dlles live ? " 4 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. ^' You don't live anywhere. You are extinct— as a county family." '^ That's bad." "Yes — what the mendacious family chronicles call ex- tinct in the male line — that is, gone down — gone under." " And Avhere do we he f " "At Kingsbere-sub-Greenhill : rows and rows of you in your vaults, with yoiu^ effigies under Purbeck-marble canopies." " And where be our famil}^ mansions and estates ? " " You haven't anv." " O ! No lands neither ? " " None ; though you once had 'em in abundance, as I said, for jouv family consisted of numerous branches. In this county there was a seat of yours at Kingsbere, and another at Sherton, and another at Millpond, and another at Lullstead, and another at Wellbridge." " And shall we ever come into our own again ? " " Ah, that I can't teU." " And what had I better do about it, sir ? '' asked Durbey- field, after a pause. "O — nothing, nothing; except chasten yourself Avith the thought of 'how are the mighty fallen.' It is a fact of some interest to the local historian and genealogist, nothing more. There are several families among the cottagers of this county of almost equal lustre. Good- night." " But you'll turn back and have a quart of beer wi' me on the strength o't, Pa'son Tringham ? There's a very pretty brew in tap at The Pure Drop — though, to be sure, not so good as at Rolliver's." " No, thank you — not this evening, Durbeyfield. You've had enough already." Concluding thus, the parson rode on liis way, with doubts as to his discretion in retailing this curious bit of lore. When he was gone Durbeyfield walked a few steps in a THE INIAIDEX. 5 profound reverie, and then sat down npon the gi'assy bank by the roadside, depositing his basket before liini. In a few niinntes a yonth appeared in the distance, walking in the same direction as that which had been pnrsned by Dnrbeyfield. The latter, on seeing him, held np his hand, and the lad qnickened his pace and came near. ^' Boy, take np that basket ! I want 'ee to go on an errand for me." The lath-like stripling frowned. "Who be yon, then, John Diu'be^^eld, that order me abont and call me bov? Yon know my name as well as I know yours ! " " Do you — do you ? That's the secret — that's the secret ! Now o])ey my orders, and take the message I'm going to charge 'ee wi'. . . . Well, Fred, I don't mind telling you that the secret is that I'm one of a noble race — it has been just found out by me this present afternoon, p.m." And as he made the announcement, Dnrbeyfield, dechning from his sitting position, luxuriously stretched himself out upon the bank among the daisies. The lad stood before Dnrbeyfield, and contemplated his length from crown to toe. " Sir John D'Urberville — that's who I be," continued the prostrate man. " That is if knights were baronets — which they be. 'Tis recorded in history aU about me. Dost know of such a place, lad, as Kingsbere-sub-Greenhill ? " " Ees. I've been there to Greenhill Fair." "Well, under the church of that city there lie " "'Tisn't a city, the place I mean; leastwise 'twasn't when I was there — 'twas a little one-eyed, blinking sort o' place." ^' Never you mind the place, boy ; that's not the questioii l^efore us. Under the church of that parish lie my ances- tors — hundreds of 'em — in coats of mail and jewels, in great lead coffins weighing tons and tons. There's not a man in the county o' Wessex that's got grander and nobler skellingtons in his family than I." 6 TESS OF THE D'URBERYILLES. ''Now take uj) that basket, and go on to Marlott, and wlien you come to The Pure Drop Inn, tell 'em to send a horse and carriage to me immediately, to carry me home. And in the bottom o' the carriage they be to put a noggin o' rum in a small bottle, and chalk it uj) to my account. And when youVe done that, go on to my house with the basket, and tell my wife to put away that washing, because she needn't finish it, and wait till I come home, as I have news to tell her." As the lad stood in a dul3ious attitude, Diu'beyfield put his hand in his pocket and produced a shilling, one of the comparatively few that he possessed. ''Here's for your labor, lad." This made a real diiference in the young man's apprecia- tion of the position. "Yes, Sir John. Thank you. Any- thing else I can do for 'ee. Sir John ? " " Tell 'em at home that I should like for supper — well, lamb's fry if they can get it ; and if they can't, black-pot ; and if they can't get that — well, chitterlings will do." "Yes, Sir John." The boy took up the basket, and as he set out the notes of a brass band were heard from the dii'ection of the \dllage. " What's that ? " said Durbevfield. " Not on account o' I ? " "'Tis the women's club-wall^ing, Sii' John. Why, your daughter is one o' the members." "To be sure ; I'd quite forgot it in my thoughts of greater things. Well, vamp on to Marlott, will 'ee, and order that carriage, and maybe I'll drive round and inspect the club." The lad departed, and Durbeyfield lay waiting on the grass and daisies in the evening sun. Not a soul passed that way for a long while, and the faint notes of the band were the only human sounds audible Tvithin the rim of blue hills. THE 3IAIDEX. II. The village of Marlott lay amid tlie nortlieastern undu- lations of the beautiful Vale of Blakemore or Blackmoor aforesaid, an engii'dled and secluded region, for the most part untrodden as yet by toui-ist or landscape-painter, though within a four hours' journey from London. It is a yale whose acquaintance is best made by ^dewing it from the summits of the hills that surround it — except perhaps during the droughts of summer. An unguided ramble into its recesses in bad weather is apt to engender dissatisfaction with its narrow, tortuous, and miry ways. This fertile and sheltered tract of country, in which the fields are neyer brown and the springs neyer dry, is bounded on the south by the bold chalk ridge that embraces the prominences of Hambledon Hill, Bulbarrow, Nettle- combe-Tout, Dogbury, High Stoy, and Bubb DoTvm. The trayeller from the coast, who, after plodding for a score of miles oyer calcareous downs and corn-lands, suddenly reaches the yerge of one of these escarpments, is surj^rised and delighted to behold, extended Like a map beneath him, a country differing absolutely from that which he has passed through. Behind him the hiUs are open, the sun blazes do^yn upon fields so large as to giye an unenclosed character to the landscape, the lanes are white, the hedges low and plashed, the atmosphere colorless. Here, in the yalley, the world seems to be constructed upon a smaller and more delicate scale ; the fields are mere paddocks, so reduced that from this height their hedge-rows appear a net-work of dark green threads overspreading the paler green of the grass. The atmosphere beneath is languorous, and is so tinged mth azure that what artists call the mid- dle distance partakes also of that hue, while the horizon 8 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. beyond is of the cleej)est ultramarine. Arable lands are few and limited ; with but slight exceptions the prospect is a broad rich mass of grass and trees, mantling minor hills and dales within the major. Such is the Vale of Blackmoor. The district is of historic^ no less than of topographical interest. The vale was known in former times as the Forest of White Hart, from a curious legend of King Henry the Third's reign, in which the killing by a certain Thomas de la L^md of a beautiful white hart which the King had run down and spared, was made the occasion of a hea^y fine. In those days, and till comparatively recent times, the countrv was densely wooded. Even now traces of its earlier condition are to be found in the old oak copses and irregular belts of timber that yet survive upon its slopes, and the hollo w-trunked trees that shade so many of its pastures. The forests have departed, but some old customs of their shades remain. Many, however, linger only in a metamor- phosed or disguised form. The May-day dance, for in- stance, was to be discerned on the afternoon under notice, in the guise of the club revel, or ''club- walking," as it Avas there called. It was an interesting event to the younger inhabitants of Marlott, though the real interest was not observed b}^ the participators in the ceremony. Its singularity lay less in the fact that there was still retained a custom of walking in procession and dancing on each anniversary than that the members were solely women. In men's clubs such celebrations were, though expiring, less uncommon ; but either the natural shyness of the softer sex, or a sarcastic attitude on the part of male relatives, had denuded such women's clubs as remained (if any other did) of this their glory and consummation. Tlie club of Marlott alone lived to uphold the local Cerealia. It liad walked for hundreds of years, if not as benefit-club, as votive sisterhood of some soi-t ; and it walked still. The banded ones were all dressed in white c:owns — a G'f^v THE MAIDEN. 9 survival from Old Style clays, when cheerfulness and May- time were sjTionyms — days before the habit of taking long views had reduced emotions to a monotonous average. Theii- fii'st exhibition of themselves was in a processional march of two and two round the parish. Ideal and real clashed shghtly as the sun lit up their figures against the gTeen hedges and creeper-laced house-fronts ; f or, though the whole troop wore white garments, no two whites were ahke among them. Some gowns were purely blanched; some had a bluish pallor; some worn by the older characters (which had possibly lain by folded for many a year) in- clined to a cadaverous tint, and to Georgian style. In addition to the distinction of a white frock, every woman and gii4 carried in her right hand a peeled willow wand, and in her left a bunch of white flowers. The peel- ing of the former, and the selection of the latter, had been an operation of personal care. There were a few middle-aged and even elderly women in the train, theii' silver mry hair and -^Tinkled faces, scoiu-ged by time and trouble, ha\ing almost a grotesque, certainly a pathetic, appearance in such a jaunty situation. In a true ^'iew, perhaps, there was more to be gathered and told of these anxious and experienced ones, to whom the years were drawing nigh when each should say, "I have no pleasure in them," than of the juvenile members. But let the elder be passed over here for those under whose bodices the life throbbed quick and warm. The young gu-ls formed, indeed, the majority of the band, and their heads of luxuriant hair reflected in the sunshine every tone of gold and black and brown. Some had beautiful eves, others a beautiful nose, others a beauti- f ul mouth and figure ; few, if any, had all. A difficulty of arranging their lips in this crude exposure to public scrutiny, an inability to balance their heads and to disasso- ciate self -consciousness from their features, were apparent in them, and showed that they were genuine country girls, unaccustomed to manv eves. 10 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. And as each and all of tliem were warmed witliout by the sun, so each had a private little sun for her soulto Ijask in— ^some dream, some affection, some hobby, at least some remote and distant hope, which, though perhaps star\dng to nothing, still hved on, as hopes will. Thus they were all cheerful, and many of them merry. They came round by The Piu'e Drop Inn, and were turning out of the high-road to pass through a mcket-gate into the meadows, when one of the women said : " The Lord-a-Lord ! Whv, Tess Durbeyfield, if there isn't thy father riding home in a carriage ! '' A young member of the band turned her head at the exclamation. She was a fine, handsome gii'l — not hand- somer than some others, certainly — but her mobile jDCony mouth and large innocent eyes added eloquence to color and shape. She wore a red ribbon in her hair, and was the only one of the white company who could boast of such a pronounced adornment. As she looked round, Dm-be^^eld was seen mo\ing along the road in a chaise belonging to The Pure Drop, diiven by a frizzle-headed, Ijrawny damsel, with her gown, sleeves rolled above her elbows. This was the cheerful servant of that estabhshment, who, in her part of factotum, turned groom and ostler at times. Durbeyfield, leaning back, and with his eyes closed lux- uriously, was waving his hand above his head, and sing- ing, in a slow recitative : ^' Pve got a great family vault at Kingsbere, and knighted forefathers in lead coffins there ! " The clubbists tittered, except the girl called Tess — in whom a slow heat seemed to rise at the sense that her father was making himself foohsh in their eyes. " He's tired, that's all," she said, hastily, " and he has got a lift home, because our own horse has to rest to-dav." ''Bless thy simplicity, Tess," said her companions " He's got his market-nitch. Haw-haw ! " '' Look here j I won't walk another inch ^s^dth ye if you THE iVIAIDEN. 11 say any jokes about him ! " Tess cried^ and tlie color upon lier cheeks spread over her face and neck. In a moment her eyes grew moist, and her glance dropped to the ground. Perceiving that they had really pained her, they said no more, and order again prevailed. Tess's pride would not allow her to turn her head again, to learn what her father's meaning was, if he had any; and thus she moved on mtli the whole bodv to the enclosure where there was to be dancing on the green. By the time the spot was reached she had recovered her equanimity, and tapped her neighbor with her wand and talked as usual. Tess Durbey field at this time of her life was a mere vessel of emotion, untinctured by experience. The dialect was on her tongue to some extent, despite the \dllage school : the characteristic intonation of that dialect for this district being the voicing approximately rendered by the syllable ur — probably as rich an utterance as any to be found in human speech. The pouted-up deep red mouth to which this syllable was native had hardly as yet settled into its definite shape, and her lower lip had a way of thrusting the middle of her top one uj)ward, when they closed together after a word. Phases of her childhood lui^ked in her aspect still. As she walked along to-day, for all her bouncing handsome womanliness, you could sometimes see her twelfth year in her cheeks, or her ninth sparkling from her eyes ; and even her fifth would flit over the curves of her mouth now and then. Yet few knew, and still fewer considered, this. A small minority, mainly strangers, would look long at her in casually passing by, and grow momentarily fascinated by her fresh- ness, and wonder if they would ever see her again ; but to almost everybody she was a fijie and picturesque countiy gii'l, and no more. Nothing was seen or heard further of Durbeyfield in his triumphal chariot under the conduct of the ostleress, and 12 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. the clul) lia\dng entered tlie allotted space, dancing began. As there were no men in the company, the gh-ls danced at first mth each other, but when the horn* for the close of labor drew on, the masculine inha})itants of the village, to- gether with other idlers and pedestrians, gathered roimd the spot, and appeared inclined to negotiate for a partner. Among these lookers-on were three young men of a superior class, carrying small knapsacks strapped to their shoulders, and stout sticks in theu' hands. Their general likeness to each other and their consecutive ages would al- most have suggested that they might be, what in fact they were, brothers. The eldest wore the white tie, high waist- coat, and thin-brimmed hat of the regulation curate ; the second was the normal undergraduate ; the appearance of the third and youngest would hardly have been sufficient to characterize him ; there w^as an uncribbed, uncabined aspect in his eyes and attire, implying that he had hardly as yet found the entrance to his professional groove. That he was a desultory, tentative student of something and everything might only have been predicated of him. These three brethren told casual acquaintance that they were spending theii' Whitsun hohdays in a walking tour through the Yale of Blackmoor, their course being south- westerly from the town of Shaston on the northeast. They leant over the gate by the highway, and inquired as to the meaning of the dance and the white-frocked maids. The two elder of the brothers were plainly not in- tending to linger more than a moment, but the spectacle of a bevy of girls dancing without male partners seemed to amuse the third, and make him in no hurry to move on. He unstrapped his knapsack, put it, Avith liis stick, on the hedge-bank, and opened the gate. ^^ What are you going to do. Angel?" asked the eldest. "I am inclined to go and have a fling with them. Why not all of us — just for a minute or two ] it will not detain us long ? " THE MAIDEN. 13 " No — no ; nonsense ! " said the first. " Dancing in public with a troop of country hoydens! Suppose we should be seen ! Come along, or it Tvill be dark before we get to Stourcastle, and there's no place we can sleep at nearer than that ; besides, we must get through another chapter of A Counterhlast to Agnosticism before we turn in, now I have taken the trouble to bring the book." "All right; I'll overtake you and Cuthbert in five minutes ; don't stop ; I give my word that I will, Felix." The two elder reluctantly left him and walked on, taking their brother's knapsack to relieve him in following, and the 3^oungest entered the field. " This is a thousand pities," he said, gallantly, to two or three of the girls nearest him, as soon as there was a pause in the dance. " \^Tiere are your partners, my dears ? " ii Thev've not left off work vet," answered one of the boldest. " They'll be here by-and-by. Till then ^dll you be one, sirf" '^ Certainly. But what's one among so many?" "Better than none. 'Tis melancholy work facing and footing it to one of your own sort, and no clipsing and colling at all. Now, pick and choose." " S-sh ! Don't be so forward ! " said a shver 2:irl. The young man, thus invited, glanced them over, and attempted some discrimination ; but as the group were all so new to him, he could not very well exercise it. He took almost the first that came to hand, which was not the speaker, as she had expected ; nor did it happen to be Tess Durbeyfield. Pedigree, ancestral skeletons, monumental record, the D'Urberville lineaments, did not help Tess in her life's battle as yet, even to the extent of attracting to her a dancing partner over the heads of the commonest peasantry. So much for Norman blood unaided b}^ Vic- torian lucre. The name of the echpsing girl, whatever it was, has not been handed down 5 but she was envied by all as the fii-st 14 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. who enjoyed the luxury of a masculine partner that even- ing. Yet such was the force of example that the village young men, who had not hastened to enter the gate while no intruder was in the way, now dropped in quickly, and soon the couples became leavened with rustic youths to a marked extent, till at length the j)lainest woman in the club was no longer compelled to foot it on the masculine side of the figure. The church clock struck, when suddenlv the student said that he must leave — he had been forgetting himself — he had to join his companions. As he fell out of the dance his eyes lighted on Tess Durbeyfield, whose own large orbs wore, to tell the truth, the faintest aspect of reproach that he had not chosen her. He, too, was sorry then that, omng to her backwardness, he had not observed her ; and, with that in his mind, he left the pastm*e. On account of his long delay he started in a flying run down the lane westward, and had soon passed the hollow and mounted the next rise. He had not yet overtaken his brothers, l)ut he paused to take breath, and looked back. He could see the white figures of the girls in the green en- closure whirling about as they had whirled when he was among them. They seemed to have quite forgotten him alreadv. All of them, except, perhaps, one. This white figure stood apart by the hedge alone. From her position he knew it to be the pretty maiden mth whom he had not danced. Trifling as the matter was, he yet instinctively felt that she was hurt by his oversight. He wished that he had asked her ; he wished that he had inquired her name. She was so modest, so expressive, she had looked so soft in her thin white gown that he felt he had acted stupidly. However, it could not be helped, and turning, and bend- ing himself to a rapid walk, he dismissed the subject from his mind. THE MAIDEN. 15 III. As for Tess Durbeyfield, she did not so easily dislodge the incident from her consideration. She had no spmt to dance again for a long time, thongh she might have had plenty of partners ; but, ah ! they did not speak so nicely as the strange yonng man had done. It was not till the rays of the sun had absorbed the young strangei^'s retreating figure on the hill that she shook off her temporary sadness, and answered her would-be partner in the affii-mative. She remained with her comrades till dusk, and partici- pated with a certain zest in the dancing; though, being heart-whole as yet, she enjoyed treading a measure pm-ely for its own sake ; little divining when she saw " the soft torments, the bitter sweets, the pleasing pains, and the agTceable distresses" of those girls who had been wooed and won, v\diat she herself was capable of experiencing in that kind. The struggles and ^Tangles of the lads for her hand in a jig were an amusement to her, no more ; and when thev became fierce she rebuked them. She might have stayed even later, but the incident of her father's odd appearance and manner retui'ued upon the girl's mind to make her anxious, and wondering what had become of him she dropped away from the dancers and bent her steps towards the end of the village at which the parental cottage lay. While yet many score yards off, other rhythmic sounds than those she had quitted became audible to her ; sounds that she knew well — so well. They were a regular series of thumpings from the interior of the house, occasioned by the \iolent rocking of a cradle upon a stone floor, to which movement a feminine voice kept time by singing, in a vigorous gallopade, the favorite ditty of " The Spotted Cow " : 16 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. I saw her lie do — own in yon — der green gro — ve ; Come, love, and I'll tell you where. The cradle-rocking and the song would cease for a mo- ment simultaneously, and an exclamation at highest vocal pitch would take the place of the melody. ^' God bless thy diment eyes ! And thy waxen cheeks ! And thy cherry mouth ! And thy Cubit's lags ! And every bit o' thy blessed body !" After this invocation the rocking and the singing would recommence, and '' The Spotted Cow " proceed as before. So matters stood when Tess opened the door and paused upon the mat "within it, siu'veying the scene. The interior, in spite of the melody, struck upon the girPs senses with an unspeakable dreariness. From the holiday gayeties of the day — the white gowns, the nose- gays, the willow wands, the whirling movements on the green, the flash of gentle sentiment towards the stranger — to the yellow melancholy of this one-candled spectacle, what a step ! Besides the jar of contrast, there came to her a chill feeling of self-reproach that she had not re- turned sooner, before the dancing began, to help her mother in these domesticities, instead of indulging herself out-of-doors. There stood her mother amid the group of childi'en, as Tess had left her, hanging over the Monday washing-tub, which had now, as always, lingered on to the end of the week. Out of that tub had come the day before — Tess felt it with a dreadful sting of remorse — the very white frock upon her back, which she had so carelessly greened about the skirt on the damping grass ; which had been wrung up and ironed by her mother's own hands. As usual, Mrs. Durbevfield was l)alanced on one foot l)eside the tub, the other being engaged in the aforesaid business of rocking her youngest child. The cradle rockers liad done hard duty for so many years, under the weight o t> H H ss U) CO H o o o s! H H M o 2 a O o > Si a ":) t> cl CO O a O z s so --I t— t 2 CJ H K ts Cfi o IS z IS THE 3IAIDEN. 17 of SO many cliildren, on that flag-stone floor, that they were worn nearly flat; in consequence of which a huge jerk accompanied each swing of the cot, flinging the baby from side to side like a weaver's shuttle, as Mrs. Durbey- field, excited by her song, trod the rocker with all the spring that was left in her after a long day's seething in the suds. Nick-knock, nick-knock went the cradle; the candle- flame stretched itself tall, and began jigging up and do^Ti ; the water dribbled from her mother's eb30ws, and the song galloped on to the end of the verse, Mrs. Dm-bey- field regarding her daughter the while. Even now, when biu'dened with a young family, Joan Durbe;yfield was a passionate lover of tune. No ditty floated into Black- moor Vale from the outer world but Tess's mother caught up its notation in a week. There still faintly beamed from the woman's features something of the freshness and even the prettiness of her youth, rendering it evident that the personal charms which Tess could boast of were in main part her mother's gift, and therefore unknightly, unhistorical. " I'll rock the cradle for 'ee, mother," said the daughter, gently ; "or I'll take off my best frock and help you ^vi'ing up 1 1 thought you had finished long ago." Her mother bore Tess no ill-will for leaving the house- work to her single-handed efforts for so long ; and indeed she seldom upbraided her thereon at any time, feeling the lack of Tess's assistance but slightly, whilst her chief plan for relieving herself of her diurnal labors lay in postpon- ing them. To-night, however, she was even in a blither mood than usual. There was a dreaminess, a preposses- sion, an exaltation, in the maternal look which the gii'l could not understand. '' Well, I'm glad you've come," her mother said, as soon as the last note had passed out of her. " I want to go and fetch youi* father. But what's mox'e'n that, I want to tell 18 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. 'ee what have happened. You'll be fess enough, my pop- pet, when you know ! " (Mrs. Dui'beylield still habitually spoke the dialect ; her daughter, who had passed the Sixth Standard in the Na- tional School, under a London-trained mistress, spoke two languages; the dialect at home, more or less; ordinary English abroad and to persons of quality.) " Since I've been away ? " Tess asked. "Ay!" "Had it anything to do with father's making such a mommet of himself in the carriage this afternoon ? Why did he ? I felt inclined to sink into the ground ! " " That was all a part of the larry. We've been found to be the gi'eatest gentlefolk in the w^hole county, reaching all back long before Oliver Grumble's time, to the days of the pagan Turks, mth monuments and vaults and crests and scutch- eons, and the Lord knows what all ! In Saint Charles's days we was made Knights of the Royal Oak, our real name being D'Urber\dlle. . . . Don't that make your bosom swell ? 'TAvas on tliis account that voui' father rode home in the carriage ; not because he'd been drinking, as people supposed." "I'm glad of that. WiU it do us any good, mother!" " Oh yes. 'Tis thoughted that great things may come o't. No doubt a string of folk of our own rank wiU be down here in their carriages as soon as 'tis knoT\Ti. Your father learnt it on his way home from Stourcastle, and has been telling me the whole pedigree of the matter." " Where is father now .? " asked Tess, suddenly. Her mother gave irrelevant information by way of answer. " He called to see the doctor to-day in Stourcastle. It is not consumption at all, it seems. It is fat around his heart, he says. There, it is like this." Joan Durbeyfield, as she spoke, curved a sodden thumb and forefinger to the shape of the letter C, and used the other forefinger as a pointer. " ' At the present moment,' he says to youi' THE 3IAIDEN, 19 father, 'your heart is enclosed all round there, and all round there ; this space is still open/ he says. ^ As soon as it meets, so ' — Mrs. Durbeyfield closed her fingers into a circle complete — ' off 3'on ^nW go like a shadder, Mr. Durbey- field,' he says. ^ You mid last ten years 5 you mid go off in ten months, or ten days.' " Tess looked alarmed. Her father possibly to go behind the eternal cloud so soon, notwithstanding this sudden greatness ! " But where is father ? " she asked again. Her mother put on a deprecating look. "Now don't you be bursting out angry. The poor man — he felt so weak after his excitement at the news — that he went up to Rolli- ver's half an hour ago. He do want to get up his strength for his journey to-morrow wdth that load of beehives, which must be delivered, family or no. He'll have to start shortly after twelve to-night, as the distance is so long." " G-et up his strength ! " said Tess, impetuously, the tears welling to her eyes. " O, my heavens ! go to a pubhc house to get up his strength ! And you as well agreed as he, mother ! " Her rebuke and her mood seemed to fill the whole room, and to impart a cowled look to the furniture and candle, and children plajdng about, and to her mothei^'s face. "No," said the latter, touchily, "I am not agreed. I have been waiting for 'ee to bide and keep house while I go to fetch him." " I'll go." " Oh no, Tess. You see, it would be no use." Tess did not expostulate. She knew what her mother's objection meant. Moreover, Mrs. Durbeyfield's jacket and bonnet were already hanging slyly upon a chair by her side, in readiness for this contemplated jaunt, the reason for which the matron deplored more than its necessity. "x\nd take the CompJeat Fortune-teller to the out-house," she continued, rapidly wiping her hands and donning the garments. 20 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. The Compleat Fortune-teller was an old thick volume, which lay on a table at her elbow, so worn by pocketing that the margins had reached the edge of the type. Tess took it np, and her mother started. This going to hunt up her shiftless husband at the inn was one of Mrs. Durbeyfield's still extant enjojTuents in the muck and muddle of rearing children. To discover him at Rolliver's, to sit there for an hour or two by his side, and dismiss all thought and care of the children dur- ing the interval, made her happy. A sort of halo, an Oc- cidental glow, came over life then. Troubles and other realities took on themselves a metaphysical impalpability, sinking to mere cerebral phenomena for quiet contempla- tion, and no longer stood as pressing concretions which chafe body and soul. The youngsters, not immediately within sight, seemed rather bright and desirable appur- tenances than otherwise ; the incidents of daily life were not without humorousness and jollity in their aspect there. She felt a little as she had used to feel when she sat by her now husband in the same spot during his wooing, shutting her eyes to his defects of character, and regarding him only in his ideal presentation as a lover. Tess, being left alone with the younger children, went first to the out-house with the fortune-telling book, and stuffed it into the thatch. A curious fetishistic fear of this grimy volume on the part of her mother prevented her ever allowing it to stay in the house all night, and hither it was brought back whenever it had been consulted. Be- tween the mother, with her fast-perishing lumber of super- stitions, folk-lore, dialect, aud orally transmitted ballads, and the daughter, with her trained National teachings and Sixth Standard knowledge under an infinitely Revised Code, there was a gap of two hundred years as ordinarily understood. When they were together the Ehzabethan and the Victorian ages stood juxtaposed. Returning along the garden path, Tess mused on what THE MAIDEN. 21 the mother could have wished to ascertain from the book on this particular day, and readily guessed it to bear upon the recent discovery. Dismissing this, however, she busied herself with sprinkling the linen di'ied during the da}i:ime, in company wdth her nine-year-old brother Abraham and her sister Eliza Louisa of twelve, called "■ 'Liza Lu,-' the youngest ones being put to bed. There was an interval of four vears between Tess and the next of the familv, the two who had filled the gap having died in their infancy, and this lent her a deputy-maternal attitude when she was alone with her juniors. Next in juvenility to Abraham came two more girls, Hope and Modesty ; then a boy of three ; and then the baby, who had just completed his first year. All these young souls wei'^ passengers in the Durbey- field ship — entirely dependent on the judgment of the two Durbe}^eld adults for their pleasures, their necessities, their health, even their existence. If the heads of the Durbevfield household chose to sail into difflcultv, disaster, starvation, disease, degradation, death, thither w^re these half-dozen little captives under hatches compelled to sail with them — six helpless creatures, who had never been asked if thev wished for hfe on anv terms, much less if thev wished for it on such hard conditions as were involved in being of the shiftless house of Dm-beyfield. Some peo- ple would like to know whence the poet whose philosophy is in these days deemed as profound and trustworthy as his song is sweet and pure, gets his authority for speaking of '' Nature's holy plan." It grew later, and neither father nor mother appeared. Tess looked out of the door occasionallv, and took a men- tal journey through Marlott. The village was shutting its eyes. Candles and lamps were being put out everywhere ; she could mentally behold the extinguisher and the ex- tended hand. Her mother's fetching simply meant one more to fetch. Tess began to perceive that a man in indifferent healthy 22 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. who proposed to start on a journey before one in the morn- ing, ought not to be at an inn at this late hour celebrating his ancient blood. "Abraham/' she said, presently, to her little brother, " do you put on youi* hat — you bain't afraid ? — and go up to Rolliver's, and see what has become of father and mother." The boy jumped promptly from his seat and opened the door, and the night swallowed him up. Half an hour passed yet again ; neither man, woman, nor child returned. Abraham, like liis parents, seemed to have been limed and caught by the ensnaring inn. " I must go mj^self," she said. 'Liza Lu then went to bed, and Tess, locking them all in, started on her way up the dark and crooked lane or street, not made for hasty progress ; a street laid out before inches of land had value, and when one-handed clocks suf- ficiently subdivided the day. IV. Rolliver's inn, the single ale-house at tliis end of the long and broken village, could boast of only an off -license ; hence, as nobody could legalh^ drink on the premises, the amount of overt accommodation for consumers was strictly limited to a little board about six inches wide and two vards long, fixed to the garden palings by j^ieces of ^m^e, so as to form a ledge. On this board thirsty strangers deposited their cujds as they stood in the road and drank, and threw the dregs on the dusty ground to the pattern of Polynesia, and wished they could have a restful seat inside. Thus the strangers. But there were also local customers who felt the same wish j and where there's a will there's a way. THE INIAIDEN. 23 In a large bedroom upstairs, the window of which was thickly curtained \Wth a great woollen shawl, lately dis- carded by the landlady, Mrs. Rolliver, were gathered on this evening nearly a dozen persons, all seeking beatitude ; all old inhabitants of the nearer end of Marlott, and fre- quenters of this retreat. Not only did the distance to The Pure Drop, the fully licensed tavern at the further -part of the dispersed village, render its accommodation practically unavailable for dwellers at this end, but the far more serious question, the quality of the liquor, confirmed the opinion prevalent that it was better to drink with Rolliver in a corner of the house-top than with the other landlord in a wide house. A gaunt four-post bedstead which stood in the room af- forded sitting space for several persons gathered round three of its sides; a couple more men had elevated themselves on a chest of drawers; another rested on the carved-oak " cwoffer " ; another on the stool ; and thus all were, some- how, seated at their ease. The stage of mental comfort to which thev had arrived at this hour was one wherein their souls seemed to expand beyond their skins, spreading their personalities warmly through the room. In this process the chamber and its fm^niture grew more and more digni- fied and luxurious ; the shawl hanging at the window took upon itself the richness of tapestry; the brass handles of the chest of drawers were as golden knockers; and the carved bedposts seemed to have some kinship mth the magnificent pillars of Solomon's temple. Mrs. Durbeyfield, having quickly walked hitherward after parting from Tess, opened the front door, crossed the downstaii's room, which was in deep gloom, and then un- fastened the stair door like one whose fingers knew the tricks of the latches well. Her ascent of the crooked stair- case was a slower process, and her face, as it rose into the light above the last stair, encountered the gaze of all the party assembled in the bedroom. 24 TESS OF THE D'URBER^^LLES. " — Being a few private friends IVe asked in to keep up elnb-walking at my own expense," tlie landlady exclaimed, at the sound of footsteps, as glibly as a cliild repeating the Catechism, while she peered over the staii'S. " O, 'tis you, Mrs. Durbey field ! Lard, how you frightened me ! I thought it mid be some gaffer sent by Gover'ment." Mrs. Durbeyfleld was welcomed with glances and nods by the remainder of the conclave, and turned to where her husband sat. He was humming absently to himself, in a low tone : " I be as good as some folks here and there ! I've got a great family vault at Kingsbere-sub-Greenhill, and finer skellingtons than any man in the county o' Wessex ! " "I've somethino^ to tell 'ee that's come into mv head about that — a grand project ! " whispered his cheerful wife. "Here, John, don't 'ee see me?" She nudged him, while he, looking through her as through a mndow-pane, went on Tvdth his recitative. " Hush ! Don't 'ee sing so loud, my good man," said the landlady ; " in case any member of the Gover'ment should be passing, and take away my licends." " He's told 'ee what's happened to us, I suppose ? " asked Mrs. Durbeyfield. "Yes — in a way. D'ye think there's any money hanging by it ? " "Ah, that's the secret," said Joan Durbeyfield, sagely. " But 'tis weU to be kin to a coach, even if you don't ride in en." She dropped her public voice, and continued in a low tone to her husband : " I've been thinking since you brought the news that there's a great rich lady out by Trantridge, on the edge o' The Chase, of the name of D'UrberviUe." "Hey — what's that?" said Sir John. She repeated the information. " Tliat lady must be our relation," she said. "And my project is to send Tess to claim kin." THE IMAIDEN. 25 a There is a lady of the name, now you mention it," said Durbeyfield. " Pa'son Tringham didn't think of that. But she's nothing beside we — a jurnior branch of us, no doubt, long since King Norman's day." While this question was being discussed, neither of the pair noticed, in theii' preoccupation, that little Abraham had crept into the room, and was awaiting an opportunity of asking them to return. '' She is rich, and she'd be sure to take notice o' the maid," continued Mrs. Durbeyfield; "and 'twill be a very good thing. I don't see why two branches of one family should not be on visiting terms." " Yes ; and we'll all claim kin ! " said Abraham, brightly, from under the bedstead. "And v\^e'll all go and see her when Tess has gone to live with her ; and we'll ride in her coach, and v/ear black clothes ! " "How do you come here, child? What nonsense be ye talking ! Go away, and play on the staii-s till father and mother be ready. . . . Well, Tess ought to go to this other member of our family. She'd be sure to win the lady, Tess would ; and likely enough 'twould lead to some noble gentleman marrying her. In short, I know it." "How?" " I tried her fate in the FortKne-felJer, and it brought out that very thing. . . . You should ha' seen how pretty she looked to-day ; her skin is as sumple as a duchess's." "What says the maid herself to it?" " I've not asked her. She don't know there is any such lady relation yet. But it would certainly put her in the way of a grand marriage, and she won't say nay to going." " Tess is queer." " But she is tractable at bottom. Leave her to me." Though this conversation had been private, sufficient of its import reached the understandings of those around to suggest to them that the Durbeyfields had weightier con- cerns to talk of now than common folks had, and that 26 TESS OF THE Da^RBERVILLES. Tess, their pretty eldest daughter, had fine prospects in store. '^ Tess is a fine figure o' fun, as I said to mj^self to-day when I zeed her vamping round parish with the rest," ob- served one of the elderly boozers in an undertone. " But Joan Diu'beyfield must mind that she don't get green malt in floor.'' It was a local phrase which had a peculiar meaning, and there was no reply. The conversation became inclusive, and presently other footsteps were heard crossing the room below. '' — Being a few private friends asked in to-night to keej) up club- walking at my own expense." The landlady had rapidly reused the formula she kept on hand for intruders l^efore she recognized that the new-comer was Tess. Even to her m.other's gaze the girl's young features looked sadly out of place amid the alcoholic vapors which floated here as no unsuitable medium for wrinkled middle age ; and hardly was a reproachful flash from Tess's dark eves needed to make her father and mother rise from their seats, hastily finish their ale, and descend the stairs behind her, Mrs. Rolliver's caution following their footsteps : ''No noise, please, if ye'll be so good, my dears- or I mid lose my licends, and be summonsed, and I don't know what all ! 'Night t'ye ! " They went home together, Tess holding one arm of her father, and Mrs. Durbeyfield the other. He had, in truth, drunk very little — not a fourth of the quantity which a systematic tipj)ler could carry to church on a Sunday morning Avithout a hitch in his eastings or his genuflec- tions; but the weakness of Sir John's constitution made mountains of his petty sins in this kind. On reaching the fresh air he was sufficiently unsteady to incline the row of three at one moment as if they were marching to London, and at another as if they were marching to Bath, which produced a comical efi'ect, frequent enough in families on nocturnal home-goings ; and, like most comical effects, not THE 1\IAIDEN. 27 quite so comic, after all. The two women valiantly dis- guised these forced excursions and countermarches as weU as they could from Durbeyfleld, their cause, and from Abra- ham, and from themselves ; and so they approached by degrees their otvti door, the head of the family bursting suddenly into his former refrain as he drew near, as if to fortify his soul at sight of the smallness of his present residence : '^ I've got a fam — ily vault at Kingsbere ! " Tess tm*ned the subject by saying what was far more prominent in her own mind at the moment than thoughts of her ancestry : "I am afraid father won't be able to take the journey with the beehives to-morrow so earlv." " I ? I shall be all right in an hour or two," said Dm^- beyfleld. It was eleven o'clock before the Durbeyfields were all in bed, and two o'clock next morning was the latest hour for starting Vvdth the beehives, if they were to be dehvered to the retailers in Casterbrido^e before the Saturday market began, the way thither lying by bad roads over a distance of between twenty and thirty miles, and the horse and wagon being of the slowest. At half -past one Mrs. Dur- beyfield came into the large bedroom where Tess and all her little sisters slept. " The poor man can't go," she said to her eldest daugh- ter, whose great eyes had opened the moment her mother's hand touched the door. Tess sat up in bed, lost in a vague world between a dream she had just been having and this information. "But somebody must go," she replied to her mother. "It is late for the hives already. Swarming will soon be over for the year ; and if we put off taking 'em till next week's market, the call for 'em tvoLL be past, and they'U be tlu'own on our hands." 28 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. Mrs. Durbe3^field looked unequal to the emergency. '■ Some young feller, perhaps, would go ? One of them who were so much after dancing with 'ee yesterday," she presently suggested. '' Oh no ; I wouldn't have it for the world ! " declared Tess, proudly. " And letting everybody know the reason — -such a thing to be ashamed of ! I think I could go if Abraham could go with me to keep me company." Her mother at length agreed to this arrangement. Little Abraham was aroused from his deep sleep in a corner of the same apartment, and made to put on his clothes while still mentally in the other world. Meanwhile Tess had hastily dressed herself; and the twain, lighting a lantern, went out to the stable. The rickety Httle wagon was al- ready laden, and the girl led out the horse Prince, only a degree less rickety than the vehicle. The poor creature looked wonderingly round at the night, at the lantern, at their two figures, as if he could not l)elieve that at that hour, when every li^dng thing was in- tended to be at shelter and at rest, he was called upon to go out and labor. They put a stock of candle-ends into the lantern, hung the latter to the off side of the road, and directed the horse onward, walking at his shoulder at fii'st dui'ing the up-hill portion of the way, in order not to over- load an animal by no means vigorous. To cheer them- selves as well as they could, they made an artificial morn- ing with the lantern, some bread and butter, and their own conversation, the real morning being far from come. Abraham, as he more fully awoke (for he had moved in a sort of trance so far), began to talk of the strange shapes assumed by the various dark objects against the sky ; of this tree that looked like a raging tiger springing from a lair; of that which resembled a giant's head. When they had passed the little town of Stourcastle, dumbly somnolent under its thick brown thatch, they reached higher gi-ound. Still higher, on their left, the ele- THE MAIDEN. 29 vatiou called Bnlbarrow, or Bealbarrow, swelled into the sky, engii'dled by its eartlieii trendies. From liereal)out the long road declined gently for a great distance onward. They monnted in front of the wagon, and Abraham grew reflective. " Tess ! " he said, in a preparatory tone, after a silence. " Yes, Abraham," said she. ^' Bain't yon glad that we've become gentlefolk ? " " Not particnlar glad." " Bnt yon be glad that yon are going to marry a gentle- man f " "What?" said Tess. " That our great relation will help 'ee to marry a gentle- man." " I ? Our great relation ? We have no snch relation. What has put that into your head ? " "I heard 'em talking abont it np at RoUivei^'s when I w^ent to find father. There's a rich lady of om* family out at Trantrids^e, and mother said that if von claimed kin with the lady, she'd put 'ee in the way of marrying a gentle- man." His sister became abruptly still, and lapsed into a pon- dering silence. Abraham talked on, rather for the pleasure of expression than for audience, so that his sister's ab- straction was of no account. He leant back against the hives, and with upturned face made observations on the stars, w^hose cold pulses were beating amid the black hol- lows above, in serene dissociation from these two wisps of human life. He asked how far awav those twinklers were, and wdiether God was on the other side of them. But ever and anon his childish prattle recurred to what im- pressed his imagination even more deeply than the won- ders of creation. If Tess were made rich bv marr\dng a gentleman, would she have money enough to buy a s^Dy- glass, so large that it woidd draw stars as near to her as Nettlecombe-Tout f 30 TESS OF THE D'URBER\aLLES. The renewed subject, wliich seemed to have impregnated the whole family, filled Tess with impatience. " Never mind that now ! " she exclaimed. " Did you say the stars were worlds, Tess ? " '^ Yes." " All like ours f " " I don't know ; but I think so. They sometimes seem to be like the apples on our stubbard tree. Most of them splendid and sound — a few blighted." ^' Which do we live on — a splendid one or a blighted one?" '' A blighted one." '^ 'Tis very unlucky that we didn't pitch on a sound one, when there were so many more of 'em ! " '' Yes." ^^ Is it like that really, Tess ? " said Abraham, turning to her, much impressed, on reconsideration of this rare infor- mation. " How would it have been if we had pitched on a sound one ? " " Well, father wouldn't have coughed and creeped about as he does, and wouldn't have got too tipsy to go this journey ; and mother wouldn't have been always washing, and never getting finished." " And you would have been a rich lady ready-made, and not have to be made rich by marrying a gentleman ? " ^^ Oh, Aby, don't — don't talk of that any more ! " Left to his reflections, Abraham soon grew drowsy. Tess was not skilful in the management of a horse, but she thought that she could take upon herself the entire conduct of the load for the present, and allow Abraham to go to sleep, if he A\dshed to do so. She made him a sort of nest in front of the hives, in such a manner that he could not fall, and, taking the rope reins into her own hands, jogged on as before. Prince requii'ed but slight attention, lacking energy for superfluous movements of any sort. Having no longer a i I THE MAIDEN. 31 companion to distract her, Tess fell more deeply into reverie than ever, her back leaning against the hives. The mute procession of trees and hedges became attached to fantastic scenes, ontside reality, and the occasional heave of the wind became the sigh of some immense sad sonl, conterminons with the universe in space, and vdth. liistory in time. Then examining the mesh of events in her own life, she seemed to see the vanity of her father's views ; the gentle- manly match of her mothei^s fancy ; to see him as a grimac- ing personage, laughing at her poverty and her shrouded knightly ancestry. Everything grew more and more ex- travagant, and she no longer knew how time passed. A sudden jerk shook her in her seat, and Tess awoke from the sleep into which she, too, had fallen. They were a long way further on than when she had lost consciousness, and the wagon had stopped. A hollow groan, unlike anything she had ever heard in her life, came from the front, followed by a shout of " Hoi, there ! " The lantern hanging at her wagon had gone out, but another was shining in her face — much brighter than her own had been. Something terrible had happened. The harness was entangled with an object which blocked the way. In consternation Tess jimiped down, and discovered the di'eadful truth. The groan had proceeded from her father's poor horse Prince. The morning mail-cart, with its two noiseless wheels, sjDceding along these lanes like an arrow, as it always did, had driven into her slow and unhghted equipage. The pointed shaft of the cart had entered the breast of the unhappy Prince like a SAVord, and from the wound his life's blood was spouting in a stream, and fall- ing with a hiss into the road. In her despau' Tess sprang forward and put her hand upon the hole, with the only result that she became splashed from face to skirt with the crimson drops. Then she stood helplessly looking on. Prince also stood firm and motion- 32 TESS OIT THE D'URBERVILLES. less as long as he coiild, till lie suddenly sank down in a heap. By this time the mail-cart man had joined her, and be- gan di'agging and unharnessing the hot form of Prince. But he was already dead, and seeing that nothing more could be done immediately, the mail-cart man returned to his own animal, which was uninjured. ^^ I am bound to go on with the mail-bags," he said, '^ so that the best thing for you to do is to bide here with your load. I'll send somebody to help you as soon as I can. It mil soon be dayhght, and you have nothing to fear." He mounted, and sped on his way, while Tess stood and waited. The atmosphere turned pale ; the birds shook themselves in the hedges, arose, and t^dtteredj the lane showed all its white features, and Tess showed hers, still whiter. The huge pool of blood in front of her was akeady assuming the iridescence of coagulation ; and when the sun rose, a million prismatic hues were reflected from it. Prince lay alongside still and stark, his eyes half open, the hole in his chest looking scarcely large enough to have let out all that had animated him. ^' 'Tis all my doing — all mine ! " the distressed girl mur- mured, gazing intently at the spectacle. "No excuse for me — none. Wliat will father and mother live on now? Aby, Aby ! " She shook the child, who had slept soundly through the whole disaster. "We can't go on vdtli our load — Prince is killed ! " When Abraham realized all, the furrows of fifty years w^re extemporized on his young face. " Why, I danced and laughed only yesterday ! " she went on to herself. " To think that I was such a fool ! " " 'Tis because we be on a T)lighted star, and not a sound one, isn't it, Tess ? " murmured Abraham, through his tears. In stagnant blankness they waited thi'ough an interval which seemed endless. At length a sound and an ap- proaching object proved to them that the di'iver of the mail- THE IMAIDEN. 33 cart had "been as good as his word. A farmer's man from near Stourcastle came up, leading a strong cob. He was harnessed to the wagon of beehives in the place of Prince, and the load taken on towards Casterbriclge. The evening of the same day saw the empty wagon reach again the spot of the accident. Prince had lain there in the ditch since the morning 5 bnt the place of the blood pool was still visible in the middle of the road, though scratched and scraped over by passing vehicles. All that was left of Prince was now hoisted into the wagon he had formerly hauled, and with his hoofs in the air, and his shoes shining in the setting snnhght, he retraced the road to Marlott. Tess had gone in front. How to break the news was more than she conld think. It was a relief to her tongne to find from the faces of her parents that they already knew of their loss, thongh this did not lessen the self-re- proach which she continued to heap npon herself for her negligence in falling asleep. Bnt the very shiftlessness of the household rendered the misfortune a less terrifying one to them than it would have been to a striving family, though in the present case it meant ruin, and in the other it would only have meant in- convenience. In the Durbevfield countenances there was nothing of the red wrath that would have burnt upon the girl from parents more ambitious for her welfare. Nobody blamed Tess as she blamed herself. When it was discovered that the knacker and tanner would give only a very few shillings for Prince's carcass because of his decrepitude, Durbej^eld rose to the occasion. "No," said he, stoically, "I won't sell his old body. When we D'Urbervilles was knights in the land, we didn't sell our chargers for cat's meat. Let 'em keep theu' shil- lings ! He has served me well in his hf etime, and I won't part from him now." He worked harder the next day in digging a grave for 34 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. Prince in the garden than he had worked for months to grow a crop for his family. When the hole was ready, Diii'beyfield and his wife tied a roj)e round the horse and dragged him np the path towards it, the children following. Abraham and 'Liza Lu sobbed, Hope and Modesty dis- charged then' gTiefs in loud blares, which echoed from the walls; and when Prince was tumbled in they gathered round the grave. The bread-winner had been taken away from them ; what would they do ? '' Is he gone to heaven ? " asked Abraham, between the sobs. Then Durbe}^eld began to shovel in the earth, and the children cried anew. All except Tess. Her face was dry and pale, as though she regarded herself in the light of a murderess. V. The higgling business, which had mainly depended on the horse, became disorganized forthwith. Distress, if not penury, loomed in the distance. Dui'bej^eld was what was locally called a slack-twisted fellow; he had good strength to work at times ; but the times could not be reUed on to coincide with the hours of requirement ; and having been unaccustomed to the regular toil of the day-laborer, he was not particularly persistent when they did so co- incide. Tess, meanwhile, as the one who had di'agged them into this quagmire, was silently wondering what she could do to help them out of it; and then her mother broached her scheme. " We must take the ups wi' the downs, Tess," said she, ; ''and never could your high blood have been found out at a more called-for moment. You must try your friends. THE MAIDEN. 35 Do you know that there is a very rich Mrs. D'Urberville living out on the edge of The Chase, who must be our relation ? You must go to her and claim kin, and ask for some help in our trouble."' " I shouldn't care to do that/' says Tess. '^ If there is such a lady, 'twould be enough for us if she were friendly — not to expect her to give us help." "You could win her round to do anything, my dear. Besides, perhaps there's more in it than you know of. I've heard what I've heard, good-now." The oppressive sense of the harm she had done led Tess to be more deferential than she might otherwise have been to the maternal wish ; but she could not understand why her mother should find such satisfaction in contemplating an enterprise of, to her, such doubtful profit. Her mother might have made inquiries, and have discovered that this Mrs. D'Urberville was a lady of unequalled vu'tues and charity. But Tess's pride made the part of poor relation one of particular distaste to her. " I'd rather try to get work," she murmured. " Durbeyfleld, you can settle it," said his wife, turning to where he sat in the background. " If you say she ought to go, she wdll go." " I don't like my children going and making themselves beholden to strange kin," miu'mui'ed he. " I'm the head of the noblest branch of the family, and I ought to hve up to it." His reasons for staying away were worse to Tess than her owTi objection to going. " WeU, as I killed the horse, mother," she said, mom'nfully, "I suppose I ought to do something. I don't mind going and seeing her, but you must leave it to me about asking for help. And don't go thinking about her making a match for me — it is silly." " Very well said, Tess," observed her father, sententiously. " Who said I had such a thought f " asked Joan. " I fancy it is in your mind, mother. But I'U go." 36 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. Rising early next day, slie walked to the hill town called Shaston, and there took advantage of a van which twice in the week ran from Shaston eastward to Chaseborongh, passing near Trantridge, the parish in w^hich the vague and mvsterious Mrs. D'Url^erville had her residence. Tess Dnrbeyfield's ronte on this memorable morning lay amid the northeastern nndulations of the vale in which she had been l^orn, and in which her hfe had unfolded. The Vale of Blackmoor was to her the world, and its inhabitants the races thereof. From the gates and stiles of Marlott she had looked do^vn its length in the wondering days of infancy, and what had been mystery to her then w^as not much less than mystery to her now. She had seen daily from her chamber window towers, villages, faint wliite mansions ; above all, the town of Shaston standing ma- jestically on its height ; its windows shining like lamps in the evening sun. She had hardly ever visited it, only a small tract even of the vale and its envii'ons being known to her by close inspection. Much less had she been far outside the vallev. Every contour of the surrounding hills was as personal to her as that of her relatives' faces ; but for what lay beyond, her judgment was dependent on the teaching of the village school, where she had held a leading place in a high standard at the time of her leaving, a year or two before this date. In those early days she had been much loved by others of her own sex and age, and had used to be seen about the village as one of three, all nearly of the same year, walking home from school side by side, Tess being the middle one — in a pink print j)inafore of a finely reticulated pattern, worn over a stuff frock that had lost its original color for a nondescript tertiary — marching on upon long stalky legs, in tight stockings which had little ladder-like holes at the knees, torn by kneeling in the roads and banks in search of vegetable and mineral treasures ; her then earth-colored hair hanging like pot-hooks ; the arms of the two outside THE MAIDEN. 37 girls resting round the waist of Tess; her arms on the slioiilders of the two supporters. As Tess grew older, and l)egan to see how matters stood, she felt quite a Malthusian towards her mother for thought- lessly giving her so many little sisters and brothers. Her mother's intelligence was that of a happy child : Joan Dur- beyfield was simply an additional one, and that not the eldest, to her own long family of waiters on Providence. Tess became humanely beneficent towards the small ones, and to help them as much as possible, she used, as soon as she left school, to lend a hand at hay-making or harvesting on neighboring farms; or, by preference, at milking or butter-making processes, which she had learnt when her father had owned cows ; and, being deft-fingered, it was a kind of work at which she excelled. Every day seemed to throw upon her young shoulders more of the family burdens, and that Tess should be the representative of the Durbeyfields at the D'Urberville man- sion came as a thing of course. In this instance it must be admitted that the Durbe^-fields were putting their fairest side outward. She alighted from the van at Trantridge Cross, and as- cended on foot a hill in the direction of the district known as The Chase, on the borders of which, as she had been informed, Mrs. D'Urberville's seat. The Slopes, would be found. It was not a manorial home in the ordinarv sense, with fields and pastures, and a grumbling farmer, out of which a living had to be di^agged by the owner and his family by hook or crook. It was more, far more, a country house, built for enjopnent pure and simple, with not an acre of troublesome land attached to it beyond what was required for residential purposes, and a little fancy farm kept in hand by the owner, and tended by a bailiff. The warm red-brick lodge came first in sight, up to its eaves in dense evergreens. Tess thought this was the mansion itself, till, passing through the side ^dcket with 38 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. some trepidation, and onward to a point at whicli the drive took a turn, the house proper stood in full view. It was of recent erection — indeed almost new — and of the same rich crimson color that formed such a contrast with the evergreens of the lodge. Far behind the bright-hued cor- ner of the house, which rose like a red geranium against the subdued colors around, stretched the soft azure land- scape of The Chase, a truly venerable tract of forest-land, one of the few remaining woodlands in England, of almost primeval date, wherein Druidical mistletoe was still found on aged oaks, and where enormous yew-trees, not planted by the hand of man, grew as they had gro^m when they were pollarded for bows. All this sylvan antiquity, how- ever, though visible from The Slopes, was outside the im- mediate boundaries of the estate. Everything on this snug property was bright, thri\dng, and well kept; acres of glass houses stretched down the inclines to the copses at their feet. Everything looked hke money — like the last coin issued from the Mint. The stables, partly screened by Austrian pines and evergi^een oaks, and fitted mth every late appliance, were as dignified as chapels- of-ease, and on the extensive lawn stood an ornamental tent, its door being towards her. Simple Tess Durbeyfield stood at gaze, in a half-paralj'zed attitude, on the edge of the gravel sweep. Her feet had brought her onward to this point l^efore she had quite realized where she was ; and now all was contrary to her expectation. ''I thought we were an old family, but this is all new!" she said, in her girlish artlessness. She mshed that she had not fallen in so readily with her mother's plans for "claiming kin," and had endeavored to gain assistance nearer home. The D'Urbervilles — or Stoke-D'Urbervilles, as they some- times called themselves — who owned all this, were a some- what unusual family to find in this old-fashioned part of THE MAIDEN. 39 the country. Parson Tringham had spoken truly Avhen he said that our shambling John Durbeyfield was the only really lineal representative of the old D'Urberville family existing in the county, or near it ; he might have added, what he knew very well, that the Stoke-D'Urbervilles were no more D'Urbervilles of the true tree than he was him- self. Yet it must be admitted that this familv formed a very good stock whereon to regraft a name which sadly wanted such renovation. When old Mr. Simon Stoke, latterly deceased, had made his fortune as an honest merchant (some said money-lender) in the north, he decided to settle as a county man in the south of England, out of hail of his business district; and in doing this he felt the necessity of recommencing with a name that would not too readily identify him with the smart tradesman of the past, and that would be less com- monplace than the original bald stark words. Conning for an hour in the British Museum the pages of works de- voted to extinct, half-extinct, obscui-ed, and lost families appertaining to the quarter of England in which he pro- posed to settle, he considered that D' UrherviUe looked and sounded as well as any of them ; and D'Urberville accord- ingly was annexed to his own for himself and his heirs eternally. Yet he was not an extravagant-minded man in this, and in constructing his family tree on the new basis was duly reasonable in framing his intermarriages and aristocratic links, never inserting a single title above a r;ink of strict moderation. Of this work of imagination poor Tess and her parents Vv^re naturally in ignorance — much to their ovtd. discom- fiture; indeed, the very possibility of such annexations was unknown to them, who supposed that though to be well favored might be the gift of fortune, a family name came bv nature. Tess still stood hesitating, like a bather about to make his plunge, hardly knowing whether to retreat or to per- 40 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. severe, when a figiu'e came forth from the dark triangular door of the tent. It was that of a tall yonng man, smoking. He had an almost swarthy complexion, with full lips, badly moulded, though red and smooth, above which w^as a well-groomed black mustache with curled points, though his age could not be more than three- or foiu'-and-twent3\ Yet, despite the touches of barbarism in his contours, there was a singular force in the gentleman's face, and in his bold rolling eye. "Well, my big beauty, what can I do for you?" said he, airily, coming forward. And, perceiving that she stood quite confounded: "Never mind me. I am Mr. Stoke- D'Urberville. Have you come to see me or my mother ? " This embodiment of a Stoke-D'Urberville and a name- sake differed even more from what Tess had expected than the house and grounds had differed. She had dreamed of an aged and dignified face, the sublimation of all dis- tinctive D'Urberville lineaments, fiuTowed with incarnate memories, representing in hieroglyphic the centuries of her family and England's history. But she screwed herself up to the work in hand, since she could not get out of it, and answered : " I came to see your mother, sir." " I am afraid you cannot see her — she is an invalid," re- plied the present representative of the spurious house ; for he was Mr. Alec, the only son of the lately deceased gen- tleman. " Cannot I answer your purpose 1 What is the business you wish to see her about ? " " It isn't business ; it is — I can hardly say what ! " "Pleasure?" " Oh no. Wliy, sir, if I tell you, it vnll seem " Tess's sense of the extreme silliness of her errand was now so strong that, notwithstanding her awe of him and her general discomfort at being here, her rosy lips curved towards a smile, much to the attraction of the swarthy Alexander. THE MAIDEN, 41 ^'It is SO very foolisli/' she stammered; ^'I fear I can't teU 'ee ! '' "Never mind; I like foolish things. Try again, my dear/' said he, kindly. " Mother asked me to come/' Tess continued ; " and, in- deed, I was inclined to do so myself, likewise. But I did not think it would be like this. I came, sii^, to tell you that we be of the same family as you.'' " Ho ! Poor relations ! " " Yes." " Stokes ? " "No; D'Urbervilles." " Ay, ay ; I mean D'Urbervilles." " Our names are corrupted to Durbeyfield ; but we have several proofs that we be D'Urber\alles. Antiquarians say we are — and — and we have a very old silver spoon, round in the bowl, hke a httle ladle, with a ramping lion on the handle, and a castle over Mm. But it is so old that mother uses it to stir the pea soup." " A castle argent is certainly my crest," said he, blandly. "And so mother said we ought to make ourselves be- known to you, as we've lost oiu- horse by a bad accident, and are the oldest branch o' the family." "Very kind of yom* mother, Tm sure. And I, for one, don't regret her step." Alec looked at Tess as he spoke in a way that made her blush a little. "And so, my pretty gu4, you've come on a friendly \dsit to us, as rela- tions ! " " I suppose I have," faltered Tess, looking round at the mansion. "Well — there's no harm in it. Where do you live? What are you f " She gave him brief particulars ; and, after further in- quiries, told him that she was intending to go back by the same carrier who had brought her. "It is a long while before he returns past Trantridge 42 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. Cross. Supposing we walk round the grounds to pass the thne, my pretty coz ? '' Tess wished to abrid-ge her \dsit as much as possible, but the young man was pressing, and she consented to accom- pany him. He conducted her about the lawns and flower- beds and conservatories, and thence to the fruit-garden, where he asked her if she liked strawberries. ^' Yes," said Tess, " when they come." '^ They are already here." D'Urberville began gathering specimens of the fruit for her, handing them back to her as he stooped ; and presently, selecting a specially fine prod- uct of the " British Queen " variety, he stood up, and held it bv the stem to her mouth. "No, no ! " she said, quickly, putting her fingers between his hand and her lips. " I would rather take it, sir, in my own hand." "Nonsense!" he insisted; and, in a shght distress, she parted her hps and took it in. They had spent some time wandering desultorily thus, Tess eating, in a half -pleased, half -reluctant state, whatever D'Urber^dlle offered her. When she could consume no more of the strawberries, he filled her little basket with them ; and then the two passed round to the rose-trees, whence he gathered blossoms, and gave her to put in her bosom. She obeyed like one in a dream, and when she could affix no more he himself tucked a bud or two into her hat, and heaped her basket with them, in the prodi- gality of his bounty. At last, looking at his watch, he said : " Now, by the time you have had something to eat, it mil be time for vou to leave, if vou want to catch the carrier to Shaston. Come here, and I'll see what grub I can find." Stoke-D'Urberville took her back to the lawn and into the tent, where he left her, soon reappearing with a basket of light luncheon, which he put before her himself. It was evidently the young gentleman's wish not to be dis- turbed in this pleasant tete-d-tete by the servantry. THE IVIAIDEX. 43 " Do you mind my smoking ? '' he asked. " Oh, not at all, si." He watched her pretty and nnconscious mnnehing through the skeins of smoke that pervaded the tent, and Tess Durbevfield did not divine, as she innocent! v looked down at the roses in her bosom, that there, behind the blue narcotic haze, was potentially the 'Hragic mischief" of her drama — one who stood fair to be the blood-red ray in the spectrum of her young life. She had an attribute which amounted to a disadvantage just now ; and it was tliis that caused Alec D'Urberville's eyes to rivet themselves upon her. It was a luxuriance of aspect, a fulness of growth, which made her appear more of a woman than she really was. She had inherited the feature from her mother, without the quality it denoted. It had troubled her mind occasionally, till her companions had said that it was a fault which time would cure. She soon had finished her lunch. ^'Now I am going home, sir," she said, rising. "And what do thev call vou?" he asked, as he accom- panied her along the drive till they were out of sight of the house. " Tess Durbeyfield do^vn at Marlott, sir." '^ And you say your people have lost their horse ? " " I — killed him ! " she answered, her eyes filling with tears as she gave particulars of Prince's death. "And I don't know what to do for father on account of it ! '^ " I must think if I cannot do something. My mother must find a berth for you. But, Tess, no nonsense about t/' 7 7 ' D'UrberviUe ' ; 'Durbeyfield' only, you know — quite an- other name." " I wish for no better, sir," said she, calming herself well-nigh to dignity. For a moment — only for a moment — when they were in the turning of the drive, between the tall rhododendrons and laurestines, before the lodge became visible, he inclined 44 TESS OF THE D'URBERYILLES. his face towards her as if — But, no ! he thought better of it, and let her go. Thus the thing began. Had she perceived this meeting's import, she might have asked why she was doomed to be seen and marked and coveted that day by the ^^T:'ong man, and not by a certain other man, the right and desired one in all respects — as nearly as humauity can supply the right and desii^ed; yet to Mm who amongst her acquaintance might have approximated to this kind she was but a tran- sient impression, half -forgotten. In the ill-judged execution of the well-judged plan of things, the call seldom produces the comer, the man to love rarely coincides with the hour for loving. Nature does not often say ^' See ! '' to a poor creature at a time when see- ing can lead to happy doing ; or reply "■ Here ! " to a body's cry of ""^^Tiere?" till the hide-and-seek has become an irksome, outworn game. We may wonder whether at the acme and summit of the human progress these anachro- nisms "v^dll become corrected by a finer intuition, a closer interaction of the social machinery than that which now jolts us round and along ; but such completeness is not to be prophesied, or even conceived as possible. Enough that in the present case, as in millions, the two halves of an ap- proximately perfect whole did not confront each other at the perfect moment; part and counterpart wandered inde- pendently about the earth in the stupidest manner for a while, till the late time came. Out of which maladroit de- lay sprang anxieties, disappointments, shocks, catastrophes — and what Avas called a strauge destiny. When D'Urberville got back to the tent, he sat down astride on a chair, reflecting, with a pleased gleam in his face. Then he broke into a loud lauah. ''Well, Pm damned! What a funny thing! Ha-ha-ha! And what a charming giii ! '' THE MAIDEN. 45 VI. Tess went down the liill to Trantriclge Cross, and auto- matical! v waited to take her seat in the van retnrnine: from Chaseborough to Shaston. She did not know what the other occupants said to her as she entered, though she an- swered them ; and when they had started anew she rode along with an inward and not an outward eye. One among her fellow-travellers addressed her more pointedly than any had spoken before : '' Why, you be quite a posy ! And such roses in early June ! " Then she became aAvare of the spectacle she presented to their surprised vision ; roses at her breast ; roses in her hat ; roses and strawberries in her basket to the brim. She blushed, and said, confusedly, that the flowers had been given to her ; when the passengers were not looking, she stealthily removed the more prominent blooms from her hat and placed them in the basket, where she covered them wdth her handkerchief. Then she fell to reflecting again, and in looking downwards a thorn of the rose remaining in her breast accidentally pricked her chin. Like all the cottagers of Blackmoor Vale, Tess was steeped in fancies and prefigurative superstitions ; she thought this an ill omen — the first she had noticed that day. The van travelled only so far as Shaston, and there were several miles of pedestrian descent from that mountain town into the vale to Marlott. Her mother had advised her to stay here for the night, at the house of a cottage woman thev knew, if she felt too tii'ed to come on : and this Tess did, not descending to her home till the f ollo^\T.ng afternoon. When she entered the house she perceived in a moment from her mother's triumphant manner that something had occurred in the interim. 46 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. " Oh yes ; I know all about it ! I told you it would be all right, and now 'tis proved." ''Since I've been away? What has?" said Tess, rather wearily. Her mother surveyed the gu-1 up and down with arch approval, and went on, banteringly, " So you've brought 'em round ! " '' How do you know, mother ? " '' I've had a letter." Tess then remembered that there would have been just time for this. " They say — Mrs. D'Urberville says — that she wants you to look after a little poultry farm which is her hobby. But this is only her artful way of getting you there with- out raising j^our hopes. She's going to acknowledge 'ee as kin — that's the meaning o't." " But I didn't see her." "You zeed somebody, I suppose?" " I saw her son." '' And did he acknowledge 'ee ? " " Well — he called me coz." '' An' I knew it ! Jackv, he called her coz ! " cried Joan to her husband. " WeU, he spoke to his mother, of course, and she do want 'ee there." "But I don't know that I am apt at managing fowls," said the dubious Tess. " Then I don't know who is apt. You've ben born in the business, and brought up in it. Them thet's born in a business always know more about it than any 'prentice. Besides, that's only just a show of something for you to do, that you midn't feel dependent." "I don't altogether think I ought to go," said Tess, thoughtfully. "Whowi'ote the letter? Will you let me look at it ? '' " Mrs. D'Urberville wrote it. Here it is." The letter was in the third person, and briefly informed THE ]\IAIDEN. 47 Mrs. Dnrbeyfield that her daughter's services would be useful to that lady in the management of her poultry farm, that a comfortable room would be provided for her if she could come, and that the emolument would be on a liberal scale if they liked her. ''O— that's all," said Tess. " You couldn't expect her to throw her arms round 'ee, an' to kiss and to coll 'ee all at once." Tess looked out of the window. ''I would rather stay here with father and you/' she said. " But whv I " "I'd rather not tell you why, mother- indeed, I don't quite know why." A week afterwards she came in one evening from an un- availing search for some light occupation in the immediate neighborhood. Her idea had been to get together sufficient money during the summer to pui'chase another horse. Hardly had she crossed the threshold before one of the children danced across the room, saying, " The gentleman has been here ! " Her mother hastened to explain, smiles breaking from every inch of her person. Mrs. D'Ui*ber\dlle's son had called on horseback, having been riding by chance in the direction of Marlott. He had mslied to know, finally, in the name of his mother, if Tess could really come to man- age the old lady's fowl farm or not, the lad who had hitherto superintended the birds having proved untrust- worthy. " Mr. D'Urberville says you must be a good girl if you are at all as you appear ; he knows you must be worth your iveight in gold. He is very much interested in 'ee — truth to tell." Tess seemed for the moment really pleased to hear that she had won such high opinion from a stranger when, in her own esteem, she had sunk so low. " It is veiy good of him to think that," she murmured ; " and if I was quite sure how it would be h\ing there I would go any- when." 48 TESS OF THE D'URBERYILLES. ^' He is a mighty handsome man." '' I don't think so," said Tess, coldly. " Well, there's your chance, whether or no ; and I'm sure he wears a beautiful diamond ring ! " "Yes," said little Abraham, brightly, from the window bench ; " and I seed it ! and it did twinkle when he put his hand up to his mistarshers. Mother, why did our noble relation keep on putting his hand wp to his mistarshers?" " Hark at that child ! " cried Mrs. Durbeyfleld, with par- enthetic admiration. ''Perhaps to show his diamond ring," murmured Sir John, dreamily, from his chau\ '' I'll think it over," said Tess, leaving the room. '' Well, she's made a conquest o' the junior branch of us, straight off," continued the matron to her husband, " and she's a fool if she don't follow it up." " I don't quite like my children going away from home," said the higgler. ''As the head of the family, the rest ought to come to me." " But do let her go, Jacky," coaxed his poor "witless wife. " He's struck wi' her — vou can see that. He called her coz ! He'U marry her, most likely, and make a lady of her ; and then she'll be what her forefathers was." John Durbeyfield had more conceit than energy or health, and this supposition was pleasant to him. " Well, perhaps that's what young Mr. D'Urber\alle means," he ad- mitted, " and he reaUy may have serious thoughts about improving his blood by linking on to the old line. Tess, the little rogue ! And have she really paid 'em a ^dsit to such an end as this ? " Meanwhile Tess was walking thoughtfully among the gooseberry-bushes in the garden, and over Prince's grave. When she came in, her mother pursued her advantage. " Well, what be you going to do ? " she asked. " I wish I had seen Mrs. D'Urberville," said Tess. THE ]\L\IDEN. 49 ^^ I tliink you mid as well settle it. Then you'll see her soon enough." Her father coughed in his chair. " I don't know what to say/' answered the gii*l, restlessly. " It is for you to decide. I killed the old horse, and I sup- pose I ought to do something to get ye a new one. But — I )ut— I don't quite like Mr. D'Urber\dlle ! " The children, who had made use of this idea of Tess being taken up by their wealthy kinsfolk (as they imagined the other family to be) as a species of dolorifuge after the death of the horse, began to cry at Tess's reluctance^ and teased and reproached her for hesitating. '^ Tess won't go and be made a la — a — dy of ! No, she says she wo — o — on't ! " they wailed, with square mouths. ''And we shan't have a nice new horse, and lots o' golden money to buy fairlings ! And Tess won't look pretty in her best cloze no mo — o — ore ! " Her mother chimed in to the same tune ; a certain way she had of making her labors in the house seem heavier than thev were bv prolonHno^ them indefinitely also weio'hed in the argument. Her father alone preserved an attitude of neutrality. " I ^yill go," said Tess at last. Her mother could not repress her consciousness of the nuptial Vision conjured up by the girl's consent. " That's right ! For such a pretty gii'l, it is a fine chance ! " '' I hope it is a chance for earning money. It is no other kind of chance. You had better say nothing of that sULy sort about parish." Mrs. Durbeyfield did not promise. She was not quite sure that she did not feel proud enough, after the visitoi'^s remarks, to say a good deal. Thus it was arranged ; and the young girl "^vi'ote, agree- ing to be ready to set out on any day on which she might be required. She was duly informed that Mrs. D'Urber- 4 50 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. ville was glad of her decision, and that a spring cart should be sent to meet her and her luggage at the top of the Vale on the day after the morrow, when she must hold herself prepared to start. Mrs. D'Urberville's handwriting seemed rather masculine. " A cart ? ^' murmui'ed Joan Dui'beyfield, doubtingty. HaAdng at last taken her coui'se, Tess was less restless and abstracted, going about her business with some self- assurance in the thought of acquiring another horse for her father by an occupation which would not be onerous. She had hoped to be a teacher at the school, but the fates seemed to decide otherwise. Being mentally older than her mother, she did not regard Mrs. Durbej^eld's matrimonial hopes for her in a serious aspect for a moment. The light-minded woman had beeii discovering good matches for her daughter almost from the year of her birth. VII. On the morning appointed for her departure Tess w^as awake before dawn — at the marginal minute of the dark when the grove is still mute save for one prophetic bird, who sings with a clear-voiced conviction that he at least knows the correct time of day, the rest preserving silence, as if equally convinced that he is mistaken. She remained up- stairs packing tiU breakfast-time, and then came down in her ordinaiy working-clothes, her Sunday apparel being carefully folded in her box. Her mother expostulated. " You wiU never set out to see your folks without dressing up more the dand than that ? " " But I am going to work ! " said Tess. " Well, yes," said Mrs. Durbeyfield ; adding, in a private THE MAIDEN. 51 tone, '^ at first there may be a little pretence o't. . . . But I think it will be wiser of 'ee to put your best side outward," she said. " Very weYl ; I suppose you know best," replied Tess, with calm indifference. And to please her parent the girl put herself quite in Joan's hands, saying, serenely, "Do what you like with me, mother." Mrs. Durbeyfield was only too delighted at this tracta- bility. First she fetched a great basin, and washed Tess's hair with such thoroughness that when dried and brushed it looked twice as much as at other times. She tied it with a broader red ribbon than usual. Then she put upon her the white frock that Tess had worn at the club-walking, the airy fulness of wliich, supplementing her enlarged coiffure, imparted to her developing flgui'e an amphtude which be- lied her age, and might cause her to be addressed as a woman when she was not much more than a child. " I declare, there's a hole in my stocking heel ! " said Tess. " Never mind holes in your stockings — they don't speak ! When I was a maid, so long as I had a pretty bonnet, the devil might ha' found me in heels." Her mother's pride in the girl's appearance led her to step back, like a painter from his easel, and siu'vey her work as a whole. " You must see yourself," she cried. " It is much better than you was t'other day." As the looking-glass was only large enough to reflect a very small portion of Tess's person at one time, Mrs. Dur- beyfield hung a black cloak outside the casement, and so made a large reflector of the panes, as it is the wont of be- decking cottagers to do. After this she went downstairs to her husband, who was sitting in the lower room. " I'll tell 'ee what 'tis, Durbeyfield," said she, exultingly, " he'll never have the heart not to love her. But whatever you do, don't say too much to Tess of his fancy for her and this chance she has got. She is such an odd maid that it 52 TESS OF THE D'URBERYILLES. mid set her against liim, or against going there even now. If all goes well, I shall certainly be for making some return to that pa'son at Stagfoot Lane for telling ns — dear good man ! " However, as the moment for the girl's setting out drew nigh, when the first excitement of the di*essing had passed off, a slight misgiving found place in Joan Durbeyfield's mind. It prompted the matron to say that she wonld walk a little way — as far as to the point where the acchvity from the valley began its first steep ascent to the outer world. At the top Tess was going to be met with the spring cart sent by the D'Urbervilles, and her box had already been wheeled ahead towards this summit by a lad with trucks, to be in readiness. Seeing their mother put on her bonnet, the younger children clamored to go with her. " I do want to walk a little ways wi' Sissy, now she's going to marry our gentle- man cousin, and wear fine cloze ! '^ " Now," said Tess, flushing and turning quickly, ^' I'll hear no more o' that ! Mother, how could you ever put such stuff into their heads 1 " ^' Going to work, my dears, for our rich relation, and help get enough money for a new horse," said Mrs. Durbeyfield, pacifically. " Good-by, father," said Tess, with a lumpy throat. '^ Good-by, my maid," said Sir John, raising his head from his breast, as he suspended his nap, induced by a slight excess this morning in honor of the occasion. "Well, I hope my young friend will like such a comely sample of his own blood. And teU'n, Tess, that being reduced quite from our former grandeur, I'll sell him the title — yes, sell it — and at no onreasonable figure." ^^ Not for less than a thousand poimd ! " cried Lady Dur- beyfield. " Tell'n — I'll take a thousand pound. Well, I'll take less, when I come to think o't. He'U adorn it better than a THE MAIDEN. 53 poor broken-down feller like myself can. TelPn lie shall hae it for a hundred. But I won't stand upon trifles — tell'n he shall hae it for fifty — for twenty pound ! Yes, twenty pound — that's the lowest. Damniy, family honor is family honor^ and I won't take a penny less ! '' Tess's eyes were too full and her voice too choked to utter the bitter reproaches that were in her. She turned quickly and went out. So the girls and theii* mother all walked together — a child on each side of Tess, holding her hand, and looking at her meditatively from time to time, as at one who was about to do great things ; her mother just behind — the group forming a picture of honest beauty flanked by inno- cence and backed by simple-souled vanity. They followed the way till they reached the beginning of the ascent, on the crest of which the vehicle from Trantridge was to re- ceive her, this limit having been fixed to save the horse the labor of the slope. Far away behind the first hills the clifli-like dwellings of Shaston broke the line of the ridge. Nobody was visible in the elevated road that sku'ted the ascent saA^e the lad whom they had sent on before them, sitting on the handle of the barrow that contained all Tess's worldly possessions. ^^ Bide here a bit, and the cart will soon come, no doubt," said Mrs. Dm-bevfield. " Yes ; I see it vonder ! " It had come, appearing suddenly from behind the fore- head of the nearest upland, and stopping beside the boy mth the barrow. Her mother and the children thereupon decided to go no farther, and bidding them a hasty good- by, Tess bent her steps up the hiU. They saw her white shape draw near to the spring cart, on which her box was already placed. But before she had quite reached it, another vehicle shot out from a clump of trees on the summit, came round the bend of the road there, passed the cart, and halted beside Tess, who turned as if in great surprise. 54 TESS OF THE D"URBERVILLES. Her mother perceived, for the fii'st time, that the second vehicle was not an humble conveyance like the fii'st, but a spick-and-span gig or dog-cart, higlily varnished and equipped. The driver was a young man of one- or two-and- twenty, mth a cigar between his teeth ; wearing a dandy cap, drab jacket, breeches of the same hue, white neckcloth, stick-uj) collar, and bro^svn diiving-gloves — in short, he was the handsome, horsey young buck who had visited her a week or two before to get her answer about Tess. Mrs. Durbeyfield clapped her hands like a child. Then she looked do^ra and stared again. Could she be deceived as to the meaning of this f ^' Is dat the gentleman kinsman who'll make Sissy a lady ? " asked the youngest child. Meanw^hile the muslined form of Tess could be seen standing still, undecided, beside this turnout, whose owner was talking to her. Her seeming indecision was, in fact, more than indecision ; it was misgiving. She would have preferred the humble cart. The young man dismounted^ and appeared to urge her to ascend. She turned her face down the hill to her relatives, and regarded the little group. Something seemed to quicken her to a determination ; pos- sibly the thought that she had killed Prince. She suddenly stepped up; he mounted beside her, and immediately whipped on the horse. In a moment they had passed the slow cart with the box, and disappeared behind the shoulder of the hiU. Dii-ectly Tess was out of sight, and the interest of the matter as a drama was at an end, the little one's eyes filled with tears. The youngest child said, ^'I wish poor Tess wasn't gone away to be a lady ! " and, lowering the corners of her lips, burst out crying. The new point of view was infectious, and the next child did likewise, and then the next, till the whole row of them wailed loud. There were tears also in Joan Durbeyfield's eyes as she turned to go home. But by the time she had got back to THE 3L\IDEN. 55 tlie tillage she was passively trusting to the favor of acci- dent. However, in bed that night she sighed, and her hus- band asked her what was the matter. "O, I don't know exactly," she said. '^I was thinldng that perhaps it would ha' been better if Tess had not gone." " Oughtn't ye to have thought of that before ? " ^' Well, 'tis a chance for the maid — Still, if 'twere the doing again, I wouldn't let her go till I had found out whether the gentleman is really a good-hearted young man, and interested in her as his kinswoman." "Yes, you ought, perhaps, to ha' done that," snored Sir John. Joan Durbeyfield always managed to find consolation somewhere. '' Well, as one of the genuine stock, she ought to make her way with en, if she plays her trump card aright. And if he don't marry her afore he will after. For that he's all afire wi' love for her any eye can see." " What's her trump card ? Her D'Urberville blood, you mean ? " "No, stupid; her face — as 'twas mine." VIII. Haying mounted beside her, Alec D'Urberville drove rapidly along by the crest of the hill, chatting compliments to Tess as they went, the cart mth her box being left far behind. An immense landscape stretched around them on every side ; behind, the green valley of her birth ; before, a gray country of which she knew nothing except from her fii'st brief visit to Trantridge. Thus thej^ reached the verge of an incline down which the road stretched in a long straight descent of nearly a mile. 56 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. Ever since the accident with her father's horse, Tess Durbeyfield, courageous as she naturally was, had been exceedingly timid on wheels ; the least iiTcgularity of mo- tion startled her. She began to get uneasy at a certain recklessness in her conductors driving. "You will go down slowly, sir, I suppose?" she said, with attempted unconcern. D'Urberville looked round upon her, nipped his cigar vrith the tips of his large white centre-teeth, and allowed his hps to sinile slowly of themselves. " Why, Tess," he answered, after another whiff or two, ''it isn't a brave, bouncing girl like you who asks that? Why, I alwa3^s go down at full gallop. There's nothing hke it for raising youi* spmts." " But perhaps you need not now?" "Ah," he said, shaking his head, "there are two to be reckoned with. It is not me alone. Tib has to be consid- ered, and she has a very queer temper." "Who?" " Why, this mare. I fancy she looked round at me in a verv 2Tim wav iust then. Didn't voit notice it ? " " Don't try to frighten me, sir," said Tess, stiffly. "Well, I don't. If any li\Hng man can manage this horse I can — I won't say any H\ing man can do it — but if such has the power, I am he." " Why do you have such a horse?" " Ah, weU may you ask it ! It was my fate, I suppose. Tib has killed one chap : and just after I bought her she nearly killed me. And then, take my word for it, I nearly killed her. But she's queer still, very queer; and one's life is hardlv safe behind her sometimes." They were just beginning to descend ; and it was e\ddent that the horse, whether of her own will or of his (the latter being the more likely) knew so well the reckless perform- ance expected of her, that she hardly required a liint from behind. THE MAIDEN. 57 Down, down, they sped, the wheels humming Kke a top, the dog-cart rocking right and left, its axis acquiring a slightly obUque set in relation to the line of progress ; the figure of the horse rising and falling in undulations before them. Sometimes a wheel was off the ground, it seemed for many yards ; sometimes a stone was sent spinning over the hedge, and flinty sparks from the horse's hoofs outshone the daylight. The fore part of the straight road enlarged with theii' advance, the two banks dividing like a splitting stick ; and one rushed past at each shoulder. The wind blew through Tess's white muslin to her very skin, and her washed liaii* flew out behind. She was deter- mined to show no open fear, but she clutched D'Urberville's rein-arm. " Don't touch mv arm ! We shall be thrown out if you do ! Hold on round my w^aist ! " She grasped his waist, and so they reached the bottom. " Safe, thank Grod, in spite of your folly ! " said she, her face on fire. '• Tess— ^fie ! that's temper ! " said D'Urber\aQe. '"Tis truth." " Well, 3'ou need not let go your hold of me so thank- lessly the moment you feel yom'self out of danger." She had not considered what she had been doing ; whether he were man or woman, stick or stone, in her involuntary hold on him. Kecovering her reserve, she sat without replying, and thus they reached the summit of another dech\dty. '' Now then, again ! " said D'Urberville. "No, no," said Tess. "Show more sense, do, please, sir." " But when people find themselves on the highest point in the county, they must get down again," he retorted. He loosened rein, and awav thev went a second time. D'Urber- ville turned his face to her as they rocked, and said, in play- ful raillery, "Now then, put your arms round my waist again, as you did before, my beauty ! " 58 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. " Never ! " said Tess, independently, holding on as well as she could without touching him. " Let me put one little kiss on those holmberry lips, Tess ; or even on that Avarmed cheek, and Pll stop — on my honor, I wiU!" Tess, surprised beyond measm-e, slid fui^ther back still on her seat, at which he urged the horse anew, and rocked her the more. "Will nothing else do?" she cried at length, in despera- tion, her large eyes staring at him like those of a wild ani- mal. This dressing her up so prettily by her mother had apparently been to lamentable purpose. " Nothing, dear Tess," he repHed. " 0, 1 don't know^ — very well ; I don't mind ! " she panted, miserably. He drew rein, and as they slowed he was on the point of imprinting the desired salute, when, as if hardly yet aware of her own modesty, she dodged aside. His arms being occupied with the reins, there was left him no power to prevent her manoeu\Te. "Now, damn it — I'll break both our necks ! " swore her capriciously passionate companion. " So you can go from your word like that, you young wdtch, can you ? " "Very well," said poor Tess, "I'll not move since you be so determined ! But I — thought you would be kind to me^ and protect me, as my kinsman ! " " Kinsman be hanged ! Now ! " " But I don't want anybody to kiss me, sii' ! " she im- plored, a big tear beginning to roll down her face, and the corners of her mouth trembling in her attempts not to cry. " And I wouldn't ha' come if I had known ! " He was inexorable, and she sat still, and D'Urberville gave her the kiss of mastery. No sooner had he done so than she flushed with shame, took out her handkerchief, and wiped the spot on her cheek that had been touched by THE MAIDEN. 59 liis lips. His ardor was nettled at the sight, for the act on her part had been unconsciously done. '^ You are mighty sensitive for a farm girl ! " said the young man. Tess made no reply to this remark, of which, indeed, she did not quite comprehend the drift, unheeding the snub she had administered by her automatic rub upon her cheek. She had, in fact, undone the kiss, as far as such a thing Avas physically possible. With a dim sense that he was vexed, she looked steadily ahead as they trotted on, till she saw, to her consternation, that there was vet another descent to be undergone. " You shall be made sony for that ! " he resumed, his in- jured tone still remaining, as he flourished the whip anew. " Unless, that is, you agree willingly to let me do it again, and no handkerchief." She sighed. " Very well, sir ! " she said. " — let me get my hat ! " At the moment of speaking, her hat had blown off into the road, their present speed on the upland being by no means slow. D'UrberviUe pulled up, and said he would get it for her, but Tess was down on the other side. She turned back and picked up the article. " You look prettier with it off, upon my soul, if that's possible," he said, contemplating her over the back of the vehicle. "Now then, up again ! What's the matter ? " The hat was in place and tied, but Tess had not stepped forward. " No, sii"," she said, revealing the red and ivory of her mouth in defiant triumph ; " not again, if I know it ! " " Wliat — you won't get up beside me ? " '^ No ; I shaU walk." '' 'Tis five or six miles yet to Trantridge." " I don't care if 'tis dozens. Besides, the cart is behind." " You artful hussy ! Now, tell me — didn't you make that hat blow off on purpose ? I'll swear you did ! " 60 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. Her guarded silence confirmed his suspicion. Then D'Urberville cui'sed and swore at her, and called her everything he could think of for the trick. Turning the horse suddenly, he tried to di'ive back upon her, and so hem her in between the gig and the hedge. But he could not do this short of injui'ing her. ^^ You ought to be ashamed of yourself for using such wicked words ! '' cried Tess, with spirit, from the top of the hedge into which she had scrambled. ^' I don't like you at all ! I hate and detest you ! I'll go back to mother, I wiU ! " D'Urbendlle's bad temper cleared up at sight of hers; and he laughed heartily. ^* Well, I like you all the better," he said. '• Come, let there be peace. I'll never do it again against youi' will. My life upon it noAv ! " Still Tess could not be induced to remount. She did not, however, object to his keeping his gig alongside her ; and, in this manner, at a slow pace, they advanced toAvards the village of Trantridge. From time to time D'Urberville ex- hibited a sort of fierce distress at the sight of the tramping he had di*iven her to l)v his misdemeanor. She mioiit, in truth, have safely trusted him now ; but he had forfeited her confidence for the time, and she kept on the ground, progressing thoughtfully, as if wondering whether it would be wiser to return home. Her resolve, however, had been taken, and it seemed vacillating even to childishness to abandon it now, unless for graver reasons. How could she face her parents, get back her box, and disconcert the whole scheme for the rehabilitation of her family on such senti- mental gi'ounds ! A few minutes later the chimneys of The Slopes appeared in vie'\^, and in a snug nook to the right the poultry-farm and cottage of Tess's destination. THE iMAIDEN. 61 IX. The community of fo^ls to which Tess had been ap- pointed as supervisor, purveyor, nurse, surgeon, and friend made theii" headquarters in an old thatched cottage stand- ing in an enclosure that had once been a garden, but was now a trampled and sanded square. The house was over- run with ivj, its chimney being enlarged l^y the boughs of the parasite to the aspect of a ruined tower. The lower rooms were entirely given over to the birds, who walked about them mtli a proprietary air, as though the place had been built by and for themselves, and not by and for cer- tain dusty copyholders who now lay east and west in the churchvard. The descendants of these bverone owners felt it almost as a slif^ht to their familv when the house which had so much of their affection, had cost so much of their forefathers' money, and had been in their possession for several generations before the D'Urber^^lles came and built here, was indifferentlv turned into a fowl-house bv Mrs. Stoke-D'Urberville as soon as the property fell into hand according to law. '- 'Twas good enough for Christians in grandfather's time,'' they said. The rooms in which dozens of infants had wailed at theii* nursing now resounded with the tapping of nascent chicks. Distracted hens in coops occupied s];)ots where formerly stood chairs supporting sedate agriculturists. The chimney corner and once blazing hearth was now filled with inverted beehives, in which the hens laid their eggs ; while out-of- doors the plots that each succeeding householder had care- fully shaped mth his spade were torn by the cocks in ^^ildest fashion. The garden in which the cottage stood was suiTOunded by a wall, and could only be entered through a door. 62 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. Wlien Tess had occupied herself about an hour iu alter- ing and improving the arrangements, according to her skilled ideas as the daughter of a professed poulterer, the door in the wall opened and a servant in white cap and apron entered. She had come from the manor-house. " Mrs. D'Urberville wants the fowls as usual," she said ; but perceivmg that Tess did not quite understand, she ex- plained, " Mis'ess is a old lady, and blind." " Blind ! " said Tess. Almost before her misgiving at the news could find time to shape itself, she took, under her companion's direction, two of the most beautiful of the Hamburghs in her arms, and followed the maid-servant, who had likemse taken two, to the adjacent mansion, which, though ornate and impos- ing, showed marks on this side which bore out the surmise that some occupant of its chambers could bend to the love of dumb creatures — feathers floating within view of the front, and hen-coops standing on the grass. In a sitting-room on the ground-floor, ensconced in an arm-chair with her back to the light, was the owner and mistress of the estate, a white-haired woman of not more than sixty, or even less, wearing a large cap. She had the mobile face frequent in those whose sight has decayed by stages, has been laboriously striven after and reluctantly let go, rather than the stagnant mien apparent in persons long sightless or born blind. Tess walked up to this lady with her feathered charges — one sitting on each arm. " Ah, you are the young woman come to look after my birds ? " said Mrs. D'Urberville, recognizing a new f ootstej:). " I hope you will be kind to them. My bailiff tells me you are quite the proper person. Well, where are they ? Ah, this is Strut ! But he is hardly so lively to-day, is he ? He is alarmed at being handled by a stranger, I suppose. And Phena too — yes, they are a little frightened — aren't you, dears ? But they will soon get used to you." While the old lady had been speaking Tess and the other THE :MAIDEN. 63 maid, in obedience to her gestures, liad placed the foAvls severally in her lap, and she had felt them over from head to tail, examining theu^ beaks, their combs, the manes of the cocks, their wings, and their claws. Her touch enabled her to recognize them in a moment, and to discover if a single feather were crippled or draggled. She handled theii' crops, and knew what they had eaten, and if too little or too much ; her face enacting a vivid 23antomime of the criticisms j)assing in her mind. The bii'ds that the two girls had brought in were duly returned to the yard, and the process was repeated till all the pet cocks and hens had been submitted to the old woman — Hamburghs, Bantams, Cochins, Brahmas, Dor- kings, and such other sorts as were in fashion just then — her perception of each \dsitor being seldom at fault as she received the bird upon her knees. It reminded Tess of a Confirmation, in which Mrs. D'Ur- ber\T.lle was the bishop, the fowls the young people pre- sented, and herself and the maid-servant the parson and curate of the parish bringing them up. At the end of the ceremony Mrs. D'Urber\Tlle abruptly asked Tess, wrink- ling and twitching her face into undulations^ "Can you whistle?" Whistle, ma'am ? " Yes, whistle tunes.'^ Tess could whistle, like most other country girls, though the accomplishment was one which she did not care to pro- fess in genteel company. However, she blandly admitted that such was the fact. '' Then you will have to practise it every day. I had a lad who did it very wtII, but he has left. I want you to whistle to mv bullfinches : as I cannot see them I lil^e to hear them, and we teach 'em airs that way. Tell her where the cages are, Elizabeth. You must begin to-morrow, or they will go back in their piping. They have been neg- lected these several days." a 64 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. '' Mr. D'Urberville whistled to 'em tMs morning, ma'am/'' said Elizabeth. ^' He ! Pooh ! " The old lady's face creased into fmTows of repugnance, and she made no further reply. Thus the reception of Tess by her fancied kinswoman terminated, and the bii'ds were taken back to their quarters. The girl's surprise at Mrs. Stoke-D'Urberville's manner was not great : for since seeing the size of the house she had expected no more. But she was far from being aware that the old lady had never heard a word of the so-called kin- ship. She gathered that no great affection flowed between the bhnd woman and her son. But in that, too, she was mistaken. Mrs. D'Urber^dlle was not the fii'st mother compelled to love her offs]3ring scornfully, and to aversely yearn. In spite of the unpleasant initiation of the day before, Tess inclined to the freedom and novelty of her new posi- tion in the morning when the sun shone, now that she was once installed there ; and she was ciu'ious to test her powers in the unexpected direction asked of her, so as to ascei-tain her chance of retaining her post. Accordingly, so soon as she was alone within the walled garden, she sat herseK down on a coop, and seriously screwed uj) her mouth for the long-neglected practice. It w^as with a dismal face that she found her former ability to have degenerated to the production of a hollow sepulchral rush of wind through the lips, and no clear note at all. She remained fruitlessly bloT\dng and blowing, uttering impatient expletives, and wondering how she could have so grown out of the art which had come by nature, till she be- came aware of a movement among the i\y-boughs which cloaked the garden wall no less than the cottage. Looking that way, she beheld a form springing from the coping to the plot. It was Alec D'Urber\alle, whom she had THE MAIDEN. 65 not set eyes on since be had conducted her the day before to the door of the gardener's cottage where she had lodg- ings. " Upon my carcass ! " cried he, '^ there was never before such a beautiful thing in Nature or Art as you look, 'Cousin' Tess. [''Cousin" had a faint ring of mockery.] I have been watching you from over the wall — sitting like J/y^patience on a monument, and pouting up that pretty red mouth to whistling shape, and whooing and whooing, and privately swearing, and never being able to produce a note. Why, you are quite cross because you can't do it." '^ I am not cross, and I didn't swear." "Ah ! I understand why you are trying — those bullies ! My mother wants you to carry on theii* musical education. How selfish of her ." As if attending to these curst cocks and hens here were not enough work for any girl, I would flatlv refuse, if I were vou." '' But she wants me particularly to do it, and to be ready by to-morrow morning." " Does she ? Well then — I'll give you a lesson or two." ^' Oh no, you won't," said Tess, withdrawing towards the door. '' Nonsense; I don't want to touch you. See — I'll stand on this side of the wire-netting, and you can keep on the other ; so you may feel quite safe. Now, look here ; you screw up your lips too harshly. There 'tis — so." He sinted the action to the word, and whistled a line of '' Take, take those lips away." But the allusion was lost upon Tess. " Now try," said D'Urberville. She attempted to look reserved; her face put on its ut- most phase of sculptural severity. But how much could she be expected to accom])hsh of that sort in such cii'cum- stances ? He persisted in his demand, and at last, to get rid of him, she did put up her lips as directed, laughing distressfully, however, before she could succeed in produc- 66 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. ing a clear note, and then blushing with vexation that she had laughed. He encoiu'aged her with '- Try again ! '' Tess was quite serious, painfully serious b}^ this time -, and she tried — ultimately and unexpectedly emitting a real round sound. The momentary pleasure of success got the better of her; her eyes enlarged, and she involuntarily smiled in his face. " That's it ! Now I have started you — you'll go on beau- tifully. There — I said I would not come near you ; and, in spite of such temptation as never before fell to mortal man, I'll keep my word. I say, Tessie, isn't my mother a queer old soul?" " I don't know much of her yet, sir." " You'll find her so ; she must be, to make you learn to whistle to her bullfinches. I am rather out of her books just now, but you Avill be quite in favor if you treat her live-stock well. Good-morning. If you meet with any difficulties and want help here, don't go to the bailiff, come to me." It was in the economy of this regime that Tess Dm-bey- field had undertaken to fill a place. Her fii'st day's expe- riences were fairly typical of those which followed tlii'ough many succeeding days. A familiarity with Alec D'Urber- ville's presence — which that young man carefully cultivated in her by playful dialogue, and by jestingly calling her his cousin when they were alone — removed most of her original shyness of him, without, however, implanting any feeling which could engender shyness of a new and tenderer kind. But she was more pliable under his hands than a mere com- panionship would have made her, owing to her inevitable dependence upon his mother, and, through her comparative helplessness, upon him. She soon found that whistling to the bullfinches in Mrs. D'Urberville's room was no such onerous business when THE IVIAIDEN. 67 she had regained the art, for she had caught from her musical mother numerous airs that suited those songsters admirably. A far more satisfactory time than when she practised in the garden was this whisthng by the cages each morning. Unrestrained by the young man's presence, she threw up her mouth, put her lips near the bars, and piped away in easeful grace to the attentive listeners. Mrs. D'UrberviUe slept in a large four-post bedstead hung with hea\'y damask curtains, and the bullfinches occupied the same apartment, where they flitted about freely at cer- tain hours, and made little spots on the furniture. Once while Tess was at the mndow where the cages were ranged, gi\dng her lesson as usual, she thought she heard a rustling behind the bed. The old lady was not present, and turning round the gii'l had an impression that the toes of a pair of boots were visible below the fringe of the ciu^tains. There- upon her whistling became so disjointed that the listener, if such there were, must have discovered her suspicion of his presence. She searched the curtains every morning after that, but never found anybody within them. Alec D'Urber- viUe had e\ddently thought better of his freak to temfy her by an ambush of that kind. X. E\t:ry \'illage has its idiosyncrasy, its constitution, its own code of morality. The levity of some of the younger women in and about Trantridge was marked, and was per- haps symptomatic of the choice spu-it who ruled The vSlopes in that vicinity. The place had also a more abiding defect ; it drank hard. The staple conversation on the farms around was on the uselessness of sa\dng money; and smockfrocked arithmeticians, leaning on their ploughs or hoes, would enter into calculations of great nicety to prove 68 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. that parish relief was a fuller provision for a man in his old age than any which could result from savings out of their wages duiing a whole lifetime. The chief pleasure of these philosophers lay in going every Saturday night, when work was done, to Chase- borough, a decayed market-towTi two or tliree miles dis- tant ; and, returning in the small houi's of the next morn- ing, to sj)end Sunda}" in sleeping off the dyspeptic effects of the curious compounds sold to them as beer by the mo- nopolizers of the once independent inns. For a long time Tess did not join in the weekly pilgrim- ages. But under pressure from matrons not much older than herself — for marriage before means was the rule here as elsewhere — Tess at length consented to go. Her first experience of the joui'ney afforded her more enjoyment than she had expected, the hilariousness of the others be- ing quite contagious after her monotonous attention to the poultry-farm all the week. She went again and again. Being graceful and interesting, standing moreover on the momentary threshold of womanhood, her appearance drew down upon her some sly regards from loungers in the streets of Chaseborough ; hence, though sometimes her journey to the to^Ti was made independently, she always searched for her fellows at nightfall, to have the protection of their companionsliip homeward. This had gone on for a month or two, when a Satui-day came in early September on which a fau* and a market coincided ; and the pilgrims from Trantridge sought double delights at the inns on that account. It was long past sunset, and Tess waited for the troop till she was quite wesiry. "Wliile she stood at a corner by the tavern in which they sat she heard a footstep, and looking round saw the red coal of a cigar. D'Urberville was standing there also. He beckoned to her, and she reluctantly went to him. '^My Pretty, what are you doing here at this time of night ? " THE lilAIDEN. 69 She was so tired after lier long day and her walk that she confided her trouble to him. "I have been waiting ever so long, sii', to have their company home, because the road is rather strange to me at night. Bnt I really think I will wait no longer." ''Do not. I have only a saddle-horse here to-day; but come to the Flower-de-Luce, and I'll hire a trap, and drive you home with me." Tess had never quite got over her original mistrust of him, and, with all their tardiness, she preferred to walk home with the work-folk. So she answered that she was much obliged to him but on second thoughts would not trouble liim. "I have said that I will wait for 'em, and they will expect me to now." ''Very well, silly ! Please yourself." As soon as he had re-lit a cigar and walked away the Trantridge villagers within began also to recollect how time was flpng, and prepared to leave in a body. Their bundles and baskets were gathered up, and half an hour later, when the clock-chime sounded a quarter past eleven, they were straggling along the lane which led up the hill towards their homes. It was a three-mile walk, along a dry white road, made whiter to-night by the Ught of the moon. Tess soon perceived as she walked in the flock, some- times mth this one, sometimes with that, that the fresh night air was producing staggerings and serpentine courses among the men who had partaken too freely ; some of the more careless women also were wandering in their gait — to wit, a dark \T.rago, Car Darch, dubbed Queen of Spades, till lately a favorite of D'Urberville's ; Nancy, her sister, nicknamed the Queen of Diamonds ; and a young married woman who had akeady tumbled down. Yet however ter- restrial and lumpy their appearance just now to the mean unglamoured eye, to themselves the case was diiferent. 70 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. They followed the road with a knowledge that they were soaring along in a supporting medium, possessed of origi- nal and profound thoughts, themselves and surrounding nature forming an organism of which all the parts har- moniously and joyously interpenetrated each other. They were as sublime as the moon and stars above them, and the moon and stars were as ardent as they. Tess, however, had undergone such painful experiences in tliis kind in her father's house that the discovery of their condition spoiled the pleasure she was beginning to feel in the moonhght journey. Yet she stuck to the party, for reasons above given. In the open highway they had progressed in scattered order; but now theu* route was through a field-gate, and the foremost finding a difficulty in opening it, they closed up together. This leading pedestrian was Car the Queen of Spades, who carried a wicker-basket containing her mother's gi'oceries, her own draperies, and other purchases for the week. The basket being large and heavy. Car had placed it for convenience of porterage on the top of her head, where it rode on in jeopardized balance as she walked with arms akimbo. " Well — whatever is that a-creeping down thy back. Car Darch ? " said one of the group suddenly. All looked at Car. Her gown was a light cotton print, and from the back of her head a kind of rope could be seen descending to some distance below her waist like a Chinaman's queue. '^ 'Tis her hair falling down," said another. No ; it was not her hair : it was a black stream of some- thing oozing from her basket, and it glistened like a slimy snake in the cold still rays of the moon. " 'Tis treacle," said an observant matron. Treacle it was. Car's poor old grandmother had a weak- ness for the sweet stuff. Honey she had in plenty out of THE MAIDEN. 71 her own hives, but treacle was what her soul desired, and Car had been about to give her a treat of surprise. Hastily lowering- the basket, the dark girl found that the vessel con- taining the liquid had been smashed within. By this time there had arisen a shout of laughter at the extraordinary appearance of Car's back, which irritated the dark queen into getting rid of the disfigurement by the fii'st sudden means available, and independently of the help of the scoffers. She rushed excitedly into the field they were about to cross, and flinging herself flat on her back upon the grass, began to wipe her go^vn as well as she could by gyrating horizontally on the herbage and dragging herself over it upon her elbows. The laughter rang louder ; they clung to the gate, to the posts, rested on then- staves, in the weakness engendered by theii' convulsions at the spectacle of Car. Our heroine, who had hitherto held her peace, at this wHd moment could not help joining in with the rest. It was a misfortune — in more ways than one. No sooner did the dark queen hear the soberer, richer note of Tess among those of the other work-people than a long smolder- ing sense of rivalry inflamed her to madness. She sprang to her feet and closely faced the object of her dislike. ^' How darest tli' laugh at me, hussy ! " she cried. '^ I couldn't really help it when t'others did," apologized Tess, still tittering. " Ah, th'st think th' beest everybody, dostn't, because th' beest fii'st favorite with He just now ! But stop a bit, my lady, stop a bit ! I'm as good as two of such ! Look here — here's at 'ee.'^ To Tess's horror the dark queen began stripping off the bodice of her gown — which for the added reason of its ridiculed condition she was only too glad to be free of — till she had bared her plump neck, shoulders, and arms to the moonshine, under which they looked as luminous and beautiful as some Praxitelean creation, in their possession 72 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. of the faultless rotundities of a lusty country gii-1. She closed her fists and squared up at Tess. " Indeed, then, I shall not fight ! " said the latter, majes- tically 5 "and if I had known you was of that sort, I wouldn't have so let myself doT\Ti as to come with such a whorage as this is ! " The rather too inclusive speech brought down a torrent of vituperation from other quarters upon fair Tess's un- lucky head, particularly from the Queen of Diamonds, who, having stood in the relations to D'Urberville that Car had also been suspected of, united with the latter against the common enemy. Several other women also chimed in, with an animus which none of them would have been so fatuous as to show but for the rollicking evening they had passed. Thereupon, finding Tess unfairly browbeaten, the husbands and lovers tried to make peace by defending her ; but the result of that attempt was directly to increase the war. Tess was indignant and ashamed. She no longer minded the loneliness of the way and the lateness of the hour j her one object was to get away from the whole crew as soon as possible. She knew well enough that the better among them would repent of theii* passion next day. They were all now inside the field, and she was edging about to rush off alone when a horseman emerged almost silently from the corner of the hedge that screened the road, and Alec D'Urberville looked round upon them. " What the devil is all tliis row about, work-folk ? '^ he asked. The explanation was not readily forthcoming j and, in truth, he did not require any. Ha\'ing heard their voices while yet some way off, he had ridden creepingly forward, and learned enough to satisfy himself. Tess was standing apart from the rest, near the gate. He bent over towards her. " Jump up behind me," he whis- pered, " and we'll get shot of the screaming cats in a jiffy ! " THE IMAIDEN. 73 She felt almost ready to faint, so vivid was her sense of the crisis. At almost any other moment of her life she would have refused such proffered aid and company, as she had refused them several times before ; and now the loneli- ness would not of itself have forced her to do otherwise. But coming as the invitation did at the particular juncture when fear and indignation at these adversaries coidd be transformed by a spring of the foot into a triumph over them, she abandoned herseK to her impulse, put her toe upon his instep, and leaped into the saddle behind liim. The pair were speeding away into the distant gray by the time that the contentious revellers became aware of what had happened. The Queen of Spades forgot the stain on her bodice, and stood beside the Queen of Diamonds and the new-married, staggering young woman — all with a gaze of fixity in the direction in which the horse's tramp was diminishing into silence on the road. ^'What be ye looking at?" asked a man who had not observed the incident. " Ho-ho-ho ! '' laughed dark Car. '^ Hee-hee-hee ! '' laughed the tippling bride, as she steadied herself on the arm of her fond husband. " Heu-heu-heu ! '' laughed dark Car's mother, stroking her mustache as she explained laconically: '^Out of the frying-pan into the fire ! '' And then these children of the open aii', whom even excess of alcohol could scarce injiu'e permanently, betook themselves to the field-path ; and as they went there moved onward with them, around the shadow of each one's head, a circle of opalized light, formed by the moon's rays upon the glistening sheet of dew. Each pedestrian could see no halo but his or her own, which never deserted the head- shadow, whatever its vulgar unsteadiness might be; but adhered to it, and persistently beautified it ; till the erratic motions seemed an inherent part of the ii-radiation, and the 74 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. fumes of their breathing a component of the night's mist ; and the spirit of the scene, and of the moonhght, and of Nature, seemed harmoniously to mingle mth the spirit of wine. XI. The twain cantered along for some time without speech, Tess as she clung to him still panting in her triumph, yet in other respects dubious. She had perceived that the horse was not the spirited one he sometimes rode, and felt no alarm on that score, though her seat was precarious enough. She asked him to slow the animal to a walk, which Alec accordingly did. '' Neatly done, was it not, dear Tess ? " he said by-and-by. " Yes ! " said she. " I am sure I ought to be much obliged to you." " And are you ? " She did not reply. ^' Tess, why do you always dislike my kissing you ? " ^' I suppose — because I don't love you." " You are quite sui-e ? " " I am angry with you sometimes ! " "Ah, I half feared as much." Nevertheless, Alec did not object to that confession. He knew that anything was better than frigidity. '' Why haven't you told me when I have made you angiy ? " " You know very well why. Because I cannot help my- self here." " I haven't offended you often by love-making." " You have sometimes." " How many times ? " " You know as well as I — too manv times." "Every time I have tried?" THE INIAIDEN. 75 She was silent, and tlie liorse ambled along for a consid- erable distance, till a faint Inminous fog, wliicli bad Imng in the liollows all the evening, became general and envel- oped them. It seemed to hold the moonlight in suspension, rendering it more pervasive than in clear air. Whether on this account, or from absent-mindedness, or from sleepi- ness, she did not perceive that they had long ago passed the point at which the lane to Trantridge branched from the hio'liwav, and that her conductor had not taken the Trantridge track. She was inexpressibly weary. She had risen at five o'clock every morning of that week, had been on foot the whole of each day, and on this evening had in addition walked the tlu*ee miles to Chaseborough, waited three hours for her neighbors without eating or drinking, her impatience to start them preventing either; she had then walked a mile of the way home, and had undergone the excitement of the quarrel, till it was now nearly one o'clock. Only once, however, was she overcome by actual di'owsiness. In that moment of oblivion she sank gently against him. D'Urberville withdrew his feet from the stirrups, tiu'ned sideways on the saddle, and enclosed her waist with his arm to support her. This immediately put her on the defensive, and with one of those sudden impulses of reprisal to which she was liable she gave him a little push from her. In his ticklish position he nearly lost his balance and only just avoided rolling over into the road, the horse, though a powerf id one^ being fortunately the quietest he rode. '' That is devihsh unkind ! " he said. '^ I mean no harm — only to keep you from falling." She pondered suspiciously ; till, thinking that this might after all be true, she relented, and said quite humbly, "I beg your pardon, sir." "I won't pardon you unless you show some confidence in me. Good God ! " he bui^st out, '' what am I, to be re- 76 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. pulsed SO by a mere ckLt like you ? For near three mortal m.onths have you trifled with my feelings, eluded me, and snubbed me ; and I won't stand it ! " ^' I'll leave you to-morrow, sii\" " No, you will not leave me to-morrow ! Will you, I ask once more, show yom^ belief in me by letting me encircle you with my arm? Come, between us two and nobody else, now. We know each other well ; and you know that I love you, and think you are the prettiest giii in the world, wliich you are. May I treat you as a lover ? " She drew a quick pettish breath of objection, T\Tithing uneasily on her seat, looked far ahead, and murmured, " I don't know — I wish — how can I say yes or no when " He settled the matter by clapping his arm round her as he desu^ed, and Tess expressed no further negative. Thus they sidled onward till it struck her they had been advanc- ing for an unconscionable time — far longer than was usually occupied by the short journey from Chaseborough, even at this walking pace, and that they were no longer on hard road, but in a mere trackway. " AVhy, where be we ? " she exclaimed. ^' Passing by a wood." ^'A w^ood — what wood? Surely we are quite out of the road f " ^'A bit of The Chase — the oldest wood in England. It is a lovely night, and why should we not prolong our ride a little ? " " How could you be so treacherous ! " said Tess, between archness and real dismay, and getting rid of his arm by pulling open his fingers one by one, though at the risk of slipping off herself. "Just when I've been putting such trust in you, and obhging you to please you, because I thought I had wronged you by that push ! Please set me down, and let me walk home." "You cannot walk home, even if the air were clear. We are miles away from Trantridge, if I must teU you, and THE MAIDEN. 77 in this growing fog you might wander for hours among these trees." " Never mind that/' she coaxed. '• Put me down, I beg 5'ou. I don't mind where it is ; only let me get down, sir, please ! " ''Very well, then, I will — on one condition. Having brought you here to this out-of-the-way place, I feel myself responsible for your safe conduct home, whatever you may yourself feel about it. As to your getting to Trantridge without assistance, it is quite impossible ; for, to tell the truth, o\mig to this fog, which so disguises everj^thing, I don't quite know where we are myseK. Now, if you will promise to wait beside the horse while I walk through the bushes till I come to some road or house and ascertain exactly our whereabouts, I'll deposit you here willingly. Wlien I come back I'll give you full directions, and if you insist upon walking you ma}^ ; or you may ride — at your pleasui^e." She accepted these terms, and sKd off on the near side, though not till he had stolen a cursory kiss. He sprang down on the other side. "I suppose I must hold the horse?" said she. " Oh no ; it's not necessary," replied Alec, patting the panting creature. " He's had enough of it for to-night." He turned the horse's head into the bushes, hitched him on to a bough, and made a sort of couch or nest for her in the deep mass of dead leaves. " Now, you sit there," he said. " That ^yi]l keep away the damp. Just give an eye to the horse — it will be quite sufficient." He took a few steps away from her, but, returning, said, " By the by, Tess, your father has a new cob to-day. Somebody gave it to him." " Somebody f You ! " D'Urberville nodded. " Oh, how very good of you that is ! " she exclaimed, 78 TESS OF THE D'URBERYILLES. with a painful sense of the awkwardness of having to thank him just then. " And the children have some toys." " I didn't know — you ever sent them anything ! " she murmui'ed, much moved. ^' I almost wish you had not — yes, I almost Tvish it ! " '' Why, dear ? '' " It — champers me so." " Tessie — don't you love me ever so little now ? " ^' I'm grateful," she reluctantly admitted. ^' But I fear I do not " The sudden vision of his passion for herself as a factor in this result so distressed her that, beginning mth one slow tear, and then following with another, she wept outright. " Don't cry, dear, dear one ! Now sit down here, and wait till I come." She passively sat down amid the leaves that he had heaped, and shivered slightly. "Are you cold ? " he asked. " Not very — a little." He touched her with his fingers, which sank into her as into a billow. " You have only that puffy muslin dress on —how's that?" "It's my best summer one. 'Twas very warm when I started, and I didn't know I was going to ride, and that it would be night." "Nights grow chiU}^ in September. Let me see." He pulled off a light overcoat that he had worn, and put it round her tenderly. "That's it — now you feel w^armer," he continued. " Now, my Pretty, rest there ; I shall soon be back again." Having buttoned the overcoat round her shoulders, he plunged into the webs of vapor Avhich by this time formed veils between the trees. She could hear the rustling of the branches as he ascended the adjoining slope, till his move- ments were no louder than the hopping of a bird, and finally died away. With the setting of the moon the pale THE INIAIDEN. 79 light lessened, and Tess became invisil3le as she fell into reverie upon the leaves where he had left her. In the meantime Alec D'Urber\dlle had pushed on np the slope to clear his genuine doubt as to the quarter of The Chase they were in. He had, in fact, ridden quite at random for over an houi', taking any turning that came to hand in order to prolong companionship with her, and giv- ing far more attention to Tess's moonlit person than to any wayside object. A little rest for the jaded animal being desirable, he did not hasten his search for landmarks. A clamber over the hill into the adjoining vale brought him to the fence of a highway whose aspect he recognized, which settled the question of their whereabouts. D'Ur- berville thereupon turned back j but by this time the moon had quite gone down, and partly on account of the fog The Chase was wrapped in thick darkness, although morn- ing was not far off. He was obliged to advance with outstretched hands to avoid contact with the boughs, and discovered that to hit the exact spot from which he had started was at first entirely beyond him. Roaming up and down, round and round, he at length heard a slight move- ment of the horse close at hand; and the sleeve of his overcoat unexpectedly caught his foot. '' Tess ! '' said D'Urberville. There was no answer. The obscurity was now so great that he could see absolutely nothing but a pale nebulous- ness at his feet, which represented the white musUn figure he had left upon the dead leaves. Everything else was blackness alike. D'Urberville stooped, and heard a gentle regular breathing. He knelt and bent lower, till her breath warmed his face, and in a moment his cheek was in con- tact mth hers. She was sleeping soundly, and upon her eyelashes there lingered tears. Darkness and silence ruled everywhere around. Above them rose the primeval yews and oaks of The Chase, in which were poised gentle roosting birds in their last nap ; 80 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. and around tliem the hopping rabbits and liares. But where was Tess's guardian angel? where was the Provi- dence of her simple faith ? Perhaps, like that other god of whom the ironical Tishbite spoke, he was talking, or he was pursuing, or he was in a joiu^ney, or peradventure he was sleeping and was not to be awaked. Why it was that upon this beautiful feminine tissue, sensitive as gossamer, and practically blank as snow as yet, there should have been traced such a coarse pattern as it was doomed to receive; why so often the coarse appro- priates the finer thus, many thousand 3'ears of anal}i:ieal philosojDhy have failed to explain to om^ sense of order. One may, indeed, admit the possibility of a retribution liu'king in the catastrophe. Doubtless some of Tess D'Ur- berville's mailed ancestors rollicking home from a fray had dealt the same ^Tong even more ruthlessty upon peasant girls of their time. But though to \nsit the sins of the fathers upon the children may be a morahty good enough for di^dnities, it is scorned by average human nature ; and it therefore does not mend the matter. As Tess's own people down in those retreats are never tired of sapng among each other in their fatalistic way : " It was to be." There lay the pity of it. An immeasura- ble social chasm was. to divide our heroine's personality thereafter from that pre^dous self of hers who stepj^ed from her mother's door to try her fortune at Trantridge poultry- farm. MAIDEN NO MORE. XII. The basket was heavy and the bundle was large, but she lugged them along like a person w^ho did not find any espe- cial biu'den in material things. Occasionally she stopped to rest in a mechanical way by some gate or post; and then, giving the baggage another hitch npon her full round arm, went steadily on again. It was a Sunday morning in late October, about four months after Tess Durbejiield's arrival at Trantridge, and some few weeks subsequent to the night ride in The Chase. The time was not long past daybreak, and the yellow lumi- nosity upon the horizon behind her back lighted the ridge towards which her face was set — the barrier of the vale wherein she had of late been a stranger — which she would have to climb over to reach her birthplace. The ascent was gi^adual on this side, and the soil and scenery differed much fi'om those within Blakemore Yale. Even the char- acter and accent of the two peoples had shades of difference, despite the amalgamating effects of a roundabout railway ; so that, though less than twenty miles from the place of her sojourn at Trantridge, her native village had seemed a far-away spot. The field-folk shut in there traded north- ward and westward, travelled, courted, and married north- . ward and westward, thought northward and westward; 82 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. those on this side mainly directed their energies and at- tention to the east and sonth. The incline was the same down which D'Urberville had diiveu with her so ^^dldl}^ on that day in Jnne. Tess went up the remainder of its length without stopping, and on reaching the edge of the escarpment gazed over the familiar gi'een world beyond, now half veiled in mist. It was al- ways beautiful from here ; it was terribly beautiful to Tess to-day, for since her eyes last fell upon it she had learned that the serpent hisses where sweet bii'ds sing, and her views of life had been totally changed for her by the lesson. Verily another girl than the simple one she had been at home was she who, bowed by the thought, stood still here, and turned to look behind her. She could not bear to look forward into the Vale. Ascending by the long white road that Tess hers^ had just labored up she saw a two-wheeled vehicle, beside wiiich walked a man, who held up his hand to attract her attention. She obeyed the signal to wait for liim with unspeculative repose, and in a few minutes man and horse stopped beside her. ^'Why did you slip away by stealth like this?" said D'Urberville, mth upbraiding breathlessness 5 '^ on a Sun- day morning, too, when people were all in bed ! I only discovered it by accident, and I have been dri\dng like the deuce to overtake you. Just look at the mare. Why go off like this? You know that nobody wished to hinder your going. And how unnecessary it has been for you to toil along on foot, and encumber yourself with this heavy load ! I have followed like a madnian, simply to drive you the rest of the distance, if vou won't come back." ^' I shan't come back," said she. " I thought you wouldn't — I said so. Wei], then, put up your baskets, and let me help you on." She listlessly placed her basket and bundle within the MAIDEX NO MORE. 83 dog-cart, and stepped up, and they sat side by side. She had no fear of him now, and in the cause of her confidence her sorrow lay. D'Urberville mechanically lit a cigar, and the journey was continued with broken unemotional conversation on the commonplace objects by the wayside. He had quite forgotten his struggle to kiss her when, in the early sum- mer, they had driven in the opposite direction along the same road. But she had not, and she sat now like a puppet, replying to his remarks in monosyllables. After a space they came in view of the clump of trees beyond which the village of Marlott stood. It was only then that her face still showed the least emotion, a tear or two beginning to trickle do^Ti. '^ What are you crying for?" he coldly asked. " I was only thinking that I was born over there," mur- mured Tess. "' Well — w^e must all be born somewhere." ^'I wish I had never been born — there or anj^where else ! " ^' Pooh ! Well, if you didn't wish to come to Trantridge why did you come ? " She did not reply. " You didn't come for love of me, that I'll swear." ^' 'Tis quite true. If I had gone for love o' you, if I had ever sincerely loved 'ee, if I loved you still, I should not so loathe and hate myself for my weakness as I do now ! . . . My eyes were dazed by you for a little, and that was aU." He shrugged his shoulders. She resumed : "I didn't understand your meaning till it was too late." '^ That's what every woman says." " How can you dare to use such words ! " she cried, turn- ing impetuously upon him, her eyes flashing as the latent spirit (of which he was to see more some day) awoke in her. ^^ My God ! I could knock you out of the gig ! Did 84 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. it never strike your mind that what every woman says some women may feel ? " ^'Very well/' he said, laughing; "I am sorry to wound you. I did wrong — I admit it." He dropped into some little bitterness as he continued : " Only you needn't be so everlastingly flinging it in my face. I am ready to pay to the uttermost farthing. You know you need not work in the fields or the dairies again. You know you may clothe yourself mth the best, instead of in the bald plain way you have lately affected, as if you couldn't get a ribbon more than vou earn." Her lip lifted slightly, though there was little scorn, as a rule, in her large and impulsive nature. ''I have said I ^yi]l not take an^i:liine' more from vou, and I will not — I cannot ! I slio'uM be your creature to go on doing that, and I won't ! " " One would think you were a princess from your man- ner, in addition to a true and original D'Urberville — ha ! ha ! Well, Tess, dear, I can say no more. I suppose I am a bad fellow — a damn bad fellow. I was born bad, and I have lived bad, and I shall die bad in all probabihty. But, upon my lost soul, I won't be bad towards you again, Tess. And if certain circumstances should arise — vou understand — in which 5^ou are in the least need, the least difficulty, send me one line, and vou shall have bv return whatever vou require. I may not be at Trantridge — I am going to Lon- don for a time — I can't stand the old woman. But all letters i^oll be forwarded." She said that she did not wish him to drive her farther, and they stopped just under the clump of trees. D'Url^er- ville alighted, and lifted her down bodily in his arms, after- wards placing her articles on the ground beside her. She bowed to him slightly, her eye just lingering in his ; and then she turned to take the parcels for departure. Alec D'Urberville removed his cigar, bent towards her, and said : MAIDEN NO MORE. 85 ^'You are not going to tm-n away like tliat, dear? Come ! " ^'If you wish," she answered, indifferently. "See how you've mastered me ! " She thereupon turned round and lifted her face to his, and remained like a marble term while he imprinted a kiss upon her cheek — half perfunctorily, liaK as if zest had not yet quite died out. Her eyes vaguely rested upon the re- motest trees in the lane w^hile the kiss was given, as though she were nearly unconscious of what he did. " Now the other side, for old acquaintance' sake.'' She tm-ned her head in the same passive way, as one might turn at the request of a sketcher or hairdresser, and he kissed the other side, liis Hps touching cheeks that were damp and smoothly chill as the skin of the mushrooms growing around them. " You don't give me youi' mouth and kiss me back. You never willingly do that — you'll never love me, I fear." " I have said so, often. It is true. I have never really and truly loved you, and I think I never can." She added moui-nfully, ^' Perhaps, of all things, a lie on this thing would do the most good to me now 5 but I have honor enough left, little as 'tis, not to tell that lie. If I did love you I may have the best o' causes for letting you know it. But I don't." He emitted a labored breath, as if the scene were getting rather oppressive to his heart, or to his conscience, or to his gentility. "Well, you *e absurdly melancholy, Tess. I have no reason for flattering you now, and I can say plainly that you need not be so sad. You can hold your own for beauty against any woman of these pai'ts, gentle or simple ; I say it to you as a practical man and well-msher. If you are wise you will show it to the world more than you do before it fades. . . . And yet, Tess, will you come back to me ? Upon my soul I don't like to let you go like this ! " 86 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. ^^ Never, never ! I made up my mind as soon as I saw — what I ought to have seen sooner ; and I won't come." ''Then good-morning, my fom- months' cousin — good- by!'^ He leapt up hghtly, arranged the reins, and was gone between the tall red-berried hedges. Tess did not look after him, but slowly wound along the crooked lane. It was stiU early, and though the sun's lower limb was just free of the hill, his rays, ungenial and peer- ing, addressed the eye rather than the touch as yet. There was not a human soul near. Sad October and her sadder seK seemed the only two existences haunting that lane. As she walked, however, some footsteps approached be- hind her, the footsteps of a man ; and owing to the brisk- ness of his advance he was close at her heels and had said " Good-morning " before she had been long aware of his propinquity. He appeared to be an artisan of some sort, and carried a tin j)ot of red paint in his hand. He asked in a business-like manner if he should take her basket, wliich she permitted him to do, walking beside him. ^'It is early to be astir this Sabbath morn," he said, cheerfully. " Yes," said Tess. ^' When most people are at rest from theii' week's work." She also assented to this. *' Though I do more real work to-day than all the week besides." <^ Do you ? " '^ All the week I work for the glory of m^n, and on Sun- day for the glory of God. That's more real than the other — hey ! I have a little to do here at this stile." The man turned as he spoke to an opening at the roadside leading into a pasture. " If you'll wait a moment," he added, ^' I shall not be long." As he had her basket she could not weU do otherwise ; and she waited, observing him. He set down her basket MAIDEN NO MORE. 87 and the tin pot, and stirring the paint with the brush that was in it began painting large square letters on the middle board of the three composing the stile, placing a comma between each word, as if to give pause wliile that word was driven well home to the reader's heart — THY, DAMNATION, SLUMBERETH, NOT. 2 Pet. ii. 3. Against the peaceful landscape, the pale, decaying tints of the copses, the blue air of the horizon, and the lichen ed stile boards, these staring vermilion words shone forth. They seemed to shout themselves out and make the atmos- phere ring. Some people might have cried, "Alas, poor Theology ! '^ at the hideous defacement — the last grotesque phase of a creed which had served mankind well in its time. But the words entered Tess with accusatory horror. It was as if tliis man had known her recent history ; yet he was a total stranger. Having finished his text he picked up her basket, and she mechanically resumed her walk beside him. ''Do you believe what you paint?" she asked in low tones. '' Believe that tex ? Do I beUeve in my own existence ! " " But,'' said she, tremulously, " suppose your sin was not of your own seeking ? '' He shook his head. " I cannot split hairs on that burning query,'' he said, " I have walked hundi'eds of miles during this past sum- mer, painting these texes on every wall, gate, and stile in the length and breadth of this district. I leave their application to the hearts of the people who read 'em." " I think they are horrible," said Tess. '' Crusliing ! killing ! " " That's what they are meant to be ! " he replied, in a trade voice. '' But you should read my hottest ones — them 88 TESS OF THE D'URBER^TLLES. I kips for slums and seaports. They'd make ye wriggle ! Not but what this is a very good tex for the riu-al districts. . . . Ah — there's a nice bit of blank wall up by that barn standing to waste. I must put one there — one that will be good for dangerous young females like yourself to heed. Will you wait, missy ? " '' No/' said she ; and taking her basket Tess trudged on. A little way forward she turned her head. The old gray wall began to advertise a similar fiery lettering to the first, with a strange and unwonted mien, as if distressed at duties it had never before been called upon to perform. It was with a sudden flash that she read and realized what was to be the inscription he was now half-way tlii'ough — THOU, SHALT, NOT, COMMIT Her cheerful friend saw her looking, stopped his brush, and shouted : '' If you want to ask anything of the sort we was talking about, there's a very earnest good man going to preach a charity-sermon to-day in the parish you are going to — Mr. Clare, of Emminster. I'm not of his persuasion now, but he is a good man, and he'll explain as weU as any parson I know. 'Twas he began the work in me." But Tess did not answer ; she throbbingly resumed her walk, her eyes fixed on the ground. '^ Pooh — I don't be- lieve God said such things ! " she murmured contemptu- ously when her flush had died away. A plume of smoke soared up suddenly from her father's chimnev, the sij2fht of which made her heart ache. The aspect of the interior, when she reached it, made her heart ache more. Her mother, who had just come do\\Tistairs, turned to greet her from the fireplace, where she was Idnd- ling barked-oak twigs under the breakfast kettle. The young children were still above, as was also her father, it being Sunday morning, when he felt justified in l}ing an additional half -hour. MAIDEN NO MORE. 89 '^ Well ! — my dear Tess ! " exclaimed her sm^rised mother, jumping up and kissing the girl. '■^ How be ye ? I didn't see you till you was in upon me ! Have you come home to be married f " '^ No, I have not come for that, mother.'^ " Then for a holiday ? " '•'• Yes — for a holiday ; for a long holiday/' said Tess. '^What, isn't your cousin going to do the handsome thing f " ^^ He's not my cousin, and he's not going to marry me." Her mother ej^ed her narrowly. '' Come, you have not told me all," she said. Then Tess went up to her mother, put her face upon Joan's neck, and told. '^ And yet th'st not got him to marry 'ee ! " reiterated her mother. '' Any woman would have done it but you ! " "Perhaps any woman would except me." " It would have been something like a stoiy to come back with, if you had ! " continued Mrs. Durbeyfield, ready to burst into tears of vexation. " After all the talk about you and him which has reached us here, who would have ex- pected it to end like this ! Why didn't ye think of doing some good for j^our family instead o' thinking only of your- self ? See how I've got to teave and slave, and your poor weak father with his heart clogged like a dripping-pan. I did hope for something to come out o' this ! To see what a pretty pair you and he made that day when you di'ove away together fom' months ago ! See what he has given us — aU, as we thought, because we were his kin. But if he's not, it must have been done because of his love for 'ee. And yet you've not got him to marry ! " Get Alec D'Urberville in the mind to marrv her ! He marry lier ! On matrimony he had never once said a word. And what if he had? How she might have been impelled to answer him by a convulsive snatching at social salvation she coidd not say. But her poor foolish mother little knew 90 TESS OF THE D^URBERVILLES. her present feeling towards this man. Perhaps it was nn- nsnal in the circumstances^ unnatural, unaccountable ; but there it was ; and this, as she had said, was what made her detest herself. She had never cared for him, she did not care for him now. She had dreaded him, mnced before him, succumbed to a cruel advantage he took of her help- lessness 5 then, temporarily blinded by his flash manners, had been stirred to confused surrender awhile ; had sud- denly despised and disliked him, and had run away. That was all. Hate him she did not quite ; but he was dust and ashes to her, and even for her name's sake she scarcely wished to marrv him. ''You ought to have been more careful if you didn't mean to get him to make you his wife ! " " O mother, my mother ! " cried the agonized girl, turn- ing passionately upon her parent as if her poor heart would break. "How could I be expected to know? I was a child when I left this house four months ago. Why didn't you tell me there was danger in men-folk ? Wliy didn't you warn me ? Ladies know what to fend hands against, because they read novels that tell them of these tricks ; but I never had the chance o' learning in that way, and 3'Ou did not helj) me ! '' Her mother was subdued. " I thought if I spoke of his fond feelings and what they might lead to, you would be hontish wi' him and lose your chance," she mm^mured, wiping her eyes with her apron. " Well, we must make the best of it, I suppose. 'Tis nater, after all, and w^hat do please God." xni. The event of Tess Durbeyiield's return from the house of her rich kinsfolk was rumored abroad, if rumor be not :maidex no more. 91 too large a word for a space of a square mile. In the after- noon several young girls of Marlott, former schoolfellows and acquaintances of Tess, called to see her, arriving dressed in then* best starched and u'oned, as became visitors to a person who had made a transcendent conquest (as they supposed), and sat round the room looking at her "with great curiosity. For the fact that it was this said thirty- first cousin, Mr. D'Url^erville, who had fallen in love with her, a gentleman not altogether local, whose reputation as a reckless gallant and heart-breaker was beginning to spread beyond the immediate boundaries of Trantridge, lent Tess's supposed position, by its f earsomeness, a far higher fascina- tion than it would have exercised if unhazardous. Their interest was so deep that the younger ones whis- pered when her back was turned : " How pretty she is ; and how that best frock do set her oft* ! I believe it cost an immense deal, and that it was a gift from him.'' Tess, who was reaching up to get the tea-things from the corner cupboard, did not hear these commentaries. If she had heard them, she might soon have set her friends right on the matter. But her mother heard, and Joan's simple vanity, having been denied the hope of a dashing marriage, fed itself as well as it could upon the sensation of a dash- ing flirtation. Upon the whole she felt gratified, even though such a limited and meretricious trimnph should involve her daughter's reputation ; it might end in mar- riage yet, and in the warmth of her responsiveness to theh' admiration she invited her \dsitors to stay to tea. Theu' chatter, their laughter, then' good-humored innuen- does, above all, theii* flashes and flickerings of env}^, revived Tess's spirits also ; and, as the evening wore on, she caught the infection of their excitement, and grew almost gay. The marble hardness left her face, she moved mth some- thing of her old bounding step, and flushed in all her young beauty. 92 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. At moments^ in spite of tliouglit, she would reply to their inquiries with a manner of superiority, as if recognizing that her experiences in the field of coui'tship had, indeed, been shghtly enviable. But so far was she from being, in the words of Robert South, " in love with her own ruin," that the illusion was transient as lightning ; cold reason came back to mock her spasmodic weakness -, the ghastli- ness of her momentary pride would convict her, and recall her to reserved listlessness again. And the despondency of the next morning's dawn, when it was no longer Sunday, but Monday ; and no best clothes ; and the laughing visitors were gone, and she awoke alone in her old bed, the innocent younger cliildren breathing softly around her. In place of the excitement of her re- tm'n, and the interest it had inspired, she saw before her a long and stony highway which she had to tread, without aid, and with little sympathy. Her depression was then terrible, and she could have hidden herself in a tomb. In the course of a few weeks Tess revived sufficiently to show herself so far as was necessary to get to church one Sunday morning. She liked to hear the chanting — such as it was — and the old Psalms, and to join in the Morning H}Tnn. That innate love of melody, which she had in- herited from her ballad-singing mother, gave the simplest music a power over her which could well-nigh di'ag her heart out of her bosom at times. To be as much out of observation as possible for reasons of her own, and to escape the gallantries of the young men, she set out before the chiming began, and took a back seat under the gallery, close to the lumber, where only old men and women came, and where the bier stood on end among the churchyard tools. Parishioners dropped in by twos and threes, deposited themselves in rows before her, rested three-quarters of a minute on their foreheads as if they were prajdng, though they were not, then sat up, and looked around. "V\nien the JMAIDEN NO MORE. 93 chants came on, one of her favorites happened to be chosen among the rest — the double chant "Langdon" — but she did not know what it was called, though she would much have liked to know. She thought, without exactly wording the thought, how strange and godhke was a composer's power, who from the grave could lead through sequences of emotion, which he alone had felt at first, a gii4 like her who had never heard of his name, and never would have a clue to his personality. The people who had turned their heads turned them again as the service proceeded ; and at last obser\dng her, they whispered to each other. She knew what their whis- pers were about, grew sick at heart, and felt that she could come to church no more. The bedi'oom which she shared with some of the children formed her retreat more continuallv than ever. Here, under her few square yards of thatch, she watched mnds, and snows, and rains, gorgeous sunsets, and successive moons at their full. So close kept she that at length ahnost everybody thought she had gone away. The onlv exercise that Tess took at this time was after dark ; and it was then, when out in the woods, that she seemed least solitarv. She knew how to hit to a hair's- breadth that moment of evening when the light and the darkness are so evenly balanced that the constraint of dav and the suspense of night neutralize each other, leaving absolute mental hberty. It is then that the pKght of being alive becomes attenuated to its least possible dimensions. She had no fear of the shadows ; her sole idea seemed to be to shun mankind — or rather that cold accretion caUed the world, which, so terril^le in the mass, is so unformida- ble, even pitiable, in its units. On these lonely hills and dales her quiescent glide was of a piece with the element she moved in. Her flexuous and stealthy figure became an integral part of the scene. At times her whimsical fancy would intensify natural pro- 94 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. cesses around lier till tliey seemed a part of her own story. Eatlier tliey became a part of it; for the world is only a psychological phenomenon, and what they seemed they were. The midnight aii's and gusts, moaning among the tightly ^Tapped buds and bark of the winter twigs, were formulas of bitter reproach. A wet day was the expression of iiTcmediable grief at her weakness in the mind of some vague ethical being whom she could not class definitely as the God of her childhood, and could not comprehend as an}^ other. But this encompassment of her own characterization, based on shreds of convention, peopled by phantoms and voices antipathetic to her, was a sorry and mistaken crea- tion of Tess's fancy — a cloud of moral hobgobhns by which she was terrified mthout reason. It was they that were out of harmony with the actual world, not she. Walking among the sleeping birds in the hedges, watching the skip- ping rabbits on a moonlit warren, or standing under a pheasant-laden bough, she looked upon herself as a figure of Guilt intruding into the haunts of Innocence. But aU the while she was making a distinction where there was no difference. Feeling herself in antagonism, she was quite in accord. She had been made to break an accepted social law, but no law known to the environment in which she fancied herseK such an anomaly. XIV. It was a hazy sunrise in August. The denser nocturnal vapors, attacked by the warm beams, were dividing and shrinking into isolated fleeces within hollows and coverts, where they waited tiU they should be dried away to nothing. The sun, on account of the mist, had a curious sentient, MAIDEN NO MORE. 95 personal look, demanding the masenline pronoun for its adequate expression. His present aspect, coupled with the lack of aU human forms in the scene, explained the old- time heliolatries in a moment. One could feel that a saner reUgion had never prevailed under the sky. The lumi- nary was a golden-haired, beaming-faced, mild-eyed, god- like creature, gazing down in the vigor and intentness of youth upon an earth that was brimming with interest for him. His light, a little later, broke through chinks of cottage shutters, thi^omng stripes like red-hot pokers upon cup- boards, chests of drawers, and other furnitui'e mthin, and awakening harvesters who were not already astir. But of aU ruddy things that morning the brightest were two broad arms of painted wood, which rose from the mar- gin of a yellow corn-field hard by Marlott village. They, with two others below, formed the revolving Maltese cross of the reaping-machine, which had been brought to the field on the previous evening to be ready for operations this day. The paint with which they were smeared, intensified in hue by the sunlight, imparted to them a look of ha\ing been dipped in liquid fire. The field had already been " opened " ; that is to say, a lane a few feet wide had been hand-cut through the wheat along the whole circumference of the field for the first passage of the horses and machine. Two groups, one of men and lads, the other of women, had come down the lane just at the houi* when the shadows of the eastern hedge-top struck the west hedge midway, so that the heads of the groups were enjoying sunrise while their feet were still in the dawn. They disappeared from the lane between the two stone posts which flanked the nearest field-gate. Presently there arose from -^dthin a ticking like the love- making of the grasshopper. The machine had begun, and a moving concatenation was visible over the gate, a driver 96 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. sitting upon one of tlie hauling horses, and an attendant on the seat of the implement. Along one side of the field the whole wain went, the arms of the mechanical reaper revohing slowly, till it passed down the hill quite out of sight. In a minute it came up on the other side of the field at the .same equable pace, the gUstening brass star in the forehead of the fore horse catching the eye as it rose into \dew over the stubble, then the bright arms, and then the whole machine. The narrow lane of stubble encompassing the field grew wider with each circuit, and the standing corn was reduced to smaller area as the morning wore on. Rabbits, hares, snakes, rats, mice, retreated inward as into a fastness, un- aware of the ephemeral nature of their refuge, and of the doom that awaited them later in the dav when, their covert shrinking to a more and more horrible narro^vness, they were huddled together, friends and foes, till the last few yards of upright wheat fell also under the teeth of the un- erring reaper, and they were every one put to death by the sticks and stones of the harvesters. The reaping-machine left the fallen corn behind it in lit- tle heaps, each heap being of the quantity for a sheaf ; and upon these the active binders in the rear laid their hands — mainly women, but some of them men in print shirts, and trousers supported around theii' waists by leather straps, rendering useless the two buttons behind, which twinkled and bristled vnth sunbeams at every movement of each wearer, as if they were a pair of eyes in the small of Ms back. But those of the other sex were the most interesting of this company of binders, by reason of the charm which is acquired by woman when she becomes part and parcel of outdoor nature, and is not merely an object set down therein as at ordinary times. A field-man is a personality afield ; a field- woman is a portion of the field j she has somehow IMAIDEN NO MORE. 97 lost lier owii margin, imbibed the essence of her surround- ing", and assimilated herself mth it. The women — or rather girls, for they were mostly young — wore di'awn cotton bonnets with great flapping curtains to keep off the sun, and gloves to prevent their hands be- ing wounded by the stubble. There was one wearing a pale- pink jacket ; another in a cream-colored, tight-sleeved gown ; another in a petticoat as red as the arms of the reaping-machine ; and others, older, in the brown-rough "wi'opper'^ or over-all — the old-established and most ap- propriate di'ess of the field- woman, which the young ones were abandoning. This morning the eye retiu*ns involun- tarily to the girl in the pink cotton jacket, she being the most flexuous and finely drawn figure of them all. But her bonnet is pulled so far over her brow that none of her face is disclosed while she binds, though her complexion may be guessed from a stray twine or tw^o of dark-bro^Ti hair which extends below the cm-tain of her bonnet. Per- haps one reason why she seduces casual attention is that she never courts it, though the other women often gaze around them. Her binding proceeds with clock-like monotony. From the sheaf last finished she di-aws a handful of ears, patting theii- tips vnth her left palm to bring them even. Then, stooping low, she moves forward, gathering the corn with both hands against her knees, and pushing her left gloved hand under the bundle to meet the right on the other side, holding the corn in an embrace like that of a lover. She brings the ends of the bond together, and kneels on the sheaf while she ties it, beating back her skirts now and then when lifted bv the breeze. A bit of her naked arm is visible between the buff leather of the gauntlet and the sleeve of her gown ; and as the day wears on its feminine smoothness becomes scarified by the stubble, and bleeds. At intervals she stands up to rest, and to re-tie her dis- 98 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. arranged apron, or to pull her bonnet straight. Then one can see the oval face of a handsome young woman, with deep, dark eyes, and long, hea\'y^, clinging tresses, which seem to clasp in a beseeching way anything they fall against. The cheeks are paler, the teeth more regular, the red lips thinner than is usual in a countr^^-bred girl. It is Tess Dui'beyfield, otherwise D'Urberville, somewhat changed — the same, but not the same ; at the present stage of her existence li^dng as a stranger and an alien here, though it was no strange land that she was in. After a long seclusion she had come to a resolve, during the week under notice, to undertake outdoor work in her native \dl- lage, the busiest season of the year in the agricultural world having arrived, and nothing that she could do within the house being so remunerative for the time as harvesting in the fields. The movements of the other women were more or less similar to Tess's, the whole bevy of them drawing together like dancers in a quadrille at the completion of a sheaf by each, every one placing her sheaf on end against those of the rest, tiU a shock, or "stitch" as it was here called, of ten or a dozen was formed. They went to breakfast, and came again, and the work proceeded as before. As the hour of eleven drew near a person watching her might have noticed that Tess's glance flitted wdstfully to the brow of the hill every now and then, though she did not pause in her sheafing. On the verge of the hoiu* the heads of a gi'oup of children, of ages ranging from six to fourteen, rose above the stubbly convexity of the hill. The face of Tess flushed slightly, but still she did not pause. The eldest of the comers, a girl who wore a triangular shawl, its corner draggling on the stubble, carried in her arms what at first sight seemed to be a doll, but proved to be an infant in long clothes. Another brought some lunch. MAIDEN NO MORE. 99 The harvesters ceased working, took their provisions, and sat down against one of the shocks. Here they feU to, the men plying a stone jar freely, and passing round a cup. Tess Durbeyfield had been one of the last to suspend her labors. She sat down at the end of the shock, her face turned somewhat away from her companions. When she had deposited herself a man in a rabbit-skin cap and with a red handkerchief tucked into his belt held the cup of ale over the top of the shock for her to drink. But she did not accept his offer. As soon as her lunch was spread she called up the big gii'l, her sister, and took the baby of her, who, glad to be relieved of the burden, went away to the next shock and joined the other childi-en playing there. Tess, with a curiously stealthy yet courageous movement, and "v\dth a still rising color, unfastened her frock and be- gan suckling the child. The men who sat nearest considerately turned their faces towards the other end of the field, some of them beginning to smoke; one, with absent-minded fondness, regretfully stroking the jar that would no longer yield a stream. All the women but Tess fell into animated talk, and adjusted the disarranged knots of theii' hair. When the infant had taken its fill the young mother sat it upright in her lap, and, looking into the far distance, dandled it with a gloomy indifference that was almost dis- like ; then all of a sudden she fell to violently kissing it some dozens of times, as if she could never leave off, the child crying at the vehemence of an onset which strangely combined passionateness with- contempt. '^ She's fond of that there child, though she mid pretend not to be, and say she wishes the baby and her too were in the churchyard," observed the woman in the red petticoat. '' She'll soon leave off saying that," replied the one in buff. '' Lord, 'tis wonderful what a body can get used to o' that sort in time ! " " A little more than persuading had to do wi' the coming 100 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. o't, I reckon. There were they that heard a sobbing one night last year in The Chase j and it mid ha' gone hard m' a certain party if folks had come along." '' Well, a httle more or a little less, 'twas a thonsand pities that it shonld have happened to she, of all others. Bnt 'tis always the comeliest ! The plain ones be as safe as chui'ches — hey, Jenny ? '' The speaker tni'ned to one of the gronp, who certainly was not ill-defined as plain. It was a thonsand pities, indeed ; it was impossible for even an enemy to feel othermse on looking at Tess as she sat there, Avith her flower-like mouth and large, tender eyes, neither black nor blue nor gray nor violet ; rather all those shades together, and a hundred others, which could be seen if one looked into theu' irises — shade behmd shade — tint beyond tint — round depths that had no bottom 5 an almost typical woman, but for the slight incautiousness of charac- ter inherited from her race. A resolution which had sm^rised herseK had brought her into the fields this week for the fii'st time during many months. After wearing and wasting her palpitating heart with every engine of regret that lonely inexperience could devise, common-sense had illumined her. She felt that she would do well to be usefid again — to taste anew sweet independence at any price. The past was past ; whatever it had been, it was no more at hand. Wliatever its conse- quences, time would close over them ; they would all in a few years be as if they had never been, and she herself grassed down and forgotten. Meanwhile the trees were just as gi'een as before ; the birds sang and the sun shone as clearly now as ever. The familiar surroundings had not darkened because of her grief, nor sickened because of her pain. She might have seen that what had bowed her head so profoundly — the thought of the world's concern at her situ- ation — was founded on an illusion. She was not an exist- ence, an experience, a passion, a structiu'c of sensations, to IMAIDEN NO MORE. lUl anybody but herself. To all Immankind besides, Tess was only a passing tlionglit. If she made herself miserable the livelong night and day it was only this nincli to them — ''Ah, she makes herself nnhappy." If she tried to be cheer- ful, to dismiss all care, to take pleasure in the dayhght, the flowers, the baby, she could only be this idea to them — ''All, she bears it very w^ell." Alone in a desert island would she have been wretched at what had happened to her? Not greatly. If she could have been but just cre- ated, to discover herself as a spouseless mother, with no experience of life except as the parent of a nameless child, would the position have caused her to despair? No, she would have taken it calmly, and found pleasures therein. Most of the misery had been generated by her conventional aspect, and not by her innate sensations. Whatever Tess's reasoning, some spirit had induced her to dress herself up neatly as she had formerly done, and come out into the fields, harvest-hands being greatly in de- mand just then. This was why she had borne herself with dignity, and had looked people calmly in the face at times, even when holding the baby in her arms. The harvest-men rose from the shock of corn, and stretched their limbs, and extinguished theu' pipes. The horses, which had been unharnessed and fed, were again at- tached to the scarlet machine. Tess, having quickly eaten her own meal, beckoned to her eldest sister to come and take aw^ay the baby, fastened her dress, put on the buff gloves again, and stooped anew to draw a bond from the last completed sheaf for the tying of the next. In the afternoon and evening the proceedings of the morning were continued, Tess staying on till dusk with the body of harvesters. Then they all rode home in one of the largest wagons, in the company of a broad tarnished moon that had risen from the ground to the eastwards, its face resembling the outworn gold-leaf halo of some worm- eaten Tuscan saint. Tess's female companions sang songs, 102 TESS OF THE D'URBERYILLES. and sliowed themselves very sympathetic and glad at her reappearance out-of-doors, though they could not refrain from mischievously throwing in a few verses of the ballad about the maid who went to the merry green wood and came back a changed person. There are counterpoises and compensations in life 5 and the event w^hich had made of her a social warning had also for the moment made her the most interesting personage in the ^nllage to many. Their friendliness won her still further away from herself, their lively spirits were contagious, and she became almost gay. But now that her moral sorrows were passing away a fresh one arose on the natural side of her which knew^ no social law. When she reached home it was to learn to her grief that the baby had been suddenly taken ill since the afternoon. Some such collapse had been probable, so ten- der and puny was its fi'ame ; but the event came as a shock nevertheless. The baby's offence against society in coming into the world was forgotten by the girl-mother; her soul's desire was to continue that offence by preserving the life of the child. However, it soon gi^ew clear that the hour of eman- cipation for that little prisoner of the flesh was to arrive earlier than her worst misgivings had Conjectured. And when she had discovered this she was plunged into a misery which transcended that of the child's simple loss. Her baby had not been baptized. Tess had di^if ted into a frame of mind which accepted passively the consideration that if she should have to burn for what she had done, burn she must, and there was an end of it. Like all \dllage girls, she was well grounded in the Holy Scriptures, and had dutifully studied the histories of Aholah and Aholibah, and knew the inferences to be dra-vvn therefrom. But when the same question arose with regard to the baby, it had a very different color. Her dar- ling was about to die, and no salvation. It was nearly bedtime, but she rushed downstairs and MAIDEN NO MORE. 103 asked if she might send for the parson. The moment hap- pened to be one at which her father's sense of the antique nobility of his family was highest, and his sensitiveness to the smudge which Tess had set upon that nobility most pronounced, for he had just returned from his evening booze at Rolliver's Inn. No parson should come inside his door, he declared, prying into his affairs just then, when, by her shame, it had become more necessary than ever to liide them. He locked the door and put the key in his pocket. The household went to bed, and, distressed beyond measure, Tess retired also. She was continually waking as she lay, and in the middle of the night found that the baby was still worse. It was ob\dously dying — quietly and painlessly, but none the less surely. In her misery she rocked herself upon the bed. The clock struck the solemn hour of one, that horn." when thought stalks outside reason, and malignant possibilities stand rock-firm as facts. She thought of the child con- signed to the nethermost corner of hell, as its double doom for lack of baptism and lack of legitimacy 5 saw the arch- fiend tossing it ^^dth his three-pronged fork, like the one they used for heating the oven on baking days 5 to which pictm'e she added many other quaint and curious details of torment taught the young in this Christian country. The lurid presentment so powerfully affected her imagina- tion in the silence of the sleeping house, that her night- gown became damp with perspu'ation, and the bedstead shook with each throb of her heart. The infant's breathing grew more difficult, and the mother's mental tension increased. It was useless to devour the little thing with kisses ; she could stay in bed no longer, and walked feverishly about the room. " merciful God, have pity 5 have pity upon my poor baby ! " she cried. ^' Heap as much anger as you want to upon me, and welcome ; but pity the child ! '^ 104 TESS OF THE D'URBER^^LLES. Slie leant against the cliest of drawers, and mnrmnred incoherent sujDplications for a long while, till she suddenly started up. " Ah ! perhaps baby can be saved ! Perhaps it will be just the same ! " She spoke so brightly that it seemed as though her face might have shone in the gloom surrounding her. She ht a candle, and went to a second and a third bed under the wall, where she awoke her little sisters and brothers, all of whom occupied the same room. Pulling out the washing-stand so that she could get behind it, she poured some water from a jug, and made them kneel around, putting their hands together with fingers exactly vertical. Wliile the children, scarcely awake, awe-stricken at her manner, their eyes growing larger and larger, re- mained in this position, she took the baby from her bed — a child's child — so immature as scarce to seem a sufiicient personahty to endow its producer with the maternal title. Tess then stood erect with the infant on her arm beside the basin, the next sister held the Prayer-Book open before her, as the clerk at church held it before the parson ; and thus the emotional girl set about'baptizing her child. Her figure looked singularly tall and imposing as she stood in her long white nightgown, a thick cable of twisted dark hair hanging straight down her back to her waist. The kindly dimness of the weak candle abstracted from her form and features the little blemishes which sunlight might have revealed — the stubble scratches upon her wrists, and the weariness of her eyes — her high enthusiasm lia^dng a transfiguring effect upon the face w^hich had been her undoing, showing it as a thing of immaculate beauty, with an impress of dignity which was almost regal. The little ones kneeling round, their sleepy eyes blinking and red, awaited her preparations full of a suspended wonder which their physical heaviness at that hour would not allow to become active. MAIDEN NO MORE. 105 Tlie eldest of tliem said : " Be you really going to eliristen him, Tess ? " The gii'l-mother replied in a grave affirmative. " What^s his name going to be ? " She had not thought of that, but a name came into her head as she proceeded with the baptismal ser\dce, and now she pronounced it : " Sorrow, I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost." She sprinkled the water, and there was silence. " Say 'Amen,' children." The tiny voices piped in obedient response : " Amen ! " Tess went on : "We receive this child" — and so forth — "and do sign him mth the sign of the Cross." Here she dij^ped her hand into the basin, and fervently drew an immense cross upon the baby with her forefinger, continuing with the customary sentences as to his manfully fighting against sin, the world, and the devil, and being a faithful soldier and servant unto his life's end. She duly went on with the Lord's Prayer, the children lisping it after her in a thin, gnat-like wail, till, at the conclusion, raising then* voices to clerk's pitch, they again piped into the silence, " Amen ! " Then their sister, with much augmented confidence in the efficacy of this sacrament, poirred forth from the bottom of her heart the thanksgi\dng that follows, uttering it boldly and triumphantly in the stopt-diapason note which her voice acquired when her heart was in her speech, and which will never be forgotten by those who knew her. The ecstasy of faith almost apotheosized her ; it set upon her face a glowing irradiation, and brought a red spot into the middle of each cheek ; while the miniature candle-flame in- verted in her eye-pupils shone like a diamond. The children gazed up at her with more and more reverence, and no longer had a will for questioning. She did not look like 106 ' TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. Sissy to them now, but as a being large, towering, and awful — a divine personage -with, whom they had nothing in common. Poor Sorrow's campaign against sin, the world, and the devil was doomed to be of limited brilliancy — luckily per- haps for himself, considering his beginnings. In the blue of the morning that fragile soldier and servant breathed his last, and when the other children awoke they cried bitterly, and begged Sissy to have another pretty baby. The calmness which had j^ossessed Tess since the christen- ing remained Tvith her in the infant's loss. In the daj'light, indeed, she felt her terrors about his soul to have been somewhat exaggerated ; whether well founded or not, she had no uneasiness now, reasoning that if Providence woidd not ratify such an act of approximation she, for one, did not value the kind of heaven lost by the irregularity — either for herself or for her child. So passed away Sorrow the Undesired — that intrusive creature, that bastard gift of shameless Nature who respects not the ci^oL law ; a waif to whom eternal Time had been a matter of days merely, who knew not that such things as years and centuries ever were ; to whom the cottage interior was the universe, the week's weather climate, new-born babyhood human existence, and the instinct to suck human knowledge. Tess, who mused on the christening a good deal, won- dered if it were doctrinally sufficient to secure a Christian burial for the child. Nobody could tell this but the parson of the parish, and he was a new-comer, and a very reserved man. She went to his house after dusk, and stood bv the gate, but could not summon courage to go in. The enter- prise would have been abandoned if she had not by accident met him coming homeward as she turned away. In the gloom she did not mind speaking freely. " I should like to ask you something, sir." He expressed his \\illingness to listen^ and she told the IMAIDEN NO MORE. 107 story of the baby's illness and the extemporized ordi- nance. "And now, sir/' she added, earnestly, "can you tell me this — will it be just the same for him as if you had baptized him ? " Having the natural feelings of a tradesman at finding that a job he should have been called in for had been un- skilfully botched by his customers among themselves, he was disposed to say no. Yet the dignity of the girl, the strange tenderness in her voice, combined to affect his nobler impulses — or rather those that he had left in him after ten years of endeavor to graft technical belief on actual scepticism. The man and the ecclesiastic fought within him, and the \'ictorv fell to the man. " My dear girl," he said, " it mil be just the same." " Then will you give him a Christian burial ? " she asked, quickly. The vicar felt himself cornered. Hearing of the baby's illness, he had conscientiously come to the house after nightfall to perform the rite, and, unaware that the refusal to admit him had come from Tess's father and not from Tess, he could not allow the plea of necessity. " Ah — that's another matter," he said. " Another matter — why ? " asked Tess, rather warmly. " Well — I would williufflv do so if onlv we two were con- cerned. But I must not — for liturgical reasons." " Just for once, sir ! " " Reallv, I m.ust not ! " " O sir, for pity's sake ! " She seized his hand as she spoke. He -^dthdi'ew it, shaking his head. " Then I don't like you ! " she burst out, " and I'll never come to your church no more ! " " Don't talk so rashly, Tess.'^ Perhaps it will be just the same to him if you don't ? . Will it be just the same ? Don't, for God's sake, speak u 108 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. as saint to sinner, but as yon yom\self to me myself — poor me ! " How tlie vicar reconciled his answer with the strict no- tions he snpposed himself to hold on these subjects it is beyond a layman's power to tell, though not to excuse. Somewhat moved, he said in this case also ; "It will be just the same." So the baby was carried in a small deal box, under an ancient woman's shawl, to the churchyard that night, and buried by lantern-hght, at the cost of a shilling and a pint of beer to the sexton, in that shabby corner of God's allot- ment where He lets the nettles grow, and where all unbap- tized infants, notorious drunkards, suicides, and others of the conjecturally damned are laid. In spite of the untoward surroundings, however, Tess bravely made a httle cross of two laths and a piece of string, and having bound it mth flowers, she stuck it up at the head of the gi\ave one even- ing when she could enter the churchyard without being seen, putting at the foot also a bunch of the same flowers in a little jar of water to keep them ahve. What matter was it that on the outside of the jar the eye of mere ob- servation noted the words "Keelwell's Marmalade"? The eye of maternal affection did not see them in its vision of higher things. XV. "By experience," says Roger Ascham, "we find out a short way by a long wandering." Not seldom that long wandering unfits us for further travel, and of what use is our experience to us then ? Tess Durbeyfield's experience was of this incapacitating kind. At last she had learned what to do ; but who would noAV accept her doing ? If before going to the D'Urbervilles' she had rigorously MAIDEN NO MORE. 109 moved under the guidance of sundiy gnomic texts and phrases known to her and to the world in general, no doubt she would never have been imposed on. But it had not been in Tess's power — nor is it in anybody's power — to feel the whole truth of golden opinions when it is possible to profit by them. She — and how many more — might have ironically said to God with Saint Augustine, " Thou hast counselled a better course than Thou hast permitted." She remained in her father's house during the winter months, plucking fowls, or cramming turkeys and geese, or making clothes for her sisters and brothers out of some finery which D'Urberville had given her, and which she had put by with contempt. Apply to him she would not. But she would often clasp her hands behind her head and muse when she was supposed to be working hard. She philosophically noted dates as they came past in the revolution of the year ; the disastrous night of her undo- ing at Trantridge, mth its dark background of The Chase ; also the dates of the baby's bu^tli and death ; also her own birthday ; and every other day individualized by incidents in which she had taken some share. She suddenly thought one afternoon, w^lien looking in the glass at her fairness, that there was yet another date, of greater importance to her than those : that of her own death, when all these charms would have disappeared ; a day which lay sly and unseen among all the other days of the year, giving no sign or sound w^lien she annually passed over it ; but not the less surely there. When was it? Wliy did she not feel the chill of each yearly encounter with such a cold re- lation ? She had Jeremy Tayloi^s thought that some time in the future those who had known her would say, " It is the — th, the day that poor Tess Durbeyfield died " ; and there would be nothing singular to their minds in the statement. Of that dav, doomed to be her terminus in time through all the ages, she did not know the place in month, Aveek, season, or year. 110 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. Almost at a leap Tess thus changed from simple girl to complex woman. Symbols of reflectiveness passed into her face, and a note of tragedy at times into her voice. Her eyes grew larger and more eloquent. She became what would have been called a fine creature ; her aspect was fair and arresting ; her soul that of a woman whom the turbu- lent experiences of the last year or two had quite failed to demoralize. But for the world's opinion those experiences would have been simply a liberal education. She had held so aloof of late that her trouble, never gen- erally known, was nearly forgotten in Marlott. But it be- came e\ddent to her that she could never be really comfort- able again in a place which had seen the collapse of her family's attempt to "claim kin" — and, through her, even closer union — with the i-ich D'Urbervilles. At least she could not be comfortable there till long years should have obliterated her keen consciousness of it. Yet even now Tess felt the pulse of hopeful life still warm within her j she might be happy in some nook which had no memories. To escape the past and all that appertained thereto was to annihilate it, and to do that she would have to get away. Was once lost always lost really true of chastity? she would ask lierseK. She might prove it false if she could veil bygones. The recuperative power which pervaded or- ganic nature was surely not denied to maidenhood alone. She waited a long time without finding opportunity for a new departure. A particularly fine spring came round, and the stir of germination was almost audible in the buds ; it moved her, as it moved the wild animals, and made her passionate to go. At last, one day in early May, a letter reached her from an old friend of her mother's, to whom she had addressed inquiries long before — a dairyman whom she had never seen — that a skilful milkmaid was required at his dairj^-house, and that he would be glad to have her for the summer months, if she had found nothing to do in the interim. IVIAIDEN NO MORE. Ill It was not quite so far off as could have been wished ; but it was probably far enough, her radius of movement and repute having been so small. To persons of limited spheres, miles are as geographical degrees, parishes as counties, counties as provinces and kingdoms. On one point she was resolved : there should be no more D'Urberville air-castles in the di-eams and deeds of her new life. She would be the dairymaid Tess, and nothing more. Her mother knew Tess's feeling on this point so weU, though no words had passed between them on the subject, that she never alluded to the knightly ancestry now. Yet such is human inconsistency that one of the interests of the new place to her was the accidental virtue of its lying near her forefathers' country (for they were not Blakemore men, though her mother was Blakemore to the bone). The dairy called Talbothays, for which she was bound, stood not remotelv from some of the former estates of the D'Urber\dlles, near the great family vaults of her grand- dames and their powerful husbands. She would be able to look at them, and think not only that D'Urber\alle, like Babylon, had fallen, but that the indi\ddual innocence of a humble descendant could lapse as silently. All the while she wondered if any strange good thing might come of her being in her ancestral land ; and some spirit within her rose automatically as the sap in the twigs. It was unexpended youth, sm'ging up anew after its temporary check, and bringing with it hope, and the invincible instinct towards self -delight. n^5t tbe %Mvn. THE RALLY. XVI. On a thyme-scented, bird-singing morning in May, be- tween two and three years after the retnrn from Trantridge — two silent reconstructive years for Tess Dnrbeyfield — she left her home for the second time. Having packed up her luggage so that it could be sent to her later, she started in a hired trap for the little town of Stourcastle, through w^hich it was necessary to pass on her jom^ney, noAV in a direction almost opposite to that of her first adventuring. On the curve of the nearest hill she looked back regretfully at Marlott and her father's house, although she had been so anxious to get away. Her kindred dwelling there would probably continue their daily lives as heretofore, with no great diminution of pleasure in their consciousness, although she would be far off, and they deprived of her smile. In a few days the children would engage in their games as merrily as ever, without the sense of any gap left by her departure. This leaving of the younger childi'en she had decided was for the best; were she to remain they would probably gain less good by her precepts than harm by her example. She went through Stourcastle without pausing, and on- ward to a junction of highwaj^s, where she could await a carrier's van that ran to the southwest ; for the railways which engirdled this interior tract of country had never THE RALLY. 113 yet struck across it. While waiting, however, there came along a farmer in his spring cart, driving approximately in the dii-ection that she mshed to pursue ; though he was a stranger to her she accepted his offer of a seat beside him, ignoring that its motive was a mere tribute to her counte- nance. He was going to Weatherbury, and by accompany- ing him thither she could walk the remainder of the dis- tance instead of travelling in the van by way of Casterbridge. Tess did not stop at Weatherbury, after this long drive, further than to make a slight nondescript meal at noon at a cottage to which the farmer recommended her. Thence she started on foot, basket in hand, to reach the wide up- land of heath di\dding this district from the low-hdng meads of a farther valley in which the dairy stood that was the aim and end of her day's pilgrimage. Tess had never before visited this part of the country, and yet she felt akin to the landscape. Not so very far to the left of her she could discern a dark patch in the scenery, which inquiry confii-med her in supposing to be trees, mark- ing the environs of Kingsbere — in the church of wliicli par- ish the bones of her ancestors — her useless ancestors — lay entombed. She had no admiration for them now ; she almost hated them for the dance they had led her ; not a thing of all that had been theu's did she retain but the old seal and spoon. "Pooh — I have as much of mother as father in me ! " she said. '• All my prettiness comes from her, and she was onlv a dairvmaid." The journey over the intervening uplands and lowlands of Egdon, when she reached them, was a more troublesome walk than she had anticipated, the distance being actually but a fev*" miles. In two hours, after sundry wi'ong turn- ings, she found herself on a summit commanding the long- sought-for vale, the valley of the Great Dailies, the valley in which milk and butter grew to rankness, and were pro- duced more profusely, if less delicately, than at her home 8 114 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. ' — the verdaut plain so well watered by the river Var or Froom. It was intrinsically different from the Vale of Little Dailies, Blackmoor Vale, which, save duiing her disastrous sojourn at Trantridge, she had exclusively known till now. The world was di'a^vn to a larger pattern here. The en- closures numbered fifty acres instead of ten, the farmsteads were more extended, the groups of cattle formed tribes hereabout; there only families. These myriads of cows stretching under her eyes from the far east to the far west outnumbered any she had ever seen at one glance before. The green lea was speckled as thickly with them as a canvas by Van Alsloot or Sallaert with bm-ghers. The rij^e hue of the red and dun kine absorbed the evening sunlight, which the white-coated anmials returned to the eye in rays ahnost jiazzhng, even at the distant elevation on which she stood. The bird's-eye perspective before her was not so luxuri- antly beautiful, perhaps, as that other one which she knew so well ; yet it was more cheering. It lacked the intensely blue atmosphere of the rival vale, and its heavy soils and scents ; the new air was clearer, more ethereal, buoyant, bracing. The river itself, which noui'ished the grass and cows of these renowned dames, flowed not like the streams in Blackmoor. Those were slow, silent, tinged, flowing over beds of mud into which the incautious wader might sink and vanish unawares. The Froom waters were clear as the piu'e River of Life shown to the Evangelist, rapid as the shadow of a cloud, with pebbly shallows that prattled to the sky all day long. There the water-flower was the lilv ; the crowfoot here. Either the change in the quality of the au' from heavy to light, or the sense of being amid new scenes where there were no invidious eyes upon her, sent up her spirits wonderfully. Her hopes mingled with the sunshine in an ideal photosphere which surrounded her as she bounded THE RALLY. 115 along against the soft south wind. She heard a pleasant voice in every breeze, and in every bird's note seemed to lurk a joy. Her face had latterly changed with, changing states of mind. It might have been said to be continually fluctu- ating between beauty and ordinariness, according as the thoughts were gay or grave. One day she was pink and flawless; another she was pale and tragical. When she was i^ink she was feeling less than when she was pale; her more j)erfect beauty accorded with her less elevated mood ; her more intense mood with her less perfect beauty. It was her best face, ph^'sically, that was now set against the south wdnd. The irresistible, universal, automatic tendency to find enjoyment, which pervades all h±e, from the meanest to the highest, had at length mastered her, no longer counter- acted by external pressures. Being even now only a young and immature woman, one who mentally and sentimentally had not finished growing, it was impossible that any event should have left upon Tess an impression that was not at least capable of transmutation. And thus her spirits and her thankfulness and her hopes rose higher and higher. She tried several baUads, but found them inadequate ; till, recollecting the book that her eyes had so often wandered over of a Sunday morning be- fore she had eaten of the tree of knowledge, she hummed, " O ye Sun and Moon ; O ye Stars ; ye Green Things upon the Earth ; ye Fowls of the Au- ; Beasts and Cattle ; O all ye Children of Men; bless ye the Lord, praise Him and magnify Him forever." She suddenly stopped and murmm'ed, ''But perhaps I don't quite know the Lord as yet." And probably the half -unconscious rhapsody was a Pan- theistic utterance in a Monotheistic falsetto ; women, whose chief com^Danions are the forms and forces of outdoor Na- ture, retain in their souls far more of the Pagan instincts 116 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. of their remoter forefathers than of the systematized relig- ions taught their race at later date. However, Tess found at least approximate expression for her feelings in the old Benedicite that she had lisped from infancy; and it was enough. Such high contentment with such a shght and in- itial performance as that of having started towards a means of independent living was a part of the Durbeyfield tem^ perament. Tess really wished to walk uprightly ; to seek out whatsoever things were true and honest, and of good report, wdiile her father did nothing of the kind ; but she resembled him with being content with immediate and small achievements, and in having no mind for laborious effort towards such petty monetary and social advancement as could alone be effected by a family so hea\dly handi- capped as the once knightly D'Urber\illes were now. There was, of course, the energy of her mother's unex- pended family, as well as the natural energy of Tess's years and frame, rekindled after the experience which had so overwhelmed her for the time. Let the truth be toJd — women do as a rule live through such humiliations, and regain their spirits, and again look about them mth an in- terested eye. Wliile there's life there's hope, is a conviction not so entirelv unkno^wn to the "deceived "as some amiable theorists would have us believe. Tess Durbeyfield, in good heart, and full of zest for life, descended the Egdon slopes lower and lower towards the dairy of her pilgrimage. The marked difference, in the final particular, between the rival vales now showed itself. The secret of Black- moor was best discovered from the heights around ; to read aright the valley before her it was absolutely necessary to descend into its midst. Wlien Tess had accomplished this feat she found herself to be standing on a carpeted level, which stretched to the east and west as far as the eye could reach. The river had stolen from the higher tracts and brought THE RALLY. 117 in particles to the vale all this horizontal landj and now, exhausted, aged, and attenuated, lay serpentining along through the midst of its former spoils. Not quite sure of her direction, Tess stood still upon the hemmed expanse of verdant flatness, like a fly on a billiard- table of indefinite length, and of no more consequence to the situation than that fly. The sole effect of her presence upon the placid valley so far had been to excite the mind of a solitary heron, which, after descending to the ground not far from her path, stood, ^Yith. neck erect, looking at her. But suddenly there arose from all parts of the lowland a prolonged and repeated call — " Waow ! waow ! waow ! '^ From the farthest east to the farthest west the cries spread as if by contagion, accompanied in some cases by the barking of a dog. It was not the expression of the valley's consciousness that beautiful Tess had arrived, but the ordinary announcement of milking-time — haK-past four o'clock, when the dairjanen set about getting in the cows. The red and white herd nearest at hand, which had been phlegmatically w^aiting for the call, now trooped towards the steading in the background, their gi-eat bags of milk swinging under them as they walked. Tess followed slowly in their rear, and entered the barton by the open gate through which they had entered before her. Long, thatched sheds stretched round the enclosure, their slopes encrusted with vivid green moss, and their eaves supported by wooden posts rubbed to a glassy smoothness by the flanks of in- finite cows and calves of bygone years, now passed to an obli\don almost inconceivable in its profundity. Between the posts were ranged the milkers, each exhibiting herself at the present moment to an eye in the rear as a circle on two stalks, down the centre of which a smtch moved pend- ulum- w4se j while the sun, lowering itself behind this pa- 118 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. tient row, threw their shadows accurately iiiv/ards upon the wall. There and thus it threw shadows of these obscure and unstudied figures every evening with as much care over each contour as if it had been the profile of a Court beauty on a palace wall; copied them as diligently as it had copied Olympian shapes on marble facades long ago, or the outlines of Alexander, Caesar, and the Pharaohs. They were the less restful cows that were stalled. Those that would stand still of their own free \\dll were milked in the middle of the yard, where many of such better-behaved ones stood waiting now — all prime milchers, such as were seldom seen out of this vallev, and not alwavs within it ; nourished by the succulent feed which the w^ater-meads supplied at this prime season of the year. Those of them that were spotted with white reflected the sunshine in daz- zling brilliancy, and the ]3olished brass knobs on their horns glittered with something of military displaj^ Their large- veined udders hung ponderous as sand-bags, the teats stick- ing out like the legs of a gipsy's crock ; and, as each animal lingered for her tm-n to arrive, the milk fell in drops to the ground. XVII. The dairymaids and men had flocked down from their cottages and out of the dairy-house mth the arrival of the cows from the meads ; the maids walking in pattens, not on account of the weather, but to keep their shoes above the mulch of the barton. Each gui sat down on her three- legged stool, her face sideways, her right cheek resting against the cow, and looked musingly along the animal's flank at Tess as she approached. The male milkers, with hat-brims turned doAvn, resting on their foreheads and gaz- ing on the ground, did not observe her. h3 U2 w •^ o r r o =: ft) CO r o > Z O ftl P5 c ,.3 K -^ d K • - ^ w H K O Z o H K H fo O d o n THE RALLY. HO One of these was a sturdy middle-aged man — whose long Avliite "pinner" was somewhat finer and cleaner than the wi'aps of the others, and whose jacket underneath had a presentable marketing aspect — the master-dair}^nan, of whom she was in quest, his double character as a working milker and butter-maker here diuing six days, and on the seventh as a man in shining broadcloth in his family pew at church, being so marked as to have inspired a rhyme : DairjTnaii Dick All the week — On Sundays Mr. Richard Crick. Seeing Tess standing at gaze, he went across to her. The maioritv of dairvmen have a cross manner at milk- ing-time, but it happened that Mr. Crick was glad to get a new hand — for the days were busy ones now — and he re- ceived her warmly ; inquiring for her mother and the rest of the family (though this as a matter of form mainly, for he really had quite forgotten Mrs. Durbeyfleld's existence till reminded of the fact by her daughter's letter). " O — ay, as a lad I knowed your mother very well," he said, terminatively. " And I heard of her marriage, though I've never heard of her since. And a aged woman of ninety that used to live nigh here, but is dead and gone long ago, once told me that the family yer mother married into in Blackmoor Yale came originally from these parts, and that 'twere a old ancient race that had all but perished oif the earth — though the new generations didn't know it. But, Lord, T took no notice of the old woman's rambhngs, not I." " Oh no — it is nothing," said Tess. Then the talk was of business only. "You can milk 'em clean, mv maidv? I don't want mv cows going azew at this time o' ye'ar." She reassured Mm on that point, and he surveyed her up 120 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. and dowu. She had been staying indoors since the autumn, and her complexion had grown delicate. '' Quite sure you can stand it? 'Tis comfortable enough here for rough folkj but we don't hve in a cowcumber frame." She declared that she could stand it, and her zest and willingness seemed to win him over. ''Well, I suppose you'll want a dish o' tay, or victuals of some sort, hey ? Not yet ? Well, do as you like about it. But faith, if 'twas I, I should be as dry as a kex wi' travel- ling so far." '' I'll begin milking now, to get my hand in," said Tess. She di-ank a little milk as temporary refreshment, to the surprise — indeed, shght contempt — of Daii'3'man Crick, to whose mind it had apparent^ never occurred that milk was good as a beverage. " Oh, if ye can swaller that, be it so," he said, indifferently, while holding up the pail that she sipped from. " 'Tis what I hain't touched for years — not I. Rot the stuff ; it would lie in my innerds like lead. You can try your hand upon she," he pursued, nodding to the nearest cow. " Not but what she do milk rather hard. We've hard ones and w^'ve easv ones, like other folks. However, you'll find out that soon enough." When Tess had changed her bonnet for a hood, and was really on her stool under the cow, and the milk was squirt- ing from her fists into the pail, she appeared to feel that she really had laid a new foundation for her future. Tlie conviction bred serenity, her pulse slowed, and she was able to look about her. The milkers formed quite a little battalion of men and maids, the men operating on the hard-teated animals, the maids on the kindlier natures. It was a larsre dairv. There were more than a Imndred milchers under Crick's management, all told ; and of the herd the master-dairy- man milked six or eight with his own hands, unless away from home. These were the cows that milked hardest of THE RALLY. 121 all; for his journey-milkmen being more or less casually hired, he would not entrust this half-dozen to their treat- ment, lest, from indifference, they should not milk them clean ; nor to the maids, lest they should fail in the same way for lack of finger-grip ; with the result that in course of time the cows would ''go azew" — that is, dry up. It was not the loss for the moment that made slack milking so serious, but that with the decline of demand there came decline, and idtimately cessation, of supply. After Tess had settled down to her cow there was for a time no talk in the barton, and not a sound interfered with the puiT of the mi Ik- jets into the numerous pails, except a momentary exclamation to one or other of the beasts request- ing her to turn round or stand still. The only movements were those of the milkers' hands up and down and the swing of the cows' tails. Thus they all worked on, encom- passed by the vast flat mead which extended to either slope of the valley — a level landscape compounded of old land- scapes long forgotten, and, no doubt, differing in character very gi*eatly from the landscape they composed now. " To my thinking," said the dairyman, rising suddenly from a cow he had just finished off, and snatching uj) his three-legged stool in one hand and the pail in the other, moving on to the next hard-yielder in his \dcinity ; "to my thinking, the cows don't gie down their milk to-day as usual. Upon my Ufe, if Winker do begin keeping back hke this, she'll not be worth going under by midsummer ! " '''Tis because there's a new hand come among us," said Jonathan Kail. '' I've noticed such things afore." " To be sui*e. It may be so. I didn't think o't." " I've been told that it goes up into their horns at such times," said a dairvmaid. '' Well, as to going up into their horns," replied Dairy- man Crick, dubiously, as though even witchcraft might be limited by anatomical possibihties, " I couldn't say ; I cer- tainly could not. But as nott cows will keep it back as 122 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. well as the horned ones, I don't quite agree to it. Do ye knoAY that riddle about the nott cows, Jonathan f Why do nott cows give less milk in a year than horned 1 " " I don't ! " interposed the milkmaid. " Why do they ? " " Because there hain't so many of 'em," said the dairy- man. "Howsomever, these gam'sters do certainly keep back their milk to-day. Folks, we must lift up a stave or two — that's the only cui'e for't." Songs were often resorted to in dairies hereabout as an enticement to the cows when they showed signs of with- holding their usual }ield ; and the band of milkers at tliis request burst into melody — in purely business-like tones, it is true, and with no great spontaneity ; the result, accord- ing to their own belief, being a decided improvement dnr- ing the song's continuance. When they had gone through fourteen or fifteen verses of a cheerful ballad about a mur- derer who was afraid to go to bed in the dark l^ecause he saw certain brimstone flames around him, one of the male milkers said : "I msh singing on the stoop didn't use up so much of a man's mnd ! You should get your harp, sir 5 not but what a fiddle is best." Tess, who had given ear to this, thought the word* were addressed to the dairyman, but she was wrong. A reph^, in the shape of " Why ? " came, as it were, out of the belly of a dun cow in the stalls ; it had been spoken by a milker behind the animal, whom she had not hitherto perceived. " Oh yes ; there's nothing like a fiddle," said the dairy- man. '' Though I do think that bulls are more moved by a tune than cows — at least, that's my experience. Once there was a old man over at Mellstock — William Dewj by name — one of the family that used to do a good deal of business as tranters over there, Jonathan, do ye mind ? — I knowed the man })y sight as well as I know my own brother, in a manner of speaking. Well, this man was a- coming home along from a wedding where he had been playing his fiddle, one fine moonlight night, and for sliort- THE RALLY. 123 ness' sake lie took a cut across Forty-acres, a field lying tliat way, where a bull was out to gi'ass. The bull seed William and took after liiin, liorns aground, begad ; and though William runned his best, and hadn't much drink in him (considering 'twas a wedding, and the folks well off), he found he'd never reach the fence and get over in time to save himself. Well, as a last thought, he pulled out his fiddle as he runned, and struck up a jig, tui^ning to the bull as he played, and backing towards the corner. The bull softened down, and stood still, looking hard at WilHam Dewy, who fiddled on and on ; till a sort of a smile stole over the bull's face. But no sooner did WiUiam stop his playing and turn to get over hedge, than the bull would stop his smiling, and low^er his horns and step for- rard. Well, William had to turn about and play on, willy- nilly 5 and 'twas only three o'clock in the world and 'a knowed that nobody would come that way for hours, and he so leery and tired that 'a didn't know what to do. Wlien he'd scraped tiU about four o'clock he felt that he verily would have to give over soon, and he said to himself, ' There's only this last tune between me and eternal welfare. Heaven save me, or I'm a done man.' Well, then he called to mind how he'd seed the cattle kneel o' Christmas Eves in the dead o' the night. It was not Christmas Eve then, but it came into his head to play a trick upon the buU. So he broke into the 'Ti\dty Hymn, just as at Christmas carol- singing; when, lo and behold, down went the bull on his bended knees, in his ignorance, just as if 'twere the true 'TivitvniMit and hour. As soon as his horned friend were down, William tm^ned, clinked off like a long-dog, and jumped safe over hedge, before the praying bull had got on his feet again to take after him. William used to say that he'd seen a man look a fool a good many times, but never such a fool as that buU looked when he found his pious feelings had been played upon, and 'twas not Christmas Eve — Yes, WiUiam De^vy, that was the man's 124 TESS OF THE D'URBERYILLES. name; and I can tell ye to a foot where he's a-lying in Mellstock Churchyard at this very moment — just between the second yew-tree and the north aisle.'' "It's a cmious story; it carries us back to mediaeval times, w^ien faith was a living thing.'' The remark, singu- lar for a dairy-yard, was murmured by the voice behind the dun cow : but as nobodv understood the reference no notice was taken, except that the narrator seemed to think it might imply scepticism as to his tale. " Well, 'tis quite true, sir, whether or no. I knowed the man well." "Oh yes; I have no doubt of it," said the person be- hind the dun cow. Tess's attention was thus attracted to the daiiyman's in- terlocutor, of whom she could see but the merest jiatch, owing to his burning his head so persistently in the flank of the milcher. She could not understand why he should be addressed as " Sir " even by the dairyman himself. But no explanation was discernible ; he remained under the dun cow long enough to have milked three, uttering a private ejaculation now and then, as if he could not get on. "Take it gentle, sir; take it gentle," said the dairjTnan. " 'Tis knack, not strength, that does it." "So I find," said the other, standing up at last and stretching his arms. "I think I have finished her, how- ever, though she made my fingers ache." Tess could then see him at full length. He wore the ordinary white pinner and leather leggings of a dairy-farmer when milking, and his boots were clogged with the mulch of the yard ; but this was all his local livery. Beneath it was something educated, reserved, subtle, sad, differing. But the details of his corporeal aspect she could not readily observe, so much was her mind arrested by the discovery that he was one whom she had seen before. Such vicissitudes had Tess passed through since that time that for a moment she could not remember where she had THE RALLY. 125 seen liimj and tlien it flashed upon her that he was the pedestrian who had joined in the club-dance at Mario tt — the passing stranger who had come she knew not whence, had danced with others but not with her, had shghtingly left her and gone on his way mth his friends. The flood of memories brought back by this revival of an incident dating from a tune anterior to her troubles produced a momentary dismay lest, recognizing her also, he should by some means discover her stoiy. But it passed away when she found no sign of remembrance in him. She saw by degrees that since their first and only encounter his mobile face had gro\^m more thoughtful, and had ac- quired a young man's shapely mustache and beard — the latter of the palest straw-color where it began upon his cheeks, and deepening to a warm bro^\^l farther from its root. Under his milking-pinner and leggings he wore a dark velveteen jacket, woollen trousers, and a starched white shirt. Without the milking-gear, nobody could have guessed what he was. He might mth equal probability have been an eccentric landowner or a gentlemanly plough- man. That he was but a novice at dairy-work she had realized in a moment, from the time he had spent upon the milldng of one cow. Meanwhile, many of the milkmaids had said to one an- other, " How pretty she is ! " with something of real gen- erosity and admu'ation, though with a half hope that the auditors would deny the assertion — which, strictly speaking, they might have done, prettiness being but an inexact defi- nition of what struck the eye in Tess. When the milking was finished for the evening they straggled indoors, where Mrs. Crick, the dairyman's mfe — who was too respectable to go out milking herself, and wore a hot stuff go"wn in warm weather because the dairymaids wore prints — was giving an eye to the leads and things. Only two or three of the maids, Tess learnt, slept in the dairy-house besides herself, most of the helpers going to then' homes. She 126 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. saw nothing at suj^per-tinie of the superior milker who had commented on the story, and asked no questions about him, the remainder of the evening being occupied in arranging her place in the bed-chamber. It was a large room over the milk-house, some thii-ty feet long ; the sleeping cots of the other three indoor milkmaids being in the same apartment. They were blooming young women, and, except one, rather older than herself. By bedtime Tess was thoroughly tu-ed, and fell asleep inmiediately. But one of the gii'ls who occupied an adjoining bed was more wakeful than Tess, and would insist upon relating to the latter various particulars of the homestead into which she had just entered. The gii'ls whispered words mingled mth the shades, and, to Tess's drowsy mind, they seemed to be generated by the darkness in which they floated. ^' Mr. Angel Clare — he that is learning milking, and that plays the harp — never says much to us. He is a pa'son's son, and is too much taken up wi' his own thoughts to notice girls. He is the dairyman's pupil — learning farming in aU its branches. He has learnt sheep-farming at another place, and he's now mastering dairy-w^ork. . . . Yes, he is quite the gentleman-born. His father is the Reverent Mr. Clare at Emminster — a good many miles from here." "O — I have heard of him," said her companion, noAV awake. " A very earnest clergyman, is he not ? " ^' Yes, that he is — the earnestest man in all Wessex, they say — the last of the old Low Church sort, they tell me — for all about here be what they call High. All his sons, except oiu' Mr. Clare, be made pa'sons too." Tess had not at this hour the curiositv to ask whv the present Mr. Clare was not made a parson like his brethren, and gi'adually fell asleep again, the words of her informant coming to her along with the smell of the cheeses in the adjoining cheese-loft, and the dripping of the whey from the wrings downstau'S. THE RALLY, 127 XVIII. Angel Clare rises out of the past not altogether as a distinct figure, but as an appreciative voice, a long regard of fixed, abstracted eyes, and a mobility of mouth somewhat too small and delicately lined for a man's, though mth an unexpectedly firm close of the lower hp now" and then; enough to do away with any suggestion of indecision. Nevertheless, something nebulous, preoccupied, vague, in his bearing and regard, marked him as one who probably had no very definite aim or concern about his material future. Yet as a lad people had said of him that he was one who might do anything if he tried. He was the A^oungest son of his father, a poor parson at the other end of the county, and had arrived at Talbothays Dairy as a six months' pupil, after going the romid of some other farms, his object being to acquu^e a practical skill in the various processes of farming, with a view either to the Colonies or the tenm*e of a home-farm, as circmnstances might decide. His entry into the ranks of the agricidturists and breeders was a step in the young man's career wliich had been an- ticipated neither by hhnseK nor by others. Mr. Clare the elder, whose first wife had died and left him a daughter, married a second late in life. Tliis lady had somewhat unexpectedly brought him three sons, so that between Angel, the youngest, and his father the \T.car, there seemed to be almost a missing generation. Of these boys the aforesaid Angel, the child of his old age, was the only son who had not taken a University degree, though he was the single one of them whose early promise might have done full justice to an academical training. Some year or so before Angel's appearance at the Marlott dance, on a day when he had left school and was pm-suing 128 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. his studies at home, a parcel came to the \dcarage from tho local bookseller's, directed to the Reverend James Clare. The vicar having opened it and found it to contain a book, read a few pages ; whereupon he jumped up from his seat and went straight to the shop with the book under his arm. "Wliy has this been sent to my house?" he asked, peremptorily, holding up the volume. '' It was ordered, sir." '^ Not by me, or any one belongmg to me, I am happy to sav." The shopkeeper looked into his order-book. ^' Oh, it has been misdirected, su-," he said. ^' It was ordered by Mr. Angel Clare, and should have been sent to him." Mr. Clare winced as if he had been struck. He went home pale and dejected, and called Angel into his study. " Look into this book, my boy," he said. " What do you know about it ? " ^' I ordered it," said Angel, simply. ''What for?" " To read." " How can you think of reading it?" " How can I f Why, it is a system of philosophy. There is no more moral, or even religious, work published." " Yes — moral enough ; I don't deny that. But reUgious ! — and for yoUj who intend to be a minister of the Gos- pel ! " " Since you have alluded to the matter, father," said the son, with anxious thought upon his face, " I should hke to say, once for aU, that I should prefer not to take Orders in the Church. I fear I could not conscientiouslv do so. I love the Church as one loves a parent. I shall always have the warmest affection for her. There is no institution for wliose history I have a deeper admiration ; but I cannot honestly be ordained her minister, as my brothers are, while she refuses to liberate her mind from an untenable redemptive theolatry." THE RALLY. 129 It had never occurred to the straightforward and simple- minded vicar that one of his own flesh and blood could come to this. He was stultified, shocked, paralyzed. And if Angel were not going to enter the Church, what was the use of sending him to Cambridge f The University as a step to anything but ordination seemed, to this man of fixed ideas, a preface without a volume. He was a man not merely religious, but devout 5 a fii'm believer — not as the phrase is now elusively construed by theological thimble-riggers in the Chui-ch and out of it, but in the old and ardent sense of the Evangelical school ] one who could Indeed opine That the Eternal and Divine Did, eighteen centuries ago In very truth . . . Angel's father tried argument, persuasion, entreaty. "No, father; I cannot under^^Tite Article Four (leave alone the rest), taking it 4n the literal and grammatical sense' as required by the Declaration; and therefore I can't be a parson," said Angel. " My whole instinct in matters of religion is towards reconstruction ; to quote your favorite Epistle to the Hebrews, ^ the removing of those things that are shaken, as of things that are made, that those things which cannot be shaken mav remain.' " His father grieved so deeply that it made Angel quite ill to see him. "What is the good of your mother and me economizing and stinting ourselves to give you a Uni- versity education, if it is not to be used for the honor and glory of God ? " his father repeated. "Why, that I may put it to other uses, father," pleaded Angel. Perhaps if Angel had persevered he might have gone to Cambridge like his brothers. But the vicar's Adew of that seat of learning as a stepping-stone to Orders alone was quite a family tradition ; and so rooted was the idea in his 130 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. mind that perseverance began to appear to the sensitive son akin to an intent to misappropriate a trust, and wi'ong the pious heads of the household, who had been and were in truth, as his father had hinted, compelled to exercise much thi'if t to carry out this uniform plan of education for the tliree young men. " I will do without Cambridge," said Angel at last. " I feel that I have no right to go there in the cii'cumstances." The effects of this decisive debate were not long in show- ing themselves. He spent two or three years in desultory studies, undertakings, and meditations ; he began to e\dnce considerable indifference to social forms and observances. The material distinctions of rank and wealth he commend- ably despised. Even the " good old family '' (to use a favorite phrase of a late local worthy) had no aroma for him unless there were good new resolutions in its rei3resentatives. As a balance to these austerities, when he w^ent to London to see what the world was like he was earned off his head, and nearly entrapped by a woman much older than himself, though luckily he retui-ned not greatly the worse for the experience. Early association with country solitudes had bred in him an unconquerable and almost unreasonable aversion to modern town life, and shut him out from such success as he might have aspired to by entering a mundane jorof ession in the impracticability of the spiiitual one. But something had to be done ; and having an acquaintance who was starting on a thridng life as a Colonial farmer, it occurred to Angel that this might be a lead in the right dii-ection. Farming — either in the Colonies, America, or at home — farming, at any rate, after becoming well qualified for the business by a careful apprenticeship — that was a vocation which would probably afford an independence without the sacrifice of what he valued even more than a competency — intellectual liberty. So w^e find Angel Clare at six-and-twenty here at Tal- THE RALLY. 131 bothays as a student of kine, and, as there were no houses near at hand in which he could get a comfortable lodging, a boarder at the dair\Tnan's. His room was an immense attic which ran the whole length of the dauy -house. It could only be reached by a ladder from the cheese-loft, and had been closed up for a long time till he arrived and selected it as his retreat. Here Clare had plenty of space, and could often be heard by the dairy-folk pacing up and down when the household had gone to rest. A portion was divided off at one end by a curtain, behind which was his bed, the outer part being furnished as a homely sitting-room. At fii'st he lived up above entirely, reading a good deal, and strumming upon an old harp which he had bought at a sale, sa}T.ng when in a bitter humor that he might have to get a Uving by it in the streets some day. But he soon preferred to read human nature by takmg his meals down- stairs in the general dining-kitchen, mth the daiiyman and his wife, and the maids and men, who all together formed a lively assembly -, for though but few milking hands slept in the house, several joined the family at meals. The longer Clare resided here the less objection had he to his company, and the more did he like to share quarters with them in common. Much to his surprise, he took, indeed, a real delight in theu' companionship. The conventional farm-folk of his imagination — personified by the pitiable dummy known as Hodge — were obliterated after a few days' residence. At close quarters no Hodge was to be seen. At first, it is true, when Clare's intelligence was fresh from a contrasting society, these friends with whom he now hobnobbed seemed a little strange. Sitting doT^^l as a level member of the dairyman's household seemed at the outset an undignified proceeding. The ideas, the modes, the surroundings, ap- peared retrogressive and unmeaning. But with li\T-ng on there, day after day, the acute sojourner became conscious 132 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. of a new aspect in the spectacle. Without any objective change whatever, variety had taken the place of monoto- nousness. His host and his host's household, his men and his maids, as they became intimately known to Clare, be- gan to differentiate themselves as in a chemical process. The thought of Pascal's was brought home to him: ^'A mesure qu'on a plus d'esprit, on trouve qu'il y a plus d'hommes originaux. Les gens du commun ne trouvent pas de difference entre les hommes." The t^^ical and un- varying Hodge ceased to exist. He had been disintegrated into a number of varied fellow-creatures — beings of many minds, beings infinite in difference ; some happ}^, many serene, a few depressed, one here and there bright even to genius, some stupid, others wanton, others austere ; some mutely Miltonic, some potentially Cromwellian ; into men who had private views of each other, as he had of his friends ; who could applaud or condemn each other, amuse or sadden themselves by the contemplation of each othei-'s foibles or ^dces; men every one of whom walked in his o^Yn indi^ddual way the road to dusty death. Unexpected^ he began to like the outdoor life for its own sake, and for what it brought, apart from its bearing on his own proposed career. Considering his position, he be- came wonderfullv free from the chronic melancholv which is taking hold of the civilized races ivith the decline of be- lief in a beneficent power. For the first time of late years he could read as his musings inclined him, without any eye to cramming for a profession, since the few farming hand- books which he deemed it desirable to master occupied him but little time. He grew away from old associations, and saw something new in life and humanity. Secondarily, he made close ac- quaintance witli phenomena which he had before known but darkly — the seasons in their moods, morning and even- ing, niglit and noon in their temperaments, winds in their several dispositions, trees, waters and clouds, shades and THE RALLY. 133 silences, ignes-fatui, constellations, and the voices of inani- mate tilings. The early mornings were still sufficiently cool to render a fire acceptable in the large room wherein they break- fasted ; and by Mrs. Crick's orders, who held that he was too genteel to mess at tlieii- table, it was Angel Clare's custom to sit in the yawning chimney-corner dming the meal, his cup and saucer and plate being placed on a hinged bracket at his elbow. The hght fi-om the long, mde, mullioned window opposite shone in upon his nook, and, assisted by a secondary hght of cold blue quality which shone down the chimney, enabled him to read there easily whenever disposed to do so. Between Clare and the win- dow was the table at which his companions sat, their munching profiles rising sharp against the panes ; while to the rear was the milk-house door, tlu'ough which were visi- ble the rectangular leads in rows, full to the brim mth the. morning's milk. At the farther end the great churn could be seen revolving and its shp-slopping heard — the mo^dng power being discernible through the window in the form of a spu'itless horse walking in a circle and driven by a boy. For several days after Tess's arrival Clare, sitting ab- stractedly reading from some book, periodical, or piece of music just come by post, hardly noticed that she was present at table. She talked so little, and the other maids talked so much, that the babble did not strike him as possessing a new note, and he was ever in the habit of neglecting the particulars of an outward scene for the general impression. One day, however, when he had been conning one of his music scores, and by force of imagination was hearing the tune in his head, he lapsed into listlessness, and the music- sheet rolled to the hearth. He looked at the fii^e of logs, mtli its one flame pirouetting on the top in a dpng dance after the breakfast cooking and boihng ; and it seemed to jig to his inward tune 5 also at the two chimney crocks danghng down from the cross-bar, plumed with soot which 134 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. quivered to the same melody ; also at the half -empty kettle whining an accompaniment. The conversation at the table mixed in with his phantasmal orchestra till he thought, ^'' What a fluty voice one of those milkmaids has ! I suj)- pose it is the new one.'' Clare looked round upon her, seated with the others. She was not looking towards him. Indeed, owing to his long silence, his presence in the room was almost forgotten. " I don't know about ghosts," she was saying ; " but I do know that our souls can be made to go outside om* bodies when we are alive." The dairyman turned to her with his mouth full, his eyes charged with serious inquiry, and his great knife and fork (breakfasts were breakfasts here) planted erect on the table, lilie the beginning of a gallows. ^^What — really now? And is it so, maidy f " he said. '^ A very easy way to feel 'em go," continued Tess, "is to lie on the grass at night and look straight up at some big bright star; and, by fixing your mind upon it, you mil soon find that you are hundreds and hundreds o' miles away from your body, which you don't seem to want at all." The daii'jTiian removed his hard gaze from Tess, and fixed it on his wife. '^Now that's arum thing, Christianner — hey? To think o' the miles I've vamped o' nights these last thirty year, com^ting, or trading, or for doctor, or for nurse, and yet never had the least notion o' that till now, or f eeled my soul rise so much as an inch above my shirt-collar." The general attention being drawn to her, including that of the dairjmian's pupil, Tess flushed, and remarking indif- ferently that it was onl}^ a fancy, resumed her breakfast. Clare continued to obsei've her. She soon finished her eating, and having a consciousness that Clare was regard- ing her, began to trace imaginary patterns on the table- cloth with her forefinger with the constraint of a domestic animal that perceives itself to be watched. THE RALLY. 135 '^ What a fresh and virgin daughter of Nature that milk- maid is ! " he said to himself. And then he seemed to discern in her something that was familiar, something which carried him back into a joyous and unforeseeing past, before the necessity of tak- ing thought had made the heavens gray. He concluded that he had beheld her before ; where, he could not tell. A casual encounter during some country ramble it certainly had been, and he was not greatly curious about it. But the circumstance was sufficient to lead him to select Tess in preference to the other pretty milkmaids when he "wished to contemplate contiguous womankind. XIX. In general the cows were milked as they presented them- selves, ^dthout fancy or choice. But certain cows wiR show a fondness for a particular pair of hands, sometimes carrying this predilection so far as to refuse to stand at all except to their favorite,' the pail of a stranger being un- ceremoniously kicked over. It was Dairyman Crick's rule to insist on breaking down these partialities and aversions by constant interchange, since, in the event of a milkman or maid going away from the daily, he was other^vise placed in a difficulty. The maids' private aims, however, were the reverse of the dairy- man's rule, the daily selection by each damsel of the eight or ten cows to which she had grown accustomed rendering the operation on theii* ^villing udders surprisingly easy and effortless. Tess, like her compeers, soon discovered which of the cows had a predilection for her style of manipulation, and her fingers ha\'ing become delicate from the long domiciliary 136 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. imprisonments to which she had subjected herself at inter- vals during the last two or three years, she would have been glad to meet the milchers' views in this resj^ect. Out of the whole hundi^ed and five there were eight in particu- lar — Dumpling, Fancy, Lofty, Mist, Old Pretty, Young Prett}^, Tidy, and Loud — who, though the teats of one or two were as hard as carrots, gave down to her with a readiness that made her work on them a mere touch of the fingers. Knowing, however, the dauyman's wish, she endeavored conscientiously to take the animals just as they came, ex- cepting the very hard fielders, which she could not yet manage. But she soon found a cui'ious correspondence between the ostensibly chance position of the cows and her wishes in this matter, till at length she felt that theii' order could not be the result of accident. The daiiyman's pupil had lent a hand in getting the cows together of late, and at the fifth or sixth time she turned her face, as it rested against the cow, full of sedate inquiry upon him. " Mr. Clare, you have ranged the cows ! '' she said, blush- ing ; and in making the accusation symptoms of a smile lifted her upper Up gently in the middle in spite of her, so as to show the tips of her teeth, the lower lip remaining severely still. ''Well — it makes no difference," said he. ''You will al- wavs be here to milk them." '' Do you think so ? I hope I shall. But I don't l-nowP She was angry ^\ith herself afterwards, thinking that he, not aware of her gi'ave reasons for liking this seclusion, might have mistaken her meaning. She had spoken so earnestly to him, as if his presence were somehow a factor in her wish. Her misgiving was such that at dusk, when the milking was over, she walked in the garden alone, re- gretting that she had disclosed to him her discovery of his considerateness. It was a tyj)ical summer evening in June, the atmos- THE RALLY. 137 pliere being in such delicate equilibrium and so transmis- sive that inanimate objects seemed endowed with two or three senses, if not five. There was no distinction between the near and the far, and an auditor felt close to every- thing within the horizon. The soundlessness impressed her as a positive entity rather than as the mere negation of noise. It was broken by the strumming of strings. Tess had heard those notes in the attic above her head. Dim, flattened, constrained by their confinement, they had never appealed to her as now, when they wandered in the still air with a stark quality like that of nudity. To speak absolutely, both instrument and execution were poor ; but the relative is all, and as she listened, Tess, like a fasci- nated bii'd, could not leave the spot. Far from leaving, she drew uj) towards the performer, keeping behmd the hedge that he niight not guess her presence. The outskii't of the garden in which Tess found herself had been left uncultivated for some years, and was now damp and rank with juicy gi*ass which sent up mists of pollen ; and tall blooming weeds, emitting offensive smells — weeds whose red and yellow and purple hues formed a polychrome as dazzKng as that of cultivated flowers. She went stealthily as a cat through tliis profusion of growth, gathering cuckoo-spittle on her skirts, brushing off snails that were chmbing the apple-tree stems, staining her hands with thistle-milk and slug-slime, and rubbing off upon her naked arms sticky blights that, though snow-white on the tree-trunks, made blood-red stains on her skin ; thus she drew quite near to Clare, though still unobserved of him. Tess was conscious of neither time nor space. The exal- tation which she had described as being i3roducible at will by gazing at a star, came now without any determination of hers 5 she undulated upon the thin notes as upon billows, and theu' harmonies passed like breezes through her, bring- ing tears into her eyes. The floating pollen seemed to be his notes made visible, and the dampness of the garden, 138 TESS OF THE D'UEBERVILLES. the weeping of the garden's sensibility. Though near nightfall, the rank-smelling weed-flowers glowed as if they would not close for intentness, and the waves of color mixed with the waves of sound. The light which still shone was derived entkely from a large hole in the western bank of cloud ; it was like a piece of the day left behind by accident, dusk having closed in elsewhere. He concluded his plaintive melody, a very simple performance, demanding no great skill; and she waited, thinking another might be begun. But, tired of plajdng, he had desultorily come round the fence, and was rambling up behind her. Tess, her cheeks on fire, moved away fui^tively, as if hardly moving at all. Angel, however, saw her hght summer gOT\Ti, and he spoke ; his low tones quite reaching her, though he was some distance off. "What makes vou draw off in that wav, Tess?" said he. " Ai'e you afraid ? " "Oh no, sir. . . . That is, not of outdoor things, es- pecially just now, when the apple-blooth is falling, and everything so green." " But you have your indoor fears — eh ? " " WeU— yes, sii\" "What of?" " I couldn't quite say." " The milk turning sour ? " " No." " Life in general ? " "Yes, sir.'' " Ah — so have I, very often. This hobble of being alive is rather serious, don't you think so ? " " It is — now you put it that way, sir." " All the same, I shouldn't have expected a young girl like you to see it so just yet. How is it you do ? " She maintained a hesitating silence. " Come, Tess, tell me in confidence." *'*WHAT MAKES YOU DRAW OFF IN THAT WAY, TESS ?' SAID HE. 'ARE YOU AFRAID?' " THE RALLY. 139 She thought that he meant what were the aspects of things to her, and replied shyly : " The trees have inquisi- tive eyes, haven't they? — that is, seem as if they had. And the river says, 'Why do ye trouble me with your looks ? ' And you seem to see numbers of to-morrows just all in a line, the first of 'em the biggest and clearest, the others getting smaller and smaller as they stand farther away ; but they all seem very fierce and cruel and as if they said, '■ I'm coming ! Beware o' me ! Beware o' me ! ' . . . But you, sir — //o?f," she exclaimed, mth almost bitter envy ; "you can raise up dreams with j^our music, and drive all such hoiTid fancies awav ! " He was siu'prised to find this young woman — who, though but a milkmaid, had just that touch of rarity about her which might make her the envied of her housemates — shap- ing such sad imaginings. But he was more surprised when he considered that she was expressing in her own native phrases — assisted a little by her Sixth Standard training — feelings which might almost have been called those of the age, the ache of modernism. The perception aiTcsted him less when he reflected that what are called advanced ideas are really in great part but the latest fashion in definition — a more accurate expression, by words in logy and ism, of sensations which men and w^omen have vaguely grasped for centuries. Still, it was strange that they should have come to her while yet so young ; more than strange — it was impressive, mteresting, pathetic. Not guessing the cause, there was nothing to remind him that experience is as to intensity, and not as to duration. He did not know that Tess's pass- ing corporeal blight had been her mental harvest. Tess, on her part, could not understand why a man of clerical family and good education, and above physical want, should look upon it as a mishap to be alive. For the unhappy pilgrim herself there was very good reason. But how could this admirable and poetic man ever have 140 TESS OP THE D'URBERVILLES. descended into the Valley of Hiuniliation^ have felt with the man of Uz — as she herself had felt two or tliree years ago — " My soul chooseth strangling and death rather than my life. I loathe it j I would not live alway." It was true that he was at present out of his class. But she knew that was only because, like Peter the Great in a ship\\Tighf s yard, he was stud}dng what he wanted to know. He did not milk cows because he was obliged to milk cows, but because he was learning how to be a rich and prosperous dairyman, landowner, agricultimst, and breeder of cattle. He would become an American or Australian Abraham, commanding like a monarch his flocks and his herds, liis spotted and his ring-straked, his men-servants and his maids. At times, nevertheless, it did seem unaccountable to her that a decidedly bookish, musical, thinking young man should have chosen deliberately to be a farmer, and not a clergyman, like his father and brothers. Thus, neither ha^dng the clue to the other's secret, they w^ere mutually puzzled at what each revealed, and awaited new knowledge of each other's character and moods with- out attempting to pry into each other's history. Every day, every horn*, brought to him one more httle stroke of her natiu-e, and to her one more of his. Tess was trying to lead a repressed life, but she httle recked the intensitv of her own vitalitv. At first Tess seemed to regard Angel Clare as an intelli- gence rather than as a man. And as such she compared him with herself ; and at every discovery of the abundance of his illuminations, of the immense distance between her own poor mental standpoint and the unmeasurable, Andean altitude of his, she became quite dejected, humiUated, dis- heartened from all further effort on her own part whatever. He observed her dejection one day, when he had casually mentioned something to her about the pastoral life in an- THE RALLY. 141 eient Greece. She was gathering the buds called " lords and ladies " from the bank wMle he spoke. "Why do you look so woebegone all of a sudden?" he asked. '' Oh, 'tis only — about my o\^ti self," she said, with a frail laugh of sadness, fitfully beginning to peel " a lady " mean- while. " Just a flash of a sense of what might have been with me ! My life looks as if it had been wasted for want of chances ! When I see what you know, what you have read, and seen, and thought, I feel what a nothing I am ! I'm like the poor Queen of Sheba w^ho lived in the Bible. There is no more spirit in me." " Bless my soul, don't go troubling about that ! Why," he said, with some enthusiasm, "I should be only too glad, my dear Tess, to help you to anything in the way of history, or any line of reading you would hke to take up " " It is a lady again," interrupted she, holding out the bud she had peeled. "AVliat?" '' I meant that there are always more ladies than lords when you come to peel them." "Never mind about the lords and ladies. Would you like to take up any line of study — history, for example ! " " Well, sometimes I feel I don't want to know anything more about it than I know ah'eady." "Why not?" " Because what's the use of learning that I am one of a long row only — finding out that there is set down in some old book somebody just like me, and to know that I shall only act her part ; making me sad, that's aU. The best is not to remember that your nature and your past doings have been just like thousands and thousands, and that your coming life and doings '11 be like thousands and thousands." " Wliat, really, then, you don't want to learn anything ? " 142 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. ^' I shouldn't mind learnino' why — why the sun shmes on the jnst and on the unjust alike/' she answered, mth a slight quaver in her yoice. "But that is what books will not teU me ! " '' Tess, fie for such bitterness ! " Of com-se he spoke with a conventional sense of duty only, for that sort of wonder- ing had not been unkno^\ai to himself in bygone days. And as he looked at the unpractised mouth and lips, he thought that such a dew^-fresh daughter of the soil could only have caught up the sentiment by rote. She w^ent on peeling the lords and ladies till Clare, regarding for a mo- ment the wave-like curl of her lashes as they drooped with her bent gaze, lingeringly went away. When he was gone she stood awhile, thoughtfiLQy peehng the last bud ; and then, awakening from her reverie, flung it, and all the crowd of floral nobility, impatiently on the ground, in an ebullition of displeasiu-e mth herself for her niaiseries, and with a quickening warmth in her heart of hearts. How stupid he must think her ! In an access of hunger for his good opinion she bethought herself of what she had latterly endeavored to forget, so unpleasant had been its issues : the identity of her family with that of the knightly D'Urbervilles. Barren attribute as it was, disastrous as its discovery had been in many ways to her, perhaps Mr. Clare, as a gentleman and a student of history, would respect her sufficiently to forget her childish conduct with the lords and ladies if he knew that those Purbeck-marble and ala- baster jDCople in Kingsbere church really represented her own lineal forefathers ; that she was no spurious D'Urber- ville, compounded of money and ambition like those at Trantridge, but true D'Urberville to the bone. But before venturing to make the revelation poor Tess indirectly sounded the dairyman as to its possible effect upon Mr. Clare, by asking the former if Mr. Clare had any gi-eat respect for old county f amihes when they had lost all their money and land. THE RALLY. 143 ^^Mr. Clare/' said the dairyman, emphatically, ^4s oue of the most rebellest rozums you ever knowed — not a bit like the rest of his family ; and if there's one thing that he do hate more than another 'tis the notion of what's called an old family. He says that it stands to reason that old fam- ihes have done their spurt of work in past days, and can't have anything left in 'em now. There's the Billetts, and the Drenkhards, and the Greys, and the St. Quintins, and the Hardys, and the Goulds, who used to own the lands for miles down this valley ; you could buy 'em all up now for an old song almost. Why, our little Retty Priddle here, you know, is one of the Paridelles — the old family that used to own lots o' the lands out by King's-Hintock now owned by the Earl o' Wessex, afore even he and his was heard of. Well, Mr. Clare found this out, and spoke quite scornful to the poor girl for days. ^Ah ! ' he says to her, '■ you'll never make a good dairymaid ! All your skill was used up ages ago in Palestine, and you must lie fallow for a thousand years to git strength for more deeds ! ' A boy came here t'other day asking for a job, and said his name was Matt, and when we asked him his surname, he said he'd never heard that 'a had any surname, and when we asked why, he said he supposed his folks hadn't been 'stab- Hshed long enough. ^Ali ! you're the very boy I want ! ' says Mr. Clare, jumping up and shaking hands wi' en; '■ I've great hopes of you ; ' and gave him half-a-crowu. Oh no, he can't stomach old families ! " After hearing this caricature of Clare's opinions, poor Tess was glad that she had not said a word in a weak mo- ment — even though her family w^as so unusually old as almost to have gone round the circle and become a new one. Besides, another dairy-girl was as good as she, it seemed, in that respect. She held her tongue about the D'Urberville vault, and the Knights of the Conqueror, one of whose names she bore. A flash of insight into Clare's character suggested to her that it was largely owing to her 144 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. supposed untraditioual newness that she liad won mterest in his eyes. The season developed and matured. Another yeai^'s in- stahnent of flowers, leaves, nightingales, thi'ushes, finches, and other creatures, took up their positions where only a year ago others had stood in their place, and they were nothing more than germs and inorganic particles. Rays straight from the sunrise drew forth the buds and stretched them into long stalks, hfted up sap in noiseless streams, opened petals, and brought out scents in in\dsible jets and breathings. Dairyman Crick's household of maids and men lived on comfortably, placidly, even merrily. Theii* position was perhaps the happiest of all positions in the social scale, that is to say. above the line at which neediness ends, and below the line at which the convenances begin to cramp natural feeling, and the stress of threadbare modishness makes too little of enough. Thus passed the leafy time, when arborescence seems to be the one thing auned at out-of-doors. Tess and Clare unconsciously studied each other, ever balanced on the edge of a passion, yet apparently keeping out of it. All the while they were none the less converging, under the force of iiTCsistible law, as surely as two streams in one vale. Tess had never in her recent life been so generally happy as she was now, probably never would be so happy again. She was, for one thing, physically and socially at ease among these new surroundings. The sapling which had rooted down to a poisonous stratum on the spot of its sow- ing had been transplanted to a deeper sod. Moreover she. THE RALLY. 145 and Clare also, stood as yet on the debatable land between predilection and love, where no profundities have been reached, no reflections have set in, awkwardly inquiring " Wliither does this new current tend to carry me t what does it mean to my future ? how does it stand towards my past ? '' Tess was the merest ideal phenomenon to Angel Clare as 3^et — a rosy, warming apparition, which had hardly ac- quh'ed the attribute of persistence in his consciousness. So he allowed his mind to be occupied with her, yet would not own his preoccupation to be more than a philosopher's regard of an exceedingly novel, fresh, and interesting speci- men of womankind. They met continually; they could not help it. They met daily in that strange and solemn interval of time, the twilight of the morning, in the violet or pink dawn ; for it was necessary to rise early, so very early, here. Milking was done betimes ; and before the milking came the skim- ming, which began at a little past three. It usually fell to the lot of some one or other of them to wake the rest, the fii'st one being aroused by an alarm-clock ; and as Tess was the latest arrival, and they soon discovered that she could be depended upon not to sleep through the alarm as the others did, this task was thrust most frequently upon her. No sooner had the hour of three struck and whizzed than she left her room and ran to the daiiyman's door ; then up the ladder to Angel's, calling liim in a loud whisper ; then woke her fellow-milkmaids. Bv the time that Tess was di'essed, Clare was downstairs and out in the humid air ; the remaining maids and the dairymen usually gave them- selves another turn on the pillow, and did not appear till a quarter of an hour later. The gray half-tones of daybreak are not the gray haK- tones of the day's close, though the degTce of their shade may be the same. In the twilight of the morning Hght seems active, darkness passive ; in the t'^^light of evening 10 146 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. it is the darkness wliicli is active and crescent, and tlie light which is the drowsy reverse. Being so often — possibly not always by chance — the iii'st two persons to get np at the dairy-honse, they seemed to themselves the first persons np of all the world. In these early days of her residence here Tess did not skim, but went out-of-doors at once after rising, where he was gener- ally awaiting her. The spectral, half -compounded, aqueous light which pervaded the open mead impressed them with a feehng of isolation, as if they were Adam and Eve. At this dim, inceptive stage of the day, Tess seemed to Clare to exhibit a dignified largeness, both of disposition and physique, and ahnost regnant power — possibly because he knew that at that preternatural time hardly any woman so well endowed in person as she was hkely to be walking in the open air mthin the boundaries of his horizon 5 very few in all England. Fail' v»^omen are usually asleep at mid- summer da^^ais. She was close at hand, and the rest were nowhere. The mixed, singular, luminous gloom in which they walked along together to the spot where the cows lay often made him think of the ResuiTCction hour. He httle thought that the Magdalen might be at his side. Whilst aU the landscape was in neutral shade, his companion's face, which w^as the focus of his eyes, rising above the mist stratum, seemed to have a sort of phosphorescence upon it. She looked ghostly, as if she were merely a soul at large. In reality her face, without appearing to do so, had caught the cold gleam of day from the northeast ; his own face, though he did not think of it, wore the same aspect to her. It was then, as has been said, that she impressed him most deeply. She was no longer the milkmaid, but a vis- ionary essence of woman — a whole sex condensed into one typical form. He called her Artemis, Demeter, and other fanciful names, half-teasingly, which she did not like be- cause she did not understand them. THE RALLY. 147 " Call me Tess," slie would say, askance ; and lie did. Then it would grow lighter, and her featiu'es would be- come simply feminine ; they had changed from those of a divinity who could confer bliss to those of a being who craved it. At these non-human houi'S they could get quite close to the water-fowl. Herons came, with a great bold noise as of opening doors and shutters, out of the boughs of a plan- tation which they frequented at the side of the mead ; or, if already on the spot, maintained theu' standing in the water as the pair walked by, merely watching them by moving their heads round in a slow, horizontal, passionless wheel, like the turn of puppets by clockwork. They could then see the faint summer fogs in layers, woolly, level, and apparently no tliicker than counterpanes, spread about the meadows in detached remnants of small extent. On the gi'ay moistm'C of the gi^ass w^ere marks where the cows had lain through the night — dark islands of diy herbage the size of their carcasses in the general sea of dew. From each island proceeded a serpentine trail, by w^hich the cow had rambled away to feed after getting up, at the end of which trail they found herj the snoring breath from her nostrils, when she recognized them, mak- ing an intenser little fog of her o\\ti amid the prevailing one. Then they di'ove the animals back to the barton, or sat down to milk them on the sj)ot, as the case might re- quire. Or perhaps the summer fog was more general, and the meadows lay like a white sea, out of which the scattered trees rose like dangerous rocks. Bu'ds would rise through it into the upper radiance, and hang on the \^dng sunning themselves, or alight on the wet rails subdividing the meads, which now shone like glass rods. Minute diamonds of moisture from the mist hung, too, upon Tess's eyelashes, and di'ops upon her haii* like seed pearls. When the day grew quite strong and commonplace these dried off herj 148 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. moreover, Tess then lost lier isolated and ethereal beauty, and was again the dazzlingiy fair dairynlaid only, who had to hold her own against the other women of the world. Al)ont this time they would hear Dairyman Crick's voice, lecturing the non-resident milkers for arriving late, and speaking sharply to old Del)orah Fyander for not washing her hands. ^^ For Heaven's sake, pop th}^ hands under the pump, Deb ! Upon my soul, if the London folk only knowed of thee and thy slovenly ways, they'd swaller their milk and butter more mincing than they do a'ready ; and that's say- ing a good deal." The milking progi^essed till, towards the end, Tess and Clare, in common with the rest, could hear the hea\y break- fast-table dragged out from the wall in the kitchen by Mrs. Crick, this being the invariable preliminary to each meal ; the same horrible scrape accompanying its return joui'ney when the table had been cleared. XXI. There was a great stir in the milk-house just after break- fast. The churn revolved as usual, but the butter would not come. Whenever this happened the dairy was para- lyzed. ^' Squish ! squash ! " echoed the milk in the great cylinder, but never arose the sound they waited for. Dairj^man Crick and his wife, the milkmaids Tess, Mar- ian, Retty Priddle, Izz Haett, and the married ones from the cottages, also Mr. Clare, Jonathan Kail, old Deborah, and the rest, stood gazing hopelessly at the churn; and the boy who kept the horse going outside put on moon-like eyes to show his sense of the situation. Even the melan- choly horse himself seemed to look in at the window in inquiring despair at each walk round. TiiE Rally. 14§ '^'Tis years siiice I went to Conjuror Trendle's son in Egdon — years," said the dairyman, bitterly. "And he was nothing to what his father had been. I have said fifty times, if I have said once, that I don't believe in him. And I don't believe in him. But I shall have to go to 'n. Oh yes, I shall have to go to 'n, if this sort of thing continnys ! '' Even Mr. Clare began to feel tragical at the dail*}^nan's desperation. " Conjm^or Fall, 'tother side of Casterbridge, that they nsed to call ^ Wide-0,' was a very good man when I was a boy," said Jonathan Kail. " But he's rotten as touchwood by now." " My grandfather used to go to Conjuror M}Titerne, out at Owlscombe, and a clever man 'a were, so I've heard grandfer say," continued Mr. Crick. " But there's no such genuine folk about nowadays ! " Mrs. Crick's mind kept nearer to the matter in hand. '' Perhaps somebody in the house is in love," she said, ten- tatively. '' I've heard tell in my younger days that that will cause it. Why, Crick — that maid we knew years ago, do ye mind, and how the butter didn't come then " "Ah yes, yes! — but that isn't the rights o't. It had nothing to do with the love-making. I remember all about it — 'twas the damage to the chiu'u." He turned to Clare. "Jack Dollop, a 'hore's-bird of a feUow we had here as milker at one time, sir, coui'ted a j^oung woman over at Mellstock, and deceived her as he had deceived many afore. But he had another sort o' woman to reckon mth this time, and it was not the girl herself. One Holy Thursday, of all days in the almanac, we was here as we mid be now, only there was no chui'uing in hand, when we saw the girl's mother coming up to the door, vdth a great brass-mounted umbrella in her hand that would have feUed an ox, and saying, ' Do Jack DoUop work here ? — because I want him ! I have a big bone to pick with he, I can assirre 'n ! ' And some way behind her mother walked Jack's young woman, 150 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. crying bitterly into her handkerclier. ^ O Lard ! here's a time ! ^ said Jack, looking out o' winder at ^em. ' She'll murder me! Where shall I get — where shall I — Don't teU her where I be ! ' and with that he scrambled into the churn through the trap-door, and shut himself inside, just as the young woman's mother busted into the milk-house. ' The villain — where is he ? ' says she ; ^ I'll claw his face for 'n, let me only catch him ! ' Well, she hunted about everywhere, baU}T:*agging Jack by side and by seam. Jack lying a'most stifled inside the churn, and the poor maid standing at the door crying her eyes out. I shall never forget it, never ! 'Twould have melted a marble stone. But she couldn't find him nowhere at all ! " The dairyman paused, and one or two words of comment came from the listeners. But Dairyman Crick's stories often seemed to be ended when they were not really so, and strangers were betrayed into premature interjections of finality, though old friends knew better. The narrator went on : " Well, how the woman should have had the wit to guess it I could never tell, but she found out that he was inside that there churn. Without saying a word she took hold of the winch (it was turned by hand-power then), and round she swung him, and Jack began to flop about inside. ' O Lard ! stop the churn ! let me out ! ' says he, popping out his head -, ^ I shall be churned into a pummy ! ' (He was a cowardly chap in his heart, as such men mostly be.) ^Not till j^ou make amends for ravaging her trustful innocence ! ^ says the old woman. '■ Stop the churn, you old w^tch ! ' screams he. ' You call me old witch, do ye, you deceiver,' says she, ' when ye ought to ha' been calling me mother-in-law these last five months ! ' And on went the churn, and Jack's bones rattled round again. Well, none of us ventured to interfere ; and at last 'a promised to make it right by mar- lying her. ' Yes — I'll be as good as my word ! ' he said. And so it ended that day.'' THE RALLY. 151 "Wliile the listeners were smiling their comments there was a quick movement behind theii* backs, and they looked round. Tess, pale-faced, had gone to the door. " How warm it is to-day ! " she said, almost inaudibly. It was warm, and none of them connected her withdrawal with the reminiscences of the dairyman. He went forward and opened the door for her, saying vMi tender railler}^, '' Why, maidy " (he frequently, with unconscious irony, gave her this pet name), ''the prettiest milker I've got in my dairy ; you mustn't get so fagged as this at the first breath of summer weather, or we shall be finely put to for want of 'ee by dog-days ; shan't we, Mr. Clare ? " ''I was faint — and — I think I am better out-of-doors," she said, mechanically, and disappeared outside. Fortu- nately for her, the milk in the revohdng churn at that mo- ment changed its squashing for a decided flick-flack. "'Tis coming ! " cried Mrs. Crick, and the attention of all was called oif from Tess. That fair sufferer soon recovered herseK externally ; but she remained much depressed all the afternoon. When the evening milking was done she did not care to be with, the rest of them, and went out-of-doors, wandering along she knew not whither. She was ^\Tetclied — oh, so ^\Tetched — at the perception that to her companions the dairyman's story had been rather a humorous narration than other- wise ; that none of them but herself seemed to see the sor- row of it ; to a certaintv, not one knew how cruellv it touched the tender place in her experience. The evening- sun was now ugly to her, like a great inflamed wound in the sky. Only a solitary cracked-voiced reed-sparrow greeted her from the bushes by the river, in a sad, machine- like tone, resembling that of a past friend whose friend- ship she had now outworn. In these long June days the milkmaids, and indeed most of the household, went to bed at sunset, or sooner, the morning work before milking being so early and hea\y at 1S2 TESS OF THE D*URBERYiLLES. this time of full pails. Tess usually accompanied her fel- lows upstairs. To-night, however, she was the first to go to their common chamber j and she had dozed when the other girls came in. She saw them undressing in the orange light of the vanished sun, which flushed theii' forms with its color ; she dozed again, but she was reawakened by their voices, and quietly turned her eyes towards them. Neither of her thi^ee chamber companions had got into bed. They were standing in a group, in their nightgowns, barefooted, at the window, the last red rays of the west still warming theii' faces and necks, and the walls around them. All were watching somebody in the garden with deep in- terest, theii- three faces close together : a jovial and round one, a -psle one with dark haii", and a fair one whose tresses were auburn. " Don't push ! You can see as well as I," said Retty, the auburn-haii'ed and youngest girl, Avithout remo^dng her eyes from the mndow. '''Tis no use for you to be in love with him any more than me, Retty Priddle," said jolly-faced Marian, the eldest, slyly. "■ His thoughts be of other cheeks than thine." Rettv Priddle still looked, and the others looked asfain. " There he is again ! " cried Izz Huett, the pale girl, with dark, damp haii', and keenly cut lips. "You needn't say anji^hing, Izz,'' answ^ered Retty. "For I seed you kissing his shade." " What did you see her doing?" asked Marian. " Wliy, he w^as standing over the whey-tub to let off the whey, and the shade of his face came upon the w^all behind, close to Izz, who was standing there filling a vat. She put her mouth against the wall and kissed the shade of his mouth ; I seed her, though he didn't." " O Izz Huett ! " said Marian. A rosy spot came into the middle of Izz Iluett's cheek. " Well, there was no harm in it," she declared, with at- THE RALLY. 153 / tempted coolness. ''And if I be in love with him, so is Ketty, too ; and so be yon, Marian, come to that.'' Marian's full face conld not blnsh past its chronic pink- ness. '^ I ! " she said. ''■ What a tale ! Ah, there he is again ! Dear eyes — dear face — dear Mr. Clare ! " '^ There — ^^^on've owned it ! " " So have yon — so have we aU," said Marian, with the dry frankness of complete indifference to opinion. '' It is siUy to pretend other\^dse amongst onrselves, thongh w^e need not own it to other folks. I wonld jnst marry 'n to- morrow ! " " So wonld I," miu'miu^ed Izz Hnett, slowly. " And I, too," whispered the more timid Ketty. The hstener grew warm. " We can't aU have him," said Izz. '^ We shan't, either of ns, which is worse still," said the eldest. " There he is again ! " They all three blew him a silent kiss. ''Why?" asked Retty, qnickly. " Because he likes Tess Dnrbeyfield best," said Marian, lowering her voice. " I have watched him every day, and have found it ont." There was a reflective silence. "But she don't care an}i:hing for him?" at length breathed Retty. " Well, I sometimes think that, too." " But how silly aU this is ! " said Izz Huett, impatiently. " Of coiu'se he wouldn't marry any one of us, or either — a gentleman's son, who's going to be a great landowner and farmer abroad ! More likely to ask us to come wi' en as farm-hands at so much a vear ! " One sighed, and another sighed, and Marian's plump figure sighed most of aU. Somebody in bed hard by sighed too. Tears came into the eyes of Retty Priddle, the pretty red-haired youngest — the last bud of the Paridelles, so im- 154 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. portant in the county history. They watched silently a little longer, their three faces still close together as before, and the triple hues of their hair mingUng. But the uncon- scious Mr. Clare had gone indoors, and they saw him no more ; and, the shades beginning to deepen, they crept into then' beds. In a few minutes they heard him ascend the ladder to his own room. Marian was soon snoring, but Izz did not drop into forgetfulness for a long time. Retty Priddle cried herseK to sleep. The deeper-passioned Tess was very far from sleeping even then. This conversation was another of the bitter piUs she had been obliged to swallow that day. Scarce the least feeling of jealousy arose in her breast. For that matter, she knew herself to have the preference. Being more finely formed, better educated, more woman than either, she perceived that only the shghtest ordinary care was necessary for holding her own in Angel Clare's heart against these her candid friends. But the gi'ave question was, ought she to do this ? There was, to be sure, hardly a ghost of a chance for either of them, in a serious sense ; but there was, or had been, a chance of one or the other inspiring him mth a passing fancy for her, and enjoying the pleas m'e of his attentions while he stayed here. Such imequal attachments had led to marriage; and she had heard from Mrs. Crick that Mr. Clare had one day asked, in a laughing way, what would be the use of his marrying a fine lady, and all the while a thousand acres of Colonial pasture to feed, and cattle to rear, and corn to reap. A farm- woman would be the onlv sensible kind of wife for him. But whether Mr. Clare had spoken seriously or not, why slioidd she, who could never conscientiously allow any man to marry her now, and who had religiously deter- mined that she never would be tempted to do so, draw off Mr. Clare's attention from other women, for the brief hap- piness of sunning herself in his eyes while he remained at Talbothaysf THE RALLY. 155 XXII. They came downstairs yawning next morning; but skimming and milking were proceeded wdth as usual, and they went indoors to breakfast. Dairyman Crick was dis- covered stamping about the house. He had received a letter, in which a customer had complained that the butter had a twang. '^ And begad, so't have ! '' said the daiiyman, who held in his left hand a wooden slice, on which a lump of butter was stuck. " Yes — taste for yourself ! " Several of them gathered round him ; and Mr. Clare tasted, Tess tasted, also the other indoor milkmaids, one or two of the milking-men, and last of ah Mrs. Crick, who came out from the waiting breakfast table. There certainly was a twang. The dairyman who had thrown himself into abstraction to better realize the taste, and so di\ine the particidar s]3e- cies of noxious weed to which it appertained, suddenly ex- claimed, " 'Tis garlic 1 and I thought there wasn't a blade left in that mead ! " Then aU the old hands rememl^ered that a certain dry mead, into which a few of the cows had been admitted of late, had in years gone by spoilt the butter in the same way. The dair3'man had not recognized the taste at that time, and thought the butter bewitched. "We must examine that mead," he resinned; 'Hliis mustn't continny." All having armed themselves with old pointed knives, they went out together. As the inimical plant could only be present in very microscopic dimensions to have escaped ordinary observation, it seemed rather a hopeless attempt to find it in the stretch of rich grass before them. How- ever, they formed themselves into line, aU assisting, owing 156 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. to the importance of tlie search ; tlie daiiyman at the upper end with Mr. Clare, who had vohmteered to help ; then Tess, Marian, Izz Hnett, and Rettv; then Bill Lewell, Jon- athan, and the married daiiywomen — namely, Beck Knibbs, with her woolly black haii' and roUing eyes, and flaxen Frances, consumptive from the winter damps of the water meads — who lived in their respective cottages. With eyes fixed upon the ground, they crept slowly across a strip of the field, returning a little f mother down in such a manner that, when they should have finished, not a single inch of the pasture but would have fallen under the eye of some one of them. It was a most tedious business, not more than half a dozen shoots of garhc being discoverable in the whole field 5 yet such was the herb's pungency that probably one bite of it by one cow had been sufficient to season the whole dairy's produce for the day. Differing one from another in natures and moods so greatly as they did, they yet formed a curiously uniform row — automatic, noiseless ; and an alien observer passing down the neighboring lane might well have been excused for massing them as ^' Hodge." As they crept along, stoop- ing low to discern the plant, a soft, yellow gleam was re- flected from the buttercups into their shaded faces, giving them an elfish, moonlit aspect, though the sun was pouring upon their backs in all the strength of noon. Angel Clare, who communistically stuck to his rule of taking part with the rest in everything, glanced up now and then. It was not, of course, by accident that he walked next to Tess. ^^ Well, how are vou ? " he murmured. '^ Very weU, thank you, su^ she replied, demiu-ely. As they had been discussing a score of personal matters only half an hour before, the introductory st}^e seemed a little superfluous. But they got no further in speech just then. They crept and crept, the hem of her petticoat just touching his foot, and his elbow sometimes brushing hers, THE RALLY. 157 At last tlie daii'yman, wlio came next, could stand it no longer. '' Upon my soul and body, this here stooping do fairly malvc my back open and shut ! " he exclaimed, straightening himself slowly with an excruciated look till quite upright. ^'And you, maidy Tess, you wasn't well a day or two ago — this will make yom' head ache finely. Don't do any more, if you feel fainty ; leave the rest to finish it.'' Dairyman Crick withdi'ew, and Tess dropped behind. Mr. Clare also stepped out of line, and began privateering about for the weed. When she found him near her, her very tension at what she had heard the night before made her the first to speak. ''■ Don't they look pretty ? " she said. ^^Whof" " Izzy Huett and Retty." Tess had moodilv decided that either of these maidens would make a good farmer's wife, and that she ought to recommend them, and obsciu'e her own wretched charms. '' Pretty ? Well, yes, they are pretty girls — fresh-looking. I have often thought so.'^ " Though, poor things, prettiness won't last long." ^' Oh no, unfortunately." ^' Thev be excelleut dair^-women." '^ Yes ; though not better than you." ^' They skim better than I." ^' Do they?" Clare remained observing them — not Tvdthout theii' ob- serving him. " She is coloring up," continued Tess, heroically. ''Who?" " Retty Priddle." ''O! Whvisthat?" '*' Because you are looking at her." SeK-sacrificing as her mood might be, Tess could not well go fui-ther and say, '' Marry one of them, if you really 158 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. do want a dairywoman and not a lady ; and don't tliink of marrying me." She followed Dairyman Crick, and had the mournful satisfaction of seeing that Clare remained behind. From this day she forced herself to take pains to avoid him — never allomng herself, as formerly, to remain long in his company, even if their juxtaposition was purely ac- cidental. She gave the other three every chance. Tess was woman enough to realize from their avowals to herself that Angel Clare had the honor of all the dairy- maids in his keeping, and her perception of his care to avoid compromising the happiness of either in the least degree bred a tender respect in Tess for what she deemed, rightly or wrongly, the self -controlling sense of duty shown by him, a quality which she had never expected to find in one of the opposite sex, and in the absence of which more than one of the simple hearts who were his housemates might have gone weeping on her pilgrimage. XXIII. The hot weather of July had crept onward upon them unawares, and the atmosphere of the flat vale hung heavy as an opiate over the daiiy folk, the cows, and the trees. Hot steaming rains fell frequently, making the grass where the cows fed yet more rank, and hindering the late ha}"- making in the other meads. It was Sunday morning ; the milking was done ; the outdoor milkers had gone home. Tess and the other three were dressing themselves rapidly, the whole four having agreed to go together to Mellstock Church, which lay sonu^ three miles distant from the dairy-house. She had now been two months at Talbothays, and this was her first ex- cursion. THE RALLY. 159 All the preceding afternoon and niglit liea\^ thnnder- storms had hissed down upon the meads, and washed some of the hay into the river ; but this morning the sun shone out all the more brilliantly for the deluge, and the air was balmy and clear. The crooked lane leading from their otvtl parish to Mell- stock ran along the lowest levels in a portion of its length, and when the girls reached the most depressed spot they found that the result of the rain had been to flood the lane over shoe to a distance of some fifty yards. Tliis would have been no serious hindrance on a w^eek-day ; they woidd have clicked through it in tlieii* liigh pattens and boots quite unconcerned ; but on this day of vanity, this Sun's- day, when flesh went forth to coquet with flesh while hypo- critically affecting business with spiritual things ; on this occasion for wearing their white stockings and thin shoes, and their pink, white, and lilac gowns, on which every mud-spot would be \dsible, the pool was an awkward im- pediment. They could hear the chm-ch-bell calling — as yet nearly a mile off. " Who would have expected such a rise in the river in summer-time ! " said Marian, from the top of the roadside bank on which they had climbed, and were maintaining a precarious footing in the hope of creeping along its slope till they were past the pool. ^^We can't get there anyhow, mthout walking right thi'ough it, or else going round Stone Bridge way; and that would make us so very late ! " said Retty, pausing hopelessly. '^ And I do color up so hot, walking into church late, and all the people staring round," said Marian, " that I hardly cool down again till we get into the ' That-it-may-please-Thees.' " While they stood clinging to the bank they heard a splashing round the bend of the road, and presently ap- peared Angel Clare, advancing along the lane toAvards them through the water. 160 TESS OF THE D'URBERYILLES. Four hearts gave a big thi'ol) simultaneously. His aspect was probably as un-Sabbatarian a one as a dogmatic parson's son often presented, being attii'ed in his dairy clothes and long wading boots, with a thistle-spud to finish him off. "He's not going to church/' said Marian. " No — I wish he was/' murmured Tess. Angel, in fact, rightly or wrongly (to adopt the safe phrase of evasive controversialists), preferred sermons in ' stones to sermons in churches and chapels on fine simimer days. This morning, moreover, he had gone out to see if the damage to the hay by the flood was considerable or not. On his walk he observed the girls from a long distance, though they had been so occupied with their difficulties of passage as not to notice him. He knew that the water had risen at that spot, and that it would quite check their prog- ress. So he had hastened on, -with a dim idea of how he could help them — one of them in particular. The rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed quartet looked so charm- ing in their light summer attire, clinging to the roadside bank like pigeons on a pent-roof, that he stopped a moment to regard them before coming close. Their gauzy skii'ts had brushed up from the gi'ass dimng their promenade innumerable flies and butterflies which, unable to escape, remained caged in the transparent tissue as in an a^dary. Angel's eye at last fell upon Tess, the hindmost of the four ; and, being full of suppressed laughter at their dilemma, she could not help meeting his glance radiantly. He came beneath them in the water, which did not rise over his long boots, and stood looking at the entrapped flies and butterflies. " Are you trying to get to church ? " he said to Marian, who was in front, including the next two in his remark, but avoidhig Tess. " Yes, sir ; and 'tis getting late ; and my colors do come up so " THE EALLY. 161 ^^ I'll carry you tlu'ough the pool — every Jill of you." The whole foui* flushed as if one heart beat through them. '■^ I think you can't, sir/' said Marian. ^^ It is the only way for you to get past. Stand still. Nonsense, you are not too hea\'y ! I'd carry you all four together." ''Now, Marian, attend," he continued, "and put your arms round my shoulders, so. Now! Hold on. That's well done." Marian had lowered herself upon his arm and shoulder as du'ected, and Angel strode off with her, his slim figure, as viewed from behind, looking like the mere stem to the great nosegay suggested by hers. They disappeared round the curve of the road, and only his sousing footsteps and the top ribbon of Marian's bonnet told where they were. In a few minutes he reappeared. Izz Huett was the next in order upon the bank. ''Here he comes/' she murmured, and they could hear that her Hps were dry mth emotion, " and I have to put my arms round his neck and look into his face as Marian did." There's nothing in that," said Tess, quickly. There's a time for ever}i:hing," continued Izz, unheed- ing. " A time to embrace, and a time to refrain from em- bracing ; the first is now going to be mine." " Fie — it is Scripture, Izz ! " " Yes," said Izz, " I've always a' ear at church for good verses." Angel Clare, to whom three-quarters of this performance was a commonplace act of kindness, now approached Izz ; she quietly and dreamily lowered herself into his arms, and Angel methodically marched off with her. Wlien he was heard returning for the third time, Retty's throbbing heart could be almost seen to shake her. He went up to the red- haired girl, and, while he was seizing her he glanced at 11 162 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. Tess. His lips could not have pronounced more plainly, '^ It will soon be you and I." Her comprehension appeared in her face ; she could not help it. There was an under- standing between them. Poor little Retty, though by far the lightest weight, was the most troublesome of Clare's burdens. Marian had been like a sack of meal, or dead weight of plumpness under which he had literally staggered. Izz had ridden sensibly and calmly. Retty was a bunch of hysterics. However, he got through with the disquieted creature, deposited her, and returned. Tess could see over the hedge the distant three in a gToup, standing as he had placed them on the next rising ground. It was now her turn. She was embarrassed to discover that the excitement. at the proximity of Mr. Clare's breath and eyes, which she had contemned in her companions, was intensified in herself ; and as if fearful of betraying her secret, she paltered with him at the last moment. ^^ I may be able to clim' along the bank, perhaps, sir — I can dim' better than they. You must be so tii-ed, Mr. Clare ! " ^' No, no, Tess ! " said he, quickly. And almost before she was aware she was seated in his arms and resting against his shoulder. '^ Three Leahs to get one Rachel," he whispered. " They are better women than I," she replied, magnani- mously sticking to her resolve. ^' Not to me," said Angel. He felt her grow warm at this ; and they went some steps in silence. ^^ I hope I am not too heavy," she said, timidly. " Oh no. You should lift Marian ! Such a lump ! You are like an undulating billow warmed by the sun. And aU this fluff of muslin about you is the froth." " It is very pretty — if I seem like that to you." '^ Do you know that I have undergone three quarters of this labor entirely for the sake of the fourth quarter ? " THE RALLY. 163 " No.'' ^^ I did not expect such an event to-day." " Nor I. . . . The water came up so sudden." That the rise in the water was what she understood him to refer to, the state of her breathing behed. Clare stood still, and inclined his face towards hers. " O Tessie ! " he said, pressing close against her. The gii-l's cheeks biu-ned to the breeze, and she could not look into his eyes for her emotion. It reminded Angel that he was somewhat unfairly taking advantage of an acci- dental position, and he went no further T\ith it. No definite words of love had crossed then- lips as yet, and suspension at this point was desirable now. However, he walked slowly, to make the remainder of the distance as long as possible ; but at last they came to the bend, and the rest of theu^ progress was in full view of the other three. The dry land was reached, and he set her down. Her friends were looking with round, thoughtful eyes at her and him, and she could see that they had been talking of her. He hastily bade them farewell, and splashed back along the stretch of submerged road. The four moved on together as before, till Marian broke the silence by saying, " No — in all truth, we have no chance against her ! " She looked joylessly at Tess. " What do you mean ? " asked the latter. '^ He likes 'ee best — the very best ! We could see it as he brought 'ee. He would have kissed 'ee if you had en- couraged him to do it, ever so little." " No, no," said she. The gaiety with which they had set out had somehow vanished ; and yet there was no enmity or mahce between them. They were generous young souls; they had been reared in the lonely country nooks where fatalism is a strong sentiment, and they did not blame her. Such sup- planting was to be. Tess's heart ached. There was no concealing from her- 164 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. self the fact that she loved Angel Clare, perhaps all the more passionately from knowing that the others had also lost their hearts to him. There is contagion in this senti- ment, especially among women. And yet that same hnngry heart of hers compassionated her friends. Tess's honest nature had fought against this, but too feebly, and the natural result had followed. ^'I will never stand in your way, nor in the way of either of 'ee ! " she declared to Retty that night in the bed- room (her tears running down). ^^ I can't help this, my dear ! I don't think marrying is in his mind at all ; but if he were even to ask me I should refuse him, as I should refuse any man." " O ! would you ? Why ? " said wondering Retty. "It cannot be. But I mil be lA-din. Putting myself quite on one side, I don't think he will choose either of you." " I have never expected it — thought of it ! " moaned Rettv. " But O ! I wish I was dead ! " The poor child, torn by a feeling which she hardly under- stood, turned to the two other girls who came upstairs just then. " We be friends with her again," she said to them. " She thinks no more of his choosing her than we do." So the reserve went oif, and they were confiding and warm. " I don't seem to care what I do now," said Marian, whose mood was tuned to its lowest bass. " I was going to marry a dairyman at Sticklef ord, who's asked me twice ; but — my word — I would put an end to myself rather'n be his wife now ! Why don't ye speak, Izz ? " " To confess, then," said Izz, " I made sure to-day that he was going to kiss me as he held me ; and I stayed still against his shoulder, hoping and hoping, and never moved at all. But he did not. I don't like biding here at Talbo- thays any longer. I shall go home." The air of the sleeping-chamber seemed to palpitate with the hopeless passion of the girls. They writhed feverishly THE RALLY. 165 under the oppressiveness of an emotion tlirust on them by cruel Nature's h\w — an emotion which they had neither expected nor denied. The incident of the day had fanned the flame that was biu'ning the inside of theii' hearts out, and the torture was ahnost more than they could endiu-e. The differences which distinguished them as individuals were abstracted by this passion^ and each was but portion of one organism called sex. There was so much frankness and so little jealousy because there was no hope. Each one was a girl of fail' common sense, and she did not delude herseK with any vain conceits, or deny her love, or give herself aii's, in the idea of outshining the others. The full recognition of the futility of their infatuation, from a social point of \dew ; its purposeless beginning ; its seK-bounded outlook J its lack of everything to justify its existence in the eye of civihzation (while lacking nothing in the eye of Nature) ; the one fact that it did exist ecstasizing them to a killing joy — all this imparted to them a resignation, a dig- nity, which a practical and sordid expectation of mnning him as a husband would have destroyed. They tossed and turned on their little beds, and the cheese-A\Ting dripped monotonously downstairs. '' B' you awake, Tess ? " whispered one, half an houi- later. It was Izz Huett's voice. Tess replied in the affirmative; whereupon also Retty and Marian suddenly flung the bedclothes off them, and sighed, " So be we ! " '^ I wonder what she is like — the lady they say his family have looked out for him." '' I wonder," said Izz. '^ Some lady looked out for him?" gasped Tess, starting. ^' I have never heard o' that ! " ^^ Oh yes, ^tis whispered a young lady of his own rank, chosen by his family, a Doctor of Di^dnity's daughter near his father's parish of Emminster ; he don't much care for her, they say. But he is sure to marry her/^ 166 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. Tliey had heard so very little of this, yet it was enough to build up wretched dolorous dreams upon, there in the shade of the night. They pictured all the details of his being won round to consent, of the wedding preparations, of the bride's happiness, of her dress and veil, of her bliss- ful home with him, when obli\don would have fallen upon themselves as far as he and their love were concerned. Thus they talked, and ached, and wept till sleep charmed their sorrow away. After this disclosure Tess nourished no further foolish thought that there lurked any grave and deliberate import in Clare's attentions to her. It was a passing summer love of her face, for love's own temporary sake — nothing more. And the thorny crown of this sad conclusion was that she whom he really did prefer in a cursory way to the rest, she who knew herseK to be more impassioned in nature, clev- erer, more beautiful than they, was in the eyes of society far less worthy of him than the homelier ones whom he ignored. XXIV. Amid the oozing fatness and warm ferments of the Var Vale, at a season when the rush of juices could almost be heard below the hiss of fertilization, it was impossible that the most fanciful love should not grow passionate. The ready hearts existing there were impregnated by their siu'- roundings. July passed over their heads, and the Thermidorean weather which came in its wake seemed an effort on the part of Nature to match the state of hearts at Talbothays Dairy. The air of the place, so fresh in the spring and early summer, was stagnant and enervating now. Its heavy scents weighed upon them, and at midday the land- THE RALLY. 167 scape seemed lying in a swoon. Ethiopic scorchings browned the upper slopes of the pastures, but there was still bright green herbage here where the water-courses purled. And as Clare was oppressed by the outward heats, so was he burdened inwardly by a waxing fervor of passion for the soft and silent Tess. The rains having passed, the uplands were dry. The wheels of the daiiyman's spring cart, as he sped home from market, licked up the pulverized surface of the highway, and were followed by white ribands of dust, as if they had set a thin powder-train on fire. The cows jumped wildly over the five-barred barton-gate, maddened by the gadfly ; Dairyman Crick kept his sliirt-sleeves permanently rolled up past his elbows from Monday till Saturday ; open win- dows produced no effect in ventilation without open doors, and in the dairy-garden the blackbirds and tkrushes crept about under the currant-bushes, rather in the manner of quadrupeds than of winged creatures. The flies in the kitchen were lazy, teasing, and familiar, crawling about in unwonted places, on the floor, into drawers, and over the backs of the milkmaids' hands. Conversations were con- cerning sunstroke, while butter-making, and still more, butter-keeping, was a despair. They milked entirely in the meads for coolness and con- venience, without driving in the cows. During the day the animals obsequiously followed the shadow of the small- est tree at hand, as it moved round the stem with the diur- nal roll; and when the milkers came they could hardly stand still for the flies. On one of these afternoons four or five unmilked cows chanced to stand apart fi-om the general herd, behind the corner of a hedge, among them being Dumpling and Old Pretty, who loved Tess's hands above those of any other maid. When she rose from her stool under a finished cow, Angel Clare, who had been musingly observing her for some time as she milked, asked her if she would take 168 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. the aforesaid creatures next. She silently assented, and with, her stool at arm's length, and the pail against her knee, she went round to where they stood. Soon the sound of Old Pretty's milk fizzing into the pail came through the hedge, and then Angel felt inclined to go round the corner also, to finish off a hard-pelding milcher who had strayed there, he being now as capable of this as the dairyman himself. All the men, and some of the women, when milking, dug their foreheads into the cows and gazed into the pail. But a few — mainly the younger ones — rested their heads side- ways. This was Tess Dui'beyfield's habit, her temple press- ing the milcher's flank, her eyes fixed on the far end of the meadow with the gaze of one lost in meditation. She was milking Old Pretty thus, and the sun chancing to be on the milking side, it shone flat upon her pink-gowned form, and her white curtain-bonnet, and upon her profile, rendering it dazzlingly keen, as a cameo cut from the dun background of the cow. She did not know that Clare had followed her round, and that he sat under his cow watching her. The abso- lute stillness of her head and features was remarkable -, she might have been in a trance, her eyes open, yet unseeing. Nothing in the picture m.oved but Old Pretty's tail and Tess's pink hands, the latter so gently as to be a rhythmic pulsation only, conveying the fancy that they were obejdng a merely reflex stimulus, like a beating heart. How very lovable her face was to him ! There was nothing ethereal about it ; all was real Adtality, real warmth, real incarnation. Yet when all was thought and felt that could be thought and felt about her features in general, it was her mouth which turned out to be the magnetic pole thereof. Eyes almost as deep and si^eaking he had seen before, and cheeks perhaps as fair ; brows as arched, a chin and throat almost as shapely; her mouth he had seen nothing at all to equal on the face of the earth. To a THE RALLY. 169 young man with the least fire in him, that little upward lift in the middle of her top lip was distracting, infatuating, maddening. He had never before seen a woman's lips and teeth which forced upon his mind, with such persistent iteration, the old Elizabethan simile of roses filled with snow. Perfect, he, as a lover, might have called them off- hand. But no ; they were not perfect. And it was the touch of the imperfect upon the intended perfect that gave the sweetness, because it was that which gave the humanity. Clare had studied the curves of those lips so many hours that he could reproduce them mentally with comparative ease 5 and now, as they again confronted him, clothed ^dth color and life, they sent an amxt over his flesh, a cold breeze through his nerves, which well-nigh produced a qualm ; and actually produced, by some mysterious physi- ological process, a prosaic sneeze. She then became conscious that he was obser\dng her 5 but she would not show it by any change of position, though the curious dream-like fixity disappeared, and a close eye might easily have discerned that the rosiness of her face slowly deepened, and then faded till only a tinge of it was left. The stimulus that had passed into Clare like an annun- ciation from the sky did not die doTMi, Resolutions, reti- cences, prudences, fears, fell back like a defeated battalion. He jumped up from his seat, and, leaving his pail to be kicked over if the milcher had such a mind, went quickly towards the desii-e of his eyes, and, kneeUng down beside her, clasped her in his arms. Tess was taken completely by surprise, and she jdelded to his embrace with unreflecting inevitableness. Ha\'ing seen that it was really her lover who had advanced, and no one else, her lips parted, and she sank upon him in her mo- mentary joy, wdtli something very like an ecstatic cry. He had been on the point of kissing that too tempting mouth of hers, but he checked himself, even for tender con- 170 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. science' sake. ^^ Forgive me, Tess dear/' he whispered. " I ought to have asked. I — did not know what I was doing. I do not mean it as a hberty at all — I — am devoted to you, Tessie, dearest, ^Yith all my soul." Old Pretty by this time had looked round, puzzled ; and seeing two people crouching under her where, according to immemorial custom, there should have been only one, hfted her hind leg crossly. " She is angry — she doesn't know what we mean — she'll kick over the milk ! " exclaimed Tess, gently striving to free herself, her eyes concerned with the quadruped's actions, her heart more deeply concerned with herself and Clare. " Let me lift you up — lean upon me." He raised her from her seat, and they stood together, his arm still encircling her. Tess's eyes, fixed on distance, be- gan to fill. ^' Why do you cry, my darling ? " he said. " O — I don't know ! " she murmured regretfully. As she saw and felt more clearly the position she was in, she be- came agitated, and tried to withdraw. ''Well, I have betrayed my feeling, Tess, at last," said he, with a cimous sigh of desperation, signifying, uncon- sciously, that his heart had outrun his judgment. " That I love you dearly and truly I need not say. But I — it shall go no further now — it distresses you — I am as surprised as you are. You mil not think I have presumed upon your defencelessness — been too quick and unreflecting, ^vill you ?" "I don't know! " He had reluctantly allowed her to free herself ; and in a minute or two the milking of each was resumed. Nobody had beheld the unpremeditated gravitation of the two into one ; and when the dairyman came round by that screened nook a few minutes later there was not a sign to reveal that the markedly sundered pair were more to each other than mere acquaintance. Yet, in the interval since Crick's last view of them, something had occurred which changed THE RALLY. 171 the pivot of the universe for theii* two natures — whilst it should last -, something which, had he known its quahty, the dairjTiian would have despised, as a practical man, yet which was based upon a more stubborn and resistless ten- dency than a whole heap of so-called practicalities. A veil had been whisked aside ; the tract of each one's outlook was to have a new horizon thenceforward — for a short time or for a long. THE CONSEQUENCE XXV. Clare, restless, went out into the dusk as soon as even- ing drew on, she who had won him having retired to her chamber. The night was as sultry as the day. There was no cool- ness after dark unless on the grass. Roads, garden paths, the house fronts, the barton walls were warm as hearths, and reflected the noontide temperature into the noctam- buhst's face. He sat on the east gate of the dairy-yard, and knew not what to think of himself. Feehng had indeed smothered judgment that day. Since the sudden embrace, three hours before, the twain had kept apart. She seemed fevered, almost alarmed, at what had occurred, while the novelty, unpremeditation, mastery of cii'cumstances disquieted him — palpitating, con- templative being that he was. He could hardly reaUze their true relations to each other as yet, and what their mutual bearing should be before thu'd parties thencefor- ward. Angel Clare had come as pupil to this dairy in the idea that his temporary existence here was to be the merest episode in his life, soon passed through and early forgotten ; he had come as to a place from which as from a screened THE CONSEQUENCE. 173 alcove he could calmly \dew the absorbing world surging mthout, and, apostrophizing it with Walt Whitman — Crowds of men and women attired in the usual costumes, How curious you are to me ! — resolve upon a plan for plunging into that world anew. But, behold, the absorbing scene had been imported hither, and what had been the engrossing world had dissolved into an uninteresting, outer dumb show ; while here, in this apparently dim and unimpassioned place, novelty had vol- canically started up, as it had never, for hiin, started up elsewhere. Every \\indow of the house being open, Clare could hear across the yard each faint and tri^dal sound of the retmng household. That dairy-house, so humble, so insignificant, so piu-ely, to him, a place of constrained sojourn that he had never hitherto deemed it of sufficient importance to be reconnoitred as an object of any quality whatever in the landscape — what was it. now ? The aged and lichened brick gables breathed forth " Stay ! " The windows smiled, the door coaxed and beckoned, the creeper blushed confederacy. A personality within it was so far-reaching in her influence as to spread into and make the bricks, mortar, and whole overhanging sky throb with a burning sensil^iHty. Whose was this mighty personality ! A milkmaid's. It was amazing, indeed, to find how great a matter the life of the obscure daiiy had become to him. And though new love was to be held partly responsible for this, it was not solely so. Many besides Angel Clare have learnt that the magnitude of Hves is not as to their external displace- ments, but as to their subjective experiences. The impres- sionable peasant leads a larger, fuller, more dramatic life than the pachydermatous king. Looking at it thus, he found that life had much the same magnitude here as else- where. 174 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. Despite his heterodoxy, faults, and weaknesses, Clare was a man with a conscience. Tess was no insignificant creature to toy with and dismiss j but a woman living her precious life — a life which to herself, who endured or en- joyed it, possessed as great a dimension as the life of the mightiest to himself. Upon her sensations the whole world depended to Tess; through her existence all her fellow- creatures existed, to her. The universe itself only came into being for Tess on the particular day in the particular year in which she was born. This consciousness upon which he had intruded was the single opportunity of existence ever vouchsafed to Tess by an unsympathetic First Cause — her all 5 her every and only chance. How then should he look upon her as of less con- sequence than himself ; as a pretty trifle to patronizingly caress and grow weary of; and not deal in the greatest seriousness mth the affection which he knew that he had awakened in her — so fervid and so impressionable as she was under her reserve ; in order that it might not agonize and wreck her ? To encounter her daily in the accustomed manner would be to develop what had begun. Living in such close rela- tions, to meet meant to fall into endearment ; flesh and blood could not resist it 5 and, ha\dng arrived at no conclu- sion as to the issue of such a tendency, he decided to hold aloof for the present fiom occupations in which they would be mutually engaged. As yet the harm done was small. But it was not easy to carry out the resolution never to approach her. He was continually burning to be with her ; driven towards her by every impulse within him. He thought he would go and see his friends. It might be possible to sound them upon this. In less than five months his term here would have ended, and, after a few additional months spent upon other farms, he would be fully equipped in agricultural knowledge, and in a position to start on his own account. Would not a farmer want a THE CONSEQUENCE. 175 wife, and slioiild a farmer's wnfe be a drawing-room wax figure, or a woman who understood farming? Notwith- standing the pleasing answer returned to him by the silence, he resolved to go his journey. One morning when they sat down to breakfast at Tal- bothays Dauy, some maid observed that she had not seen anything of Mr. Clare that day. ''Oh no," said Dairyman Crick. "Mr. Clare has gone home to Emminster to spend a few days wi' his relations." For four impassioned ones around that table the sun- shine of the morning went out at a stroke, and the birds muffled their song. But neither girl, by word or gestui*e, revealed her inner blankness. " He's getting on towards the end of his time wi' me," added the dairyman, with a phlegm which unconsciously was brutal ; " and so I suppose he is beginning to see about his plans elsewhere." " How much longer is he to stay here ? " asked Izz Huett, the only one of the gloom-stricken bevy who could trust her voice with the question. The others waited for the daiiyman's answer as if their lives hung upon it ; Eetty, with parted lips, gazing on the table-cloth, Marian with heat added to her redness, Tess throbbing and looking out at the meads. " Well, I can't mind the exact day mthout looking at my memorandum-book," replied Crick,'* mth the same intoler- able unconcern. "And even that mav be altered a bit. He'll bide to get a little practice in the calving, out at the straw-yard, for certain. He'll hang on to the end of the year, I should say." Four months or so of torturing ecstasy in his society — of "pleasure girdled about with pain." After that the blackness of unutterable night. At this moment of the morning Angel Clare was riding along a narrow lane ten miles distant from the breakf asters. 176 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. in the dii'ection of his father's vicarage at Emminster, car- Tjing as well as he could a httle basket which contained some black puddings and a bottle of mead, sent by Mrs. Crick, with her kind respects, to his parents. The white lane stretched before him, and his eyes were nj)on it ; but they were staring into next year, and not at the lane. He loved her ; ought he to marry her ? Dared he to marry her ? "Wliat would his parents and his brothers say ? What would he himself say a couple of years after the event? That would depend upon whether the germs of staunch comradeship (without which no marriage should be made) underlay the temporary emotion, or whether it were a sen- suous joy in her form only, with no substratum of ever- lastingness. His f athei^s hill-surrounded httle town, the Tudor church- tower of red stone, the clump of trees near the vicarage, came at last into view beneath him, and he rode down to- wards the well-known gate. Casting a glance in the direc- tion of the church before entering his home, he beheld standing by the vestry-door a group of girls, of ages be- tween twelve and sixteen, apparently awaiting the arrival of some other one, who in a moment became visible in the shape of a figure, somewhat older than the schoolgirls, wear- ing a broad-brimmed hat and highly starched cambric morn- ing-gown, with a couple of books in her hand. Clare knew her well. He could not be sure that she ob- served him ; he hoped she did not, so as to render it un- necessary that he should go and speak to her, blameless creature that she was. An overpowering reluctance to greet her made him decide that she had not seen him. The young lady was Miss Mercy Chant, the only daughter of his father's neighbor and friend, whom it was his parents^ quiet hope that he might wed some day. She was great at Antinomianism and Bible-classes, and was plainly going to hold a class now in the vestrv. Clare's mind for a moment flew back to the impassioned, sun-flushed, summer-satui-ated THE CONSEQUENCE. 177 heatliens in Yar Vale, and to the most li\dng, tenderest, in- tensest of tliem all. It was on the impulse of the moment that he had resolved to trot over to Emminster, and hence had not wiitten to apprise his mother and father, aiming, however, to arrive about the breakfast hour, before they should have gone out to their parish duties. He was a little late, and they had abeady sat down to the morning meal. The group at table jumped up to welcome him as soon as he entered. They were his father and mother, his brother, the Reverend Felix — curate at a town in the adjoining county, home for the inside of a fortnight — and his other brother, the Reverend Cuthbert, the classical scholar, and Fellow and Dean of his college, down from Cambridge for the long vacation. His mother appeared in a cap and silver spectacles, and his father looked what in fact he was — an earnest, God-fearing man, somewhat gaunt, in years about sixty-five, his pale face lined with thought and purpose. Over then* heads hung the picture of Angel's half-sister, the eldest of the f amity, sixteen years his senior, who had married a mission- ary and gone out to Africa. Old Mr. Clare was a clerg-jonan of a type which, within the last twenty years, has dropped out of contemporary Hfe with well-nigh startling suddenness. A spiritual de- scendant in the direct line from Wycliff, Huss, Luther, Cal- vin ; an Evangelical of the Evangelicals, a Conversionist, a man of Apostolic simplicity in life and thought, he had in his youth made up his mind once for all on the deeper questions of existence, and admitted no fm^ther reasoning on them thenceforward. He was regarded even by those of his o^Ti date and school of thinking as extreme ; while, on the other hand, those totally opposed to him were un- willingly won to admiration for his thoroughness, and for the remarkable power he showed in dismissing all question- ing as to principles in his energy for applying them. He loved Paul of Tarsus, liked Saint John, hated Saint James 12 178 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. as mucli as he dared, and regarded with mixed feelings Timothy, Titus, and Philemon. The New Testament was less a Cliiistiad than a Pauliad to his intelligence — less an argument than an intoxication. His creed of determinism was such that it almost amounted to a vice, and quite amounted, on its negative side, to a renunciative philosophy which had cousinship with that of Schopenhauer and Leo- pard!. He despised the Canons and Rubric, swore by the Articles, and deemed himself consistent with the whole cate- gory — which in a way he might have been. One thing he certainly was — sincere. To the aesthetic, sensuous, pagan pleasm'e in natural life and womanhood which his son Angel had lately been experi- encing in Var Vale, his temper would have been antipathetic in a high degi'ee had he either by inquiiy or imagination been able to apprehend it. Once upon a time Angel had been so unlucky as to say to his father, in a moment of irritation, that it might have resulted far better for mankind if Greece had been the source of the religion of modern civilization, and not Palestine ; and his father's gi'ief was of that blank description which could not realize that there might lurk a thousandth part of a truth, much less a half truth, or a whole truth, in such a proposition. He had simply preached austerely at Angel for a long time after. But the kindness of his heart was such that he never resented anything for long, and welcomed his son to-day with a smile which was as candidly sweet as a child's. Angel sat down, and the place felt like home ; yet he did not so much as formerlv feel himself one of the familv gathered there. Every time that he returned thither he was conscious of this divergence, and smce he had last shared in the \dcarage life it had gro^vn even more dis- tinctly foreign to his own than usual. Its transcendental aspirations — still unconsciously based on the geocentric view of things, a zenithal paradise, a nadiral hell — were as remote from his own as if they had been the dreams of THE CONSEQUENCE. 179 people on another planet. Latterly lie had seen only Life, felt only the great passionate pnlse of existence, un warped, uncontorted, untrammelled by those creeds which futilely attempt to check what wisdom would be content to disci- pline. On their part they saw a great difference in him, a grow- ing divergence from the Angel Clare of former tunes. It was chiefl}^ a difference in his manner that they noticed just now, particularly his brothers. He was getting to behave like a farmer ; he flung his legs about ; the muscles of his face had gro^^Ti more expressive ; his eyes looked as much information as his tongue spoke, and more. The manner of the scholar had nearly disappeared ; still more, the man- ner of the drawing-room young man. A prig would have said that he had lost culture, and a prude that he had be- come coarse. Such was the contagion of domiciliary fel- lowship with the Talbothays nymphs and swains. After breakfast he walked with his two brothers, non- Evangelical, well-educated, hall-marked young men, correct to their remotest fibre 5 such unimpeachable models as are turned out yearly by the lathe of a systematic tuition. They were both somewhat short-sighted, and when it was the cus- tom to wear a single eyeglass and string they wore a single eyeglass and string ; when it was the custom to wear a dou- ble glass they wore a double glass ; when it was the custom to wear spectacles they wore spectacles straightway, all without reference to the particular variety of defect in their own vision. When Wordsworth was enthroned they carried pocket copies ; and when Shelley was belittled they allowed him to grow dusty on their shelves. When Correggio's Holy Families were admired they admired Correggio's Holy Families ; when he was decried in favor of Velasquez they sedulously followed suit without any personal objection. If these two noticed Angel's growing social ineptness, he noticed their growing mental limitations. FeUx seemed to him all Church ; Cuthbert all College. His Diocesan Synod 180 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. and Visitations were the mainsprings of the world to the one ) Cambridge to the other. Each brother candidly recog- nized that there were a few unimportant scores of millions of outsiders in civilized society, i3ersons who were neither University men nor Chui'chmen j but they were to be pitied and tolerated rather than reckoned with and respected. They were both dutiful and attentive sons, and were reg- ular in their visits to their parents. Felix, though an off- shoot from a far more recent iDoint in the devolution of theology than his father, was less self-sacrificing and disin- terested. More tolerant than his father of a contradictorv opinion, in its aspect as a danger to its holder, he was less ready than his father to pardon it as a slight to his own teaching. Cuthbert was, upon the whole, the more liberal- minded, though, with greater subtlety, he had not so much heart. As they walked along the hill-side. Angel's former feeling revived in liim — namely, that whatever their advantages by comparison with himself, neither saw or set forth life as it really was lived. Perhaps, as with many men, their oppor- tunities of observation were not so good as their opportuni- ties of expression. Neither had an adequate conception of the complicated forces at work outside the smooth and gentle current in which they and their associates floated. Neither saw the difference between local truth and univer- sal truth ; that what the inner world said in their clerical and academic hearing was quite a different thing from what the outer world was thinking. " I suppose it is farming or nothing for you now, my dear fellow," Felix was sajdng, among other things, to his youngest brother, as he looked through his spectacles at the distant fields with sad austerity. " And, therefore, we must make the best of it. But I do entreat you to endeavor to keep as much as possible in touch with moral ideals. Farming, of course, means roughing it literally ; but high thinking may go with plain li\dng, nevertheless." THE CONSEQUENCE. 181 ^^ Of course it may/' said Angel. ^' Was it not proved nineteen hundred years ago — if I may trespass upon your domain a little ? Why should you tliink, Felix, that I am likely to drop my high- thinking and moral ideals ? " " Well, I fancied, from the tone of your letters and our conversation — it may be fancy only — that you were some- how losing intellectual grasp. Hasn't it struck you, Cuth- bert ? " ^'Now, Felix," said Angel, dryly, ^^we are very good friends, you know, each of us treading our allotted cii'cles ; but if it comes to intellectual grasp, I think you, as a con- tented theologian, had better leave mine alone, and inquire what has become of yoiu'S." They retui-ned down the hill to dinner, which was fixed at any time at which their father's and mother's morning work in the parish usually concluded. Convenience as re- garded afternoon callers was the last thing to enter into the consideration of unselfish Mr. and Mrs. Clare ; though the three sons were sufftciently in unison on this matter to wish that their parents would conform a little to modern notions. The walk had made them hungiy, Angel in particular, who was now an outdoor man, accustomed to the profuse dapes memptce of the dairyman's somewhat coarsely laden table. But neither of the old people had arrived, and it was not till the sons were almost tired of waiting that their parents entered. The self-denying pair had been occupied in coaxing the appetites of some of their sick parishioners, whom they, somewhat inconsistently, tried to keep impris- oned in the flesh, and had totally forgotten their o^vn. The family sat down to table, and a frugal meal of cold viands was deposited before them. Angel looked round for Mrs. Crick's black puddings, which he had directed to be nicely grilled, as they did them at the daiiy, and of which he wished his father and mother to appreciate the marvel- lous herbal savors as highly as he did himself. 182 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. ^^ All ! you are looking for the black puddings, my dear boy/' observed Clare's mother. '^ But I am sure you will not mind doing without them, as I am sure your father and I shall not, when you know the reason. I suggested to him that we should take Mrs. Crick's kind present to the children of the man who can earn nothing just now because of his attacks of delii'ium tremens ; and he agreed that it would be a great pleasure to them ; so we did." ^' Of course/' said Angel, cheerfully, looking round for the mead. '^ I found the mead so extremely alcoholic/' continued his mother, ''that it was quite unfit for use as a beverage, but as valuable as rum or brandy in an emergency j so I have put it in my medicine-chest." ^' We never drink spirits at this table, on principle," added his father. '' But what shaU I tell the dairyman's mfe ? " said Angel. " The truth, of course," said his father. '' I rather wanted to say we enjoyed the mead and the black puddings very much. She is a kind, jolly sort of body, and is sure to ask me dii'ectly I return." " You cannot if we did not," Mr. Clare answered, lucidly. " Ah — no ; though that mead was a drop of pretty tipple." "A what?" "O — 'tis an expression they use down at Talbothays," replied Angel, blushing. He felt that his parents were right in their practice if wrong in their want of sentiment, and said no more. XXVI. It was not till the evening, after family prayers, that Angel found opportunity of broaching to his father one or two subjects near his heart. He had strung himself up to the purpose while kneeling behind his brothers on the THE CONSEQUENCE. 183 carpet, regarding the soles of theii' walking-boots and the little nails in their heels. When the service was over they went out of the room with their mother, and Mr. Clare and himself w^ere left alone. The young man first discussed with the elder his plan for the attainment of his position as a farmer on an exten- sive scale — either in England or in the Colonies. His father then told him that, as he had not been put to the ex- pense of sending Angel up to Cambridge, he had felt it his duty to set by a sum of money every year towards the pur- chase or lease of land for him some day, that he might not feel himself unduly slighted. ^^As far as worldly wealth goes," continued his father, ^'you will no doubt stand far superior to your brothers in a few years." This considerateness on old Mr. Clare's part led Angel onward to the other and dearer subject. He observed to his father that he was then six-and-twentv, and that when he should start in the farming business he would require eyes in the back of his head to see to all matters — some one would be necessary to superintend the domestic labors of his establishment wliilst he was afield. Would it not be well, therefore, for him to marry ? His father seemed to think this idea not unreasonable ; and then Angel put the question : " What kind of wife do you think would be best for me as a thrifty, hard-working farmer ? " "A truly Cliristian woman, who will be a help and a comfort to you in your goings-out and youi' comings-in. Beyond that, it really matters little. Such an one can be found ; indeed, my earnest-minded friend and neighbor, Dr. Chant " '^ But ought she not primarily to be able to milk cows, churn good butter, make immense cheeses; know how to set hens and tui^keys and rear chickens, to direct a field of laborers in an emergency, and estimate the value of sheep and calves?" 184 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. " Yes ; a farmer's wife ; yes, certainly. It would be de- sii'able." Mr. Clare, the elder, had plainly never thought of these points before. "I was going to add," he said, '' that, for a pure and saintly woman, you will not find one more to your true advantage, and certainly not more to your mother's mind and my own, than your friend Mercy, whom you used to show a certain interest in. It is true that my neighbor Chant's daughter has lately caught up the fashion of the younger clergy round about us for dec- orating the Communion-table — altar, as I was shocked to hear her call it one dav — with flowers and other stuff on festival occasions. But her father, who is quite as opposed to such flummery as I, says that can be cured. It is a mere giiiish outbreak which, I am siu'e, will not be per- manent." ^' Yes, yes : Mercy is good and devout, I know. But, father, don't you think that a young woman equally pure and virtuous as Miss Chant, but one who, in place of that lady's ecclesiastical accomplishments, understands the duties of farm Ufe as well as a farmer himself, would suit me in- flnitelv better?" His father persisted in his conviction that a knowledge of a farmer's wife's duties came second to a Pauline view of humanity ; and the impulsive Angel, wishing to honor his father's feelings and to advance the cause of his heart at the same time, grew specious. He said that fate or Providence had thrown in his way a woman who possessed every qualification to be the helpmate of an agriculturist, and was decidedlv of a serious turn of mind. He would not say whether or not she had attached herself to tlie sound Low Church Scliool of his father; but she would probably be open to con\dction on that point ; she was a regular church-goer of simple faith ; honest-hearted, recep- tive, intelligent, graceful to a degree, chaste as a vestal, and, in personal appearance, exceptionally beautiful. " Is she of a family such as you would care to marry into THE CONSEQUENCE. 185 — a lady, in short ?" asked his startled mother, who had come softly into the study during the conversation. " She is not what in common parlance is called a lady," said Angel, unflinchingly, ^^ for she is a cottager's daughter, as I am proud to say. But she is a lady, nevertheless — in feehng and nature." " Mercy Chant is of a very good family." "Pooh! — what's the advantage of that, mother?" said Clare, quickly. " How is family to avail the wife of a man who has to rough it as I have, and shall have to do?" "Mercy is accomplished. And accomplishments have their charm," retui-ned his mother, looking at him through her silver spectacles. "As to external accomplishments, what will be the use of them in the life I am going to lead? — while as to her reading, I can take that in hand. She'll be apt pupil enough, as you would say if you knew her. She's brimful of poetry — actualized poetry, if I may use the expression. She lives what paper-poets only write. . . . And she is an unimpeachable Christian, I am sure ; perhaps of the very tribe, genus, and species you desire to propagate." " O Angel, you are mocking ! " " Mother, I beg pardon. But as she really does attend church almost every Sunday morning, and is a good Christian girl, I am sure you ^Yl\l tolerate any social short- comings for the sake of that quality, and feel that I may do worse than choose her." Angel almost unconsciously waxed enthusiastic on that rather automatic orthodoxy in his be- loved Tess, which (never di'eaming that it might stand him in such good stead) he had been prone to slight when ob- serving it practised by her and the other milkmaids — less on account of his ot\ti scepticism than because of its obvious unrealitv in lives essentiallv natiu*ahstic. In their sad doubts as to Avhether their son had himself any right whatever to the title he claimed for the unknown young woman, Mr. and Mrs. Clare began to feel it as an 186 TESS OF THE D'URBERYILLES. advantage not to be overlooked that she at least was sound in her views ; especially as the conjunction of the pair must have arisen by chance or Providence ; for Angel never would have made orthodoxy a condition of his choice. They said finally that it was better not to act in a hurry, but that they would not object to see her. Angel therefore refrained from declaring more particu- lars now. He felt that, single-minded and self-sacrificing as his parents were, there yet existed certain latent prej- udices of theirs, as middle-class people, which would re- quire some tact to overcome. For though legally at liberty to do as he chose, and though their daughter-in-law's quali- fications could make no practical difference to theii' lives, in the probability of her li^dng far away fi'om them, he wished for affection's sake not to wound their sentiment in the most important decision of his life. He observed his own inconsistencies in dwelling upon accidents in Tess's life as if thev were vital features. It was for herseK that he loved Tess ; her soul, her heart, her sub- stance — not for her skiU in the daily, her aptness as his scholar, and certainly not for her simple, formal faith-pro- fession. Her unsophisticated, open-air existence required no varnish of conventionality to make it palatable to him. He held that education had as yet but little affected the beats of emotion and impulse on which domestic happiness depends. It was probable that, in the lapse of ages, im- proved systems of moral and intellectual training would appreciably, perhaps considerably, elevate the involuntary, and even the unconscious, instincts of human nature ; but up to the present day, cultiu-e, as far as he could see, might be said to have affected only the mental epiderm of those lives wliich had been brought under its influence. This belief was confirmed by his experience of women, which, having latterly been extended from the cultivated middle- class into the rural community, had taught him how much less was the intrinsic difference between the good and wise THE CONSEQUENCE. 187 woman of one social stratum, and the good and wise wo- man of another social stratum, than between the good and bad, the wise and the foolish, of the same stratum or class. It was the morning of his departure. His brothers had already left the \dcarage to proceed on a walking tour in the north, whence one was to return to his college, and the other to his curacy. Angel might have accompanied them, but preferred to rejoin his sweetheart at Talbothays. He would have been an awkward member of the party; for, though the most appreciative humanist, the most ideal re- Hgionist, even the finest theologian and Christologist of the three, there was alienation in the standing consciousness that his squareness would not fit the round hole that had been prepared for him. To neither Felix nor Cuthbert had he ventui'ed to mention Tess. His mother made him sandwiches, and his father accom- panied him, on his own mare, a little way along the road. Having fau'ly well advanced his own affairs, Angel listened in a willing silence, as they jogged on together through the shady lanes, to his father's account of liis parish difficulties, and the coldness of brother clergymen whom he loved, be- cause of his strict interpretations of the New Testament by the light of what they deemed a pernicious Calvinistic doctrine. " Pernicious ! " said Mr. Clare, with genial scorn j and he proceeded to recount experiences which would show the absurdity of that idea. He told of w^ondrous conver- sions of evil livers of which he had been the instrument, not only amongst the poor, but amongst the rich and well- to-do ; and he also candidly admitted many failures. As an instance of the latter, he mentioned the case of a young upstart squire named D'Urberville, living some forty miles off, in the neighborhood of Trantridge. " Not one of the ancient D'Urbervilles of Kingsbere and other places?" asked his son. ^'That curiously historic, worn-out family, with its ghostly legend of the coach-and- f our ? " 188 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. ^' Oil no. The original D'Urbervilles decayed and disap- peared sixty or eighty years ago — at least, I believe so. This seems to be a new family which has taken the name ; for the credit of the former knightly line, I hope they are spiu'ious, I'm sure. But it is odd to hear you exj)ress in- terest in old families. I thought you set less store by them even than I." "You misapprehend me, father; you often do/' said Angel, with a little impatience. " Politically I am sceptical as to the virtue of theii- being old. Some of the wise even among themselves ^ exclaim against their own succession,' as Hamlet puts it ; but lyrically, di'amatically, and even his- torically, I am tenderly attached to them." This distinction, though by no means a subtle one, was yet too subtle for Mr. Clare the elder, and he went on with the story he had been about to relate ; wliich was that after the death of the senior so-called D'Urberville the young man developed the most reckless passions, though he had an afflicted mother whose condition should have made him know better. A knowledge of his career having come to the ears of Mr. Clare, when he was in that part of the country preaching missionary sermons, he boldly took oc- casion to speak to him point-blank on his spii'itual state. Though he was a stranger, occupying another's pnlpit, he had felt this to be his dnty, and took for his text the words from St. LiLke, " Thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of thee." The young man much resented this directness of attack, and in the war of words which followed when they met he did not scruple to publicly insult Mr. Clare, without respect for his gray hau^s. Angel flushed with distress. "Dear father," he said, sadly, "I wish you wonld not expose youi-seK to such gratuitous pain from sconndrels ! " " Pain ? " said his father, his rugged face shining in the ardor of self-abnegation. " The only pain to me was pain on his account, poor, foolish young man. Do you suppose THE CONSEQUENCE. 189 Ms incensed words could give me any pain, or even his blows ? ' Being reviled we bless 5 being persecuted we suf- fer it ; being defamed we entreat j we are made as the filth of the world, and as the off scorning of all things unto this day.' Those ancient and noble words to the Corinthians are strictly true at this present hour." " Not blows, father f He did not proceed to blows ? " " No, he did not. Though I have borne blows from men in a mad state of intoxication." " A dozen times, my boy. What then ? I have saved them from the guilt of murdering their own flesh and blood thereby ; and they have lived to thank me, and praise God." " May this young man do the same ! " said Angel, fer- vently. " But I fear othermse, from what you say." " We'll hope, nevertheless," said Mr. Clare. '^ And I con- tinue to pray for him, though on this side of the grave we shall probably never meet again. But, after all, one of those poor words of mine may spring ivp in his heart as a good seed some day." Now, as always, Clare's father was sanguine as a child • and though the younger could not accept his parent's narrow dogma, he revered his practice, and recognized the hero under the pietist. Perhaps he revered his father's practice even more now than ever, seeing that, in the question of making Tess his wife, his father had not once thought of inquii'ing whether she were well provided or penniless. The same unworldliness was what had necessitated Angel's getting a living as a farmer, and would probably keep his brothers in the position of poor parsons for the term of their activities ; yet Angel admired it none the less. In- deed, despite his own heterodoxy. Angel often felt that he was nearer to his father on the human side than either of his brethren. 190 TESS OF THE D'URBEEVILLES. XXVII. An up-liiU and down-dale ride of twenty-odd miles through a clear, garish midday atmosphere brought him in the afternoon to a detached knoll a mile or two west of Talbothays, whence he again looked into that green trough of sappiness and humidity, the valley of the River Var. Immediately he began to descend from the upland to the fat allu\dal soil below the atmosphere gi'ew heavier, the languid perfume of the summer fruits, the mists, the hay, the flowers, formed therein a vast pool of odor which at this hour seemed to make the animals, the very bees and butterflies, di'owsy. Clare was now so familiar with the spot that he knew the individual cows by their names when, a long distance off, he saw them dotted about the meads. It was with a sense of luxurv that he was conscious of his recently acquired power of viewing hf e here from its inner side, in a way that had been quite foreign to him in his student-days ; and, much as he loved liis parents, he could not help being aware that to come here, as now, after an experience of home-life, affected him like throwing off sphnts and bandages ; even the one customary curb on the humors of English rural societies being absent in this place, Tal- bothays having no resident landlord. Not a human being was out-of-doors at the dairy. The denizens were all enjoying the usual afternoon nap of an horn- or so which the exceedingly early hours kept in sum- mer-tmie rendered a necessity to those engaged in the butter-making trades. At the door the wood-hooped pails, sodden and bleached by infinite scrubbings, hung like hats on a stand upon the forked and peeled limb of the oak fixed there for that purpose ; aU of them ready and dry for the evening milking. Angel entered, and went through the THE CONSEQUENCE. 191 silent passages of the house to the back quarters, where he hstened for a moment. Sustained snores came from the cart-house, where some of the men were lying down ; the grunt and squeal of sweltering pigs arose from the still farther distance. The large-leaved rhubarb and cabbage plants slept too, their broad limp sm'faces hanging in the sun like haK-closed umbrellas. He unbridled and fed his horse, and as he re-entered the house the clock struck three. Three was the afternoon skimming-hour ; and, shortly after the stroke, Clare heard the creaking of the floor-boards above, and then the touch of a descending foot on the staii's. It was Tessas, who in another moment came dowTi before his eyes. She had not heard him enter, and hardly realized his pres- ence there. She was yawning, and he saw the red interior of her mouth as if it had been a snake's. She had stretched one arm so high above her coiled-up cable of hair, that he could see its dehcacy above the sunburn; her face was flushed with sleep, and her eyehds hung hea\'y over their pupils. The brim-fulness of her nature breathed from her. It was a moment wlien a woman's soul is more incarnate than at any other time ; when the most spiritual beauty in- clines to the corporeal 5 and sex takes the outside place in her presentation. Then those eyes flashed brightly through their filmy heaviness, before the remainder of her face was well awake. With an oddly compounded look of gladness, shyness, and surprise, she exclaimed, " Mr. Clare, how you frightened me — I " There had not at first been time for her to think of the changed relations which his declaration had introduced; but the f uU sense of the matter rose up in her face when she encountered Clare's tender look as he stepped forward to the bottom stau*. " Dear, darling Tessie ! " he whispered, putting his arm round her, and his face to hers, " Don't, for Heaven's sake, 192 TESS OF THE D'URBER\^LLES. Mister me any more. I have hastened back so soon be- cause of you ! " Tess's excitable heart beat against his by way of reply ; and there they stood upon the red-brick floor of the entry, the sun slanting in by the window of the front room and through the doorway upon his back, as he held her tiglitly to his breast, upon her declining face, upon the blue veins of her temple, upon her arm, and her neck, and into the depths of her hair. Having been lying down in her clothes, she was warm as a sunned cat. At first she would not look straight up at him, but her eyes soon lifted, and his met their violet-black deepness, while she regarded him as Eve at her second waking might have regarded Adam. '' I have to go skimming," she pleaded, " and I have on'y old Deb to help me to-day. Mrs. Crick is gone to market wi' Mr. Crick, and Retty is not well, and the others are gone out somewhere, and won't be home till milking." As they retreated to the milk-house, Deborah Fyander appeared on the stairs. " I have come back, Deborah," said Mr. Clare, upwards. " So I can help Tess with the skimming ; and, as you are tired, I am sure, you needn't come down till milking-time." Possibly the Talbothays milk was not very thorouglily skimmed that afternoon. Tess was in a dream, wherein famihar objects appeared as having light and shade and position, but no particular outline. Every time she held the skimmer under the pump to cool it for the work her hand trembled, the ardor of his affection being so palpable that she seemed to flinch under it like a plant in too burn- ing a sun. Then he pressed her again to his side, and when she had done running her forefinger round the leads to cut off the cream-edge, he cleaned it in nature's way, for the uncon- strained manners of Talbothays Dairy came convenient now. THE CONSEQUENCE, 193 " I may as well say it now as later, dearest," lie resiimed, gently. '' I w^sli to ask you something of a very practical natui'e, wliicli I have been thinking of ever since that day last week in the meads. I shall soon want to marry, and, being a farmer, you see I shall require for my wife a wo- man who knows all about the management of farms. Will you be that woman, Tessie ? " He put it in that way that she might not think he had yielded to an impulse of which his head would disapprove. She turned quite careworn. She had bowled to the in- evitable result of proximity, the necessity of loving liim ; but she had not calculated upon this sudden corollary, which, indeed, Clare had put before her without quite mean- ing himself to do it so soon. With pain that was like the bitterness of dissolution, she murmured the words of her indispensable and sworn answer — her indispensable and sworn answer as an honorable woman. " O Mr. Clare — I cannot be your wife — I cannot be ! " The sound of her own decision seemed to break Tess's very heart, and she bowed her face in her gTief. "But, Tess ! " he said, amazed at her reply, and holding her still more gTcedily close. "Do you say nof Surely you love me ? " " Oh yes, yes ! And I would rather be yours than any- body's in the world," returned the sweet, honest voice of the distressed girl. " But I cannot marry you." "Tess," he said, holding her at arm's length, "you are engaged to marry some one else ! " " No, no ! " " Then why do you refuse me ? " " I don't want to marry. I have not thought o' doing it. I cannot. I only want to love you." " But why ? " Driven to subterfuge, she stammered : " Your father is a parson, and your mother wouldn't like you to marry such as me. She will want you to many a lady." 13 194 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. '•Nonsense — I have spoken to tliem both. That was partly why I went home." " I feel I cannot — never, never ! " she echoed. " Is it too sndden to be asked thus^ my Pretty ? " " Yes — I did not expect it." "If you mil let it pass, please, Tessie, I ^^t11 give you time/' he said. "It was very abrupt to come home and speak to you all at once. I'll not allude to it again for a while." She again took up the shining skimmer, held it beneath the pump, and began anew. But she could not, as at other times, hit the exact under-surface of the cream with the dehcate dexterity requii^d, try as she might; sometimes she was cutting down into the milk, sometimes in the air. She could hardly see, her eyes having filled with two blurring tears drawn forth by a grief which, to this her best friend and dear advocate, she could never explain. " I can't skim — I can't ! " she said, tm-ning away from him. Not to agitate and hinder her any longer, the gentle Clare began talking in a more general way. " You quite misapprehend my parents. They are the most simple- mannered people alive, and quite unambitious. They are two of the few remaining Evangelical school. Tessie, are you an Evangelical ? " " I don't know." " You go to church very regularly, and our parson here is not very High, they teU me." Tess's ideas on the views of the parish clergyman, whom she heard every w^eek, seemed to be rather more vague than Clare's, who had never heard him at all. " I ynsh I could fix my mind on what I hear more firmly than I do," she re- marked. " It is often a great sorrow to me." She spoke so unaffectedly that Angel was sure in his heart that his father could not object to lier on rehgious grounds, even though she did not know whether her priu- THE CONSEQUENCE. 195 ciples were Higli, Low, or Broad. He himself knew that, in reality, the confused beliefs which she held, apparently imbibed in childhood, were, if anything, Tractarian as to phraseology, and Pantheistic as to essence. Confused or otherwise, to disturb them was his last desire. Leave thou thy sister, when she prays, Her early Pleaven, her happy views ; Nor thou with shadow'd hiut confuse A life that leads melodious days. He had occasionally thought the counsel less honest than musical ; but he gladly conformed to it now. He spoke further of the incidents of his visit, of his father's mode of life, of his zeal for his principles 5 she grew serener, and the undulations disappeared from her skimming; as she finished one lead after another, he fol- lowed her, and di'ew the plugs for letting down the milk. " I fancied you looked a little downcast when you came in," she ventured to observe, anxious to keep away from the subject of herseK. " Yes — well, my father has been talking a good deal to me of his troubles and difficulties, and the subject always tends to depress me. He is so zealous that he gets many snubs and buifetings from people of a different way of thinking from himself, and I don't like to hear of such humiliations to a man of his age, the more particularly as I don't think earnestness does any good when carried so far. He has been telhng me of a very unpleasant scene in which he took part cjuite recently. He went as the deputy of some missionary society to preach in the neighborhood of Trantridge, a place forty miles from here, and made it his business to expostulate with a j^oung rake-hell he met with somewhere about there — son of some landowner up that way, who has an afflicted mother. My father ad- di'essed himself to the gentleman point-blank, and there was quite a disturbance. It was very foolish of my father, I 196 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. must say, to intrude Ms conversation upon a stranger wlien the probabilities were so obvious that it would be useless. But whatever he thinks to be his duty, that he'll do, in season or out of season ; and, of course, he makes many enemies not only among the absolutely vicious, but among the easy-going, who hate being bothered. He says he glories in what happened, and that good may be done in- dii-ectlv ; but I wish he would not so wear himself out now that he is getting old, and would leave such pigs to their wallowing." Tess's look had grown hard and worn, and her ripe mouth tragical ; but she no longer showed any tremulous- ness. Clare's revived thoughts of his father prevented him noticing her particularly ; and so they went on do^^m the white row of liquid rectangles till they had finished and drained them off, when the other maids returned, and took the pails, and Deb came to scald out the leads for the new milk. As Tess withdrew, to go a-field to the cows, he said to her softly, "And my question, Tessie?" " Oh no — no ! " replied she, with grave firmness, as one who heard anew the moaning and turmoil of her own past in the allusion to Alec D'Urber\'ille. " It canH be ! " She went out towards the mead, joining the other milk- maids with a bound, as if trying to make the open air drive away her sad constraint. All the girls drew onward to the spot where the cows were gi^azing in the farther mead, the bevy advancing mth the bold grace of wild animals — the reckless un chastened motion of women accustomed to un- hmited space — in which they abandoned themselves to the air as a swdmmer to the wave. It seemed natural enough to him now that Tess was again in sight to choose a mate from unconstrained Nature, and not from the abodes of Ai-t. THE CONSEQUENCE. 197 XXVIII. Her refusal, tliougli unexpected, did not permanently daunt Clare. His experience of women was great enough for Mm to be aware that the negative often meant nothing more than the preface to the affirmative ; and it was little enough for him not to know that in the manner of the pres- ent negative there lay a great exception to the dallyings of co}Tiess. That she had already permitted him to make love to her he read as an additional assurance, not fully trow- ing that in the fields and pastures to "sigh gratis" is by no means disesteemed ; lov^e-making being here more often ac- cepted inconsiderately and for its own sweet sake than in the carking, airxious homes of the ambitious, where a girl's craving for an establishment paralyzes her natural thought of a passion as an end. " Tess, why did you say ' no ' in such a positive way ? " he asked her in the course of a few davs. She started. " Don't ask me. I told you — partly. I am not good enough — not worthy enough." ^^ How ? Not fine lady enough ? " '^^Yes — something like that," murmured she. "Your friends would scorn me." " Indeed, vou mistake them — mv father and mother. As for my brothers, I don't care " He clasped his fingers behind her back to keep her from slipping away. " Now — you did not mean it. Sweet ? — I am sui'e you did not ! You have made me so restless that I cannot read, or play, or do anji^hing. I am in no hurry, Tess, but I want to know — to hear from your o^vn warm lips — that you will some day be mine — any time you may choose ; but some day ? " She could only shake her head and look away from him. Clare regarded her attentively, conned the characters of 198 TESS OF THE D'URBER'V ILLES. her face as if they had been hieroglyphics. The denial seemed real. ^' Then I ought not to hold you in this way — ought I ? I have no right to you — no right to seek out where you are, or walk with you ! Honestly, Tess, do you love any other man ? " "How can you ask!'' she said, with continued self -sup- pression. " I almost know that you do not. But then, why do you repulse me ? '' '' I don't repulse you. I like you to — tell me you love me : and you may always tell me as you go about with me • — oh yes, you may — and never offend me ! " " But you mil not accept me as a husband ? " ''Ah, that's different — it is for 3^our good, indeed, my dearest ! O, believe me, it is only for your sake ! I don't like to give myseK the great happiness o' promising to be yours in that way, because — because I am sure I ought not to do it." '' But you will make me happy ! " " Ah — ^you think so, but you don't know ! " At such times as this, apprehending the gi^ounds of her refusal to be her sense of incompetence for the position proper to the wife of a man like himself, he would then say that she was wonderfully well informed and versatile — which was certainly true, her natural quickness, and her ad- miration for him, having led her to pick up his vocabulary, his accent, and fragments of his knowledge, to a surjorising extent. After these tender contests, as they may be called, and her victory, she would go away by herself under the remotest cow, if at milking-time, or into the sedge, or into her room, if at a leisure interval, and mourn silentty, not a minute after an apparently phlegmatic negative. The struggle was so fearful : her own heart was so strongly on the side of his — two ardent hearts against one poor little conscience — that she tried to fortify her resolu- tion by eveiy means in her power. She had come to Tal- THE CONSEQUENCE. 199 bothays wdth a made-up mind. On no account could she agree to a step wliicli, by reason of her history, might cause bitter rueing to her husband for liis blindness in Avedding her. And she held that what her conscience had decided for her when her mind w^as unbiassed ought not to be over- rided now. For two or three days no more was said. She guessed from the sad countenances of her chamber companions that they regarded her not only as the favorite, but as the chosen ; but they could see for themselves that she did not put herself in his way. Tess had never before known a time in which the thread of her life was so distinctly twisted of two strands, positive pleasure and positive pain. At the next cheese-making the pair were again left alone together. The dair}anan him- self had been lending a hand ; but Mr. Crick, as w^ell as his w^if e, seemed latterly to have acquired a suspicion of mutual interest between these tw^o, though they walked so circum- spectly that suspicion was but of the faintest. Anyhow, the dairyman left them to themselves. They were breaking up the masses of curd before putting them into the vats. The operation resembled the act of crumbhng bread on a large scale ; and amid the immacu- late whiteness of the curds Tess Durbevfield's hands showed themselves of the pinkness of the rose. Angel, w^ho was filling the vats with his handfuls, suddenly ceased, and laid his hands flat upon hers. Bending lower, he kissed the in- side vein of her soft, bare arm. Although the early September weather was sultry, her arm, from dabbling in the curds, was as cold and damp to his mouth as a new^-gathered mushroom, and tasted of the "whey. But she was such a sheaf of susceptibilities that her pulse was accelerated by the touch, her blood was driven to her finger-ends, and the cool arms flushed hot. Then, as though her heart had said, " Is coyness longer necessar}^ ? Truth is truth between man and woman^ as between man 200 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. and man/' she turned up lier eyes, and they beamed de- Yotedl}^ into his as her hp rose in a tender half -smile. ^' Do yon know why I did that, Tess ? " he said. '^ Because you love me very much," she replied. " Yes, and as a preliminary to a new entreaty." '' Not again ! " She looked a sudden fear that her resist- ance might break dow^i under her o\^^l desire. " Tess ! " he went on, '' I cannot think why you are so tantalizing. Why do you disappoint me so? You seem almost like a coquette, upon my life you do — a coquette of the fii^st ui'ban water ! The}' blow hot and blow cold, just as you do 5 and it is the very last sort of thing to expect to find in a retreat like Talbothays. . . . And yet, dearest," he quickly added, obser\T.ng how the remark had cut her, '' I know you to be the most honest, spotless creature that ever hved. So how can I suppose you a flirt ? Tess, why don't you like the idea of being my wife, if you love me as you seem to do f " " I have never said I don't like the idea, and I never could say it ; because — it isn't true ! " The stress now getting be- yond endm-ance, her lip quivered, and she was obhged to go away. Clare was so pained and perplexed that he ran after and caught her in the passage. " Tell me, teU me ! " he said, passionately clasping her, in forgetfulness of his curdy hands, " do tell me that you won't belong to anybody but me ! " ^^ I will, I will tell vou ! " she exclaimed. " And I wiU give you a complete answer, if you wiU. let me go now, Mr. Clare. I will tell you my experiences — all about myself — all ! " " Your experiences, dear ; yes, certainly ; any number." He expressed the assent in loving satire, looking into her face. '' My Tess has, no doubt, almost as many experiences as that wild convolvulus out there on the garden hedge, that opened itself this morning for the fii'st time. TeU me THE CONSEQUENCE. 201 anything, but don't use that wretched expression anj^ more about not being worthy of me." '' I TVT.11 not. And I'll give you my reasons to-morrow — next week " " Say on Sunday ? " "Yes, on Sunday." At last she got away, and did not stop in her retreat till she was in the thicket of pollard willows at the lower side of the barton, where she could be quite unseen. Here Tess flung herself down upon the rusthng undergroT\i:h of spear- grass, as upon a bed, and remained crouching in palpitating misery broken by momentary shoots of joy, wliich her fears about the ending could not altogether suppress. In reality, she was drifting into acquiescence. Every see-saw of her breath, every wave of her blood, every pulse singing in her ears, was a voice that joined with Nature in revolt against her scrupulousness. Reckless, inconsiderate acceptance of him ; to close with him at the altar, reveahng nothing, and chancing discovery at that first act in her drama; to snatch ripe pleasure before the iron teeth of pain could have time to shut upon her ; that was what love counselled ; and in almost a terror of ecstasy Tess confusedly divined that, despite her many months of lonely self -chas- tisement, wrestlings, communings, schemes to lead a future of austere isolation, love's counsel would prevail. The afternoon advanced, and still she remained among the willows. She heard the rattle of the pails when taken down from the forked stands ; the '^ waow-waow ! " which accompanied the getting together of the cows. But she did not go to the milking. They would see her agitation ; and the dairyman, thinking the cause to be love alone, would good-naturedly tease her ; and that harassment could not be borne. Her lover must have guessed her overwrought state, and invented some excuse for her non-appearance, for no in- quiiies were made or caUs given. At half -past six the sun 202 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. settled down upon the levels^ with the aspect of a gi-eat forge in the heavens, and presently a monstrous j)umpkin- like moon arose on the other hand. The pollard willows, tortured out of their natural shape by incessant choppings, became spiny-haired monsters as they stood up against it. She went in — and upstairs — without a light. It was now Wednesday. Thursday came, aud Angel looked thoughtfully at her from a distance, but intruded in no way upon her. The indoor milkmaids, Marian and the rest, seemed to guess that something definite was afoot, for they did not force any remarks upon her in the bed-cham- ber. Friday passed ; Saturday. To-morrow was the day. ''I shall gie way — I shall say yes — I shall let myself marry him — I cannot help it ! " she suddenly whispered, with her hot face to the pillow that night, on hearing one of the other gMs sigh his name in her sleep. "I can't bear to let anybody have him but me ! Yet it is a "WTong to him, and may kill liim when he knows I my heart — 0—0—0 ! " XXIX. '^ Now, who mid ye think I've heard news o' this morn- ing?" said Dairyman Crick, as he sat down to breakfast next day, with a riddling gaze round upon the munching men and maids. "Now just who mid ye think?" One guessed, and another guessed. Mrs. Crick did not guess, because she knew already. " Well," said the dairyman, "'tis that slack-twisted %ore's- bird of a feller. Jack Dollop. He's lately got married to a widow- woman." " Not Jack Dollop ? A ^^llain ?— to think o' that ! " said a. milker. Tlie name entered quickly into Tess Durbeyfield's con- i5 \J1 3 O a o H 2 z 2 o o ?3 O d ■a o 2 THE CONSEQUENCE. 203 scioiisness, for it was the name of the lover who had wronged his sweetheart, and had afterwards been so roughly used by the young woman's mother in the butter-chui'n. ''And has he married the valiant matron's daughter, as he promised ? " asked Angel Clare, absently, as he turned over the newspaper he was reading at the little table to which he was always banished l^y Mrs. Crick in her sense of his gentility. ''Not he, su'. Never meant to," replied the daii'yman. "As I say, 'tis a widow- woman, and she had money, it seems — fifty i^ounds a year or so ; and that was all he was after. They were married in a gi^eat hurry; and then she told him that by marrying she had lost her fifty pounds a year. Just fancy the state o' my gentleman's mind at that news ! Never such a cat-and-dog life as they've been leading ever since ! Serves him well beright. But onluckily the poor woman gets the w^orst o't." " Well, the silly body should have told him sooner that the ghost of her first man would trouble him," said Mrs. Crick. " Ay, ay," responded the dairjTiian, indecisively. " Still, you can see exactly how it was. She wanted a home, and didn't hke to run the risk of losing him. Don't ye think that was something like it, maidens ? " He glanced towards the row of gu4s. " She ought to ha' told him just before they went to church, when he could hardly have backed out," exclaimed Marian. "Yes, she ought," agreed Izz. " She must have seen what he was after, and should ha' refused him ! " cried Retty, spasmodically. " And what do you say, my dear ? " asked the dairjinan of Tess. " Ought women to tell everything at such times ? " "I think she ought — to have told him the true state of things — or else refused him — I don't know," replied Tess, the bread-and-butter choking her. 204 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. u Be cnst if I'd have done either o't," said Beck Knibbs, a married helper from one of the cottages. "All's fair in love and war. I'd ha' married en just as she did, and if he'd said two words to me about not telling him beforehand an}i:hing whatsomdever about my first chap that I hadn't chose to tell, I'd ha' knocked him down m' the rolhng-pin — a scram little fellow like he ! Any woman could do it." The laughter which followed tliis sally was supplemented only by a sorry smile, for form's sake, from Tess. Wliat was comedy to them was tragedy to her ; and she could hardly bear their mirth. She soon rose from table, and, with an impression that Clare would foUow her, she went along a little TNTigghng path, now stepping to one side of the ir- rigating channels, and now to the other, till she stood by the main stream of the Var. Men had been * cutting the water-weeds higlier up the river, and masses of them were floating past her — moving islands of green crowfoot, on which she might almost have ridden ; long locks of which weed had lodged against the piles driven to keep the cows from crossing. Yes, there was the pain of it. This question of a woman telling her story — the heaviest of crosses to herself — seemed but amusement to others. It was as if people should laugh at mart}T:'dom. " Tess ! " came from behind her, and Clare sprang across the gully, alighting beside her feet. " My mfe — soon ! " " No, no ; I cannot. For your sake, dear Mr. Clare j for your sake, I say no." " Tess ! " " Still I say no ! " she repeated. Not expecting this, he had put his arm lightly round her waist the moment, after speaking, beneath her hanging tail of hair. (The younger daiiymaids, including Tess, break- fasted wdth their hair loose on Sunday mornings, before building it up extra high for attending church, a style they could not adopt when milking, because of butting their THE CONSEQUENCE. 205 heads against the cows.) If she had said ^^Yes" instead of "No" he would have kissed her; it had evidently been his intention ; but her determined negative deterred his scrupulous heart. Theu' condition of domiciliary comrade- ship put her, as the woman, to such disadvantage by its enforced intercourse, that he felt it to be unfair to her to exercise any pressure of blandishment which he might have honestly employed had she been better able to avoid him. He released her momentarily imprisoned waist, and withheld the kiss. It aU tui-ned on that release of her. What had given her strength to refuse him this time was solely the tale of the mdow told by the dairyman ; and that would have been overcome in another moment. But Angel said no more ; his face was perplexed ; he went away. Day after day they met — somewhat less constantly than before, and thus two or three weeks went by. The end of September drew near, and she could see in his eye that he meant to ask her again. His plan of procedure was different now. It seemed as though he had made up his mind that her negatives were, after all, only the result of coyness and youth, startled by the novelty of the proposal. The fitful evasiveness of her manner when the subject was under discussion counte- nanced the idea. So he played a more coaxing game ; and while never going beyond words, or attempting the renewal of caresses, he did his utmost orally. In this way Clare persistently wooed her — with quiet, never-ceasing pressure — in undertones Like that of the purl- ing milk, gently yet firmly — at the cow's side, at skimmings, at butter-makings, at cheese-makings, among broody poul- try, and among farrowing pigs — as no milkmaid was ever wooed before by such a sort of man. Tess knew that she must break down. Neither convic- tions on the moral validity of the previous union, nor a sense of fairness to Clare, could hold out against it much 206 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. longer. She loved hiin so passionateljj and he was so god- Hke in her eyes ; and being, though untrained, instinctively refined, her natiu^e cried for his tutelary guidance. And thus, though Tess kept repeating to herself, ''' I can never be his wife,-' the words were vain. A proof of her weakness lay in the very utterance of what calm strength would not have taken the trouble to formulate. Every sound of his voice beginning on the old subject stirred her with a terri- fying bhss, and she coveted the recantation she feared. His manner was — what man's is not ? — so much that of one who would love her, and cherish her, and defend her, under any conditions, changes, charges, or revelations, that her gloom lessened as she basked in it. The season mean- while was drawing onward to the equinox, and though it was still fine, the days were much shorter. The daiiy had again worked by morning candle-light for a long time 5 and a fresh renewal of Clare's pleading occui'red one morn- ing between three and four. She had run up in her bedgown to his door to call him as usual 5 then had gone back to di'ess and call the others ; and, in ten minutes, was walking to the head of the stairs with the candle in her hand. At the same moment, he came do\Mi his steps from the landing above in his shirt- sleeves, without any shoes, and put his arm across the staii'way. " Now, Miss Flirt, before you go down," he said, peremp- torily. '^ It is a fortnight since I spoke, and this won't do any longer. You nmst tell me what you mean, or I shall have to leave this house. My door was ajar just now, and I saw you. For your own safety I must go. You don't know. Well ? Is it to be yes at last ? " "I am only just up, Mr. Clare, and — it is too early to take me to task," she pouted. " You need not call me Flirt. 'Tis cruel and untrue. Wait till by and by. Please wait till by and by ! I will really think seriously about it be- tween now and then. Let me go downstairs ! " THE CONSEQUENCE. 207 Slie looked a little like v,4iat lie said she was, as, holding the caudle sideways, she tried to smile away the seriousness of her words. " Call me Angel, then, and not Mr. Clare." " Angel." " Angel, dearest — why not ? " a 'T would mean that I agree, wouldn't it ? " '^ It would only mean that 3'ou love me, even if you can- not marry me ; and you were so good as to own that long ago." "Very well, then, ^Angel, dearest,' if I must,''^ she mur- mured, looking at her candle, a roguish curl coming upon her mouth, notwithstanding her suspense. Clare had resolved never to kiss her until he had ob- tained her promise ; but somehow, as Tess stood there in her prettily tucked-up milking-gown, her hair carelessly heaped upon her head till there should be leism-e to arrange it when skimming and milking were done, he broke his re- solve, and brought his lips to her cheek for one moment. She passed downstau-s very quickly, never looking back at him, or saving another word. The other maids were alread}' down, and the subject was not pm-sued. Except Marian, they all looked wistfully and suspiciously at the pau', in the sad yellow rays which the morning candles emitted in contrast with the fii'st cold signals of the dawn without. TMien skimming was done — which, as the milk dimin- ished with the approach of autumn, was a lessening process day by day — Retty and the rest went out. The lovers fol- lowed them. "Our tremulous lives are so different from theii's, are they not?" he musingly observed to her, as he regarded the tliree figm-es tripping before him through the frigid pallor of opening da}^ " Not so very different, I think," she said. " Why do you think that ? " 208 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. ^' There be very few women's lives that are not — tremu- lous/' Tess replied, pausing over the new w^ord as if it im- pressed her. " There's more in those three than you tliink." ''What is in them?" ''Almost — either of 'em/' she began huskily, "would make — perhaps would make — a properer wife than I. And perhaps they love you as well as I — almost." " O Tessie ! " There were signs that it was an exquisite relief to her to hear the impatient exclamation, though she had resolved so intrepidly to let generosity make one bid against her- self. That was now done, and she had not the power to attempt self-immolation a second time then. They w^ere joined by a milker from one of the cottages, and no more was said on that which concerned them so deeply. But Tess knew that this day would decide it. In the afternoon several of the dairyman's household and assistants went doT\m to the meads as usual, a long way from the dairy, where many of the cows were milked with- out being driven home. The supply was getting less, as the animals were advancing in calf, and the supernumerary milkers of the lush green season had been dismissed. The work progressed leisurely. Each pailful was poured into tall cans that stood in a large spring wagon which had been brought upon the scene ; and when they were milked the cows trailed awa}^ Dairyman Crick, who was there with the rest, his wi'ap- per gleaming miraculously white against the leaden evening sky, suddenly looked at his heav}- watch. " Why, 'tis later than I thought," he said. " Begad ! We shan't be soon enough with this milk at the station, if we don't mind. There's no time to-day to take it home and mix it with the T^ulk afore sending off. It must go to sta- tion straight from here. Who'll drive it across ? " Mr. Clare volunteered to do so, though it was none of his business, asking Tess to accompany liim. The evening, THE CONSEQUENCE. 209 tlioiigli sunless, had been warm and muggy for the season, and Tess had come out mth her milking-hood only, and naked-armed and jacketless ; certainly not dressed for a drive. She therefore replied by glancing over her scant habiliments ; but Clare gently urged her. She assented by silently relinquishing her pail and stool to the dairyman to take home ; and mounted the spring wagon beside Clare. In the diminishing daylight they went along the level roadway through the meads, which stretched away into grayness, and were backed in the extreme mist of distance by the swarthy and abrupt slopes of Egdon Heath. On its summit stood clumps and stretches of fii'-trees, whose tips formed in some spots a saw-notched line upon the sky, and in others appeared like battlemented towers cro^vning black- fronted castles of enchantment. They were so absorbed in the sense of being close to each other that they did not begin talking for a long while, the silence being broken only by the clucking of the milk in the tall cans behind them. The lane they followed was so solitar}^ that the hazel-nuts had remained on the boughs till they slipped from theii- shells, and the blackberries hung in heav^^ clusters. Every now and then Angel would fling the lash of his whip round one of these, pluck it off, and give it to his companion. The dull sky soon began to tell its meaning by sending down herald drops of rain, and the stagnant air of the day changed into a fitful breeze which played about theh^ faces. The quicksilvery glaze on the rivers and pools vanished ; from broad m^irrors of light they changed to lustreless sheets of lead, with a surface like a rasp. But that specta- 14 210 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. cle did not affect her preoccupation. Her countenance^ a natui'al carnation slightly embrowned by the season, had deepened its tinge with the beating of the rain-di-ops, and a portion of her hair, which the pressure of the cows' flanks had, as usual, caused to tumble down from its fastenings, hung below the curtain of her calico bonnet ; and the rain began to make it clammy, till it hardly was better than sea- weed. '^ I ought not to have come, I suppose," she murmured, looking at the sky. " I am Sony for the rain," said he. " But how glad I am to have you here ! " Remote Egdon disappeared by degrees behind the liquid gauze. The evening grew darker, and the road being crossed by gates, it was not safe to drive faster than at a walking pace. The air was rather chill. '' I am so afraid you will get cold, with nothing upon your arms and shoulders," he said, surveying her. '' Creep close to me, and perhaps it won't hurt you much. I should be sorrier still if I did not think that the rain might be helping me." She imperceptibly crept closer, and he wi*apped round them both a large piece of sail-cloth which was sometimes used to keep the sun off the milk-cans. Tess held it from slipping off him as well as herself, Clare's hands being oc- cupied. " Now we are all right again. Ah — no, we are not ! It runs down into my neck a little, and it must still more into yours. That's better. Your arms are like wet marble, Tess. Wipe them in the cloth. Now, if you stay quiet, you will not get another drop. Well, dear — about that question of mine — that long-standing question ? " Tlie only reply that he could hear for a while was the smack of the horse's hoofs on the moistening road and the cluck of the milk in the cans behind them. "Do you remember what you said f " THE CONSEQUENCE. 211 " I do/' she replied. '^ Before we get home, miiid." " I'll trv." He said no more then. As they drove the fragment of an old manor-house of Caroline date rose against the sky, and was in due course passed and left behind. " That," he observed, to entertain her, " is an interesting old place — one of the several seats which belonged to an ancient Norman family, formerly of great influence in this county — the D'Urbervilles. I never pass one of their resi- dences without thinking of them. There is something very sad in the extinction of a family of renown, even if it is fierce, domineering, feudal renown." "Yes," said Tess. They crept along towards a point in the expanse of shade before them at which a feeble light was beginning to assert its presence, a spot where, by day, a fitful white streak of steam at intervals upon the dark green background denoted intermittent moments of contact between their secluded world and modern life. Modern life stretched out its steam feeler to this point three or fom' times a day, touched the native existences, and quickly withdrew its feeler again, as if what it touched had been uncongenial. They reached the feeble light which came from the smoky lamp of a httle railway station ; a poor enough terrestrial star, yet in one sense of more importance to Talbothays Dairv and mankind than the celestial ones to which it stood in such humiliating contrast. The cans of new milk were unladen in the rain, Tess getting a little shelter from' a neighboring holly-tree. Then there was the hissing of a train, which drew up almost silently upon the wet rails, and the milk was rapidly lifted into the van. The hght of the engine flashed for a second upon Tess Durbeyfield's figure, motionless mider the great holly-tree. No object could have looked more foreign to the gleaming cranks and wheels than this un- 212 TESS OF THE D'URBER^TI.LES. sophisticated gii'l, with the round bare arms, the rainy face and hair, the suspended attitude of a friendly leopard at pause, the cotton gown of no date or fashion, and the wing- bonnet drooping on her brow. She mounted again beside her lover, mth a mute obe- dience characteristic of impassioned natures at times, and when they had wrapped themselves up over head and ears in sail-cloth again, they plunged back into the now thick night. Tess was so receptive that the few minutes of con- tact with the whirl of material progress lingered in her thoughts. '^ Londoners will drink it at their breakfasts to-morrow, won't they?" she asked. "Strange people that we have never seen." " Yes — I suppose they will. Though not as we send it. When its strength has been lowered, so that it may not get up into their heads." '^ Noble men and noble women, ambassadors and centu- rions, ladies and tradeswomen, and babies who have never seen a cow." " Well, 3^es ; perhaps ; particularly centui'ions." "T\'T:io don't know anything of us, and where it comes from ; or think how we two drive miles across the moor to-night in the rain that it might reach 'em in time ? " " We did not drive entirely on account of these precious Londoners ; we drove a httle on our o^Y^l — on account of that anxious matter which you -v^dll, I am sure, set at rest, dear Tess. Now, permit me to put it in this way. You belong to me already, you know; your heart, I mean. Does it not?" " You know as well as I. Oh yes — yes ! " " Then, if your heart does, why not your hand ? " " My only reason was on account of you — on account of a question. I have something to teU you " " But suppose it to be entirely for my happiness, and my worldly convenience also ? " THE CONSEQUENCE. 213 " Oh yes ; if it is for your happiness and worldly con- venience. But my life afore I came here — I want " " Well, it is for my convenience as well as my happiness. If I have a very large farm, either English or Colonial, you will be invaluable as a wife to me ; better than a woman out of the largest mansion in the country. So please — please, dear Tess — disabuse yom^ mind of the feehng that you '^tlII stand in my way." " But my history. I want you to know it — you must let me tell you — vou will not like me so well ! " " Tell it if you wish to, dearest. This precious history, then. Yes, I was born at so-and-so. Anno Domini " " I was born at Marlott," she said, catching at his words as a help, lightly as they were spoken. "And I grew up there. And I was in the Sixth Standard when I left school, and they said I had great aptness, and should make a good teacher, so it was settled that I should be one. But there was trouble in my family ; my father was not very indus- trious, and he drank a httle." '' Yes, yes. Poor child ! Nothing new." He pressed her more closely to his side. " And then — there is something very unusual about it — about me." Tess's breath cpuckened. " Yes, dearest. Never mind." '^ I — I . . . am not a Durbevfield, but a D'Urberville — a descendant of the old family that owned the house we passed. And — we be all gone to nothing ! " " A D'Urberville ! . . . Indeed ! And is that aU the trouble, dear Tess ? " " Yes," she answered, faintly. " Well, why should I love you less after knowing this ? " " I was told by the dairyman that you hated old families." He laughed. " Well, it is true, in one sense. I do hate the aristocratic principle of blood before everji^hing, and do think that the only pedigTees we ought to resjject as reason- ers are those spiritual ones of the wise and virtuous, with- 214 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. out regard to corporeal paternity. But I am extremely in- terested in this news — yon can have no idea how interested I am. Ai'e not you interested youi'self in being one of that well-known Hne ? " " I have thought it interesting — once or twice, especially" since coming here, and knowing that many of the liills and fields I see once belonged to my father's people. But other hills and fields belonged to Retty's people, and perhaps others to Marian's, so that I don't value it iDarticularly." " Yes — it is surprising how many of the present tillers of the soil were once owners of it, and I sometimes wonder that a certain school of jDohticians don't make capital of the circumstance ; but they don't seem to know it. ... I wonder that I did not see the resemblance of your name to D'Urber\dlle, and trace the manifest conniption. And this was the carking secret ! " At the last moment her courage had failed her, she feared his blame for not telling him sooner ; and her instinct of self-preservation was stronger than her candor. "Of coui'se," continued the imwitting Clare, "I should have been glad to know you to be descended exclusively from the long-suffering, dumb, unrecorded rank and file of the English nation, and not from the self-seeking few who made themselves powerful at the expense of the rest. But I am corrupted away from that by my affection for you, Tess [he laughed as he spoke], and made selfish likewise. For your own sake I rejoice in your descent. Society is hopelessly snobbish, and this fact of your extraction may make an appreciable difference to its acceptance of you as my wife, after I have made you the w^ell-read woman that I mean to make you. My mother, too, poor soul, will think so much better of you on account of it. Tess, joii must spell your name correctly — D'Urberville — from this very day." " I like the other way rather best." " But you must, dearest ! Good heavens ! why, dozens of THE CONSEQUENCE. 215 mushroom millionaires would jump at such a possession ! By the by, there's one of that kidney who has taken the name — where ha\'e I heard of him ? — up in the neighbor- hood of The Chase, I think. Why, he is the very man who had that rumpus with my father I told you of. What an odd coincidence ! " " Angel, I think I would rather not take the name ! It is unlucky, perhaps." She was agitated. "Now then, ^Mistress Tess D'Urberville, I have you. Take my name, and so you will escape youi's ! The secret is out, so whv should vou anv lono-er refuse me?" ^' If it is sure to make you happy to have me as your wife, and you feel that you do wish to marry me, very, very much '' " I do, dearest, of com'se ! " " I mean, that it is only youi' wanting me very much, and being hardly able to keep alive without me, whatever my offence is, that would make me feel I ought to say I will." '' You will — vou do sav it, I know. You ^dU be mine forever and ever." He clasped her close and kissed her. " Yes." She had no sooner said it than she burst into a dry, hard sobbing, so violent that it seemed to rend her. Tess was not a hysterical giii by any means, and he was surprised. '' Why do you cry, dearest ? " " I can't tell — quite ! — I am so glad to think — of being yours, and making you happy." '• But this doesn^t seem very much like gladness, my Tessie." " I mean — I cry because I have broken down in my vow ! I said I would die unmarried." '' But, if you love me, you would Hke me to be your hus- band ? " '^ Yes, yes, yes ! But 0, I sometimes wish I had never been born ! " " Xow, my dear Tess, if I did not know that you are 216 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. very much excited, and very inexperienced, I should say that remark was not very comj)limentary. How came you to wish that if you care for me ? Do you care for me ? I wish you would prove it in some way." "How can I prove it more than I have done?" she cried, in a distraction of tenderness. " Will this prove it more ? " She clasped his neck, and for the first time Clare learnt what an impassioned woman's kisses were like upon the lips of one whom she loved with all her heart and soul, as Tess loved him. " There — now do you beheve ? " she asked, wiping her eyes. " Yes. I never i*eally doubted — never, never ! " So they di-ove on tlirough the gloom, forming one bundle inside the sail-cloth, the horse going as he would, and the rain di'iving against them. She had consented. She might as well have agreed at first. The " appetite for joy," which stimulates all creation ; that tremendous force which sways humanity to its purpose, as the tide sways the helpless weed, was not to be controlled by vague lucubrations over the social rubric. " I must write to my mother," she said. " You don't mind my doing that ? " " Of course not, dear, dear child. You are a child to me, Tess, not to know how very proper it is to ^VYite to your mother at such a time, and how wrong it would be in me to object. Where does she live ? " '^At the same place — Marlott. On the farther side of Blackmoor Vale." " Ah, then I have seen you before this summer " " Yes ; at that dance on the green. But you would not dance with me. O, I hope that is of no ill-omen for us now ! " THE CONSEQUENCE, 217 XXXI. Tess "wrote a most toucliing and urgent letter to her niotlier the very next day, and by the end of the week a re- sponse to her communication arrived in Joan Durbeyfield's wandering, last-century hand. "Dear Tess, — " J write these few lines hoping they will find you well, as they leave me at present, thank God for it. Dear Tess, we are all glad to hear that you are really going to be mar- ried soon. But with respect to your question, Tess, J say between ourselves, quite private but very strong, that on no account do you say a word of your bygone trouble to him. J did not tell everything to youi- father, he being so proud on account of his respectability, which, perhaps, your Jntended is the same. Many a woman — some of the High- est in the Land — have had a Trouble in their time 5 and why should you Trumpet yours when others don't Trumpet theirs ? No girl would be such a fool, especially as it is so long ago, and not your Fault at all. J shall answer the same if you ask me Fifty Times. Besides, you must bear in mind that, knowing it to be your childish nature to tell all that's in your heart — so simple ! — J made you promise me never to let it out by Word or Deed, having your Wel- fare in my Mind ; and you solemnly did promise going from this Door. J have not mentioned either that question or your combing marriage to your father, as he would blab it everywhere, poor Simple Man. " Dear Tess, keep up your Spirits, and we mean to send you a Hogshead of Cider for your wedding, knowing there is not much in your parts, and thin Sour Staff what there 218 TESS OF THE D'URBERYILLES. is. So no more at present, and with kind love to your Young Man, ^' From voiu* affectionate Motlier, "J. DURBEYFIELD." " O mother, mother ! " mui-mured Tess. She was recognizing how light was the touch of events the most oppressive upon Mrs. Diu'beyfield's elastic spirit. Her mother did not see life as Tess saw it. That haunt- ing experience of the past, of which the scar still remained upon her soul, concealed as it might be by overgrowi:hs, was to her mother but a passing accident. But perhaps her mother was right as to the course to l)e f ollow^ed, what- ever she might be in her reasons. Silence seemed, on the face of it, best for her adored one's happiness : silence it should be. Thus steadied hj sl command from the only person in the world who had any shadow of right to control her action, Tess grew calmer. The responsibility was shifted, and her heart was lighter than it had been for weeks. The days of declining autumn which followed her assent, beginning mth the month of October, formed a season through which she lived in spiritual altitudes more nearly approaching ecstasy. than any other period of her life. There was hardly a touch of earth in her love for Clare. To her sublime trustfulness he was all that goodness could be — knew all that a guide, philosopher, and friend should know. She thought every Une in the contour of his person the perfection of masculine beauty, his soul the soul of a saint, his intellect that of a seer. The wisdom of her love for him, as love, sustained her dignity ; she seemed to be wearing a cro\\ai. The compassion of his love for her, as she saw it, made her lift up her heart to him in devotion. He would sometimes catch her large, worshipful eyes, that had no l)ottom to them, looking at him from their depths, as if she saw something immortal before her. THE CONSEQUENCE. 219 She dismissed the past — trod upon it and put it out, as one treads on a coal that is smouldering and dangerous. She had not known that men coidd be so disinterested, chivalrous, protective, in theu' love for women as he. Angel Clare was far from all that she thought him in this respect j but he was, in truth, more spiritual than animal ; he had himself well in hand, and was singularly free from grossness. Though not cold-natured, he was rather bright than hot — less Byronic than Shelleyan ; could love desper- ately, but his love more especially inchned to the imagina- tive and ethereal ; it was a fastidious emotion which could jealously guard the loved one against his very self. This amazed and enraptured Tess, whose slight ej^periences had been so inf ehcitous till now ] and in her reaction from in- dignation against the male sex she swerved to excess of honor for Clare. They unaffectedly sought each other's company ; in her honest faith she did not disguise her desii'e to be with him. The sum of her instincts on tliis matter, if clearly stated, would have been that the elusive quality in her sex which attracts men in general must be distasteful to so perfect a man after an avowal of love, since it must in its verv nature carry with it a suspicion of art. The country custom of unreserved comradeship out-of- doors dimng betrothal was the only custom she knew, and to her it had no strangeness ; though it seemed oddly an- ticipative to Clare till he saw how normal a thing she, in common with all the other dairy-folk, regarded it. Thus, during this October month of wonderful afternoons they roved along the meads b}^ creeping paths which followed the brinks of trickling tributary brooks, hopping across by little wooden bridges to the other side, and back again. They were never out of the sound of some purling weii', whose buzz accompanied their own murmuring, while the beams of the sun, almost as horizontal as the mead itself, formed a pollen of radiance over the landscape. They saw 220 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. tiny blue fogs in the shadows of trees and hedges all the time that there was bright sunshine elsewhere. The sun was so near the ground, and the sward so flat, that the shadows of Clare and Tess would stretch a quarter of a mile ahead of them, like two long fingers pointing afar to where the green alluvial reaches abutted against the sloping sides of the vale. Men were at work here and there — for it was the season for " taking up " the meadows, or digging the little water- ways clear for the mnter irrigation, and mending their banks where trodden down by the cov/s. The shovelfuls of loam, black as jet, brought there by the river when it was as wide as the whole valley, wxre an essence of soils, pounded champaigns of the past, steej)ed, refined, and sub- tilized to extraordinarv richness, out of which came all the fertility of the mead, and of the cattle grazing there. Clare hardily kept his arm round her waist in sight of these watermen, with the air of a man who was accustomed to pubUc dalliance, though actually as shy as she who, with lips parted and eyes askance on the laborers, wore the look of a wary animal the while. "You are not ashamed of owning me as yours before them ? " she said, gladly. " Oh no— no ! " " But if it should reach the ears of your friends at Em- minster that you be walking about like this mth me, a milkmaid " " The most bewitching milkmaid ever seen." " They might feel it a hurt to their dignity." "My dear girl — a D'Urber\ille hurt the dignity of a Clare ! It is a grand card to play — that of your belonging to such a family, and I am reser\dng it for a grand effect when we are married, and have the proofs of your descent from Parson Tringham. Apart from that, my future is to be totally foreign to my family's — it will not affect even the surface of their lives. We shall leave this part of England THE CONSEQUENCE. 221 — perhaps England itself — and what does it matter how people regai'd us here ? You will like going, will you not ? " She could answer no more than a bare affirmative, so great was the emotion aroused in her at the thought of go- ing through the world with him as his own familiar friend. Her feelings ahnost filled her ears like a babble of waves, and sm'ged up to her eyes. She put her hand in his, and thus they went on, to a place where the reflected sun glared up from the river, under a bridge, with a molten-metallic glow that dazzled their eyes, though the sun itself was hidden by the bridge. They stood still, whereupon little furred and feathered heads popped uj) from the smooth surface of the water ; but, finding that the disturbing pres- ences had paused and not passed by, they disappeared again. Upon this river-brink they lingered till the fog began to close round them — which was very early in the evening at this time of the year — settling on the lashes of her eyes, where it rested like crystals, and on his brows and hair. They walked later on Sundays, when it was. quite dark. Some of the daiiy-people, who were also out-of-doors on the fii'st Sunday evening after their engagement was sus- pected, heard her impulsive speeches, ecstasized to frag- ments, though they were too far off' to hear the words dis- coursed ; heard the spasmodic catch in her remarks, broken into syllables by the leapings of her heart between joy and fear, as she walked leaning on his arm ; noted her con- tented pauses, the occasional httle laugh, upon which her soul seemed to ride — the laugh of a woman in company with the man she loves and has won from all other women — unlike anything else in civilization. They saw the buoy- ancv of her tread, like the skim of a bird which has not quite alighted. Her affection for him was now the breath and life of Tess's being ; it enveloped her as a photosphere, ii-radiated her into forgetfulness of her past sorrows, keeping back 222 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. the gloomy spectres that would persist in their attempts to touch her — doubt, fear, moodiness, care, shame. She knew that they were waiting like wolves just outside the circum- scribing light, but she had long spells of power to keep them in hungry subjection there. A spu'ituai forgetfulness coexisted with an intellectual remembrance. She walked in bi'ightness, but she knew that in the background those shapes of darkness were always spread. They might be receding, or they might be ap- proaching, one or the other, a little every day. One evening Tess and Clare were obliged to sit indoors keeping house, all the other occupants of the domicile being away. As they talked she looked admiringly up at him, and met his two appreciative eyes. " I am not worth}^ of you — no, I am not ! " she bui'st out, jumping up from her low stool with ^\ald suddenness, as though appalled at liis homage, and the fulness of her o^ti joy thereat. Clare, deeming the whole basis of her excitement to be that which was only the smaller part of it, said, '' I won't have you speak like it, dear Tess ! Distinction does not consist in the facile use of a contemptible set of conven- tions, but in being numbered among those who are true, and honest, and just, and pure, and lovely, and of good re- port — as you are, my Tess." She struggled with the sob in her throat. How often had that string of excellences made her young heart ache in church of late years, and how strange that he should have cited them now. " Wliy didn't you stay and love me when I — was sixteen ; living with my little sisters and brothers, and you danced on the green ? 0, why didn't you, why didn't you ! " she cried, impetuously clasping her hands. Angel began to soothe and reassure her, thinking to himself, truly enough, what a creature of moods and im- THE CONSEQUENCE. 223 pulses slie was, and hoAv careful he would have to be of her when she depended for her happiness entu*ely on him. '' Ah — why didn't I come ! " he said, sentimentally. ^' That is just what I feel. If I had only known ! But you must not be so bitter in your regret — why should you be ? " With the woman's instinct to hide compromising events, she answered hastily : " I should have had three vears more of vour heart than I can ever have now. Then I should not have wasted my time as I have done — I should have had so much longer happiness." It was no mature woman with a long dark vista of in- trigue l^ehind her who was tormented thus by her past ; but a girl of simple life, not yet one-and-twenty, who had been caught during her days of immaturity like a bird in a springe. To calm herself the more completely, she arose from her little stool and left the room, overturning the stool with her skirts as she went. He sat on by the cheerful fii-elight thrown from a bundle of green ash-sticks laid across the dogs ; the sticks snapped pleasantly, and hissed out bubbles of sap from theii* ends. When she came back she was herself again. ^^ Do you not think you are just a wee bit capricious, fit- ful, Tess ? " he said, good-humoredly, as he spread a cushion for her on the stool, and seated himself in the settle beside her. "I wanted to ask you something, and just then you ran awav." ^'Yes, perhaps I am capricious," she murmui'ed. She suddenly approached him, and put a hand upon each of his arms. '' No, Angel, I bain't really so — by nature, I mean ! " The more particularly to assure him that she was not, she placed herself close to him in the settle, and allowed her head to find a resting-place against Clare's shoulder. '' What did 3'ou want to ask me — I am sure I T\aQ answer it," she continued, humblv. 224 TESS OF THE D'UKBERVILLES. li Well, you love me, and have agreed to many me, and hence there follows a thirdly, ^ When shall the day be ? ' " '^ I like living like this." ^^Bnt I must think of starting in business on my own hook with the new year, or a little later. And before I get involved in the multifarious details of my new position, I should like to have secured my partner." '^ But," she timidly answered, " to speak quite practically, wouldn't it be best not to marry tiU after all that ? — though I can't bear the thought o' youi' going away and leaving me here ! " " Of course you cannot — and it is not best in this case. I want you to help me in many waj^s in making my start. When shall it be ? Why not a fortnight from now ? " " No," she said, becoming grave ; " I have so many things to think of first." " But " He drew her gently nearer to him. The reality of marriage was startling now that it loomed so near. Before discussion of the question had proceeded further, there walked round the corner of the settle into the full firelight of the apartment Mr. Dauyman Crick, Mrs. Crick, and two of the milkmaids. Tess sprang like an elastic ball from his side to her feet, while her face flushed, and her eyes shone in the fireliglit. '^ I knew how it would be if I sat so close to him ! " she cried, with vexation. "I said to myself, they are sure to come and catch us ! But I wasn't really sitting on his knee, though it might have seemed as if I was almost ! " "Well — if so be you hadn't told us, I am sure we shouldn' ha' noticed that you had been sitting anywhere at aU, in this light," replied the dairyman. He continued to his wife, with the mien of a man who understood nothing of the emotions relating to matrimony : '' Now, Christian- ner, that shows that folk should never fancy other folks be supposing things when they bain't. Oh no, I should THE CONSEQUENCE. 225 never ha' tlioiight of her sitting on his knee if she hadn't told me — not I/' '' We are going to be married soon/' said Clare, with im- provised phlegm. " Ah — and be ye ! Well, I am truly glad to hear it, sir. I've thonght yon mid do such a thing for some time. She's too good for a dairjonaid — I said so the very iii'st day I saw her — and a prize for any man ; and what's more, a wonder- ful woman for a gentleman-farmer's wife ; he w^on't be at the mercy of his baily wi' her at his side." Somehow Tess disappeared. She had been even more struck with the look of the girls who followed Crick than abashed by Crick's blunt praise. After supper, when she reached her bedroom, they were all present. A light was burning, and each girl was sit- ting up in her bed, awaiting Tess, the whole like a row of avenging ghosts. But she saw in a few moments that there was no malice in theh^ mood. They could scarcely feel as a loss what they had never expected to have. Their condition was objective, contemplative. ^' He's going to marry her ! " mui'miu-ed Retty, never tak- ino' her eves off Tess. " How her face do show it ! " ''You he going to marry liim?" asked Marian. " Yes," said Tess. '' When ? " " Some day, perhaps." They thought that this was evasiveness only. "Yes — go- ing to marry him — a gentleman ! " repeated Izz Huett. And by a sort of fascination the three girls, one after another, crept out of theii* beds, and came and stood barefooted round Tess. Retty put her hands upon Tess's shoulders, as if to realize her friend's corporeality after such a miracle, and the other two laid their arms round her waist, all look- ing into her face. 15 226 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. ''' How it do seem ! Almost more than I can think of ! " said Izz Huett. Marian kissed Tess. ^' Yes," she murmured. " Was that because of h)ve for her, or because other lips touched there b}^ now ? " continued Izz, diyly, to Marian. ^' I wasn't thinking o' that," said Marian, sinijDly. •' I was on'y feeling all the strangeness o't — that she is to be his wife, and nobody else. I don't say nay to it^ nor either of us, because we did not think of it — only loved him. Still, nobody else is to maiTy him in the world — no fine lady, nobody in jewels and gold, in silks and satins j but she who, do live like w^e." "Are you sure you don't dislike me for it?" said Tess, in a low voice. They hung about her in their flowing white nightgowns before replying, as if they considered their answer might lie in her look. " I don't know — I don't know/' murmured Retty Priddle. " I want to hate 'ee ) but I cannot ! " "That's how I feel," echoed Izz and Marian. "I can't hate her. Somehow she do hinder me ! " " He ought to marry one of you," murmured Tess. ■" Why ? " " You are aU better than I." "We better than you?" said the gii'ls, in a low, slow whisper. " No, no, dear Tess ! " " You are ! " she contradicted, impetuously. And sud- denly tearing away from their clinging arms, she burst into- a hysterical fit of tears, bowing herself on the chest of dra^^ers, and repeating incessantly, " Oh yes, yes, 3^es ! " Haying once given way, she could not stop her weeping. "He -ought to have had one of you ! I think I ought to make hiin even now ! You would be better for him than — I don't know what I am saying. O ! O ! " They went up to her and clasped her round, but still her sobs tore her. "Get some water," said Marian. "She's upset by us, poor thing, poor thing ! " They gentty led her "they hcxg about hkr in their flowing white nightgowns." THE CONSEQUENCE. 227 back to the side of her bed, where they kissed her warmly. " You are best for'n/' said Marian. '' More ladylike, and a better scholar than we, especially since he has taught 'ee so much. But even you ought to be proud. You he proud, I'm sui'e ! '^ " Yes, I am," she said -, " and I am ashamed at so break- ing down ! " When they were all in bed, and the light was out, Marian whispered across to her, " You will think of us when you be his wife, Tess, and of how we told 'ee that we loved him, and how we tried not to hate you, and did not hate you, and could not hate you, because you were his choice, and we never hoped to be chose by him." They were not aware that, at these words, salt, stinging tears trickled down upon Tess's pillow anew, and how she resolved, with a bui'sting heart, to tell all her history to Angel Clare, despite her mother's command — to let him for whom she lived and breathed despise her if he would, and her mother regard her as a fool, rather than preserve a silence which might be deemed a treachery to him, and which somehow seemed a wrong to these. XXXII. This penitential mood kept her from naming the wedding- day. The beginning of November found its date still in abeyance, though he asked her at the most tempting times. But Tess's desh'e seemed to be for a perpetual betrothal, in which everything should remain as it was then. The meads were changing now ; but it was still warm enough in early afternoons before milking to idle there awhile, and the state of daiiy-work at this time of year al- lowed a spare hour for idhng. Looking over the damp sod 228 TESS OF THE D'UKBERVILLES. in the direction of the sun, a ghstening ripple of gossamer- webs was visible to their eyes under the luminary, hke the track of moonlight on the sea. Gnats, knowing nothing of their brief glorification, wandered across the air above this pathway, irradiated as if they bore fire within them, then passed out of its hue, and were quite extinct. In the pres- ence of these things he would remind her that the date was stni the question. Or he would ask her at night, when he accompanied her on some mission invented by Mrs. Crick to give him the opportunity. This was mostly a jom^ney to the farmhouse on the slopes above the vale, to inquire how the advanced cows were getting on in the straw-barton to which they were relegated. For it was a time of the year that brought gi'eat changes to the world of kine. Batches of the animals were sent away daily to this lying-in hospital, where they lived on straw till their calves were born, after which event, and as soon as the calf could walk, mother and offspring were driven back to the dairy. In the interval which elapsed before the calves were sold there was, of course, little milk- ing to be done, but as soon as the calf had been taken away the milkmaids would have to set to work as usual. Returning from one of these dark walks, they reached a gi^eat gravel-cM immediately over the levels, where they stood still and listened. The water was now high in the streams, squu'ting through the weirs, and tinkling under culverts ; the smallest gulleys were all full ; there was no taking short cuts anj'wdiere, and foot-passengers were com- pelled to foUow the permanent ways. From the whole ex- tent of the invisible vale came a multitudinous intonation 5 it forced upon the fancy that a gi'eat city lay below them, and that the murmur was the vociferation of its populace. " It seems like tens of thousands of them," said Tess ; " holding public meetings in their market-places, arguing, preaching, quarrelling, sobbing, groaning, praying, and cursing," THE CONSEQUENCE. 229 Clare was not particularly heeding. ^^Did Crick speak to you to-day, dear, about his not wanting much assistance during the winter months ? '' ^'No." " The cows are going diy rapidly." " Yes/' she answered. " Six or seven went to the straw- barton yesterday, and three the day before, making near twenty in the straw already. Ah — is it that the farmer don't want my help for the cahdng ? O, I am not wanted here any more ! And I have tried so hard to " "Crick didn't exactly say that he would no longer re- quire you. But, knowing what oiu* relations were, he said, in the most good-natured and respectful manner possible, that he supposed, on my leaving at Christmas, I should take you with me, and on my asking what he would do without you, he merely observed that, as a matter of fact, it was a time of year when he could do with a very little female help. I am afraid I was sinner enough to feel rather glad that he was in this way forcing your hand." " I don't think you ought to have felt glad. Angel. Be- cause 'tis always mournful not to be wanted, even if at the same time 'tis convenient." "Well, it is convenient — you have admitted that." He put his finger upon her cheek. " Ah ! " he said. "Wliat?" " I feel the red rising up at her having been caught ! But why should I trifle so ! We will not trifle — life is too seiious." " It is — I saw that before you did." She was seeing it then. To dechne to many him after all — in obedience to her emotion of last night — and leave the dairy, meant to go to some strange place, not a daiiy ; for milkmaids were not in request now calving-time was coming on ; to go to some arable farm, where no divine being like Angel Clare was. She hated the thought, and she hated more the thought of going home. 230 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. "So that, seriously, dearest Tess," he continued, "since you will probably have to leave at Christmas, it is in every way desii-able and convenient that I should carry you off then as my property. Besides, if you were not the most uncalculating girl in the world you would know that we could not go on like this forever." " I wish we could. That it would always be summer and autumn, and you always courting me, and always thinking as much of me as you have done through the past summer- time ! " " I always shall." " O, I know you will ! " she cried, with a sudden fervor of faith in him. " Angel, I will fix the day when I will be- come yours for always." Thus at last it was aiTanged be- tween them, during that dark walk home, amid the myriads of liquid voices on the right and left. When they reached the dairy Mr. and Mrs. Crick were promptly told — with injunctions to secrecy ; for each of the lovers was desirous that the marriage should be kept as private as possible. The dairyman, though he had thought of dismissing her soon, now made a great concern about losing her. What should he do about his skimming ? Who would make the ornamental butter-pats for the Melchester and Sandboui'ne ladies? Mrs. Crick congratulated Tess on the shilly-shallying having at last come to an end, and said that directly she set eyes on Tess she di\dned that she was to be the chosen one of somebody who was no common outdoor man ; Tess had looked so genteel and superior as she walked across the barton on that afternoon of her ar- rival ; that she was of a good family she could have sworn. In point of fact, Mrs. Crick did distinctly remember think- ing that Tess was unusually gi'aceful and pretty as she ap- proached ; as for the gentility and superiority, they might have been a growth of the imagination aided by subsequent knowledge. Tess was now carried along upon the wings of the hours, THE CONSEQUENCE. 231 wdtlioiit the sense of a will. The word had been given; the number of the day written down. Her naturally bright intelligence had begun to admit the fatalistic convictions common to field-folk and those who associate more exten- sively with natm-al phenomena than with their fellow- creatures; and she accordingly drifted into that passive responsiveness to all things her lover suggested^ character- istic of the frame of mind. But she wrote anew to her mother^ ostensibly to notify the wedding-day; really to again implore her advice. It was a gentleman who had chosen her, which perhaps her mother had not sufficiently considered. A post-nuptial ex- planation, which might be accepted with a light heart by a rougher man, might not be received with the same feeling by him. But this communication brought no reply from Mrs. Durbeyfield. Despite Angel Clare's plausible representations to himself and to Tess of the practical need for theii' immediate mar- riage, there was, in truth, an element of precipitancy in the step, as became apparent at a later date. He loved her dearly, though perhaps rather ideally and fancifully than with the impassioned thoroughness of her feeling for him. He had entertained no notion, w^hen doomed, as he had thought, to an unintellectual bucolic life, that such charms as he beheld in this idvllic creature w^ould be found behind the scenes. Unsophistication was a thing to talk of ; but he had not known how it really struck one until he came here. But he was very far from seeing his future track clearly, and it might be a year or two before he would be able to consider himself fairlv started in life. The secret lay in the tinge of recklessness imparted to his career and character by the sense that he had been made to miss his true destiny through the prejudices of his family. '' Don't vou think 'twould ha' been better for us to wait till you w^ere quite settled in your midland farm ! " she once asked timidly. (A midland farm was the idea just then.) 232 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. ^'To tell tlie truth, my Tess, I don't like you to be left anywhere away from my influence and sympathy." The reason was a good one, so far as it went. His in- fluence over her had been so marked that she had caught his manner and habits, his speech and phrases, his likings and his aversions. And to leave her in farm-land would be to let her slip back again out of accord with him. He wished to have her under his charge for another reason. His parents had naturally desired to see her once at least before he carried her off to a distant settlement, English or Colonial; and as no opinion of theirs w^as to be allowed to change his intention, he judged that a couple of months' life with him in lodgings whilst seeking for an advantageous opening would be of some social assistance to her at what she might feel to be a trying ordeal — her presentation to his mother at the vicarage. Next, he wished to see a little of the working of a flour- mill, ha\ing an idea that he might combine the use of one with corn-growing. The proprietor of a large old water- mill at Wellbridge — once the mill of an abbey — had offered him the inspection of his time-honored mode of procedure, and a hand in the operations for a few days, whenever he should choose to come. Clare paid a \dsit to the place, some few miles distant, one day at this time, to inquire par- ticulars, and retui'ued to Talbothays in the evening. She found him determined to spend a short time at the Well- bridge flour-mills ; and what had determined him ? Less the opportunity of an insight into grinding and bolting than the casual fact that lodgings were to be obtained in that very farmhouse which, before its mutilation, had been the mansion of a branch of the D'Urberville family. This was always how Clare settled practical questions; by a sentiment which had nothing to do with them. They de- cided to go immediately after the wedding, and remain for a fortnight, instead of journeying to towns and inns. "Then we will start off to examine some farms on the THE CONSEQUENCE. 233 other side of London that I have heard of," he said, " and by March or April we will pay a visit to my father and mother.'^ Questions of procedure such as these arose and passed, and the day, the incredible day, on w^hich she was to become his, loomed large in the near futui'e. The thirty-first of December, New Year's Eve, was the date. His wife, she said to herself. Could it ever be? Their two selves to- gether, nothing to di\dde them, every incident shared by tliem : why not ? And yet why ? One Sunday morning Izz Huett returned from churchy and spoke privately to Tess. ^' You was not called home * this morning." " What ? " " It should ha' been the first time of asking to-day," she answered, looking quietly at Tess. "You meant to be married New Yeai-'s Eve, deary ! " The other returned a quick affirmative. '^ And there must be three times of asking. And now there be only two Sundays left between." Tess felt her cheek pahng. Izz was right ; of course there must be tliree. Perhaps he had forgotten. If so, there must be a week's postponement, and that was un- luckv. How could she remind her lover ? She who had been so backward was suddenly fired with impatience and alarm lest she should lose her dear prize. A natural incident relieved her anxietv. Izz mentioned the omission of the banns to Mrs. Crick, and Mrs. Crick took a matron's privilege of speaking to Angel on the point. " Have ye forgot 'em, Mr. Clare. The banns, I mean.'' " No, I have not forgot 'em," said Clare. As soon as he caught Tess alone he assured her. ''Don't let them tease you about the banns. A hcense ^ill be quieter for us, and I have decided on a Hcense without con- * "Called home" — local phrase for publication of banns. 234 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. suiting you. So if you go to church on Sunday morning you will not hear your own name, if you wished to.'^ '^ I didn't wish to hear it, dearest/' she said, proudly. But to know that things were in train was an immense relief to Tess notwithstanding, who had weU-nigh feared that somebody would stand up and forbid the banns on the ground of her history. How events were favoring her ! " I don't feel quite easy," she said to herself. " All this good fortune may be scourged out o' me afterwards by a lot of ill. That's how G-od mostly does. I wish I could have had common banns ! " But everything went smoothly. She wondered whether he would like her to be married in her present best white frock, or if she ought to buy a new one. The question was set at rest by his forethought, disclosed by the arrival of some large packages addressed to her. Inside them she found a whole stock of clothing, from bonnet to shoes, in- cluding a perfect morning costume, such as would well suit the simple wedding they planned. He entered the house shortly after the arrival of the packages, and heard her up- stairs undoing them. A minute later she came down with a flush on her face and tears in her eyes. "How thoughtful you've been ! " she murmured, her cheek upon his shoulder. " Even to the gloves and handkerchief ! My own love — how good, how kind ! " "No, no, Tessie; just an order to a tradeswoman in London — nothing more," said he ; and to divert her from thinking too highly of him he told her to go upstairs, and take her time, and see if it all fitted ; and, if not, to get the village seamstress to make a few alterations. She did return upstairs, and put on the gown. Alone, she stood for a moment before the glass looking at the effect of her silk attune ; and then there came into her head her mother's ballad of the mystic robe, That never would become that wife That had once done amiss, THE CONSEQUENCE. 235 which Mrs. Durbeyfield had used to sing to her as a child, so blithely and so archly, her foot on the cradle, which she rocked to the tune. Suppose this robe should betray her condition by its changing color, as her robe had betrayed Queen Guenever. Since she had been at the dairy she had not once thought of the lines tiU now. XXXIII. Angel felt that he would like to spend a day mth her before the wedding somewhere away from the dairy, as a last jaunt in her company while they were yet mere lover and mistress ; a romantic day, in circumstances that would never be repeated ; mth that other and greater day beam- ing close ahead of them. During the preceding week, therefore, he suggested making a few pm^chases in the nearest town, and they started together. Clare's life at the dairy had been that of a recluse in re- spect to the world of his own class. For months he had never gone near a town, and, requii^ing no vehicle, had never kept one, hiring the dairyman's cob or gig if he rode or 'di'ove. They went in the gig that day. And then for the first time in their lives they shopped as partners in one concern, that of theii' future domicile. It was Christmas Eve, with its loads of holly and mistletoe, and the town was very full of strangers who had come in from all parts of the country on account of the day. Tess paid the penalty of walking about with happiness super- added to beauty on her countenance by being much stared at as she moved amid them on his arm. In the evening they returned to the inn at which they had put up, and Tess waited in the entry while Angel went to see the horse and gig brought to the door. The general 236 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. sitting-room was full of guests, who were continually going in and out. As the door opened and shut each tune for the passage of these, the light within the parlor fell full upon Tess's face. Two men came out and passed by her among the rest. One of them had stared her up and down in surprise, and she fancied he was a Trantridge man, though that ^nllage lay so many miles off that Trantridge folk w^ere rarities here. " A comely maid that," said the other. ^^ True, comely enough. But unless I make a gi*eat mis- take " And he negatived the remainder of the remark forthwith. Clare had just returned from the stable-yard, and, con- fronting the man on the threshold, heard the words, and saw the shrinking of Tess. The insult to her stung him to the quick, and, before he had considered anything at all, he struck the man on the chin with the full force of his fist, sending him staggering backwards into the passage. The man recovered himself, and seemed incUned to come on, and Clare, stepping outside the door, put himself in a posture of defence. But his opponent began to think bet- ter of the matter. He looked anew at Tess as he passed her, and said to Clare, " I beg pardon, su^ 5 'twas a complete mistake, I thought she was another woman, forty miles from here." Clare, feeling then that he had been too hasty, and that he was, moreover, to blame for leaving her standing in an inn passage, did what he usually did in such cases, gave the man five shillings to plaster the blow ; and thus they parted, bidding each other a pacific good-night. As soon as Clare had taken the reins from the ostler, and the young couple had driven off, the two men went in the other direction. " And was it a mistake ? " said the second one. " Not a bit of it. But I didn't want to hurt the gentle- man's feelings — not I." THE CONSEQUENCE. 237 In the meantime the Livers were ch-mng onward. " Could we i)iit off our wedding till a little later ? " Tess a§ked, in a di'v, dull voice. "I mean, if we wished?'' •• Xo. mv love. Calm vourself Do vou mean that the fc «. •- fellow mav have time to summon me for assaidt ? " he asked, good-humoredly. ••Xo — I only meant — if it should have to be pnt off." TVhat she meant was not verv clear, and he dii-ected her to dismiss such fancies fi'om her mind, which she obedi- entlv did as well as she coidd. But she was oTave. verv o-rave. all the wav home : till she thouo-ht, '* We shall o-o awav. a verv lonij distance, hundi'cds of miles from these parts, and such as this can never happen again, and no ghost of the past reach there." Even now, this Trantridge man was the lii*st she had seen in this part of the country diu'ing her residence here. They parted tenderly that night on the landing, and Clare ascended to his attic. Tess sat up finishing some little requisites, lest the few remaining days shoidd not afford sufficient time, and. wlide she sat, she heai'd a noise in Angel's room overhead, a sound of thumping and strug- ghng. Eveiybody else in the house was asleep, and, in her anxiety lest Clare should be ill. she ran up and knocked at his door, and asked him what was the matter. '• Oh. nothing, dear." he said fi-om within. "I am so sorry I distui'bed vou ! But the reason is rather an amusina- one : I fell asleep and di-eamed that I was fighting that fellow aeain who insulted vou. and the noise vou heard was my pummelling away with my fists at my portmanteau, which I piilled out to-day for packing. I am occasionally liable to these fi-eaks in my sleep. Go to bed, and think of it no more." This was the last drachm requu'ed to tm-n the scale of her indecision. Declare the past to him by word of mouth she could not : but there was another wav. She sat do^\'n and wrote on the fotu' pages of a note-sheet a succinct nar- 238 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. rative of those events of three or four years ago; put it into an envelope and directed it to Clare. Then, lest the flesh should again be weak, she crept upstairs without any shoes and sHpped the note under his door. Her night was a broken one, as it well might be, and she listened for the first faint noise overhead. It came, as usual; he descended, as usual. She descended. He met her at the bottom of the staii's and kissed her. Surely it was as warmly as ever. He looked a little distm'bed and worn, she thought. But he said not a word to her about her revelation, even when they were alone. Could he have had it ? Unless he began the subject, she felt that she could say nothing. So the day passed, and it was evident that whatever he thought he meant to keep to himself. Yet he was frank and affec- tionate as before. Could it be that her doubts were child- ish °? that he forgave her ? that he loved her for what she was, just as she was, and smiled at her disquiet as at a foolish nightmare ? Had he received her note ? She glanced into his room, and could see nothing of it. It might be that he forgave her. But even if he had not received it she had a sudden enthusiastic trust that he surely would forgive her. Every morning and night he was the same, and thus New Year's Eve broke — the wedding-day. The lovers did not rise at milking-time, having through the whole of this last week of their sojourn at the dahy been accorded something of the position of guests, Tess being honored with a room of her own. When they ar- rived downstairs at breakfast-time they were surprised to see what effects had been produced in the large kitchen to their glory since they had last beheld it. At some unnatural hour of the morning the dairyman had caused the yawning chimney-corner to be whitened, and the brick hearth red- dened, and a blazing yellow damask blower to be hung across the arch in the place of the old grimy blue cotton THE CONSEQUENCE. 239 one mth a black sprig pattern which had formerly done duty here. This renovated aspect of what was the focus indeed of the room on a dull winter morning threw a smil- ing demeanor over the whole apartment. " I was determined to do summat in honor o't/' said the daily man. "And as you wouldn't hear of my gieing a rattling good randy i' fiddles and bass-\dols complete, as we should ha' done in old times, this was all I could think o' as a noiseless thing." Tess's friends lived so far off that none could conven- iently have been present at the ceremony, even had any been asked ; but as a fact nobody was in\dted from Marlott. As for Angel's family, he had written and duly informed them of the time, and assured them that he would be glad to see one at least of them there for the day if he would hke to come. His brothers had not replied at all, seeming to be indignant with him ; while his father and mother had written a rather sad letter, deploring his precipitancy in rushing into marriage, but making the best of the matter by saying that, though a dairywoman was the last daugh- ter-in-law they could have expected, their son had arrived at an age at which he might be supposed to be the best judge. This coolness in his relations distressed Clare less than it would have done had he been without the grand card with which he meant to surprise them ere long. To produce Tess, fresh from the dairy, as a D'Urberville and a lady, he had felt to be temerarious and risky; hence he had concealed her lineage till such time as, familiarized vdth worldly ways by a few months' travel and reading with him, he could take her on a visit to his parents, and im- part the knowledge while triumphant^ producing her as worthy of such an ancient line. It was a pretty lover s dream, if no more. Perhaps Tess's lineage had more value for liimseK than for anybody in the world besides. Her perception that Angel's bearing towards her still re- mained in no whit altered by her own communication ren- 240 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. dered Tess guiltily doubtful if lie could have received it. She rose from breakfast bef oi:e he had finished, and hastened upstairs. It occui-red to her to look once more into the queer, gaunt room which had been Clare's den, or rather e}Tie, for so long, and chmbing the ladder, she stood at the open door of the apartment, regarding and pondering. She stooped to the threshold of the doorway, where she had pushed in the note two or three days earlier in such excite- ment. The carpet reached close to the sill, and under the edge of the carpet she discerned the faint white margin of the envelope containing her letter to him, which he ob^dously had never seen, owing to her ha\dng in her haste thrust it beneath the carpet as well as beneath the door. With a feeling of faintness she mthdrew the letter. There it was — sealed up, just as it had left her hands. The mountain had not yet been removed. She could not let him read it now, the house being in full bustle of prep- aration ; and descending to her own room, she destroyed the letter there. She was so pale when he saw her again that he felt quite anxious. The incident of the misplaced letter, though she had guessed that it might be so, overwhelmed her; what could she do at this late moment? Everything was in a stir; there was coming and going; all had to di'ess, the dairyman and Mrs. Crick having been asked to accompany them as witnesses; and reflection or deliberate talk was well-nigh impossible. The only moment Tess could get to be alone with Clare was when they met upon the landing. " I am so anxious to talk to vou — I want to confess all my faults and blunders," she said, mth attempted Hghtness. " No, no — we can't have faults talked of — you must be deemed perfect to-day at least, Sweet," he cried. "We shall have i)lcnty of time hereafter, I hope, to talk over our failings. I will confess mine at the same time." " But it would be better for me to do it now^ I think^ so that you could not say— 7? THE CONSEQUENCE. 241 "Well, you shall tell me any tiling — say, as soon as we are settled in our lodging ; not now. I, too, will tell you my faults then. But do not let us spoil the day with them ; they will be excellent matter for a dull time." " Then you don't wish me to, dearest ? " " I do not, Tess, really." The hmTy of dressing and starting left no time for more than this. Those words of his seemed to reassui-e her on further reflection, especially that the subject was one on which he would not have liked to speak to her. She was Avhirled onward through the next couple of critical hom's by the mastering tide of her devotion to him, which closed up fm'ther meditation. Her one desii'e, so long resisted, to make herself his, to call him her lord, her own — then, if necessary, to die — had at last lifted her up from her plod- ding reflective pathway. In dressing, she moved about in a mental cloud of many-colored idealities, which eclipsed all sinister contingencies by its brightness. The church was a long way off, and they were obliged to di'ive, particularly as it was "^\'inter. A close carriage was ordered from a roadside inn, a vehicle which had been kept there ever since the old days of post-chaise travelling. It had stout wheel-spokes and heavy felloes, a great curved bed, immense straps and springs, and a pole hke a batter- ing-ram. The postihon was a venerable "boy" of sixty — a martyr to rheumatic gout, the result of excessive exposure in youth, counteracted by strong liquors — who had stood at inn-doors, doiiig nothing, for the whole five-and-twenty years that had elapsed since he had no longer been required to ride professionally, as if expecting the old times to come back again. He had a permanent running wound on the outside of his right leg, originated by the constant bruis- ings of aristocratic carriage-poles during the many years that he had been in regular employ at the Golden Crown, Casterbridge. Inside this cumbrous and creaking structure, and behind 16 242 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. this decayed conductor, the partie carree took their seats — the bride and bridegroom and Mr. and Mrs. Crick. Angel would have liked one at least of his brothers to be present as groomsman, but their silence after liis gentle hint to that effect by letter had signified that they did not care to come. They disapproved of the marriage, and could not be ex- pected to countenance it. PerhajDS it was well that they could not be present ; they were not worldly young fellows, but fraternizing with dairy-folk would have struck unpleas- antly upon their biassed niceness, apart from their views of the match. Upheld by the momentum of the time, Tess knew noth- ing of this ; did not see it ; did not know the road they were taking to the church. She knew that Angel was close to her ; all the rest was a luminous mist. She was a sort of celestial person, who owed her being to poetry — one of those classical divinities Clare was accustomed to talk to her about when they took their walks together. The marriage being by hcense, there were only a dozen or so of people in the chui-ch ; had there been a thousand they would have produced no more effect upon her. They were at stellar distances from her present world. In the ecstatic solemnity wdth which she swore her faith to him, the ordinary sensibilities of sex seemed a flippancy. At a pause in the service, while they were kneeling together, she unconsciously inclined herself towards him, so that her shoulder touched his arm ; she had been frightened by a passing thought, and the movement had been automatic, to assure herself that he was really there, and to fortify her belief that his fidelity would be proof against all things. Clare knew that she loved him — every curve of her foi-m showed that — but he did not know at that time the full depth of her devotion, its single-mindedness, its meekness ; what long-suffering it guaranteed — what honesty, what en- durance, what good faith. As they came out of church the ringers swung the bells THE CONSEQUENCE. 243 off tlieir rests, and a modest peal of three notes broke forth — that Umited amount of expression having been deemed suificient for the Joys of such a small parish. Passing by the tower with her husband on the path to the gate, she could feel the \dbrant air humming round them from the lou\Ted belfry in a circle of sound, and it matched the highly charged mental atmosphere in which she was li\dng. Tills condition of mind wherein she felt glorified by an iiTadiation not her own, like the Angel whom St. John saw in the sun, lasted till the sound of the church-bells had died away, and the emotions of the wedding ser\dce had calmed down. Her eyes could dwell upon details more clearly now, and Mr. and Mrs. Crick ha^dng du'ected their own gig to be sent for them, to leave the carriage to the young couple, she observed the build and character of that conveyance for the first time. Sitting in silence, she regarded it long. '^ I fancy you seem oppressed, Tessie ! " said Clare. " Yes," she answered, putting her hand to her brow. ^' I tremble at many tilings. It is all so serious. Angel. Among other things I seem to have seen this carriage before, to be very ^^'ell acquainted with it. It is very odd — I must have seen it in a dream." "0 — you have heard the legend of the D'Urberville Coach — that well-known superstition of this county about your family when they were very popular here ; and this lumbering old thing reminds you of it." ^' I have never heard of it to my knowledge," said she. "What is the legend — may I know it?" " Well — I would rather not tell it in detail just now. A certain D'UrberviUe of the sixteenth or seventeenth century committed a dreadful crime in his family coach ; and since that time members of the family see or hear this old coach whenever But I'll teU you another day — it is rather gloomy. E^ddently some dim knowledge of it has been 244 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. brought back to your mind by tlie sight of this venerable caravan." ^^I don't remember hearing it before/' she murmured. " Is it when we are going to die, Angel, that members of my family see it, or is it when we have committed a crime ? " " Now, Tess ! " He silenced her by a kiss. By the time they reached home she was contrite and spiritless. She was Mrs. Angel Clare, indeed, but had she any moral right to the name ? Was she not more truly Mrs. Alexander D'UrberviUe ? Could intensity of love jus- tify what might be considered in upright souls as culj^able reticence ? She knew not what was expected of women in such cases ; and she had no counsellor. However, when she found herself alone in her room for a few minutes — the last day this on which she was ever to enter it — she knelt do^\Ti and prayed. She tried to pray to God, but it was her husband who really had her suppHca- tion. Her idolatry of this man was such that she herself almost feared it to be ill-omened. She was conscious of the notion expressed by Friar Laui'ence : ^' These ^dolent delights have violent ends." It might be too desperate for human conditions — too rank, too ^^dld, too deadly. " O my love, my love, why do I love you so ! " she whispered there alone ; " for she you love is not my real self, but one in my image ; the one I might have been." Afternoon came, and mth it the hour for departure. They had decided to fulfil the plan of going for a few days to the lodgings in the old farmhouse near Wellbridge Mill, at which he meant to reside dui'ing his investigation of flour-processes. At two o'clock there was nothing left to do but start. All the servantry of the daiiy were standing in the red-brick entry to see them go out, the dairjanan and his wife follomng to the door. Tess saw her three cham- ber-mates in a row against the wall, pensively inclining their heads. She had much questioned if they would ap- pear at the parting moment ; but there they were, stoical THE CONSEQUENCE. 245 and staunch to the last. She knew why the dehcate Retty looked so fragile, and Izz so tragically sorrowful, and Mar- ian so blank ; and she forgot her own dogging shadow for a moment in contemplating theii's. She impulsively whispered to him: "Will you kiss 'em all, once, poor things, for the first and last time ? " Clare had not the least objection to such a farewell for- mahty — which was all that it was to him — and as he passed them he kissed them in succession where they stood, saying " Good-by " to each as he did so. When they reached the door Tess femininely glanced back to discern the effect of that kiss of charity ; there was no triumph in her glance, as there might have been. If there had it would have dis- appeared when she saw how moved the girls all were. The kiss had obviously done harm by awakening feelings they were tr\dng to subdue. Of all this Clare was unconscious. Passing on to the wicket-gate he shook hands with the dairyman and his wife, and expressed his last thanks to them for their atten- tions ; after which there was a moment of silence before they had moved off. It was interrupted by the crowing of a cock. The white one A^dth the rose comb had come and settled on the palings in front of the house, within a few yards of them, and his notes thrilled their ears through, dwindling away hke echoes down a vaUey of rocks. '' O ? " said Mrs. Crick. " An afternoon crow ? " Two men were standing by the yard-gate, holding it open. " That's bad," one murmm^ed to the other, not thinking that the words could be heard by the group at the door- wicket. The cock crew again — straight towards Clare. '' Well ! " said the dairyTuan. "I don't like to hear him ! " said Tess to her husband. *^ Tell the man to drive on. Good-by, good-by ! " The cock crew again. 246 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. " Hoosh ! Just you be off, sir, or I'll twist your neck ! " said the dairyman with some irritation, turning to the bird and driving him away. And to his wife as they went in- doors : " Now, to think o' that just to-day ! Pve not heard his crow of an afternoon all the year afore." ^' It only means a change in the weather/' said she j " not what you think : 'tis impossible ! " XXXIV. They drove by the level road along the valley to a dis- tance of a few miles, and, reaching Wellbridge, tm-ned away from the village to the left, and over the great Ehzabethan bridge Avhich gave the place half its name. Immediately behind it stood the house in which they had engaged lodg- ings, whose exterior is so well known to aU travellers through the Froom VaUey 5 once portion of a fine manorial residence, the property and home of a D'Urberville, but since its partial demoUtion a farmhouse ; an adaptation by no means singular in this district, where there are few old farm homesteads which have not, at some time or other, before ten estates were merged in one, been the seat of a lando^Tier. " Welcome to one of your ancestral mansions ! " said Clare as he handed her down. But he repented the pleas- antry ; it was too near a satii-e. On entering they found that, though they had only en- gaged a couple of rooms, the farmer had taken advantage of their proposed presence during the few coming days to pay a New Year's visit to some friends, lea\dng a Avoman from a neighboring cottage to minister to their few wants. The absoluteness of possession pleased them, and they real- ized it as the first moment of their experience under their own exclusive roof -tree. THE CONSEQUENCE. 247 But he found that the mouldy old habitation somewhat depressed his bride. When the carriage was gone they ascended the stands to wash theii* hands, the charwoman showing the way. On the landing Tess stopped and started. " What's the matter 1 " said he. " Those horrid women ! " she answered, with a smile. " How they frightened me ! " He looked up and perceived two life-size portraits on panels built into the masonry. As all \dsitors to the man- sion are aware, these paintings represent women of middle age, of a date some two hundred years ago, whose linea- ments once seen can never be forgotten. The long, pointed features, narrow eye, and smirk of the one, so suggestive of merciless treachery, the bilhhook nose, large teeth and bold eye of the other, suggesting arrogance to the point of ferocitv, haunt the beholder afterwards in his dreams. '^ Wliose portraits are those ? '' asked Clare of the char- woman. " I've been told by the old folk that they were ladies of the D'Urberville family, the ancient lords of this manor," she said. '' Owing to their being builded into the wall they can't be removed." The unpleasantness of the matter was that, in addition to their effect upon Tess, her fine features were unquestion- ably traceable in theh' exaggerated forms. He said nothing of this, however 5 and regretting that his romantic plan of choosing this house for their bridal time was proving to be a mistake, went on into the adjoining room. The place having been rather hastily prepared for them, they washed their hands in one basin. Clare touched hers under the water. ^' Wliich are my fingers and w^hich are yours?" he said, looking up. " They are very much mixed." ^' They are all yours," said she, very prettily, and endeav- ored to be gayer than she was. He had not been displeased ■with her thoughtf ulness on such an occasion 5 it was what 248 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. every sensible woman wonld show 5 but Tess knew that she had been thoughtful to excess, and struggled against it. The sun was so low on that short last afternoon of the year that it shone in thi'ough a small opening and formed a golden staff which stretched across to her skirt, whero it made a spot like a paint-mark set upon her. They went down to the ancient parlor to tea, and here they shared their first common meal alone. Such was their childish- ness, or rather his, that he found it interesting to use the same bread-and-butter plate as herself, and to brush crumbs from her lips with his own. He wondered a little that she did not enter into these frivolities with his own zest. Looking at her silently for a long time, " She is a dear, dear Tess," he thought to himself, as one deciding on the true construction of a difficult passage. "Do I realize solemnly enough how utterly and irretrievably this little womanly thing is the creatm^e of my good or bad faith and fortune ? I think not. I think I could not, unless I were a woman mvself. What I am, she is. "What I become she must become. What I cannot be she cannot be. And shall I ever neglect her, or hurt her, or even forget to consider her ? God forbid such a crime ! " They sat on over the tea-table, waiting for their luggage, w^hich the dairyman had promised to send before it grew dark. But evening began to close in, and the luggage did not arrive, and they had brought nothing more than they stood in. With the departure of the sun the calm mood of the winter day changed. Out-of-doors there began noises as of silk smartly rul)bed ; the restful dead leaves of the preceding autumn were stirred to irksome resurrection, and whirled about unwillingly, and tapped against the shutters. It soon began to rain. " That cock knew the weather was going to change," said Clare. The woman who had attended upon them had gone home for the night, but she had placed candles upon the table, THE CONSEQUENCE. 249 and now they lit them. Each candle-flame drew towards the fireplace. " These old houses are so draughty," continued Angel, looking at the flames, and at the grease guttering doTvn the sides. " I wonder where that luggage is f We haven't even a brush and comb." " I dont know," she answered, absent-minded. " Tess, you are not a bit cheerful this evening — not at all as you used to be. Those harridans upstairs have unsettled you. I am sorry I brought you here. I wonder if you really love me, after all ? " He knew that she did, and the words had no serious in- tent; but she was surcharged with emotion, and winced hke a wounded animal. Though she tried not to shed tears, she could not help showing one or two. " I did not mean it," said he, sorry. " You are worried at not ha\dng your things, I know. I cannot think why old Jonathan has not come mth them, ^^ly, it is seven O'clock ! Ah, there he is ! " A knock had come to the door, and, there being nobody else to answer it, Clare went out. He returned to the room T\dth a small package in his hand. " It is not Jonathan, after all," he said. '' How vexing ! " said Tess. The packet had been brought by a special messenger, who had anived at Talbothays from Emminster Vicarage im- mediately after the departm-e of the married couple, and had followed them hither, being under injunction to deliver it into nobodv's hands but theirs. Clare brought it to the light. It was less than a foot long, sewed up in canvas, sealed in red wax with his fathei-'s seal, and directed in his father's hand to " Mrs. Angel Clare." " It is a little wedding-present for you, Tess," said he, handing it to her. " How thoughtful they are ! " Tess looked a little flustered as she took it. " I think I would rather have you open it, dearest," said 250 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. she, after examining the parcel. "I don't like to break those great seals j they look so serious. Please open it for me ! " He undid the parcel. Inside was a case of morocco leather, on the top of which lay a note and a key. The note was for Clare, in the following words : '^My dear Son, — " Possibly you have forgotten that on the death of your godmother, Mrs. Pitney, when you were a lad, she — vain, kind woman that she was — left to me a portion of the con- tents of her jewel-case in trust for your wife, if you should ever have one, as a mark of her affection for you and whom- soever you should choose. This trust I have fulfilled, and the diamonds have been locked up at my banker's ever since. Though I feel it to be a somewhat incongruous act in the cu'cumstances, I am, as you will see, bound to hand over the articles to the woman to whom they will now rightly belong, and they are therefore promptly sent. They become, I be- lieve, heirlooms, strictly speaking, according to the terms of your godmother's will, the precise words of which that refer to this matter are enclosed." "I do remember," said Clare; "but I had quite forgot- ten." Unlocking the case, they found it to contain a necklace, with pendant, bracelets, and ear-rings ; and also some other small ornaments. Tess seemed afraid to touch them at first, but her eyes sparkled for a moment as much as the stones when Clare spread out the set. " Ai'e they mine ? " she asked, incredulously. " They are, certainly," said he. He turned to the fire. He remembered how, when he was a lad of fifteen, his godmother, the Squire's wife — the only rich person AAdth whom he had ever come in contact — THE CONSEQUENCE. 251 had pinned her f aitli to his success ; had prophesied a won- drous career for him. There had seemed nothing at all out of keeping with such a conjectured career in the storing up of these show^ ornaments for his wife, and the wives of her descendants. They gleamed somewhat ironically now. " Yet why f " he asked himself. It was but a question of vanity throughout ; and if that were admitted into one side of the equation it should be admitted into the other. His wife was a D'Urberville : whom could they become better than her ? Suddenly he said with enthusiasm, " Tess, put them on — put them on ! " And he tm^ned from the fire to help her. As if by magic she had already donned them — necklace, ear-rings, bracelets, and all. " But the gown isn't right, Tess," said Clare. " It ought to be a low one for a set of brilliants hke that." " Ought it ? " said Tess. " Yes," said he. He suggested to her how to tuck in the upper edge of her bodice, so as to make it roughly approx- imate to the cut for evening wear ; and when she had done this, and the pendant to the necklace hung isolated amid the whiteness of her throat, as it was designed to do, he stepped back to survey her. " My heavens," said Clare, '^ how beautiful you are ! " She astonished him. As evervbodv knows, fine feathers make fine birds : a peasant gu4 but very moderateh^ pre- possessing to the casual observer in her simple condition and attire will bloom as an amazing beauty if clothed as a woman of fashion with the aids that Art can render ; while the beauty of the midnight crush would often cut but a sorry figure if placed inside the field-woman's ^\Tapper upon a monotonous acreage of turnips on a dull day. He had never till now realized the artistic excellence of Tess's limbs and features. '' If you were only to appear in a ballroom ! " he said. " But no — no, dearest ; I think I love you best in the wing- 252 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. bonnet and cotton frock — yes, better than in this, well as you support these dignities." Tess's sense of her striking appearance had given her a flush of excitement, which was yet not happiness. '^ril take them off/' she said, "in case Jonathan should see me. They are not fit for me, are they ? They must be sold, I suppose 1 " " Let them stay a few minutes longer. Sell them ? Never. It would be a breach of faith." Influenced by a second thought, she readily obeyed : she had something to tell, and there might be help in these. She sat down with the jewels upon her; and they again indulged in conjectures as to where Jonathan could possi- bl}^ be with their baggage. The ale they had j)oured out for his consumption when he came had gone flat with long standing. Shortly after this they began supper, which was already laid on a side-table. Before they had finished there was a jerk in the fire-smoke, the rising skein of which bulged out into the room, as if some giant had laid his hand on the chimney-top for a moment. It had been caused by the opening of the outer door. A hea^^^ step was now heard in the passage, and Angel went out. " I couldn' make nobody hear at all by knocking," apolo- gized Jonathan Kail, for it was he at last ; " and as 'twas raining out I opened the door. I've brought the things, sir." " I am ver}^ glad to see them. But you are very late." " Well, yes, sir." There was something subdued in Jona- than Kail's tone which had not been there in the day, and lines of concern were ploughed upon his forehead in addi- tion to the lines of years. He continued : "We've aU been gallied at the dairy at what might ha' been a most terrible affliction since you and vour mis'ess — so to name her now — left us this a'ternoon. Perhaps you ha'nt forgot the cock's afternoon crow?" THE CONSEQUENCE. 253 ^' Dear me ; — wliat- ?7 "Well, some says it do mane one thing, and some an- other ; but what's happened is that poor little Retty Priddle hev tried to drown herself." " No ! Really ! Why, she bade us good-by with the rest " " Yes. Well, sir, when you and your mis'ess — so to name what she lawful is — when you two di'ove away, as I say, Retty and Marian put on their bonnets and went out 5 and as there is not much doing now, being New Year's Eve, and folks mops and brooms from what's inside 'em, nobody took much notice. They went on to Lew-Everard, w^here they had some'at to drink, and then on they vamped to Dree-armed Cross, and there they seem to have parted, Retty striking across the water-meads as if for home, and Marian going on to the next village, where there's another public-house. Nothing more was seed or heard o' Retty till the waterman, on his way home, noticed some'at by the Great Pool, and 'twas her bonnet and shawl packed up. In the water he found her. He and another man brought her home, thinking 'a was dead ; but she came round by de- grees." Angel, suddenly recollecting that Tess was overhearing this gloomy tale, went to shut the door between the passage and the ante-room to the inner parlor where she was ; but his "vvife, flinging a shawl round her, had approached and was listening to the man's narrative, her eyes resting ab- sently on the luggage and the drops of rain glistening upon it. " And, more than this, there's Marian ; she's been found dead di'unk by the ^\dthy-bed — a girl who hev never been kno^vn to touch an}i;hing before except shilling ale ; though to be sure, 'a was always a good trencher- woman, as her face showed. It seems as if the maids had all gone out o' their minds ! " " And Izz ? " asked Tess. 254 TESS OF THE D'URBERYILLES. " Izz is about house as usual ; but 'a do say 'a can guess how it happened ] and she seems to be very low in mind about it, poor maid, as well she mid be. And so you see, sir, as all this happened just when we was packing your few traps and your mis'ess's night-rail and di'essing things into the cart, why, it belated me." ^^ Yes. Well, Jonathan, will you get the trunks upstairs, and drink a cup of ale, and hasten back as soon as you can, in case you should be wanted ? " Tess had gone back to the inner parlor, and sat down by the fire, looking wistfully into it. She heard Jonathan Kail's hea\y footsteps up and down the stairs till he had done placing the luggage, and heard him express his thanks for the ale her husband took out to him, and for the gratu- ity he received. Jonathan's footsteps then died from the door, and his cart creaked awav. Angel slid forward the massive oak bar which fastened the door, and coming in to where she sat over the hearth, pressed her cheeks between his hands from behind. He expected her to jump up gaily and unpack the toilet gear that she had been so anxious about, but as she did not rise, he sat down with her in the firelight, the candles on the supper-table being too thin and glimmering to interfere wdth its glow. " I am so sorry you should have heard this sad story," he said. ^' Still, don't let it depress you. Retty was natm*aUy morbid, you know." " Without the least cause," said Tess. " While they who have cause to be, hide it, and pretend they are not." This incident had turned the scale for her. They were simple and innocent girls on whom the unhappiness of un- requited love had fallen ; they had deserved better at the hands of Fate. She had deserved worse, yet she Avas the chosen one. It was wicked of her to take all without pay- ing. She would pay to the uttermost farthing ; she would THE CONSEQUENCE, 255 tell, there and then. This final determination she came to when she looked into the fii'e, he holding her hand. A steady crimson glare from the now flameless embers painted the sides and back of the fii'eplace with its color, and the well-pohshed andii'ons, and the old brass tongs that wonld not meet. The underside of the mantel-shelf was flushed with the unwavering blood-colored light, and the legs of the table nearest the fii'e. Tess's face and neck re- flected the same warmth 5 which each diamond tiu'ned into an Aldebaran or a Sirius — a constellation of white, red, and green flashes, that interchanged theii* hues with her every pulsation. " Do you remember what we said to each other this morning about telhng our faults T' he asked, abruptly, find- ing that she still remained immovable. " We spoke lightly, perhaps, and you may well have done so. But for me it was no Hght promise. I want to make a confession to you, love." This, from him, so unexpectedly apposite, had the effect upon her of a Providential interposition. " You have to confess something f " she said, quickly, and even with gladness and relief. " You did not expect it f Ah — you thought too highly of me. Now, listen. Put your head there, because I want you to forgive me, and not to be indignant with me for not telHng you before, as perhaps I ought to have done.*' How strange it was ! He seemed to be her double. She did not speak, and Clare went on : " But, darling, I did not mention it because I was afraid of endangering ni}^ chance of you, the great prize of my life — my fellowship I call you. My brother's fellowship was won at his college, mine at Talbothays Dauy. Well, I would not risk it. I was going to tell you a month ago — at the time you agi'eed to be mine, but I could not ; I thought it might frighten you away from me. I put it off ; 256 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. then I thought I would tell you yesterday, to give you a chance at least of escaping me. But I did not. And I did not this morning, when you proposed oui' confessing our faults on the landing: — the sinner that I was ! But I must, now I see you sitting there so solemnly. I wonder if you will forgive me ? '^ '' Oh ves ! I am sure that " '' Well, I hope so. But wait a minute. You don't know. To begin at the beginning. Though I believe my poor father fears that I am one of the eternally lost for my doc- trines, I am of course a believer in good morals, Tess, as much as you. I used to wish to be a teacher of men, and it was a great disappointment to me when I foimd I could not enter the Church. I loved spotlessness, even though I could lay no claim to it, and hated impmity, as I hope I do now. Whatever one may think of plenary inspiration, one must heartily subscribe to these words of Paul : ' Be thou an example — in word, in conversation, in charity, in spirit, in faith, in purity.' It is the only safeguard for us poor human beings. ' Integer ^dtae,' says a Roman poet, who is strange company for St. Paul : The man of upright life, from frailties free, O Fuscus, needs no Moorish spear and bow. Well, a certain place is paved with good intentions, and having felt all that so strongly, you will see what a terrible remorse it bred in me when, in the midst of my high aims for other people, I myself feU." He then told her of that time of his hf e to which allusion has been made when, tossed about by doubts and difficulties like a cork on the waves, he went to London and plunged into eight-and-forty hours' dissipation with a stranger. " Happily I awoke almost immediately to a sense of my foUy," he continued. " I would have no more to say to her, and I came home. I have never repeated the offence. But THE CONSEQUENCE. 257 I felt I should like to treat you mtli perfect frankness and honor, and I could not do so without telling this. Do you forgive me ? '^ She pressed his hand tightly for an answer. " Then we will dismiss it at once and forever — too pain- ful as it is for the occasion — and talk of something lighter.'' '' Angel — I am almost glad — because now you can for- give me ! I have not made my confession. I have a con- fession, too — remember, I said so." " Ah, to be sm^e ! Now then for it, wicked little one." u Perhaps, although you smile, it is as serious as youi's, or more so." " It can hardly be more serious, dearest." " It cannot — oh no, it cannot ! " She jumped up at the hope. " No, it cannot be more serious, certainly," she cried, " because 'tis just the same ! I vd\l tell you now." Then* hands Avere still joined. The ashes under the grate were lit by the fire vertically, like a torrid waste. Imagina- tion might have beheld a Last-Day luridness in this red- coaled glow, which stiU. fell on his face and hand, and on hers, peering into the loose hair about her brow, and firing the delicate skin underneath. A large shadow of her shape rose upon the wall and ceiling. She bent forward, at which each diamond on her neck gave a sinister wink like a toad's, and pressing her forehead against his temple she entered on the story of her acquaintance with Alec D'Urber\ille and its resiilts, murmuring the words without flinching, and with her eyeHds drooping down. 11 THE WOMAN PAYS XXXV. Her narrative ended ; even its re-assertions and second- ary explanations were done. Tess's voice throngliont had liardlj' risen higher than its opening tone ; there had been no exculpatory phrase of any kind, and she had not wept. But the complexion even of external things seemed to suffer transmutation as her announcement progressed. The fire in the grate looked impish — demoniacally funny, as if it did not care in the least about her strait. The fender grinned idly, as if it, too, did not care. The light from the water-bottle was merely engaged in a chromatic prob- lem. All material objects around announced their irre- sponsibility ^^^th terrible iteration. And yet nothing had changed since the moments when he had been kissing her ; or rather, nothing in the substance of things. But the essence of things had changed. When she ceased, the auricular impressions from their pre^dous endeai-ments seemed to hustle away into the corners of their brains, re- peating themselves as echoes from a time of supremely purblind foolishness. Clare performed the irrelevant act of stirring the fire ; the intelligence had not even yet got to the bottom of him. After stirring the embers he rose to his feet -, all the force of her disclosure had imparted itself now. His face lind THE WOMAN PAYS. 259 withered. In the streniiousuess of his concentration he treadled fitfully on the floor. He could not, by any con- trivance, think closely enough ; that was the meaning of his vague movement. Wlien he spoke it was in the most inadequate, commonplace voice of the many varied tones she had heard from him. '' Tess ! " "Yes, dearest." " Am I to believe this ? From vour manner I am to take ft/ it as true. O, you cannot be out of yom* mind ! You ought to be ! Yet you are not. . . . My wife, my own Tess ! — nothing in you warrants such a supposition as that ? " " I am not out of my mind," she said. " And yet " He looked vacantly at her, to resume with dazed senses : " Why didn't you tell me before ? Ah yes, you would have told me, in a way — but I hindered you, I remember ! " These and other of liis words were nothing but the per- functory babble of the surface while the depths remained paralyzed. He tiu'ned away, and bent over a chair. Tess followed him to the middle of the room where he was, and stood there staring at him with eyes that did not weep. Presently she slid down upon her knees beside his foot, and from this position she crouched in a heap. "In the name of our love, forgive me ! " she whispered with a diy mouth, " I have forgiven you for the same." And, as he did not answer, she said again, "Forgive me as you are forgiven." " I have no such hope," said he. " I forgive you, Angel." " You — yes, you do." " But you do not forgive me ?" '^ O Tess, forgiveness does not apply to the case ! You were one person ; now you are another. My God — how can forgiveness meet such a grotesque — prestidigitation as that ! " 260 TESS OF THE D'URBER^^LLES. He paused, contemplating tliis idea ; then suddenly broke into horrible laughter — as unnatural and ghastly as a laugh in hell. Sickly white, she jumped up. " Don't — don't ! It kills me quite, that ! " she shrieked. " O, have mercy upon me — have mercy ! . . . Angel ! An- gel ! what do you mean by that laugh ? " she cried out. " Do you know what this is to me ? " He shook his head. "I have been hoping, longing, praying, to make you hajDpy. I have thought what joy it will be to do it, what an unworthv mf e I shall be if I do not ! That's what I have felt, Angel ! " " I know that." " I thought, Angel, that you loved me — me, my very self ! If it is I you do love, O, how can it be that you look and sj)eak so ? It frightens me ! Having begun to love 'ee, I love ^ee forever — in all changes, in all disgraces, because you are yourself. I ask no more. Then how can you, my own husband, stop loving me ? " " I repeat, the woman I have been loving is not you." " But who ? " "Another woman in your shape." She perceived in his words the realization of her own apprehensive foreboding in former times. He looked upon her as a species of impostor ; a guilty woman in the guise of an innocent one. Terror was upon her white face as she saw it ; her cheek was flaccid, and her mouth had almost the aspect of a round little hole. The horrible sense of his view of her so deadened her appearance that he stepped forward, thinking she was going to fall. " Sit down, sit down," he said, gently. " You are ill ; and it is natural that you should be." She did sit down, without knowing where she was, that strained look still upon her face, and her eyes such as to make his flesh creep. " T don't belong to you any more, then ; do I, Angel ? " (( ( IN THE NAME OF HEAVEN, FORGIVE ME !' SHE WHISPERED." THE WOMAN PAYS. 261 she asked, lielplessty. " It is not me, but another woman like me that he loved, he says." By a momentary power of introspection, she seemed to take pity upon herseK as one who was ill-used. Her eyes filled as she regarded her position further; she turned round and burst into a flood of self-sympathetic tears. Angel Clare was reheved at this change, for the effect on her of what had happened was beginning to be a trouble to him only less than the woe of the disclosure itself. He waited patiently, apathetically, till the violence of her gTief had worn itself out, and her rush of weeping had lessened to a catching gasp at intervals. " Angel," she said, suddenly, in her natural tones, the in- sane, di'y voice of terror having left her now ; " Angel, am I too mcked for you and me to live together f " '^ I have not been able to think what we can do." " I shan't ask you to let me Hve mtli you, Angel, because I have no right to. I shall not write to mother and sisters to say we be married, as I said I would do ; and I shan't finish the good-hussif' I cut out and meant to make while we were in lodgings." '^ Shan't you?" '' No, I shan't do anything, unless you order me to ; and if you go away from me I shall not follow 'ee ; and if you never speak to me any more I shall not ask why, unless you tell me I may." " And if I do order you to do anything ? " " I will obey you like your perfect slave, even if it is to lie down and die." "You are very good. But it strikes me that there is a want of harmony between yom^ present mood of self-sacri- fice and your past mood of self-preservation." These were the first words of antagonism. To fling elab- orate sarcasms at Tess, however, was much like flinging them at a dog or cat. The charms of their subtlety passed by her unappreciated, and she only received them as inimical 262 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. sounds wliich meant that anger ruled. She remained mute, not knowing that he was desperately smothering his affec- tion for her. She hardly observed that a tear descended slowly upon his cheek, so large that it magnified the pores of the skin over which it roUed, like the object-lens of a mi- croscope. Meanwhile re-iUumination as to the terrible and total change that her confession had wrought in his life, in his universe, returned to him, and he tried desperately to ad- vance among the new conditions in which he stood. Some consequent action was necessary : yet what ? " Tess," he said, as gently as he could speak, " I cannot stay — ^in this room — ^just now. "I wjR walk out a httle way." He quietly left the room, and the two glasses of wine that he had poured out for their supper — one for her, one for him — remained on the table untasted. This was what then' supper — their Agape — had come to. At tea, two or three hours earlier, the}^ had, in the freakishness of affec- tion, drunk from one cup. The closing of the door behind him, gently as it had been pulled to, roused Tess from her stupor. He was gone ] she could not stay. Hastily flinging her cloak round her, she opened the door and followed, putting out the candles as if she were never coming back. The rain was over, and the night was now clear. She was soon close at his heels, for Clare walked slowly, and without purpose. His form beside her hght gray fig- ui'e looked black, sinister, and forbidding, and she felt as sarcasm the touch of the jewels of which she had been mo- mentarily so proud. Clare turned at hearing her footsteps, but his recognition of her presence seemed to make no difference in him, and he went on over the five yawning arches of the gi^eat bridge in front of the house. The cow and horse tracks in the road were full of water, the rain having been enough to charge them, but not enough to wash them away. Across these minute pools the reflected stars flitted in a quick transit as she passed ; THE WOIMAN PAYS. 263 she would not have known they were shining overhead if she had not seen them there — the vastest things of the uni- verse imaged in objects so mean. The place to which they had travelled to-day was in the same valley as Talbothays, but some miles lower down the river- and the surroundings being open she kept easily in sight of him. Away from the house the road wound through the meads, and along these she followed Clare without any attempt to come up with him or to attract liim^ but with dumb and vacant fidelitv. At last, however, her listless walk bought her up along- side him, and still he said nothing. The cruelty of fooled honesty is often gi'eat after enlightenment, and it was gi'eat in Clare now. The outdoor air had apparently taken away from him all tendency to act on impulse : he saw her with- out irradiation — in all her bareness. She knew that Time was chanting his satiric psahn at her then : Behold, when thy face is made bare, he that loved thee shall hate ; Thy face shall be no more fair at the fall of thy fate. For thy life shall fall as a leaf and be shed as the rain ; And the veil of thine head shall be grief, and the crown shall be pain. He was still intently thinking, and her companionship had now insufficient power to break or divert the strain of thought. What a weak thing her presence must have be- come to him ! She could not help addi'essing Clare. "What have I done — what have I done ? I have not told of anything that interferes with or beUes my love for you. You don't think I planned it, do you ? It is in yoiu* own mind what you are angry at, Angel 5 it is not in me. O, it is not in me, and I am not that deceitful woman vou think me ! " " H'm — well. Not deceitful, my wife ; but not the same. No, not the same. But do not make me reproach you ! I have sworn that I will not; and I do everything to avoid it." 264 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. But she went on pleading in her distraction j and per- haps said things that would have been }3etter left to silence. ''O Angel — Angel: I was a cliild — a child when it hap- pened ! I knew nothing of men." "You were more sinned against than sinning^ that I ad- mit." " Then will you not forgive me ? " " I do forgive you. But forgiveness is not all." " And love me ? " To this question he did not answer. " Angel — my mother says that it sometimes happens so — she knows several cases where thev were worse than I, and the husband has not minded it much — has forgiven her at least. And yet the woman has not loved him as I do you." "Don't, Tess, don^t argue. Different societies, different manners. You seem like an unappreciative peasant woman , who has never been initiated into the proportions of things. You don't know what you say." " I am only a peasant by position, not by natm^e." She spoke with an impulse to anger, but it went as it came. " So much the worse for you. I think that parson who unearthed your pedigree would have done better if he had held his tongue. I cannot help associating your decline as a family with this other fact — of your want of firmness. Decrepit families imply decrepit wills, decrepit conduct. God, why did you give me a handle for despising you more by informing me of your descent ! Here was I thinking you a new-sprung child of Nature ; there were you, the ex- hausted seed of an effete aristocracv ! " " Lots o' families are as bad as mine in that. Ketty's family were once large landowners, and so were Dairyman Billet's. And the Debbyhouses, who now be carters, were once the De Bayeux family. You find such as I every- where ; 'tis a feature of our county, and I can't help it." " So much the worse for the countv." THE W03L\N PAYS. 2G5 She took these reproaches in their biilk siniply, not in their particulars j he did not love her as he had loved her hitherto, and to all else she was indifferent. They wandered on again in silence. It w^as said after- wards that a cottager of "Wellbridge, who went out late that night for a doctor, met two lovers in the pastiu'es, walking very slowly, without converse, one beliind the other, as in a funeral procession, and the glimpse that he ol)- tained of their faces seemed to denote that they were anxious and sad. Betui*ning later, he passed them again in the same field, progressing just as slowly, and as regard- less of the hour and of the cheerless night as before. It was only on account of his preoccupation with his own affaii's, and the illness in his house, that he did not bear in mind the curious incident, which, however, he recalled a long while after. During the interval of the cottager's going and coming, she had said to her husband, " I don't see how I can help being the cause of much misery to you aU youi' Life. The river is down there. I can put an end to myself in it. I am not afraid.'^ ''I don't wish to add miu'der to my other follies," he said. " I will leave something to show that I did it myself — on account of my shame. They "woU not blame you then." " Don't speak so — I don't want to hear it ! It is absiu'd to have such thoughts in this kind of case, which is rather one for satirical laughter than for tragedy. You don't in the least understand the quality of the mishap. It would be viewed in the light of a joke by nine-tenths of the world, if it were known. Please oblige me by returning to the house, and going to bed." " I will," said she, dutifully. They had rambled round by a road which led to the weU- knoT\TL ruins of the Cistercian Abbev behind the mill, the latter having, in centuries past, been attached to the monas- 266 TESS OP THE D'URBERVILLES. tic establisliment. The mill still worked on, food being a perennial necessity j the abbey had perished, creeds being transient. One continnally sees the ministration of the temporary outlasting the ministration of the eternal. Their walk having been circuitons, they were still not far from the house, and in obeying his direction she only had to reach the large stone bridge across the main river, and follow the road for a few yards. When she got back everything remained as she had left it, the fire being still burning. She did not stay downstairs for more than a few moments, but proceeded to her chamber, whither the luggage had been taken. Here she sat down on the edge of the bed, looking vacantly around, and presently began to undress. In remo^dng the light towards the bedstead its rays fell upon the tester of white dimity ; something was hanging beneath it, and she lifted the candle to see what it was. A bough of mistletoe. Angel had put it there ; she knew that in an instant. This was the explanation of that mysterious parcel which it had been so difficult to pack and bring ; whose contents he would not explain to her, saying that time would soon show her the purpose thereof. In his zest and his gaiety he had hung it there. How foolish and inopportune that mistletoe looked now ! Having nothing more to fear, having scarce anything to hope, for that he would relent there seemed no promise whatever, she lay down dully. Wlien sorrow ceases to be speculative sleep sees her opportunity. Among so many happier moods which forbid repose this was a mood that welcomed it, and in a few minutes the lonely Tess forgot existence, surrounded by the aromatic stillness of the cham- ber that had once, possibly, been the bride-chamber of her own ancestry. Later on that night Clare also retraced his steps to the house. Entering softly to the sitting-room he obtained a light, and with the manner of one who had considered his course, he spread his rugs upon the old horsehair sofa THE WOJklAN PAYS. 267 which stood there, and roughly shaped it to a sleeping-couch. Before l}dng down he crept shoeless upstaii's, and listened at the door of her apartment. Her measured breathing told that she was sleeping profoundly. " Thank God ! " murmm^ed Clare ; and yet he was con- scious of a pang of bitterness at the thought — approxi- mately true, thouo^h not wholly so — that hayinsf shifted the burden of her life to his shoulders, she was now reposing without care. He tui'ued away to descend ; then, irresolute, faced round to her door again. In the act he caught sight of one of the D'Urberville dames, whose portrait was immediately oyer the entrance to Tess's bed-chamber. In the candle-light the painting was more than unpleasant. Sinister design hu'ked in its features, a concentrated i3urpose of reyenge on the other sex — so it seemed to him then. The Carohne bodice of the portrait was low, precisely as Tess's had been when he tucked it in to show the necklace ; and again he experienced the distressing sensation of a resemblance be- tween them. The check was sufficient. He resumed his retreat, and descended. His au' remained calm and cold, his small, compressed mouth indexing his powers of self-control; his face wear- ing still that terribly sterile expression wliich had spread thereon since her disclosure. It was the face of a man who was no longer passion's slaye, yet who found no adyantage in his enfi'anchisement. He was simply regarding the har- rowing contingencies of human experience, the unexpected- ness of things. Nothing so pure, so sweet, so truthful as Tess had seemed possible all the long while that he had adored her, up to an hour ago ; but The little less, and what worlds away ! He argued erroneously when he said to himseK that her heart was not indexed in the honest freshness of her face j 268 TESS OF THE D^URBERAaLLES. but Tess had no advocate to set liim right. Could it be possible, he continued, that eyes which as they gazed never expressed any divergence from what the tongue was telling, were yet ever seeing another world behind her apparent one, discordant and contrasting ? He reclined on his couch in the sitting-room, and extin- guished the light. The night came in, and took up its place there, unconcerned and indifferent; the night which had ah-eady swallowed up his happiness, and was now digesting it listlessly ; and was ready to swallow up the happiness of a thousand other people with as little disturbance or change of mien. XXXVI. Clare arose in the light of a dawn that was ashy and furtive, as though associated with crime. The fii-eplace confronted him mth its extinct embers ; the spread supper- table, whereon stood the two full glasses of untasted wine, now flat and filmv; her vacated seat and his own: the other articles of furniture, with theii- eternal look of not being able to help it, their intolerable inquiiy what was to be done? From above there was no sound; but in a few minutes there came a knock at the door. He remem- bered that it would be the neighboring cottager s \\if e, who was to minister to their wants while they remained here. The presence of a third person in the house would be ex- tremely awkward just now, and, being already di-essed, he opened the window, and informed her that they could man- age to shift for themselves that morning. She had a milk- can in her hand, which he told her to leave at the door. When the dame had gone away he searched in the back quarters of the house for fuel, and speedily lit a fire. There was plenty of eggs, butter, bread, and so on in the THE W0:MAN pays. 269 larder, and Clare soon had breakfast laid, his experiences at the daily having rendered him facile in domestic prepara- tions. The smoke of the kindled wood rose from the chimney without like a lotus-headed column • local people who were passing by saw it, and thought of the newly married couple, and envied theii" happiness. Angel cast a final glance round, and then, going to the foot of the stairs, said, " Breakfast is ready." He opened the front door, and took a few steps in the morning air. When, after a short space, he came back, she was already in the sitting-room, mechanically readjusting the breakfast things. As she was fully attired, and the interval since his calling her had been but two or three minutes, she must have been di'essed, or nearly so, before he went to summon her. Her hair was twisted up in a large round mass at the back of her head, and she had put on one of the new frocks — a pale blue woollen garment with neck- frillings of white. Her hands and face appeared to be cold, and she had possil^ty been sitting dressed in the bed- room a long time without anv fire. The extreme civilitv of Clare's tone in calling her seemed to have inspired her, for the moment, witli a new glimmer of hope. But it soon died when she looked at him. The pair were, in truth, but the ashes of their former fires. To the hot sorrow of the previous night had succeeded heaviness 5 it seemed as if nothing coidd kindle either of them to fervor of sensation any more. He spoke gently to her, and she replied with a hke un- demonstrativeness. At last she came wp to him, looking in his sharply defined face as one who had no conscious- ness that her own formed a visible object also. ^' Angel ! " she said, and paused, touching him with her fingers lightly as a breeze, as though she could hardly be- lieve to be there in the flesh the man who was once her lover. Her eyes were bright, her cheek, though pale, still showed its wonted roundness, though dried tears had left a \itrified 270 TESS OF THE D'URBERA^LLES. glistening thereon ; and tlie usually ripe red mouth was almost as pale as her cheek. But she was stilL throbbingly alive, notwithstanding that under the stress of her mental grief the hf e beat so brokenly that a little f miher pull upon it might cause real illness, render her eyes didl, uncharac- teristic, and her mouth thin. But she looked absolutely pure. Natm'e, in her fantas- tic trickery, had set such a seal of gu'hshness upon Tess's countenance that he gazed at her with a stupefied air. '^ Tess ! Say it is not true ! No, it is not true ! " " It is true.''^ " Every word ? " " Every word." He looked at her imploringly, as if he would willingly have taken a lie from her li^^s, knowing it to be one, and have made of it, by some sort of sophistry, a vahd denial. However, she only repeated, '' It is true." " Is he Hving ? " Angel then asked. " The baby died." "But the man?" " He is alive." A last despau- passed over Clare's face. ''Is he in Eng- land ? " " Yes." He took a few steps vaguely. " My position — is this," he said, abruptly. " I thought — any man would have thought — that by giving up aU ambition to win a wife mth social standing, with fortune, with knowledge of the workl, I should secure rustic innocence as surely as I shoidd secui-e pink cheeks ; but However, I am no man to reproach you, and I will not." Tess felt his position so entu-ely that the remainder had not been needed. Therein lay just the distress of it ; she saw that he had lost aU round. "Angel — I should not have let it go on to marriage with 'ee if I had not known that, after aU, there was a last THE W0:MAN pays. 271 way out of it for yoii ; though I hoped you would never " Her voice gi'ew husky. <'A last way?" ^' I mean, to get rid of me. You can get rid of me." " How ? " '^ By divorcing me." " Good heavens — how can you be so simple ! How can I divorce you f " " Can't you — now I have told you this ? I thought my confession woidd give you grounds for that." " O Tess — you are too, too — childish — unformed — crude, I suppose ! I don't know what you are. You don't under- stand the law — vou don't understand ! " " What — vou caimot ? " "For what happened before our marriage! Indeed I cannot." A quick shame mixed with the misery upon his listener's face. " I thought — I thought," she whispered. " O, now I see how wicked I seem to you. Believe me — beUeve me, on my soul, I never thought but that you could ! I hoped you would not ; yet I believed, without a doubt, that you could cast me off if you were determined, and didn't love me at — at — all ! " '^ You were mistaken," he said. '' O, then I ought to have done it, to have done it last night ! But I hadn't the courage. That's just like me ! " " The courage to do what ? " As she did not answer he took her by the hand. "' What were you thinking of doing ? " he inquu*ed. " Of putting an end to myself." " When ? " She writhed under this inquisitorial manner. ''Last night," she answered. " Where ? " " Under your mistletoe." "My good God! — how?" he asked, sternly. 272 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. " I'll tell you, sii', if yon won't be angry with me ! " she said, shrinking. " It was with the cord of my box. Bnt I could not — do the last tiling ! I was afraid that it might cause a scandal to your name." The unexpected quality of this confession, T\Tung from her, and not volunteered, shook him indescribably. But he still held her, and, letting his glance fall from her face do^ATi wards, he said tremulously, " Now, Usten to this. You must not dare to think of such a horrible thing! How could you ! You will promise me as your husband to attempt that no more." " I am ready to promise. I saw how Tvicked it was.'^ " Wicked ! The idea was unworthy of you beyond de- scription." "But, Angel," she pleaded, enlarging her eyes in calm unconcern upon him, " it was thought of entirely on your account — to set you free without the scandal of the divorce that I thought you would have to get. I should never have di^eamed of doing it on mine. However, to do it with my own hand is too good for me, after all. It is you, my ruined husband, who ought to strike the blow. I think I should love you more, if that were possible, if you could bring yourself to do it, since there's no other way of escape for 'ee. I feel I am so utterly wortliless. So very greatly in the way ! " " Ssh ! " " Well, since you say so, I won't. I have no wish opposed to vours." He knew this to be true enough. Since the desperation of the night her activities had dropped to zero, and there was no further rashness to be feared. Tess tried to busy herself again over the breakfast-table with more or less success, and thev sat down both on the same side, so that their glances did not meet. There was at first something awkward in hearing each other eat and drink, but this could not be escaped ; moreover, the amount THE WOIVIAN PAYS. 273 of eating done was small on both sides. Breakfast over, he rose, and, teUing her the houi' at which he might be ex- pected to diimer, went off to the miller's in a mechanical pursuance of the plan of studying that business, which had been his only practical reason for coming here. When he was gone Tess stood at the mndow, and pres- ently saw his form crossing the great stone bridge which conducted to the mill premises. He sank behind it, crossed the railway be^^ond, and disappeared. Then, without a sigh, she tm-ned her attention to the room, and began clearing the table and setting it in order. The charwoman soon came. Her presence was at first a strain upon Tess, but afterwards an alleviation. At half- past twelve she left her assistant alone in the kitchen, and, returning to the sitting-room, waited for the reappearance of Angel's form behind the bridge. About one he showed himself. Her face flushed, although he was a quarter of a mile off. She ran to the kitchen to get the dinner served by the time he shoidd enter. He went fii-st to the room where they had washed their hands together the day before, and as he entered the sitting-room the dish-covers rose from the dishes as if by his oivn motion. " How j)nnctual ! " he said. " Yes. I saw you coming over the bridge," said she. The meal was passed in commonplace talk of what he had been doing during the morning at the Abbey Mill, of the methods of bolting and the old-fashioned machinery, which he feared would not enlighten him greatly on modern im- proved methods, some of it seeming to have been in use ever since the days it ground for the monks in the adjoin- ing conventual buildings — now a heap of ruins. He left the house again in the com-se of an hour, coming home at dusk, and occupying himself through the evening mth his papers. She feared she was in the way, and, when the old woman was gone, retired to the kitchen, where she made herself busy as well as she could for more than an hour. 18 274 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. Clare's shape appeared at the door. '^Yon must not work like this/' he said. " Yoii are not my servant, you know ; you are my wife." Her face brightened. ''I may tliink myself that — in- deed?'' she murmured in piteous raiUer}^ "You mean in name ! Well, I don't want to be anytliing more." " You may think so, Tess ! You are. What do you mean ? " ^' I don't know," she said, hastily, with tears in her eyes. "I thought I — because I am not respectable, I mean. I told you I thought I was not respectable enough long ago — and I didn't want to marry you, on that account — only you ui'ged me ! " She broke into sobs, and turned her back to him. It would almost have won round any man but Angel Clare. Within the remote depths of his constitution, so gentle and affectionate as he was in general, there lay hidden a hard logical deposit, like a vein of metal in a soft loam, which tui-ned the edge of everything that attempted to traverse it. It had blocked his way with the Chiu'ch; it blocked his way mth Tess. Moreover, his affection itself was less fii'e than radiance, and, with regard to the other sex, when he ceased to believe he ceased to follow; contrasting in this with many impressionable natures, who remain sensuously infatuated with what they intellectually despise. When put upon his mettle his power of seK-mastery was appalling — almost inhuman. He waited till her sobbing ceased. ^' I wish half the women in England were as respectable as you," he said, in an ebullition of bitterness against wom- ankind in general. " It isn't a question of respectability, but one of principle." He spoke such things as these and more of a kindred sort to her, being still swayed by the antipathetic wave which warps direct souls with such persistence when once their vision finds itself mocked by appearances. There was, it is true, underneath, a back current of sympathy THE WOMAN PAYS. 275 througli which a woman of the world might have conquered him. But Tess did not think of this ; she took everything as her deserts, and hardly opened her mouth. The firmness of her devotion to him was indeed almost pitiful ; quick- tempered as she naturally was, nothing that he could say made her unseemly; she sought not her own; was not provoked ; thought no evil of his treatment of her. She might just now have been Apostolic Charity herseK returned to a self-seeking modern world. This evening, night, and morning were passed precisely as the preceding ones had been passed. On one, and only one, occasion did she — the formerly free and independent Tess — ventiu'e to make any advances. It was on the tliird occasion of his starting after a meal to go out to the flour- mill. As he was leaving the table he said '' Good-by," and she replied in the same words, at the same time inclining her mouth in the way of his. He did not avail liimself of the invitation, sapng, as he turned hastily aside, "I shall be home punctually." Tess shrank into herself as if she had been struck. Often enough had he tried to reach those lips against her consent — often had he said gaily that her mouth and breath tasted of butter and eggs and milk and honey, on which she mainly Kved, that he drew sustenance from them, and other follies of that sort. But he did not care for them now. He ob- served her sudden shrinking, and said gently, " You know, I have to think of a course. It was imperative that we should stay together a little while, to avoid the scandal to you that would have resulted from our immediate parting. But you must see it is only for form's sake." ^' Yes," said Tess, absently. He went out, and on his way to the mill stood still, and, faint as his love for her had waned, mshed for a moment that he had resj^onded yet more kindly, and kissed her once at least. Thus they lived through this despairing day or two ; in 276 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. the same house, truly ; hut more widely apart than hef ore they were lovers. It was evident to her that he was, as he had said, li\dng with paralyzed activities, in his endeavor to think of a plan of procedure. She was awe-stricken to discover such determination under such apparent flexibility. She no longer expected forgiveness now. More than once she thought of going away from him during his absence at the mill 5 but she feared that this, instead of benefiting him, might be the means of hampering and humiliating him yet more, if it should become known. Meanwhile Clare was meditating verily. His thought had been unsuspended ; he was becoming ill with thinking ; eaten out with thinking, mthered by thinking; scourged out of all his former pulsating, flexuous domesticity. He walked about saying to himself, ^^ What's to be done — what's to be done ? " and by chance she overheard him. It caused her to break the reserve about their f utm^e which had hith- erto prevailed. " I suppose — you are not going to live wi' me — long, are you. Angel ? " she asked, the sunk corners of her mouth be- traying how purely mechanical were the means by which she retained that expression of chastened calm upon her face. ^•I cannot," he said, "without despising myself, and what is worse, perhaps, despising you. I mean, of course, can- not live with you in the ordinary sense. At present, what- ever I feel, I do not despise you. And, since we have begun to speak, Tess, let me speak plainly, otherwise you may not perceive aU my difficulties. How can we hve together while that man lives, he being your husband in the sight of Nature, if not really ? Now I put it to you. Don't think of me or of yourself, my feelings or your feehngs. That's not all the difficulty ; it lies in another consideration — one bearing upon the future of other people than ourselves. Tliink of years to come, and children born to us, and this past matter getting known — for it must get known. Black- ' ^HE W03IAN PAYS. 277 moor Vale and The Chase, even the vonder side of it, are not such uttermost parts of the earth that nobody ever comes from or goes to them from elsewhere. Well, think of these Avretches of our flesh and blood growing up under doubts which they will gradually get to feel the full force of with then' expanding years. What an awakening for them ! What a prospect ! Can you honestly say Remain, after contemplating this contingency? Don't you think we had better endure the ills we have than flv to others f " She did not lift her eyelids, weighted with trouble. " I cannot sav Remain,'^ she answered. " I cannot ; I had not thought so far.'' Tess's feminine hope — shall we confess it — had been so obstinately recuperative as to revive in her surreptitious visions of a domiciliary intimacy continued long enough to break down his coldness even against his judgment. Though unsophisticated in the usual sense, she was not in- complete ; and it Avould have denoted deficiency of woman- hood if she had not instinctively knowm what an argument lies in propinquity. Nothing else would serve her, she knew, if tliis failed. It was "v\Tong to hope in what was of the natm'e of strategy, she said to herseK : yet that sort of hope she could not extinguish. His last representation had now been made, and it was, as sne said, a new view. She had truly never thought so far as that, and his lucid picture of possible offspring who would scorn her was one that brought deadly conviction to an honest heart which was humanitarian to its centre. Sheer experience had already taught her, that, in some circumstances, there was one thing better than to lead a good life, and that was to be saved from leading any life whatever. Like aU w^ho had been pre\dsioned by suffering, she could, in the words of M. Sully-Prudhomme, hear a penal sentence in the fiat, ^' You shall be born." Yet such is the vulpine slyness of Dame Natm-e, that, till now, Tess had been hoodwinked bv her love for Clare into 278 TESS OF THE D'URBERYILLES. forgetting it might result in vitalizations that v/oiild inflict npon others what she had bewailed as a misfortune to her- self. She therefore could not withstand his argument. But with the self -combating proclivity of the supersensitive, an answer thereto arose in Clare's own mind^ and he almost feared it. It was based on her exceptional physical nature ; and she might have used it promisingly. Moreover, she might have added: "On an Australian upland or Texan plain, who is to know or care about my misfortunes, or to reproach me or you?" Yet, like the majority of women, she accepted the momentary presentment as if it were the inevitable. And she may have been right. The heart of woman knoweth not only its own bitterness, but its hus- band's, and who should say that, even if these assumed re- proaches were not likely to be addressed to him or to his by strangers, they might not have reached his ears from liis own fastidious brain. It was the third day of the estrangement. Some might risk the odd paradox that with more animalism he would have been the nobler man. We do not say it. Yet Clare's love was ethereal to a fault, imaginative to impracticability. With these natures, corporeal presence is sometimes less appealing than corporeal absence; the latter creating an ideal presence that conveniently drops the defects of the real. She found that her personality did not plead her cause so forcibly as she had anticipated. The figurative phrase was true : she was another woman than the one who had excited his desire. " I have thought over what you say," she remarked to him, moving her forefinger over the table-cloth, her other hand, which bore the ring that mocked them both, support- ing her forehead. " It is quite true, all of it j it must be. You must go away from me." " But what can you do ? " " I can go home." THE WOMAN PAYS. 279 Clare had not thought of that. " Ai'e yon sure ? " he said. " Quite siu-e. We ought to part, and we may as well get it past and done. You once said that I was apt to win men against their better judgment 5 and if I am constantly before yoiu' eyes I may cause you to change your plans in opposition to your reason and wish ; and afterwards your repentance and my sorrow will be terrible." He was silent. "And you would like to go home?'' he asked. " I want to leave you, and go home." " Then it shall be so." Though she did not look up at him, she started. There was a difference between the proposition and the covenant, which she had felt only too quickly. " I feared it would come to this," she mui'mured, her coun- tenance meekly fixed. ''I don't complain, Angel. I — I tliink it best. What you said has quite convinced me. Yes — though nobody else should reproach me, if we should stay together, yet somewhen, years hence, you might get angry with me for any ordinary matter, and knowing what you do of my bygones, you yourself might be tempted to say words, and they might be overheard, perhaps by my own children. 0, what only hurts me now would torture and kill me then ! I will go — to-morrow." " And I shall not stay here. Though I did not like to intimate it, I have seen that it was advisable we should part — at least for a while, till I can better see the shape that things have taken, and can write to you." Tess stole a glance at her husband. He was pale, even tremulous ; but, as before, she was appalled by the deter- mination revealed in the depths of this gentle being she had married — the will to subdue the grosser emotion to the sub- tler emotion, the substance to the conception, the flesh to the spirit. Propensities, tendencies, habits, were as dead leaves upon the tyrannous wind of his imaginative ascend- ency. ^80 TESS OP THE D'URBERVILLES. He may have observed lier look, for lie explained : "I think of people more kindly when I am away from them ; " adding cynically, "God knows; perhaps we shall shake down together some day, for weariness; thousands have done it ! " That day he began to pack up, and she went upstairs and began to pack also. Both knew that it was in their two minds that they might part the next morning forever, despite the gloss of assuaging conjectm'es thrown over their proceeding by reason of their being of the sort to whom any parting which has an air of finality about it is a tor- ture. He knew, and she knew, that, though the fascination which each had exercised over the other — on her part in- dependently of accomplishments — would probably in the first days of their separation be even more potent than ever, time must attenuate that effect ; the practical argu- ments against accepting her as a housemate would pro- nounce themselves more strongly in the boreal light of a remoter time. Moreover, when two people are once parted — have abandoned a common domicile and a common en- wonment — new growths insensibly bud upward to fill each vacated place ; unforeseen accidents hinder intentions, and old plans are forgotten. XXXVII. Midnight came and passed silently, for there was noth- ing to announce it in the Valley of the Var. Not long after one o'clock there was a slight creak in the darkened old farmhouse once the mansion of the D'Urber- villes. Tess, who used the upper chamber, heard it and awoke. It had come from the three-cornered step of the stau'case, which, as usual, was loosely nailed. She saw the THE WOMAN PAYS. 281 door of her bedi'oom open, and the figure of her husband crossed the stream of moonlight with a cmiously careful tread. He was in his shii^t and trousers only, and her first flush of joy died when she perceived that his eyes were fixed in an unnatural stare on vacancy. When he reached the middle of the room he stood still and murmured, in tones of indescribable sadness, " Dead ! dead ! dead ! " Under the influence of any strongly distui'bing force Clare woidd occasionally walk in his sleep, and even per- form strange feats, such as he had done on the night of theii' return from market just before their marriage, when he re-enacted in his bedroom his combat with the man who had insulted her. Tess saw that continued mental distress had T\Tought that somnambulistic state in him now. Her loyal confidence in him lay so deep down in her heart that, awake or asleep, he inspired her with no sort of personal fear. If he had entered with a pistol in liis hand he would scarcely have disturbed her trust in his protec- tiveness. Clare came close, and bent over her. " Dead, dead, dead ! " he mui'mured. After fixedly regarding her for some moments with the same gaze of unmeasiu-able woe he bent lower, enclosed her in his arms, and rolled her in the sheet as in a shroud. Then lifting her from the bed with as much respect as one would show to a dead bodv in such cii'cumstances, he car- ried her across the room, murmuring, ^' My poor, poor Tess — my dearest, darling Tess ! So sweet, so good, so true ! " The words of endearment, withheld so severely in his waking hours, were inexpressibly sweet to her forlorn and hungry heart. If it had been to save her weary life she would not, by mo\ing or struggling, have put an end to the position she found herself in. Thus she lay in absolute stdlness, scarcely venturing to breathe, and, wondering what he was going to do with her, suffered herself to be borne out upon the landing. 282 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. " Mv mfe — dead, dead ! " he said. He paused in his labors for a moment to lean with her against the banister. Was he going to thi'ow her down ? Self -solicitude was near extinction in her, and in the knowl- edge that he had planned to depart from her on the mor- row, possibly for always, she lay in his arms in this pre- carious position mtli rather a sense of luxury than a sense of terror. If they coidd only fall together, and both be dashed to pieces, how fit, how desirable ! However, he did not let her fall, but took advantage of the support of the handrail to imprint a kiss upon her lips — lips in the daytime scorned. Then he clasped her with a renewed fii^mness of hold, and descended the staircase. The creak of the corner stair did not awaken him, and they reached the ground-floor safely. Freeing one of his hands from its grasp of her for a moment, he sHd back the door- bar and passed out, slightly striking his stockinged toe against the edge of the door. But this he seemed not to mind, and, having room for extension in the open aii', he got her upon his shoulder, so that he could carry her ^xiih. more ease, the absence of clothes taking much from his burden. Thus he bore her off the premises, in the direction of the river, a few vards distant. His ultimate intention, if he had any, she had not yet di\dned ; and she found herself conjecturing on the matter as a third person might have done. So easefully had she delivered her whole being up to liim that it pleased her to think he was regarding her as his absolute possession, to dispose of as he sliould choose. It was consoling, under the hovering terror of to-morrow's separation, to feel that he really recognized her now as his wife Tess, and did not cast her off, even if in that recognition he went so far as to arrogate to himself the right of harming her. Ah ! now she knew he was dreaming of — that Sunday morning when he had borne her along through the water with the other dairymaids, who had loved him nearly as THE WOMAN PAYS. 283 much as she, if tliat were possible, wliich Tess coiild liardly admit. Clare did not cross the bridge with her, but pro- ceeding several paces on the same side towards the adjoin- ing mill, at length stood still on the brink of the Froom. Its waters, in creeping dowTi these miles of meadow-land, frequently divided, serpentining in purposeless ciuwes, loop- ing themselves around little islands that had no name, re- turning, and re-embodying themselves as a broad main stream farther on. Opposite the spot to which he had brought her was such a general confluence, and the river was proportionately voluminous and deep. Across it was a narrow foot-bridge; but now the autumn rains had washed the handrail away, leaving the bare plank only, which, lying a few inches above the speeding current, formed a giddy pathway for even steady heads ; and Tess had noticed from the window of the house in the daytime young men trying to cross upon it as a feat in balancing. Her husband had possibly observed the same performance ; anyhow, he now mounted the bridge, and, shding one foot forward, advanced along it. Was he going to drown her? Probably he was. The spot was lonely, the river deep and wide enough to make such a purpose easy of accomplishment. He might drown her if he would ; it would be better than parting to-morrow to lead severed lives. The swift stream raced and gyrated under them, tossing, distorting, and splitting the moon's reflected face. Spots of froth travelled past, and intercepted weeds waved behind the piles. If they could both fall together into the cui'rent now, their arms would be so tightly clasped together that they could not be saved ; they would go out of the world almost painlessly, and there would be no more reproach to her, or to him for marrying her. His last half -hour with her would have been a loving one, while if they lived till he awoke his daytime aversion would return, and this hour would remain to be contemplated only as a transient dream. 284 TESS OF THE D'URBERYILLES. The impulse stirred in lier, yet she dared not indulge it, to make a movement that would have precipitated them both into the gulf. How she valued her own life had been proved ; but his — she had no right to tamper with it. He reached the other side with her in safetv. Here they were witliin a plantation which formed the Abbey grounds, and taking a new hold of her, he went on- ward a few steps tiU they reached the ruined choir of the Abbey church. Against the north wall was the empty stone coffin of an abbot, without a lid, in which every tour- ist mth a turn for grim humor was accustomed to stretch himself. In this Clare carefulty laid Tess. Having kissed her lips a second time, he breathed deeply, as if a gTcatly desired end were attained. Clare then laid do^\Ti beside her, when he immediately fell into the deep dead slumber of exhaustion, and remained motionless as a log. Tlie spurt of mental excitement which had produced the effort was now over. Tess sat up in the coffin. The night, though dry and mild for the season, was more than sufficientlv cold to make it dangerous for him to remain here long, in liis half- clothed state. If he were left to himself, he would in all probability stay there till the moi'ning, and be chilled to certain death. She had heard of such deaths after sleej)- walking. But how could she dare to awaken him, and let him know what he had been doing, when it would mortif}" him to discover his folly in respect of her ? Tess, however, stepping out of her stone confine, shook liim slightly^ but was unable to arouse him without being violent. It was indispensable to do something, for she was beginning to shiver, the sheet being but a poor protection. Her excite- ment had in a measure kept her warm during the advent- ure ; but that beatific interval was over. It suddenly occurred to her to try persuasion ; and ac- cordingl}^ she whispered in his ear, with as much firmness and decision as she could summon, " Let us walk on, dar- THE W03IAN PAYS. 285 liiig/' at tlie same time taking liim suggestively by the arm. To her relief, he unresistingly acquiesced ; her words had apparently thrown him back into his di'eam, which thence- forward seemed to enter on a new phase, wherein he fancied she had risen as a spirit, and was leading him to Heaven. Thus she conducted him by the arm to the stone bridge in front of theii^ residence, crossing which they stood at the manor-house door. Tess's feet were quite bare, and the stones hurt her, and chilled her to the bone ; but Clare was in his woollen stockings, and appeared to feel no discomfort. There was no further difficulty. She induced him to he down on his own sofa-bed, and covered him up warmly, lighting a temporary fire of wood, to dry any dampness out of him. The noise of these attentions she thought might awaken him, and secretly wished that they might. But the exhaustion of his mind and body was such that he remained undisturbed. As soon as they met the next morning, Tess divined that Angel knew little or nothing of how far she had been con- cerned in the night's excursion, though as regarded himself he may have had an inkling that he had not lain still. In truth, he had awakened that morning from a sleep deep as anniliilation ; and dui'ing those fii'st few moments in which the brain, like a Samson shaking himself, is trying its strength, he had some dim notion of an unusual nocturnal proceeding. But the realities of his situation soon dis- placed conjecture on the other subject. He waited in expectancy to discern some mental point- ing ; he knew that if any intention of his, concluded over- night, did not vanish in the light of morning, it stood on a basis approximating to one of pure reason, even if initiated by impulse of feeling 5 that it was so far, therefore, to be trusted. He thus beheld in the pale morning light the resolve to separate from her ; not as a hot and indignant instinct, but denuded of the passionateness which had made it scorch 286 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. and burn ; standing in its bones ; nothing but a skeleton, but none the less there. Clare no longer hesitated. At breakfast, and while they were packing the few re- maining articles, he showed his weariness from the night's effort so unmistakably that Tess was on the point of speak- ing and revealmg all that had happened ; but the reflection that it would anger him, grieve him, stultify him, by letting him know that he had instinctively manifested a fondness for her of which his common-sense did not approve j that his inclination had compromised his dignity when reason slept, again deterred her. It was too much hke laughing at a man when sol.^er for his erratic deeds during intoxication. It just crossed her mind, too, that he might have a faint recollection of his tender vagary, and was disinchned to allude to it from a con^dction that she would take advan- tage of the undoubted oj^portunity it gave her of appealing to him anew not to go. He had ordered by letter a vehicle from the nearest town, and soon after breakfast it arrived. She saw in it the beginning of the end — the temporary end, at least, for the revelation of his tenderness by the incident of the night led her to think of a possible future mth him. The luggage was put on the top, and the man di'ove them off, the miller and the old waiting- woman expressing some sur- prise at theii' precipitate departm^e, which Clare attributed to his discovery that the mill- work was not of the modern kind which he wished to investigate, a statement that was true so far as it went. Beyond this there was nothing in the manner of their lea^dng to suggest ^fiasco, or that they were not going together to visit friends. Their route lay near the dairy from which they had started with such solemn joy in each other a few days back, and as Clare wished to wind up his business with Mr. Crick, Tess could hardly avoid paying Mrs. Crick a call at the same time, unless she would excite suspicion of their un- happy state. THE WOiVIAN PAYS. 287 To make the call as unobtrusive as possible tliey left tlie carriage at the end of the short lane leading down from the high road to the dairy-house, and descended the track on foot, side by side. The withy-bed had been cut, and they could see over the stumps the spot on wliich Clare had followed her when he pressed her to be his wife ; to the left the enclosure in w^hich she had been fascinated by his harp ; and far away over the roofs of the cowstaUs, the mead which had been the scene of their first embrace. The gold of the summer picture was now gi'ay, the colors mean, the rich soil mud, and the river cold. Over the barton-gate the dauyman saw them, and came forward, tlu^owing into liis face the kind of joviality deemed appropriate in Talbothays and its vicinity on the reappear- ance of the newly married. Then Mrs. Crick emerged from the house, and several others of their old acquaintance, though Marian and Retty did not appear to be there. Tess valiantly bore their sly attacks and friendly humors, which affected her far otherwise than they supposed. In the tacit agTcement of husband and wife to keep their estrangement a secret they behaved as would have been ordinary. And then, although she would rather there had been no word spoken on the subject, Tess had to hear in detail the story of Marian and Retty. The latter had gone home to her father's, and Marian had left to look for em- plojonent elsewhere. They feared she would come to no good. To dissipate the sadness of this recital Tess went and bade all her favorite cows good-by, touching each of them with her hand, and as she and Clare stood side by side at leaving as if united body and soul, there would have been something peculiarly sorry in their aspect to one who should have seen it truly : two limbs of one life, as they outwardly were, his arm touching hers, her sku'ts touching him, facing one way, as against all the dairy facing the other, speaking in theu* adieux as " we," and yet sundered 288 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. like the poles. Perhaps something unusually stiff and em- barrassed in their attitude, some awkwardness in acting up to theii' profession of unity, different from the natural shy- ness of young couples, may have been apparent, for when they were gone Mrs. Crick said to her husband, " How on- natural the brightness of her eyes did seem, and how the pair stood like waxen images and talked as if they were in a dream ! Didn't it strike 'ee that 'twas so ? Tess had always sommat strange in her, and she's not now quite Hke the proud young bride of a well-be-doing man." They re-entered the vehicle, and were driven along the roads through Weatherbury and Stagfoot Lane, till they reached Nuzzlebury, where Clare dismissed the fly and man. They rested here awhile, and entering the Vale w^ere next diiven onward towards her home by a stranger who did not know their new relationship. At a midway point, when many miles had been passed over, and where there were cross-roads, Clare stopped the man, and said to Tess that if she meant to return to her mother's house it was here that he would leave her. As they could not talk with freedom in the driver's presence, he asked her to accompany him for a few steps on foot along one of the branch roads ; she assented, and directing the man to wait a few minutes, they strolled away. ^^Now, let us understand each other," he said, gently. " There is no anger between us, though there is that which I cannot endure at present. I will try to bring myself to endure it. I will let you know where I go to as soon as I know myself. And if I can bring myself to bear it — if it is desirable, possible — I will come to you. But until I come to you it will be better that you should not try to come to me." The severity of the decree seemed deadly to Tess ; she saw his view of her clearly enough ; he could regard her in no other light than that of one who had practised gross de- ceit upon him. Yet could a woman who had done even THE WOMAN PAYS. 289 what slie had done deserve all this ? But she could contest the point with him no fui'ther. She simply repeated after him his own words. " Until you come to me I must not try to come to you?" ^^ Just so." '' May I write to you ? " " Oh yes — if you are ill^ or want anything at all. I hope that will not be the case ; so that it may happen that I write fii'st to you." "I agree to the conditions, Angel; because you know best what my punishment ought to be ; only — only — don't 'ee make it more than I can bear ! " That was all she said on the matter. If Tess had been artful, had she made a scene, fainted, wept hysterically, in that lonely lane, notwithstanding the fury of fastidiousness with which he was possessed, he would probably not have withstood her. But her mood of long-suffering made his way easy for him, and she herself was his best advocate. In her submission — which perhaps was a symptom of that reckless acquiescence in chance too apparent in the whole D'Urberville family — the many effective chords which she could have stirred by an appeal were left untouched. The remainder of their discourse was on practical matters only. He now handed her a packet containing a fairly good sum of money, which he had obtained from his bank- ers for the purpose. The brilliants, the interest in which seemed to be Tess's for her life only (if he understood the wording of the will), he advised her to let him send to a bank for safetv ; and to this she readilv asreed. These things arranged, he walked with Tess back to the carriage, and handed her in. He jDaid the coachman, and told him where to di'ive her. Taking then his own bag and umbrella — the sole articles he had brought with him hitherwards — he bade her good-])y ; and they parted there and then. The fly mo^ed creepingly up the hill, and Clare watched 19 290 TESS OP THE D'URBERVILLES. it go with an unpremeditated liope that Tess wonld look out of the window for one moment. But that she never thought of doing, would not have ventured to do, lying in a half-dead faint inside. Thus he watched her out of sight, and in the anguish of his heart quoted a hue of a poet with a few improvements of his own : God's not in His heaven : all's icrong with the world ! When Tess had passed over the crest of the hill he tmmed to go his own way, and did not know that he loved her still. XXXYIII. As she drove on through Blackmoor Vale, and the land- scape of her youth began to open around her, Tess aroused herself from her stupor. Her fii'st thought was how would she be able to face her parents ? She reached the turnpike gate which stood near the en- trance to the village. It was thrown open by a stranger, not by the old man who had kept it for many years, and to whom she had been kno\\Ti ; he had probal^ly left on New Yeai^s Dav, the date when such chano^es were made. Having received no intelligence lately from her home, she asked the turnpike-keeper the news. " O — nothing, miss," he answered. " Mario tt is Marlott still. Folks have died, and that. John Durbeyfield, too, hev had a daughter married this week to a gentleman- farmer ; not from John's own house, you know ; they was married elsewhere ; the gentleman being of that high standing that John's own folk was not considered well-be- doing enough to have any part in it, the bridegroom seem- ingly not knowing liow't have l)een discovered that John is a old and ancient nobleman himself l)y blood, with family THE WOMAN PAYS. 291 skellingtoiis in tlieii' own vaults to this day, but done out of liis pro23erty in the time o' the Romans. However, Sir John, as we call 'n now, kept up the wedding-day as well as he could, and stood treat to everybody in the parish ; and John's wife sung songs at The Pure Drop till past eleven o'clock." Hearing this, Tess felt so sick at heart that she could not decide to go home publicly in this fly with her luggage and belongings. She asked the turnpike-keeper if she might deposit her things at his house for a while, and, on his offering no objection, she dismissed her carriage, and went on to the village alone by a back lane. At sight of her fathei^s chimney she asked herself how she coidd possibly enter the house? Inside that cottage her relations were calmly supposing her far away on a wedding tour mth a comparatively rich man, who was to conduct her to bouncing prosperity 5 while here she was, friendless, creeping up to the old door quite by herself, with no better place to go to in the world. She did not reach the house unobserved. Just by the garden-hedge she was met by a girl who knew her — one of the two or tlu^ee with whom she had been intimate at school. After making a few inquiries as to how Tess came there, her friend, unheeding her tragic look, interrupted with, "But where's thy gentleman, Tess?" Tess hastily explained that he had been called away on business, and, leaving her interlocutor, clambered over the garden-hedge, and thus made her way to the house. As she went up the garden-path she heard her mother singing by the back door, coming in sight of which she perceived Mrs. Durbej^eld on the doorstep in the act of wringing a sheet. Ha^dng performed this mthout observ- ing Tess, she went indoors, and her daughter followed her. The washing-tub stood in the same old place on the same old quarter-hogshead, and her mother, having thrown the sheet aside, was about to plunge her arms in anew. 292 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. " Wliy — Tess ! — my chil' — I thouglit you was going to be married — some days ago — really and truly this time — we sent the cider " '' YeSj mother ; so I am." "Going to be?" " I mean — I am married." " Married ! Then where's thy husband ! " '^ 0, he's gone away for a time." '' Gone away ! When was you married, then ? The day vou said ? " " Yes, Tuesday, mother." "And now 'tis on'y Saturday, and he gone away?" "Yes; he's gone." " What's the meaning o' that ? 'Nation seize such hus- bands as you seem to get, say I ! " " Mother ! " — Tess went across to Joan Durbeyfield, laid her face upon the matron's bosom, and burst into sobs — " I don't know how to tell 'ee, mother ! You said to me, and wrote to me, that I was not to tell him. But I did tell him — I couldn't help it — and he went away ! " " O you little fool — 3^ou little fool ! " burst out Mrs. Dur- beyfield. " My good God ! that ever I should ha' lived to say it, but I say it again, you little fool ! " Tess was con^-ulsed with weepmg, the tension of so many days having relaxed at last. "I know it — I know — I know ! " she gasped through her sobs. " But, O my mother, I could not help it ; he was so good^ — and I felt the wicked- ness of trying to blind him as to what had happened ! If — ^if — it were to be done again — I should do the same. I could not — I dared not — so sin — against him ! " ^' But you sinned enough to marry him first ! " " Yes, yes ; that's where my misery do lie. But I thought he could get rid of me by law if he were determined not to overlook it. And 0, if you knew — if you could only half know how I loved him — how anxious I was to have him — and how wrung I was between caring so much for him and THE WOMAN PAYS. 293 my wish to be fair to liim ! '' Tess was so shaken that she could get no fui^ther, and sunk a helpless thing into a chair. '* Well, well ; what's done can't be undone ! I'm sure I don't know why children o' my bringing forth should all be bigger simpletons than other people's — not to know better than to blab such a thing as that, when he couldn't ha' found it out till too late ! " Here Mrs. Durbeyfield began shed- ding tears on her own account as a mother to be pitied. ^' What your father will say I don't know/' she continued ; " for he's been talking about the wedding up at Rolliver's and The Pure Drop every day since, and about his family getting back to their rightful position through you — poor silly man ! — and now you've made this mess of it. The Lord-a-Lord ! " As if to bring matters to a focus, Tess's father was heard approaching at that moment. He did not, however, enter immediatelv, and Mrs. Diu'bevfield said that she would break the bad news to him herself, Tess keeping out of sight for the present. Joan began to take the mishap as she took all such mishaps after her first burst of disap- pointment, as she had taken Tess's original trouble, as she would have taken a wet holiday or a failure in the potato crop — as a thing which had come upon them irrespective of will, or law, or desert, or folly j a chance external im- pingement to be borne mth ; not a lesson. Tess retreated upstairs, and beheld casually that the beds had been shifted, and new arrangements made. Her old bed had been adapted for two younger children. There was no place here for her now. The room below being unceiled, she could hear most of wliat went on there. Presently her father entered, appar- ently carrying a live hen. He was a foot-higgler now, hav- ing been obliged to sell his second horse, and he travelled with his basket on his arm. The hen had been carried "wdth liim this morning as it was often carried, to show people that he was in his work, though the bird had reaUy lain, 294: TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. mth its legs tied, iinder tlie table at Rolliver^s for more than an hour. " We've just had up a story about " Dm-beyfield be- gan, and thereupon related in detail to his wife a discussion which had arisen at the inn about the clerg}^, oiiginated by the fact of his daughter having married into a clerical family. "They was formerly styled ^sir/ hke my own an- cestry," he said, "though nowadays their true style, strictly speaking, is 'clerk' onty." As Tess had wished that no great publicity should be given to the event, he had men- tioned no particulars. He hoped she would remove that prohibition soon. He proposed that the couple should take Tess's own name, D'Urber^dlle, as uncorrupted. It was bet- ter than her husband's. He asked if any letter had come from her that day. Then Mrs. Durbe^^field informed him that no letter had come, but Tess unfortunately had come herself. When at length the collapse was explained to him a sul- len mortification, not usual with Durbeyfield, overpowered the effect of the cheering glass. Yet the intrinsic quality of the event affected his touchy sensitiveness less than its conjectured effect upon the minds of others. "To think, now, that this was to be the end o't," said Sir John. " And I with a familv vault under that there church of Kingsbere as big as Squire JoUard's ale-ceUar, and my follv lying there in sixes and sevens, as genuine county bones and marrow as any recorded in histor}^ And now to be sure what thev fellers at Rolliver's and The Pure Drop will say to me ; how they'll squint and glance, and say, 'This is yer mighty grand match is it; this is yer getting back to the true family level of yer forefathers in King Norman's time ! ' I feel this is too much, Joan ; I shall put an end to myself, title and all — I can bear it no longer ! . . . But she can make him keep her if he's mar- ried her ? " "Why, yes. But she won't think o' doing that." THE WOMAN PAYS. 295 " D'ye think he really have married her. Or is it with him as mth t'other ? " Poor Tess, who had heard as far as this, could not bear to hear more. The perception that her word could be doubted even here, in her own parental house, set her mind against the spot as nothing else could have done. How unexpected were the attacks of destiny ! And if her father doubted her a little, would not neighbors and acquaintance doubt her much f O, she could not live long at home ! A few days, accordingly, were all that she allowed her- self here, at the end of which time she received a short note from Clare, informing her that he had gone to the North of England to look at a farm. In her craving for the dig- nity of her true position as his wife, and to hide from her parents the vast extent of the division between them, she made use of this letter as her reason for again departing, leaving them under the impression that she was setting out to join him. Still fm'ther to screen her husband from any imi)utation of unkindness to her, she took twenty-five of the fifty pounds Clare had given her, and handed the sum over to her mother, as if the wife of a man like Angel Clare could well afford it, saying that it was a slight retm^n for the trouble and humiliation she had brought upon them in years past. With this assertion of her dignity she bade them farewell ; and after that there were liveh^ doings in the Durbeyfield household for some time on the strength of Tess's bounty, her mother saying, and indeed believing, that the quarrel which had arisen between the young hus- band and wife had adjusted itself under their strong feeling that they could not live ajDart from each other. 296 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. XXXIX. It was three weeks after the marriage that Clare found himself descending on foot the hiil wliich led to the well- known parsonage of his father. With his downward course the square tower of the church rose into the still evening sky in a manner of inquiiy as to why he had come ; and no li^dng person in the twihghted town seemed to notice him, still less to expect him. He w^as arriving hke a ghost, and the sound of his OT\m footsteps was almost an encumbrance to be got rid of. The picture of life had changed for Clare. Before this time he had known it speculatively only ; now he thought he knew it as a practical man ; though perhaps he did not, even yet. Nevertheless, humanity stood before him no longer in the pensive sweetness of Italian art, but in the staring and ghastly attitudes of a Wiertz Museum, and with the hideous leer of a Yan Beers. His conduct during these first weeks had been desultory beyond description. After mechanically attempting to pursue his agricultural plans as though nothing unusual had happened, in the manner recommended by the great and wdse men of all ages, he concluded that very few of those great and Avise men had ever gone so far outside themselves as to test the feasibility of their counsel. " This is the chief thing : be not perturbed," said the Pagan mor- alist. That was just Clare's owm opinion. But he was perturbed. " Let not youi' heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid," said the Nazarene. Clare chimed in cordially ; but his heart was troubled all the same. How he would have liked to confront those two great thinkers, and ear- nestly appeal to them as fellow-man to fellow-men, and ask them to tell him their method ! THE W03L\N PAYS. 097 His mood transmuted itself into a dogged indifference till at length he fancied he was looking on his own existence wdth the passive interest of an outsider. He was embittered by the conviction that all this desola- tion had been brought about by the accident of her being a D'Urberville. When he found that Tess came of that exhausted ancient Une, and was not of the new tribes from below, as he had fondly dreamed, why had he not stoically abandoned her, in fidelity to his principles? This was what he had got b}^ apostas}^, and his punishment was de- served. Then he became weary and anxious, and his anxiety in- creased. He wondered if he had treated her unfairly. He ate without knowing that he ate, and drank without tasting. As the houi's dropped past, as the motive of each act in the long series of bygone days presented itself to his view, he perceived how^ intimately the notion of having Tess as a dear possession was mixed up with all schemes, and words, and ways. In going hither and thither he observed in the outskirts of a small town a red-and-blue placard setting forth the great advantages of the Empire of Brazil as a field for the emigrating agrieultuiist. Land was offered there on ex- ceptionally advantageous terms. Brazil somewhat attracted him as a new idea. Tess could eventually join him there, and perhaps in that country of contrasting scenes, and notions, and habits, the conventions would not be so opera- tive wliich made hfe with her seem impracticable to him here. In l)rief, he was strongty inclined to try Brazil, espe- cially as the season for going thither was just at hand. With this view he was returning to Eniminster to disclose his plan to his parents, and to make the best explanation he could make of arriving without Tess short of revealing what had actually separated them. As he reached the door the new moon shone upon his face, just as the old one had done in the small hours of that morning when he had car- 298 TESS OF THE D'URBERAaLLES. ried liis wife in his arms across the river to the graveyard of the monks ; bnt his face was thinner now. Clare had given his parents no warning of his visit, and his arrival stirred the atmosphere of the vicarage as the dive of the kingfisher stirs a quiet pool. His father and mother were both in the drawing-room, but neither of his brothers was now at home. Angel entered, and closed the door quietly behind him. " But — where's jonr wife, dear Angel ? " cried his mother. " How 5^ou surprise us ! " ^' She is at her mothei^'s — temporarily. I have come home rather in a hurry because I've decided to go to Brazil." " Brazil ! Wliy, they are all Catholics there, surely ! " " Are they ? I hadn't thought of that." But even the novelty and painfulness of his going, par- ticularly to a Papistical land, could not displace for long Mr. and Mrs. Clare's natural interest in their son's marriage. " We had your brief note three weeks ago announcing that it had taken place," said Mrs. Clare, " and your father sent your godmother's gift to her, as you know. Of course it was best that none of us should be present, especially as you preferred to marry her from the dairy, and not at her home, wherever that may be. It would have embarrassed you, and given us no pleasui'e. Your brothers felt that very strongly. Of course, now it is done we do not com- plain, particularly if she suits you for the business you have chosen to follow instead of the ministry of the Gos- pel. . . . Yet I wish I could have seen her first, Angel, or have known a little more about her. We sent her no pres- ent of our own, not knowing what would best give her pleasure, but you must supjDOse it only delayed. Angel, there is no irritation in my mind or your father's against you for this marriage ; but we have thought it much better to reserve our liking for your wife till we could see her. And now you have not brought her. It seems strange. What has ha|)})ened ? " He replied that it had been thought best by them that t3 I— I H > 2 O H ♦—< »-^ C3 O H cs »^ t-r> i?3 z o 5J O o THE WOI\IAN PAYS. 299 she should go to lier pai'ents' home for the present, whilst he came there. " I don't mind telling you, dear mother/' he said, " that I always meant to keep her away from this house till I should feel she could come with credit to you. But this idea of Brazil is quite a recent one. If I do go it wiU be unadvisable for me to take her on this my first journey. She ^\dll remain at her mother's till I come back." "And I shall not see her before you start?" He was afraid they would not. His original plan had been, as he had said, to refrain from bringing her there for some little while — not to wound their prejudices — feelings — in any way ; and for other reasons he had adhered to it. He would have to visit home in the course of a vear, if he went out at once ; and it would be possible for them to see her before he started a second time — with her. A hastily prepared supper was brought in, and Clare gave further explanation of his plans. His mother's dis- appointment at not seeing the bride still remained with her. Clare's late enthusiasm for Tess had infected her through her maternal sympathies, till she had almost fan- cied that a good thing could come out of Nazareth — a charming woman out of Talbothays Dairy. She watched her son as he ate. " Cannot you describe her f I am sui*e she is very pretty. Angel." " Of that there can be no question ! " said he, with a zest which covered its bitterness. " And that she is pure and virtuous goes without ques- tion?" " Pure and vii'tuous, of coiu'se, she is." " I can see her quite distinctly. You said the other day that she was fine in figure ; roundty built ; had deep red lips like Cupid's bow ; dark eyelashes and brows, an im- mense rope of hair like a ship's cable ; and large eyes vio- ^ lety-bluey-blackish." "I did, mother." 300 TESS OF THE D'URBERYILLES. ^' I quite see her. And Imng in such seclusion she natu- rally had scarce ever seen any young man from the world without till she saw you." " Scarcely." '' You were her first love 1 " '^Yes." ^' There are worse wives than these simple, rosy-moutlied, robust girls of the farm. Certainly I could have wished — well, since my son is to be an agiiculturist, it is perhaps but proper that his wife should have been accustomed to an outdoor life." His father was less inquisitive ; but when the time came for the chapter from the Bible which was always read be- fore evening prayers, the \dcar observed to Mrs. Clare, " I think, since Angel has come, that it will be more appropri- ate to read the thirty-first of Proverbs than the chapter which we should have had in the usual course of our read- ing?" " Yes, certainly," said Mrs Clare. '' The words of King Lemuel " (she could cite chapter and verse as w^ell as her husband). " My dear son, your father has decided to read us the chapter in Proverl^s in praise of a virtuous wife. We shall not need to be reminded to apply the words to the absent one. Maj^ Heaven shield her in all her ways ! " A lump rose in Clare's throat. The domestic lectern was taken out from the corner and set in the middle of the fii^e- place, the Bible opened upon it ; the two old servants came in, and Angel's father began to read at the tenth verse of the aforesaid chapter : " '■ Wlio can find a virtuous woman ? for her price is far above rul^ies. She riseth while it is yet night, and giveth meat to her household. She girdeth her loins with strength, and strengtheneth her arms. She perceiveth that her mer- chandise is good ; her candle goeth not out by night. She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness. Her children arise up and call her THE W03L\N PAYS. 301 blessed ; lier Imsbaud also, and lie praiseth her. Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou exeellest them aU.' " When prayers were over, his mother said : '' I could not help thinking how very aptly that chapter your dear father read applied, in some of its particulars, to the woman you have chosen. The perfect woman, you see, was a working woman ; not an idler, not a fine lady, but one who used her hands and her head and her heart for the good of others. 'Her children arise up and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her. Many daughters have done virtuouslv, but she excelleth them all.' Well, I wish I could have seen her. Angel. Since she is pm-e and chaste she would have been refined enough for me." Clare could bear this no longer. His eyes were full of tears, which seemed like drops of molten lead. He bade a quick good-night to these sincere and simple souls whom he loved so well ; who knew neither the world, the flesh, nor the devil in their own hearts ; only as something vague and external to themselves. He went to his own chamber. His mother followed him, and tapped at his door. Clare opened it to discover her standing without, with anxious eyes. " Angel," she asked, '' is there something wrong that you go away so soon ? I am quite sure you are not yourself." " I am not quite, mother," said he. ^' About her ? Now, my son, I know^ it is that — I know it is about her. Have you quarrelled in these three weeks ? " "We have not exactly quarrelled," he said. "But we have had a difference " " Angel — ^is she a young woman whose history will bear investigation?" With a mother's instinct Mrs. Clare had put her finger on the kind of trouble that would cause such a disquiet as seemed to agitate her son. " She is spotless ! " he replied, and felt that if it had sent him to eternal hell there and then he would have told that lie. 302 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. "Then never mind the rest. After all, there are few sweeter things in nature than an unsullied country maid. Any crudeness of manner which may offend youi' more educated sense at first wiJl, I am sure, disappear under the influence of your companionship and tuition/' Such terrible sarcasm of blind magnanimity brought home to Clare the gloomy perception that he had utterly wrecked his career by this marriage, which had not been among his early thoughts after the disclosure. True, on his own account he cared very little about his career ; but he had wished to make it at least a resjDCctable one on ac- count of his parents and brothers. And now, as he looked into the candle, its flame dumbly expressed to hmi that it was made to shine on sensible people, and that it abhorred lighting the face of a dupe and a failure. When his agitation had cooled, he would be at moments incensed with his poor wife for causing a situation in which he was obliged to practise deception on his parents. He almost talked to her in his anger, as if she had been in the room. And then her cooing voice, plaintive in expostula- tion, disturbed the darkness, the velvet touch of her lips passed over his brow, and he could distinguish in the air the warmth of her breath. This night the woman of his belitthng deprecations was thinking how great and good her husband was. Wliile over them both there hung a deeper shade than the shade which Angel Clare perceived, namely, the shade of his own limitations. With all his attempted independence of judgment, this advanced and well-meaning young man — a sample product of the last five-and-twenty years — was yet the slave to custom and conventionality when surprised back into his early teachings. No prophet had told him, and he was not proj^het enough to tell himself, that essen- tially this young wife of his was as deserving of the praise of King Lemuel as any other woman endowed with the same dislike of evil, her moral value having to be reckoned THE WOIMAN PAYS. 303 not by acliievement but by tendency. Moreover, tlie figure near at hand suffers on such occasions, because it shows up its sorriness without shade ; while vague figures afar off are honored, in that theii- distance makes artistic virtues of their stains. In considering what Tess was not, he over- looked what she was, and forgot that the deficient can be more than the entire. XL. At breakfast Brazil was the topic, and all endeavored to take a hopeful view of Clare's proposed experiment with that country's soil, notwithstanding the discouraging reports of some farm-laborers who had emigi'ated thither and returned home within the twelve months. After breakfast Clare went into the little town to wind up such trifling matters as he was concerned with there, and to get from the local bank all the money he possessed. On his way back he encountered Miss Mercy Chant by the church, from whose walls she seemed to be a sort of emanation. She was carry- ing an armful of Bibles for her class, and such was her view of life that events which produced heartache in others wi'ought beatific smiles upon her — an enviable result, al- though, in the opinion of Angel Clare, it was obtained by a curiously unnatural sacrifice of humanity to mysticism. She had learnt that he was about to leave England, and observed what an excellent and promising scheme it seemed to be. "Yes; it is a hkely scheme enough in a commercial sense, no doubt," he replied. "But, my dear Mercy, it snaps the continuity of existence. Perhaps a cloister would be preferable." " A cloister ! Angel Clare ! " 304 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. "Why, you wdcked man, a cloister implies a monk, and a monk Catholicism ! " "And Catholicism sin, and sin damnation. Thou art in a parlous state, Angel Clare ! " " I glory in my Protestantism,'' said she, severely. Then Clare, thrown by sheer misery into one of the de- moniacal moods in which a man does despite to his true principles, called her close to him, and fiendishly whispered in her ear the most heterodox ideas he could think of. His momentary laughter at the horror which appeared on her fail* face ceased when it merged in pain and anxiety for his welfare. "Dear Mercy," he said, "you must forgive me. I think I am going crazy ! " She thought that he was ; and thus the interview ended, and Clare re-entered the ^dcarage. With the local banker he deposited the jewels till happier days should arise. He also paid into the bank thirty pounds — to be sent to Tess in a few months, as she might require ; and ^^Tote to her at her parents' home in Blackmoor Vale to inform her of what he had done. This amount, with the sum he had al- ready placed in her hands — about fifty pounds — he hoped would be amply sufficient for her wants just at present, particulai'ly as in an emergency she had been du'ected to apply to his father. He deemed it best not to put his parents into communi- cation with her by informing them of her address ; and, being unaware of what had really happened to estrange the two, neither his father nor his mother suggested that he should do so. During the day he left the parsonage, for what he had to complete he wished to get done quickly. As the last duty before leaving this part of England it was necessary for liim to call at the Weill bridge farmhouse, in which lie luid spent with Tess the first three days of their marriage, the trifle of rent having to be paid, the key given up of the rooms they had occupied, and two or three THE WO:\IAN PAYS. 30-5 small articles fetched away that they had left behind. It was under this roof that the deepest shadow ever thrown upon his hf e had stretched its gloom over him. Yet when he had unlocked the door of the sitting-room and looked into it, the memory wliich returned first upon him was that of their happy arrival on a similar afternoon, the fii'st fresh sense of sharing a habitation conjointly, the fu*st meal to- gether, the chatting by the fire with joined hands. The farmer and his wile were in the fields at the moment of his visit, and Clare was in the rooms alone for some time. Inwardly swollen with a renewal of sentiments that he had not quite reckoned with, he went upstairs to her chamber, which had never been his. The bed was smooth as she had made it ^Yith her own hands on the morning of lea\dng. The mistletoe hung under the tester just as he had placed it. Ha\dng been there three or four weeks, it was turning color, and the leaves and berries were wi^nkled. Angel took it down and crushed it into the grate. Standing there, he for the first time doubted whether his course in this conjunctm'e had been a mse, much less a generous, one. But had he not been cruellv blinded ? In the incoherent multi- tude of his emotions he knelt down at the bedside wet-eyed. " O Tess ! If vou had onlv told me sooner, I would have forgiven you ! " he mourned. Hearing a footstep below, he rose and went to the top of the stairs. At the bottom of the flight he saw a woman standing, and on her turning up her face recognized the pale, dark-eyed Izz Huett. "Mr. Clare,^' said she, "I've called to see you and Mrs. Clare, and to inquire if ye be well. I thought you would be back." This was a girl whose secret he had guessed, but who had not yet guessed his ; an honest girl who loved him — one who would have made as good, or nearly as good, a practical farmer's wife as Tess. "I am here alone," he said; "we are not hving hei'e 20 306 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. now." Ex2:)laiiniig why he had come, he asked, "Which way are you going home, Izz ? " " I have no home at Talbothays Daiiy now, su'," she said. ^'Whyis that?" Izz looked down. " It was so dismal there that I left. I am staying out this way."' She pointed in a contrary direction — the dii'ection in which he was journeying. '^ Well — are you going there now? I can take j^ou if you wish for a lift." Her olive com]3lexion grew richer in hue. " Thank 'ee, Mr. Clare," she said. He soon found the farmer, and settled the account for his rent and the few other items which had to be considered by reason of the sudden abandonment of the lodgings. On Clare's return to his horse and gig Izz jumped up beside him. " I am going to leave England, Izz," he said, as they drove on. " Going to Brazil." "And do Mrs. Clare like the notion of such a jom-ney f " she asked. " She is not going at present — say for a year or so. I am going out to reconnoitre — to see what life there is hke." They sped along eastward for some considerable distance, Izz making no observation. "How are the others?" he in- quired. " How is Retty ? " " She is in a sort of nervous state ; and so thin and hol- low-cheeked that 'a do seem in a decline. Nobody wUl ever fall in love wi' her any more," said Izz, absently. " And Marian ? " Izz lowered her voice. " Marian di'inks." " Indeed ! " " Yes. The dairyman has got rid of her." "And you?" " I don't drink, and I baiiit in a decline. But — I am no gi^eat things at singing afore breakfast now ! " " How is that ! Do you remember how neatly you used THE WO:\L\N PAYS. 307 to turn ^'Twas down in Cupid's Gardens' and ^Tlie Tailor's Breeches' at moruing milking?" ^^ Ah yes ! When you first came, sii", that was. Not when you had been there a bit." '' Why was that f aUing-off 1 " Her black eyes flashed up to his face for one moment by w^ay of answer. '' Izz — how weak of you — for such as I ! '' he said, and fell into reverie. " Then — suppose I had asked you to marry me I " "If you had I should have said ^Yes/ and you would have married a woman who loved 'ee." " ReaUv ! " " Down to the ground ! " she whispered. " my God ! did you never guess it till now ! " By and by they reached a branch road to the \allage. " I must get down. I live out there," said Izz, abruptly, never having spoken since her avowal. Clare slowed the horse. He was incensed against his fate, bitterly disposed towards social ordinances ; for they had cooped him up in a corner, out of which there was no legitimate pathway. Why not be revenged on society by ruling his future domesticities himself, instead of kissing the pedagogic rod of convention in this lonely manner ? "I am going to Brazil alone, Izz," said he. "I have separated from my wife for personal, not voj^aging, reasons. I may never live with her again. I may not be able to love you ; but — will you go mth me instead of her f " "Do you truly msh me to go ? " " I do. I have been badly used enough to wish for re- hef . And you at least love me disinterestedly." " Yes — I will go," said Izz, after a pause. " You will ? You know what it means, Izz ? " " It means that I shall live with you for the time you are over there — that's good enough for me." "Remember, you are not to trust me in morals now. 308 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. But I ought to remind you that it will be wi'ong-doing in the eyes of civilization — Western ci\alization, that is to say." '^I don't mind that; no woman do when it comes to agony-point, and there's no other way." " Then don't get down, but sit where you are." He di^ove past the cross-roads, one mile, two miles, with- out showing any signs of affection. " You love me very, very much, Izz ? " he suddenh^ asked. " I do — I have said I do. I loved you all the time we was at the dauy together." "More than Tessf" She shook her head. " No," she mm'mured, " not more than she." " How's that ? " " Because nobody could love 'ee more than Tess did ! . . . She would have laid down her life for 'ee. I could do no more ! " Like the prophet on the top of Peor, Izz Huett would fain have spoken perversely at such a moment, but the fascina- tion exercised over her rougher nature by Tess's character compelled her to grace. • Clare was silent; his heart had risen at these straight- forward words from such an unexpected, unimpeachable quarter. In his throat was something as if a sob had solidi- fied there. His ears repeated, " She would have laid down her life for ^ee. I could do no more ! " "Forget our idle talk, Izz," he said, turning his horse's head suddenlv. "I don't know what I've been savin i>! I will now drive you back to where your lane branches off." " So much for honesty towards 'ee ! — how can I bear it — how can I — how can If" Izz Huett burst into wild tears, and beat her forehead as she saw what she had done. " Do you regret that poor little act of justice to an ab- sent one ? Izz, don't spoil it by regret ! " She stilled herself by degrees. THE WOIMAN PAYS. 309 '^ Very well, sir. Perliaps I didn't know what I was say- ing either, when I agreed to go. I msh — what cannot be." '^ Because I have a loving wife already." " Yes, yes ! You have." They reached the corner of the lane which they had passed half an hour earlier, and she hopped down. "You vnR forget my momentary levity?" he said. "It was ill-considered, ill-advised." " Forget it ? Never, never ! O, it was no levity to me ! " He felt how richly he deserved the reproach that the wounded cry conveyed, and, in a sorrow that was inexpres- sible, leaped doT\Ti and took her hand. "Well, but, Izz, we'll part friends, anyhow? You don't know what I've had to bear ! " She was a really generous gii'l, and allowed no further bitterness to mar their adieux. " I forgive 'ee, sir," she said. " Now, Izz," he said, solemnly, while she stood beside him there, forcing liiraseK to the mentor's part he was far from feeling 5 "I want you to tell Marian when you see her that she is to be a good woman, and not to give way to folly. Promise that, and tell Retty that there are more worthy men than I in the world, that for mv sake she is to act wisely and well — remember the words — wisely and well — for my sake. I send this message to them as a dying man to the dying ; for I shall never see them again. And you, Izz}^, 3'ou have saved me by your honest words about my wife from an incredible piece of folly and treachery. Wom- en may be bad, but they are not so bad as men in these things. On that one account I can never forget you. Be always the good and sincere girl you have hitherto been ; and think of me as a worthless lover, but a faithful friend. Promise." She gave the promise gravely. " Heaven bless and keep you, sir. Good-by ! " He drove on; but no sooner had Izz turned into the lane, and Clare was out of sight, than she flung herself 310 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. down ou tlie bank in a fit of racking anguish ; and it was with a strained, nnnatiu*al face that she entered her mother's cottage late that night. Nobody ever knew how Izz spent the dark houi's that intervened between Angel Clare's part- ing from her and her arrival home. Clare, too, after bidding the girl farewell, was wrought to aching thoughts and quivering lips. But his sorrow was not for Izz. That evening he was within a feather-weight's turn of abandoning his road to the nearest station, and driving across that elevated dorsal line of South Wessex which divided him from his Tess's home. It was neither a contempt for her nature, nor the probable state of her heart, which deterred him. No ; it was a sense that, despite her love, as corroborated by Izz's admission, the facts had not changed. If he was right at first, he was right now. And the momentum of the course on which he had embarked tended to keep him going in it, unless diverted by a stronger, more sustained force than had played upon him this afternoon. He could soon come back to her. He took the train that night for London, and five days after shook hands in fareweU of his brothers at the port of embarkation. XLI. i*ROM the foregoing events of the mnter-time let us press on to an October da}", more than eight months subsequent to the parting of Clare and Tess. We discover the latter in changed conditions ] instead of a bride with boxes and trunks which others bore, we see her a lonely woman with a basket and a bundle in her own porterage, as at an earlier time, when she was no bride ; instead of the ample means tliat were anticipated by her husband for her comfort THE WOMAN PAYS. 311 througli tliis probationary period, she can produce only a flattened purse. After again leading Marlott, lier liome, sheliad got through the spring and summer without au}^ great stress upon her physical powers, the time being mainly spent in rendering light, ii'regular ser\dce at dairy- work near Port Bredy, to the west of the Blackmoor Valley, equally remote from her native place and from Tall.)othays. She preferred this to liv- ing on his allowance. Mentally she remained in utter stag- nation, a condition which the mechanical occupation rather fostered than checked. Her consciousness was at that other daily, at that other season, in the presence of the tender lover who had confronted her there — he who, the moment she had grasped him to keep him for her own, had disappeared like a shape in a \dsion. The dairy- work lasted only till the milk began to lessen, for she had not met with a second regular engagement as at Talbothays, but had done duty as a supernumerary only. However, as harvest was now beginning, she had simply to remove from the pastiu'e to the stubble to find plenty of further occupation, and this continued till harvest was done. Of the five-and-twenty pounds which had remained to her of Clare's allowance, after deducting the other half of the fifty as a contribution to her parents for the trouble and expense to which she had put them, she had as yet spent but httle. But there now followed an unfortunate interval of wet weather, during which she was obliged to fall back upon her sovereigns. She could not bear to let them go. Angel had put them into her hand, had obtained them bright and new from his bank for her ; his touch had consecrated them to souvenirs of himself — the}" appeared to have had as yet no other his- tory than such as was created by his and her own experi- ence — and to disperse them was like giving aAvay rehcs. But she had to do it, and one by one they left her hands. She had been compelled to send her mother her address 312 TESS OF THE D'URBERYILLES. from time to time, but she concealed her circumstances. When her money had abnost gone a letter from her mother reached her. Joan stated that they were in di-eadful difficulty ; the autumn rains had gone through the thatch of the house, which required entire renewal ; but this could not be done because the previous thatching had never been paid for. New rafters and a new ceiling upstaii's also were requii*ed, wliich, with the previous bill, would amount to a sum of twenty pounds. As her husband was a man of means, and had doubtless returned by this time, could she not send them the monev? Tess had thirty pounds coming to her abnost immediately from Angel's bankers, and, the case being so deplorable, as soon as the sum was received she sent the twenty as re- quested. Part of the remainder she was obHged to expend m win- ter clotliing, lea\dng only a nominal sum for the whole in- clement season at hand. When the last pound had gone, a remark of Angel's that whenever she required further re- soiu'ces she was to apply to his father, remained to be con- sidered. But the more Tess thought of the step the more reluctant was she to take it. The same delicacy, pride, false shame, whatever it may be called, on Clare's account, which had led her to hide from her own parents the prolongation of the estrangement, hindered her in owning to his that she was in want after the fair allowance he had left her. They probably despised her already ; how much more would they despise her in the character of a mendicant? The conse- quence was that by no effort could the parson's daughter- in-law bring herself to let him know her state. Her reluctance to communicate with her husband's par- ents might, she thought, lessen ^vith. the lapse of time ; but with her own the reverse obtained. On her leaving their house after the short visit subsequent to her marriage they were under the impression that she was ultimately going THE WOJIAN PAYS. 313 to join her husband ; and from that time to the present she had done nothing to distiu'b their erroneous belief that she was awaiting his retui^n in comfort, hoping against hope that his journey to Brazil would result in a short stay only, after which he would come to fetch her, or that he would write for her to join him ; in any case that they would soon present a united front to then* families and the world. This hope she still fostered. To let her parents know that she was a deserted wife, dependent, now that she had relieved theii* necessities, on her o^m hands for a living, after the triumph of a marriage which was to nullify the collapse of the first attempt, would be too much indeed. The set of brilliants returned to her mind. Where Clare had deposited them she did not know, and it mattered httle, if it were tiiie that she could only use and not sell them. Even had they been absolutely hers, it would be passing mean to enrich herseK by a legal title to them which was not essentially hers at all. Meanwhile, her husband's days had been by no means free from trial. At this moment he was l}"ing ill of fever in the clay lands near Curitiba in Brazil, ha\dng been drenched with thunder-stoj'ms and persecuted by other hard- ships, in common "\vith all the English farmers and farm laborers who, just at this time, were deluded into going thither by the promises of the Brazilian Government, and by the baseless assumption that those frames which, plough- ing and sowdng on English uplands, had resisted all the weathers to whose moods they had been born, could resist equally well all the weathers by which they were sui^prised on Brazilian plains. To retm*n. Thus it happened that when the last of Tess's sovereigns had been spent she was unprovided with others to take their place, while, on account of the season, she found it increasingly difficult to get employment. Not being aware of the rarity of intelligence, energy, health, and willingness in any sphere of life, she refrained from seeking 314 TESS OF THE D'URBEmaLLES. an indoor occupation ; fearing towns, large houses, people of means and social sopliistication, and of manners other than rural. From that direction of gentility Black Care had come — all the troubles she had ever kno^^Ti. To indoor work, indeed, Tess had never taken kindly. Mantua-mak- ing she hated, so far as she knew anything of it ; she could not stitch gloves with rapidity sufficient to earn a mainte- nance, as some gii-ls in the district were wont to do 5 and upon the whole, the work she was compelled to seek was the work she preferred — that which involved living in the open air. Of the winter wind she knew the worst, and of the bitter sky. Society might be better than she supposed from her slight experience of it. But she had no proof of this, and her instinct in the cii-cumstances was to avoid it. The small dairies in which she had served as supernumer- ary milkmaid during the spring and summer required no further aid. Room would probably have been made for her at Talbothays, if only out of sheer compassion; but comfortable as her life had been there, she could not go back. The anti-climax woidd be too intolerable ; and her return might bring reproach upon her idolized husband. She could not have borne theii' i^ity, and tlieii* whispered remarks to one another upon her strange situation ; though, oddly enough, she would almost have faced a knowledge of her circumstances by every individual there, so long as her story had remained isolated in the mind of each. It was the interchange of ideas about her that made her sen- sitiveness wince. Tess could not account for this distinc- tion ; she simply knew that she felt it. Slie was now on her way to an upland farm in the centre of the county, to which she had been recommended by a wandering letter which had reached her from Marian. Marian had somehow heard that Tess was separated from her husT)aiul — prol)ably through Tzz Huett — and the good- natured and now ti])pling gii'l, deeming Tess in trouble, liad hastened to inform her former friend that she herself THE WO^IAN PAYS. 315 had gone to this uphiiid spot after leaving' the dairy, and would like to see her there, where there was room for other hands, if it was really true that she worked again as of oldo With the shortening of the days all hope of obtaining her husband's forgiveness began to leave her; and there w^as something of the habitude of the wild animal in the unreflecting automatism with which she rambled on — dis- connecting herself by littles from her eventful past at every step, obliterating her identit}^, giving no thought to accidents or contingencies which might make a quick discovery of her whereabouts l^y others of importance to her o\\ti happi- ness, if not to theii's. Among the difficulties of her lonely position, not the least was the attention she excited by her appearance, a certain bearing of distinction, which she had caught from Clare, being superadded to her natural attractiveness. Whilst the clothes lasted which had been prepared for her marriage, these casual glances of interest caused her no inconvenience, but as soon as she was compelled to don the wi'apper of a field- woman, rude words were addressed to her more than once ; but nothing occurred to cause her bodily fear till a particular November afternoon. She had preferred the fertile country of the southwest to the upland farm for which she was now bound, because, for one thing, it was nearer to the home of her husband's father ; and to hover about that region unrecognized, with the notion that she might decide to caU at the \dcarage some day, gave her pleasm'e. But having once decided to try the higher and dryer levels, she pressed on, marching afoot towards the village of Chalk-Newton, where she meant to pass the night. The lane was long and unvaiied, and, owing to the rapid shortening of the days, dusk came upon her before she was aware. She had reached the top of a hill down which the lane stretched its serpentine length in glimpses, when she heard footsteps behind her back, and in a few moments 316 TESS OF THE D'URBERYILLES. she was overtaken by a man. He stepped up alongside Tess and said, '*' Good-nighty my pretty maid/' to which she civilly rephed. The light still remaining in the sky lit up her face, though the landscape was nearly dark. The man tui^ned and stared hard at her. " Why, surely, it is the young wencli who was at Trant- ridge awhile — young Squire D'Urber^dlle's fancy? I was there at that time, though I don't live there now." She recognized in him the well-to-do boor whom Angel had knocked down at the inn for addressing her coarsely, when they Avent shopping together before theu' marriage. A spasm of anguish shot through her, and she retm'ned him no answer. " Be honest enough to own it, and that what I said at the pubhc-house was true, though your fancy-man was so up about it — hey, my sly one f You ought to beg ni}' pardon for that blow of his, considering." Still no answer came from Tess. There seemed only one escape for her hunted soul. She suddenly took to her heels with the speed of the wind, and, without looking behind her, ran along the road till she came to a gate which opened dii-ectly into a plantation. Into this she plunged, and did not pause till she was deep enough in its shade to be safe against any possibility of discovery. Under foot the leaves were dry, and the fohage of some holly bushes which grew among the deciduous trees was dsnse enough to keep off draughts. She scraped together the dead leaves till she had formed them into a large heap, making a sort of nest in the middle. Into this Tess crept. Such sleep as she got was naturally fitful ; she fancied she heard strange noises, but persuaded herself that they were caused by the breeze. She thought of her husband in some vague, warm clime on the other side of the globe, while she was here in the cold. Was there another such wretched being as she in the world ? Tess asked herseK ; THE W03L\X PAYS. 317 and, tliinking of her wasted life, said, " iUl is vanity." She repeated the words mechanically, till she reflected that this was a most inadequate thought for modern days. Solomon had thought as far as that more than two thousand years ago ; she herself, though not in the van of thinkers, had got much further. If all were only vanity, who would mind it ? All w^as, alas, worse than vanity ! The ^^df e of Angel Clare put her hand to her brow, and felt its curve, and edges of her eye-sockets as perceptible under the soft skin, and thought as she did so that there would be a time when that bone would be bare. " I wish it were now," she said. In the midst of these whimsical fancies she heard a new strange sound among the leaves. It might be the wind ; yet there was scarcely any wind. Sometimes it was a pal- pitation, sometimes a flutter; sometimes it was a sort of gasp or gurgle. Soon she was certain that the noises came from wild creatures of some kind, the more so when, origi- nating in the boughs overhead, they were followed by the fall of a heav}^ body upon the ground. Had she been en- sconced here under other and more pleasant conditions, she would have become alarmed; but, outside humanity, she had at present no fear. Day at length broke in the sky. When it had been day aloft for some little while it became day in the wood. Directly the assiuing and prosaic light of the world's active hom'S had grown strong, she crept from under her hillock of leaves, and looked around boldly. Then she per- ceived what had been going on to disturb her. The plan- tation wherein she had taken shelter ran down at this spot into a peak, which ended it hitherward, outside the hedge being arable ground. Under the trees several pheasants lay about, their rich plumage dabbled with blood; some were dead, some feebly moving their wings, some staring up at the sk}", some pulsating feebly, some contorted, some stretched out — all of them writhing in agony, except the 318 TESS OF THE D'URBERYILLES. fortunate ones wliose tortui'es liad ended dm*ing tlie niglit by the inability of Nature to bear more. Tess guessed at once the meaning of this. The birds had been driven down into this comer the day before by some shooting party; and while those that had dropped dead under the shot, or had died before nightfall, had been searched for and carried off, the slightly wounded bii'ds had escaped and hidden themselves away, or risen among the thick boughs, where they had maintained their position till they grew weaker with loss of blood in the night-time, when they had fallen one by one as she had heard them. She had occasionally caught glimpses of these men in girlliood, looking over hedges or peering through bushes, and pointing their guns, strangely accoutred, a bloodthirsty light in their eyes. She had been told that, rough and brutal as they seemed just then, they were not like this all the year round, but were, in fact, quite ci\al persons, save during certain weeks of autumn and \\inter, when, like the inhabitants of the Malay Peninsula, they ran amuck, and made it their purpose to destroy life — in this case harmless feathered creatures, brought into being by artificial means solely to gratify these propensities — conduct at once so un- mannerly and so unchivalrous towards their weaker fellows in Nature's teeming family. With the impulse of a soul who could feel for kindred sufferers as much as for herseK, Tess's first thought was to put the still living birds out of their torture, and to this end mth her own trembling hands she broke the necks of as many as she could find, leaving them to lie where she had found them till the gamekeei)ers should come — as they probably would come — to look for them a second time. '^ Poor darlings — to suppose myself the most miserable being on earth in the sight of such misery as yours ! " she exclaimed. " And not a tmnge of bodily pain about me ! I be not mangled, and I be not bleeding, and I have two hands to feed and clothe me." She was ashamed of THE W0:MAN pays. 319 herself for her gloom of the uight, based on nothmg more tangible than a sense of condemnation under an arbitrary law of society which had no foundation in natui'e. XLII. It was now broad day, and she started again, emerging cautiously upon the highwa}^ But there was no need for caution ; not a soul was at hand, and Tess went onward with fortitude, her recollection of the birds silently endur- ing theu' night of agony impressing upon her the relati\dty of sorrows and the tolerable nature of her own, if she could rise high enough to despise opinion. But that she coidd not do so long as it was held by Glare. She reached Chalk-Newton, and breakfasted at an inn, where several young men were troublesomely compliment- ary to her good looks. Somehow she felt hopeful, for was it not possible that her husband also might say these same things to her even yet ? Sm'ely she was bound to take care of herseK on the chance of it. To this end Tess resolved to run no further risks from her appearance. As soon as she got out of the village she entered a thicket and took from her basket one of the old field-gowns which she had never put on even at the dairy — never since she had worked among the stubble at Marlott. She also, by a felicitous thought, took a handkerchief from her bundle and tied it round her face under her bonnet, covering her chin and half her cheeks and her temples, as if she were suffering from toothache. Then with her little scissors, bv the aid of a pocket looking-glass, she mercilessly snipped her eyebrows off, and thus insured against aggi^essive admiration she went on her uneven way. " What a mommet of a maid ! " said the next man who met her to a companion. 320 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. Tears came into her eyes for very pity of herseK as sl:c heard him. '' But I don't care ! " said she. '^ Oh no — I don't care ! I'll always be ugly now, because Angel is not here, and I have nobody to take care of me. My husband that was is gone away, and never will love me any more; but I love him just the same, and hate all other men, and like to make 'em think scornful o' me ! " Thus Tess walks on ; a figure which is part of the land- scape 5 a field- worn an pure and simple, in winter guise : a gTay serge cape, a red woollen cravat, a stuff skirt covered by a w^hite^^-brown rough "vsTapper, and buff -leather gloves. Every thread of that old attire has become wire-dra^^Ti and thin under the stroke of rain-drops, the burn of sunbeams, and the stress of winds. There is no sign of young passion in her now : The maiden's mouth is cold, • • • • • Her hair mere brown or gold, Fold over simple fold Binding her head. Inside this exterior, over which the eye might have roved as over a thing scarcely percipient, almost inorganic, there was the record of a pulsing life, of responsive spells, thi'ough months of pleasure, and through months of sighing; a heart which had learnt of the dust and ashes of thmgs, of the cruelty of lust and the fragility of love. Next da}^ the weather was bad, but she trudged on, the honesty, directness, and impartiality of elemental enmity disconcerting her but little. Her object being a wintei^'s occupation and a mnter's home, there was no time to lose. Her experience of short hirings had been such that she de- termined to accept no more. Thus she went forward from farm to farm in the du-ection of the place whence Marian had written to her, which she determined to make use of as a last shift only, its rumored THE \V0:\1AN PAYS. 321 stringencies being the reverse of tempting. First she in- quired for the lighter kinds of employment, and, as accept- ance in any variety of these grew hopeless, applied next for the less hght, till, beginning with the dahy and poultry tendance that she hked best, she ended with the heavy and coarse piu'suits that she liked least — work on arable land : work of such roughness, indeed, as she would never have deliberately volunteered for. Towards the second evening she reached the irregular chalk table-land or plateau, bosomed with prehistoric semi- globidar tumuli — as if Cybele the Many-breasted were su- pinely extended there — which stretched between the valley of her birth and the valley of her love. Here the air was dry and cold, and the long cart-roads w^ere blown white and dusty again within a few hours after rain. There were few" trees or none, those that Tvould have grown in the hedges being mercilessly plashed down with the quickset by the tenant-farmers, the natm'al enemies of tree, bush, and brake. In the middle distance ahead of her she could see the summits of Bulbarrow and of Xettle- combe-Tout, and they seemed friendly. They had a low and unassuming aspect from this upland, though as seen on the other side from Blackmoor in her childhood they were as lofty bastions against the sky. Southerly, at many miles' distance, and over the hills and ridges coastward, she coidd discern a surface hke polished steel : it was the Eng- lish Channel at a point far out towards France. Before her, in a slight depression, were the remains of a \allage. She had, in fact, reached Flintcomb-Ash, the place of Marian's sojourn. There seemed to be no help for it; hither she was doomed to come. The stubborn soil around her showed plainly enough that the kind of labor in demand here was of the roughest kind ; but it was time to rest from searcliing, and here she resolved to stay, particularly as it began to rain. At the entrance to the village was a cottage whose gable jutted into the road^ and before applying for 21 322 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. a lodging she stood under its sTielter, and watched the evening close in. " Who would think I was Mrs. Angel Clare ! '' she said. The wall felt warm to her back and shoulders, and she found that immediately within the gable was the cottage fireplace, the heat of which came through the bricks. She warmed her hands ujdou them, and also put her cheek — red and moist with the drizzle — against their comforting sur- face. The wall seemed to be the only friend she had. She had so httle wish to leave it that she could have stayed there all night. Tess could hear the occupants of the cottage — gathered together after then* day's labor — talking to each other with- in, and the rattle of their supper-2:)lates was also audible. But in the village street she had seen no soul as yet. The soHtude was at last broken by the approach of one femi- nine figui'e, who, though the evening was cold, wore the print gown and the tilt-bonnet of summer-time. Tess in- stinctively thought it might be Marian, and when she came near enough to be distinguishable in the gloom sui^ely enough it was she. Marian was even stouter and redder in the face than formerly, and decided^ shabbier in attire. At any j)revious period of her existence Tess would hardly have cared to renew the acquaintance in such conditions ; but her loneliness was excessive, and she responded readily to Marian's greeting. Marian was quite respectful in her inquiries, but seemed much moved by the fact that Tess should still continue in no better condition than at first; though she had dimly heard of the separation. " Tess — Mrs. Clare — the dear wife of dear he ! And is it really so bad as this, my child ? Why is your comely face tied up in such a way ? Anybody been beating 'ee ? Not he ! " '^No, no, no ! I merely did it to keep off clipsing and colling, Marian." She luilled (^ff in disgust a banda.ge which could suggest such wild thoughts. THE WOMAN PAYS. 323 '^And youVe got no collar on." (Tess had been accus- tomed to wear a little white collar at the dairy.) '' I know it, Marian." '^ You've lost it travelling f " '^ I've not lost it. The truth is, I don't care anything about my appearance ; and so I didn't put it on." '^ And you don't wear your wedding-ring ? " " Yes, I do ; but not publicly. I wear it round my neck on a ribbon. I don't wish people to think who I am by marriage, or that I am married at all ; it would be so awk- ward while I lead my present life." Marian paused. " But you he a gentleman's wife ; and it seems hardly fair that you should live like this ! " " Oh yes it is, quite fair ; though I am very unhappy." '^ Well, well. He married you — and you can be unhappy ! " '^ Wives are unhappy sometimes ; from no fault of their husbands — from their own." "You've no faults, deary; that I'm sure of. And he's none. So it must be something outside ye both." " Marian, dear Marian, will you do me a good turn with- out asking questions ? My husband has gone abroad, and somehow I have overrun my allowance, so that I have to fall back upon my old work for a time. Do not call me Mrs. Clare, but Tess, as before. Do thc}^ want a hand here?" " Oh yes ; they'll take one always, because few care to come. 'Tis a starve-acre place. Corn and swedes are all they groAV. Though I be here myself, I feel 'tis a pity for such as you to come." " But you used to be as good a dair^^voman as I." "Yes; but IVe got out o' that since I took to drink. Lord, that's the only happiness I've got now ! If you en- gage, you'll be set swede-hacking. That's what I be doing ; but you won't like it." " O — anything ! Will you speak for me ? " " You will do better by speaking for yoiu'self ." 324 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. him, if I get the place. I don't wish to bring his name down to the dirt." Marian, who was really a trustworthy girl, though of coarser grain than Tess, promised anything she asked. " This is pay-night/' she said, " and if you were to come with me you would know at once. I be real sorry that you are not happy ; but 'tis because he's away, I know. You couldn't be unhappy if he were here, even if he gave you no money — even if he used you like a drudge." ^^ That's true ; I could not ! " They walked on together, and soon reached the farm- house, which was almost sublime in its dreariness. There was not a tree mthin sight ; there was not, at this season, a green pasture — nothing but fallow and turnips every- where ; in large fields divided by hedges monotonously plashed to unrelieved levels. Tess waited outside the door of the farmhouse till the group of work-folk had received their wages, and then Marian introduced her. The farmer himself, it appeared, was not at home, but his wife, who represented him this evening, made no objection to hiring Tess, on her agreeing to remain till Old Ladv-Dav. Female field-labor was sel- dom offered now, and its cheapness made it profitable for tasks which women could perform as readily as men. Having signed the agreement, there was nothing more for Tess to do at present than to get a lodging, and she found one in the house at whose gable-Avall she had warmed herself. It was a poor subsistence that she had ensured, but it would afford a shelter for the winter at anv rate. That night she wrote to inform her parents of her new address, in case a letter should arrive at Marlott from her husband. But she did not tell them of the sorriness of her situation : it might have brought reproach upon him. THE WOMAN PAYS. 325 XLIIL There was no exaggeration in Marian's definition of Flintcomb-Ash farm as a starve-acre place. The single fat thing on the soil was Marian herself : and she was an im- portation. Of the three classes of village, the \dllage cared for by its lord, the village cared for by itself, and the village uncared for either b}' itself or by its lord — (in other words, the village of a resident squire's tenantry, the \dllage of free or copyholders, and the absentee-owner's village, farmed with the land) — tliis place, Flintcomb-Ash, was the third. But Tess set to work. Patience, that blending of moral courage with physical timidity, was now no longer a minor feature in Mrs. Angel Clare ; and it sustained her. The swede-field, in which she and her companion w^ere set hacking, was a stretch of a hundred odd acres, in one patch, on the highest ground of the farm, rising above stony lanchets or lynchets — the outcrop of silicious veins in the chalk formation, composed of myriads of loose white flints in bulbous, cusped, and phallic shapes. The upper half of each turnip had been eaten off by the live-stock, and it was the business of the two women to grub out the lower or earthy half of the root with a hooked fork called a hacker, that this might be eaten also. Every leaf of the vegetable ha^dng previously been consumed, the whole field was in color a desolate drab ; it was a complexion without features, as if a face, from chin to brow, should be only an expanse of skin. The sky wore, in another color, the same likeness; a white vacuitv of countenance with the linea- ments gone. So these two upper and nether \dsages con- fronted each other all day long, the white face looking down on the brown face, and the brown face looking up at the white face, without anything standing between them 326 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. but the two girls crawling over the surface of the former like flies. Nobody came near them, and their movements showed a mechanical regularity; theu^ forms enshrouded in rough Hessian " v\^'oppers " — sleeved brown pinafores, tied behind to the bottom, to keep their gowns from blowing about — short skirts revealing " skitty boots" that reached high up the ankles, and yellow sheepskin gloves with gauntlets. The pensive character which the curtained hood lent to their bent heads would have reminded the observer of some early Italian conception of the two Marys. They worked on hour after hour, unconscious of the forlorn aspect they bore in the landscape, not thinking of the justice or injustice of their lot. Even in such a posi- tion as theirs it was possible to exist in a dream. In the afternoon the rain came on again, and Marian said that they need not work any more, though if they did not w^ork they would not be paid ; so they w^orked on. It was so high a situation, this field, that the rain had no occasion to fall, but raced along horizontally upon the yelling TNdnd, sticking into them like glass splinters, till by degrees they were wet through. Tess had not known till now — indeed, few people of either sex know — what is really meant by that. There are degi^ees of dampness, and a very little is called being wTt through in common talk. But to stand w^orking slowly in a field, and feel the creep of rain-water, first in legs and shoulders, then on hips and head, then at back, front, and sides, and yet to work on till the leaden light diminishes and marks that the sun is dowTi, demands a distinct modicum of stoicism, even of valor. Yet they did not feel the witness so much as might be supposed. Tliey were both young, and they were talking of the time when they lived and loved together at Talbo- thays Dairy, that happy green tract of land where summer had been liberal in her gifts ; in substance to all, emotion- ally to these. Tess would fain not have conversed with THE WOMAN PAYS. 327 Marian of the man who was legally, if not obvionsly, her hnsbancl ; but the iiTesistible fascination of the subject be- trayed her into reciprocating Marian's remarks. And thus, as has been said, though the damp curtains of their bonnets flapped smartly into their faces, and their wrappers clung about them to wearisomeness, they liyed all this afternoon in memories of green, sunny, romantic Talbothays. '^ You can see a gleam of a hill within a few miles of Froom Valley from here when it is fine," said Marian. '^ Ah ! Can you ? " said Tess, awake to the new yalue of the locality. So the two forces were at work here as eyerywhere, the inherent ^Yi]l to enjoy, and the circumstantial will against enjoyment. Marian's ^dll had a method of assisting itself by taking from her pocket, as the afternoon wore on, a pint bottle corked ^yith a white rag, from which she in\dted Tess to drink. Tess's unassisted power of dreaming, howeyer, being enough for her sublimation at present, she declined except the merest sip, and then Marian took a pull herself from the bottle. ^' I'ye got used to it," she said, " and can't leaye it off now. 'Tis my only comfort You see I lost him : you didn't ; and you can do without it perhaps." Tess thought her loss as great as Marian's, but upheld by the dignity of being Angel's wife, in the letter at least, she accepted Marian's differentiation. Amid this scene Tess slayed in the morning frosts and in the afternoon rains. When it was not swede-hacking it was swede-trimming, in which process they sliced off the earth and the fibres with a l^ill-hook before storing the roots for future use. At this occupation they could shelter themselyes by a thatched hurdle if it rained ; but if it was frosty, eyen their thick leather gloyes could not preyent the frozen masses they handled from biting their fingers. Still Tess hoped. She had a conyiction that sooner or later the magnanimity which she persisted in reckoning as a 328 TESS OF THE D'URBERYILLES. chief ingredient of Clare's character would lead him to rejoin herj and what would a winter of swede-trimming matter if it resulted in such a consummation ? They often looked across the country to where Froom Valley was known to stretch, even though they might not be able to see itj and, fixing their eyes on the cloaking gray mist, imagined the old times they had spent out there. "All," said Marian, "howl should like another or two of our old set to come here ! Then we could bring up Talbothays ever}^ day here afield, and talk of he, and of what nice times we had there, and o' the old things we used to know, and make it all come back again a'most, in seem- ing ! " Marian's eyes softened, and her voice grew vague as the visions returned. " I'll T\Tite to Izz Huett," she said. " She's biding at home doing nothing now, I. know, and I'll tell her we be here, and ask her to come ; and perhaps Retty is well enough now.'^ Tess had nothing to say against the proposal, and the next she heard of this plan for importing old Talbothays' joys was two or three days later, w^hen Marian informed her that Izz had replied to her inquiry, and had promised to come if she could. There had not been such a winter for years. It came on in stealthy and measured glides, like the moves of a chess- player. One morning the few lonely trees and the thorns of the hedgerows appeared as if they had put off a vegeta- ble for an animal integument. Every twig was covered wdth a white nap as of fur grown from the rind during the night, giving it four times its usual dimensions ; the whole bush or tree forming a startling sketch in white lines on the mournful gi^ay of the sky and horizon. Cobwebs revealed their presence on sheds and walls where none had ever been observed till brought out into visibilitv by the crvs- tallizing atmosplicre, hanging like loops of white worsted from salient points of the outhouses, posts, and gates. After this season of congealed dampness came a spell of THE WOMAN PAYS. 329 dry frost, when strange bii'ds from behind the North Pole began to arrive silently on the upland of Flintcomb-Ash ; gannt spectral creatures with tragical eyes — eyes which had witnessed scenes of cataclysmal hoiTor in inaccessible polar regions, of a magnitude such as no human being had ever conceived, in curdling temperatures that no man could endure ; wliich had beheld the crash of icebergs and the slide of snow-hills by the shooting light of the Aurora ; been half blinded by the whirl of colossal storms and ter- raqueous distortions ; and retained the expression of fea- ture that such scenes had engendered. These nameless birds came quite near to Tess and Marian, but of all they had seen which humanitv would never see thev broug^ht no account. The traveller's ambition to tell was not theirs, and, T\dth dumb impassivity, they dismissed experiences which thev did not value for the immediate incidents of this upland — the trivial movements of the two girls in disturbing the clods with their fragile hackers so as to un- cover something or other that these \dsitants relished as food. Then one day a peculiar quality invaded the air of this open country. There came a moisture which was not the moisture of rain, and a cold which was not the cold of frost. It chilled the eyeballs of the twain, made their brows ache, penetrated to their skeletons, affecting tlie^ surface of the body less than its core. They knew that it meant snow, and in the night the snow came. Tess, who continued to live at the cottage with the warm gable that cheered the lonely pedestrian who paused beside it, awoke in the night, and heard above the thatch noises which seemed to signify that the roof had turned itseK into a gymnasium of all the "wdnds. Wlien she lit her lamp to get up in the morning, she found that the snow had blown through a chink in the casement, forming a white cone of the finest powder against the inside, and had also come down the chimney, so that it lay sole-deep upon the floor, on which her shoes left tracks 330 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. when she moved about. Without, the storm drove so fast as to create a snow-mist in the kitchen ; but as yet it was too dark out-of-doors to see an;v"thing. Tess knew that it was impossible to go on with the swedes ; and by the time she had finished breakfast by the hght of the solitary little lamp, Marian arrived to tell her that they were to join the rest of the women at reed-draw- ing in the barn till the weather changed. As soon, there- fore, as the uniform cloak of darkness without began to turn to a disordered medley of feeble grays, they blew out the lamp, -s^^-apped themselves up in their thickest pinners, tied their woollen cravats round their necks and across their chests, and started for the barn. The snow had fol- lowed the birds from the polar loasin as a white pillar of a cloud, and individual flakes coidd not be seen. The blast smelt of icebergs, arctic seas, whales, and "vvhite bears, carr}^- ing the snow so that it licked the land but did not he on it. They trudged onwards with slanted bodies through the flossy fields, keeping as well as they could in the shelter of hedges, which, however, acted as strainers rather than screens. The air, afflicted to pallor with the hoar}^ multi- tudes that infested it, twisted and spun them eccentrically, suggesting an achromatic chaos of things. But both the young women were fairly cheerful ; such weather on a dry upland is not in itself dispiriting. "The cunning northern birds knew this was coming," said Marian. " Depend upon 't, they kept just in front of it all the w^ay from the North Star. Your husband, my dear, is, I make no doubt, having scorching weather all this time. Lord, if he could only see his pretty wife now ! Not that this weather hurts your beauty at all — in fact, it rather does it good." " You mustn't talk about him to me, Marian," said Tess, severely. " Well, but — surely you care for him. Do you ? " Instead of answering, Tess, with tears in her eyes, im- THE WO:\IAN PAYS. 331 pulsively faced in the clii'ection in which she imagined South America to lie, and, putting up her hps, blew out a passionate kiss upon the snowy wind. ^' Well, well, I know you do. But 'j^on my body, it is a rum life for a married couple ! There — I won't say another word ! Well, as for the weather, it won't hurt us in the wheat-barn ; but reed-drawing is fearful hard work — worse than swede-hacking. I can stand it because I'm stout ; but you be slimmer than I. I can't think why maister should have set 'ee at it." They reached the wheat-loarn and entered it. One end of the long structm-e was full of corn ; the midtUe was where the reed-drawing was carried on, and there had al- ready been placed in the reed-press the evening before as many sheaves of w^heat as would be sufficient for the women to draw from during the day. " Why, here's Izz ! " said Marian. Izz it was, and she came forward. She had walked aU the way from her mother's home on the previous afternoon, and not deeming the distance so great had been belated, arriving, however, just before the snow began, and sleeping at the ale-house. The farmer had agreed with her mother at market to take her on if she came to-dav, and she had been afraid to disappoint him by delay. In addition to Tess, Marian, and Izz, there were two women from a neighboring \allage 5 two Amazonian sis- ters, whom Tess with a start remembered as Dark Car the Queen of Spades, and her junior the Queen of Diamonds — those who had tried to fight with her in the midnight quar- rel at Trantridge. They showed no recognition of her, and possibly had none. They did all kinds of men's work by preference, including well-sinking, hedging, ditching, and excavating, T\dthout any sense of fatigue. Xoted reed-draw- ers were they too, and looked round upon the other three "vvith some superciliousness. Putting on their gloves, they aU set to work, standing in 332 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. a row in front of the press. That erection was formed of two upright posts connected by a cross-beam, under which the sheaves to be drawn from were laid ears outward, the beam being pegged down by pins in the uprights, and lowered as the sheaves diminished. Each woman seized a handful of the ears, and drew out the stalks thereby, gath- ering the straw so draT\Ti — now straight, and called reed — under her left arm, where, when a large armful was gath- ered, she cut off the ears with a bill-hook. The day hardened in color, the Ught coming in at the barn-doors upwards from the ground instead of downwards from the sky. The girls pulled handful after handful from the press; but by reason of the presence of the strange women, who were recounting local scandals, Marian and Izz could not at first talk of old times as they wished to do. Presently they heard the muffled tread of a horse, and the farmer rode up to the barn-door, ^lien he had dismounted and entered he came close to Tess, and remained looking musingly at the side of her face. She had not turned at first, but his fixed attitude led her to look round, when she perceived that her employer was the native of Trantridge from whom she had taken flight on the high-road because of his allusion to her history. He waited till she had carried the dra^Ti bundles to the pile outside, when he said, " So you be the young woman who took my civility in such ill part ? Be drowned if I didn't think you might be as soon as I heard of your being hired. Well, you thought you had got the better of me the first time at the inn with your fancy-man, and the second time on the road, when you bolted ; but now I think I've got the better of you." He concluded with a hard laugh. Tess, between the Amazonians and the farmer, like a bird caught in a springe clap-net, returned no answer, continu- ing to pull the straw. She could read character sufficiently well to know by this time that she had nothing to fear from her employei-'s gallantry j it was rather the tyranny iiiduced THE WOIMAN PAYS. 333 by Hs mortification at Clare's treatment of him. Upon the whole, she preferred that sentiment in man, and felt brave enough to endm-e it. " You thought I was in love with 'ee, I suppose 1 Some women are such fools, to take every look as serious earnest. But there's nothing like a A^dnter afield for taking that non- sense out o' yoimg women's heads ; and you've signed and agreed till Lady-Day. Now, are you going to beg my par- don ? " " I think you ought to beg mine." ^^ Very well — as you Uke. But we'll see which is master here. Be they aU the sheaves you've done to-day ? " "Yes, sir." " 'Tis a very poor show. Just see what they've done over there" (pointing to the two stalwart women). "The rest, too, have done better than vou." " They've all practised it before, and I have not. And I thought it made no difference to you as it is task work, and we are only paid for what we do." " 0, but it does. I want the barn cleared." " I am going to work all the afternoon instead of lea\ing at two as the others will do." He looked sullenly at her and went away. Tess felt that she could not have come to a much worse place ; but any- thing was better than gallantry, in her unprotected state. When two o'clock arrived the professional reed-draAvers tossed off the last half -pint in their flagon, put down their hooks, tied their last sheaves, and went away. Marian and Izz would have done likewise, but on hearing that Tess meant to stay, to make up by longer hours for her lack of skill, they would not leave her. Looking out at the snow, which still fell, Marian exclaimed, "Now we've got it all to ourselves." And so at last the conversation turned to their old experiences at the daiiy ; and, of course, the incidents of their affection for Angel Clare. " Izz and Marian," said Mrs. Angel Clare, ^dth a dignity 334 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. wHch was extremely pretty and touching, seeing how very little of a wife she was : " I can't join in talk with you now, as I used to do, about Mr. Clare ; you will see that I can- not ; because, although he is gone away from me for the present, he is my husband." Izz was by natm^e the sauciest and most caustic of all the four girls who had loved Clare. " He was a very splendid lover, no doubt," she said ; " but I don't think he is a very good husband to go away from you so soon." " He had to go — he was obhged to go, to see about the land over there," pleaded Tess. " He might have tided 'ee over the winter." ^' Ah — that's owing to an accident — a misunderstanding, and we won't argue it," Tess answered, with tearfulness in her words. " Perhaps there's a good deal to be said for him ! He did not go away, like some husbands, without tellino" me : and I can alwavs find out where he is." After this, they continued to seize, pull, and cut off the ears for some long time in a reverie, nothing sounding in the barn but the swish of the drawn straw and the crunch of the hook. Then Tess suddenly flagged, and sank down upon the heap of wheat ears at her feet. " I knew 3^ou wouldn't be able to stand it ! " cried Marian. " It wants harder flesh than yours for this work." Just then the farmer entered. ''O, that's how you get on when I am away," he said to her. ^' But it is my own loss," she pleaded. ^'Not yours." " I want it finished," he said, doggedly, as he crossed the barn, and went out at the other door. '' Don't 'ee mind him, there's a dear," said Marian. " I've worked here before. Now you go and lie down there, and Izz and I will make up your number." '' I don't like to let you do that. I'm taller than you, too." However, she was so overcome that she consented to lie down awhile, and reclined on a heap of pull-tails — the ref- use after the straight straw had been drawn — which had THE W031AN PAYS. 335 been tlu'own np at the fartlier side of the barn. Her snc- eumbing had been as largely owing to agitation at reopen- ing the subject of her separation from her husband as to the hard work. She lay in a state of percipience without voHtion, and the rustle of the straw and the cutting of the ears had the weight of bodily touches. She could hear from her corner, in addition to these noises, the murmur of their voices. She felt certain that they were continuing the subject already broached, but their voices were so low that she could not catch the words. At last Tess grew more and more anxious to know what they were saying, and, persuading herself that she felt better, she got up and resumed work. Then Izz Huett broke do^^Ti. She had walked more than a dozen miles the previous evening, had gone to bed at midnight well-nigh supperless, and had risen again at five o'clock. Marian alone, thanks to the bottle of hquor and her stoutness of build, stood the strain upon back and arms without suffering. Tess urged Izz to leave off, agreeing, as she felt better, to finish the day without her, and make equal division of the number of sheaves. Izz accepted the offer gratefully, and disappeared through the great door into the snowy track to her lodging. Marian, as was the case every afternoon at this time, on account of the bottle she had emptied, began to feel in a romantic vein. " I should not have thought it of him — never ! " she said in a dreamv tone. "And I loved him so ! I didn't mind his lia^dng you. But this about Izz is too bad ! '^ Tess, in her start at the words, narrowly missed cutting off a finger with the bill-hook. " Is it about my husband ? " she stammered. " Well, yes. Izz said, ^ Don't 'ee tell her ' ; but I am sm*e I can't help it ! It was what he wanted Izz to do. He wanted her to go off to Brazil with him." Tess's face faded as white as the scene without, and its curves straightened, "And did Izz refuse to go ? " she asked. 336 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. ^' I don't know. Anyhow, he changed his mind." '-Pooh — then he didn't mean it! 'Twas just a man's jest ! " '' Yes, he did ; for he drove her a good way towards the station." '' Anyhow, he didn't take her ! " They pulled on in silence till Tess, without any premoni- tory symptoms, bm^st out crying. " There ! " said Marian. '' Now I wish I hadn't told 'ee ! " " No. It is a very good thing that you have done ! I have been livmg on in a thirtover, lackadaisical way, and have not seen Avhat it may lead to ! I ought to have sent him a letter oftener. He said I coidd not go to him, but he didn't say I was not to write as often as I hked. I won't stay like this any longer ! I have been very wrong and neglectful in leaving everything to be done by him ! " The dim light in the barn grew dimmer, and they could see to work no longer. When Tess had reached home that evening, and had entered into the privacy of her httle whitewashed chamber, she began impetuously "VNTiting a letter to Clare. But faUing into doubt, she could not finish it. Afterwards she took the ring from the ribbon on which she wore it next her heart, and retained it on her finger all night, as if to fortify herself in the sensation that she was really the wife of this elusive lover of hers, who could pro- pose that Izz should go with him abroad, so shortly after he had left her. Knowing that, how could she wiite entreaties to him, or show that she cared for him any more f XLIV. By the disclosure in the barn her thoughts were led anew in the direction which they had taken more than once of late — to the distant Emminster Vicarage. It was thi'ough THE WOMAN PAYS. 337 lier husband's parents tliat she had been charged to send a letter to Clare if she desu*ed ; and to write to them direct if in difficulty. But that sense of her having morally no claim upon him had always led Tess to suspend her im- pulses to send these notes j and to the family at the \dcar- age, therefore, as to her own parents since her marriage, she was vu'tuallv non-existent. This self-effacement in both directions had been quite in consonance with her inde- pendent character of desiring nothing b}^ way of favor or pity to which she was not entitled on a fair consideration of her deserts. She wished to stand or fall by her qualities, and to waive such merely nominal claims upon a strange family as she had established by the flimsy fact of a mem- ber of that family having, in a moment of impulse, written his name in a church-book beside hers. But now that she was stung to a fever by Izz's tale there was a limit to her powers of renunciation. Wliy had her husband not written to her? He had distinctly imphed that he would at least let her know of the locality- to Adiich he had journeyed • but he had not sent a line to notify his addi'ess. Was he really indifferent ? But was he ill? Was he waiting for her to make some advance? Surely she might summon the courage of solicitude, call at the \dcar- age for intelligence, make herself known, and express her grief at his silence. If Angel's father were the good man she had heard him represented to be, he would be able to enter into her heart-starved situation. Her social hard- ships she could conceal. To leave the farm on a week-day was not in her power ; Sunday was the only possible opportunity. Flintcomb-Ash being in the middle of the cretaceous table-land over which no railwav had climbed as vet, it would be necessarv to Avalk. And the distance being fifteen miles each way it would be necessary to allow herself a long day for the un- dertaking, b}^ rising early. A fortnight later, when the snow had gone, and had been %% 338 TESS OF THE D'UKBERVILLES. followed T)y a hard, black frost, she resolved to take advan- tage of the state of the roads to try the experiment. At thi'ee o'clock that Snnday morning she came downstairs and stepped ont into the starlight. The weather was still favorable, the gTonnd ringing nnder her feet like an anvil. Marian and Izz were mnch interested in her excnrsion, knowing that the jom^ney concerned her hnsband. Their lodgings were in a cottage a little farther along the lane, bnt they came and assisted Tess in her departnre, and argned that she should dress up in her very prettiest guise to captivate the hearts of her parents-in-laAV ; though she, knowing of the austere and Calvinistic tenets of ohl Mr. Clare, was indifferent, and even doubtful. A year had now elapsed since her sad marriage, but she had preserved suf- ficient draperies from the WTeck of her then full wardrobe to clothe her very charmingly as a sim^^le country girl with no pretensions to recent fashion ; a soft gray woollen gown, with white crape quilling against the pink skin of her face and neck, and a black velvet jacket and hat. ^' 'Tis a thousand pities your husband can't see 'ee now — you do look a real beauty ! " said Izz Huett, regarding Tess as she stood on the threshold, between the steely starlight without and the yellow candle-light within. Izz si)oke with a magnanimous abandonment of herself to the situation ; she could not be — no woman with a heart bigger than a hazel-nut could be — antagonistic to Tess in her presence, the influence which she exercised over those of her ovm sex being of a warmth and strength quite unusual, curiously overpowering the less worthy feminine feelings of spite and rivah-y. With a final tug and touch liere, and a slight brush there, they let her go ; and she was absorbed into the pearly air of tlie fore-dawn. They heard lier footsteps tap along the hard road as she stepped out to her full pace. Even Izz hoped she would win, and, though without any particular THE WOMAN PAYS. 339 res^Dect for lier owni vii'tiie, felt glad tliat she had been pre- vented wronging her friend when momentarily tempted by Clare. It was a year ago, all but a day, that Clare had married Tess, and only a few days less than a year that he had been absent from her. Still, to start on a bidsk walli, and on such an errand as hers, on a diy, clear winter morning, through the rarefied air of these chalky hogs'-backs, was not depressing ; and there is no doubt that her dream at starting was to win the heart of her mother-in-law, tell her whole liistoiy to that matron, enlist her on her side, and so gain back the truant. She soon reached the edge of the vast escarpment below which stretched the wide and loamy Vale of Blackmoor, Ipng now misty and still in the dawn. Instead of the colorless air of the uplands, the atmosphere down there was a deep blue. Instead of the great enclosures of fifty to a hundi'ed acres in which she was now accustomed to toil, there were little fields below her of less than half-a-dozen acres, so numerous that they looked from this height like the meshes of a net. Here the landscape was whitey-brown ; down there, as in Froom Valley, it was always green. Yet it was in that vale that her sorrow had taken shape, and she did not love it as formerly. Beauty to her, as to all who have felt, lay not in the thing, but in what the thing symbolized. Keeping the Vale on her right, she steered steadily west- ward ; passing above the Hintocks, crossing at right angles the high-road from Sherton-Abbas to Casterbridge, and skirting Dogbury HiU and High-Stoy, with the dell l^etween them called "The Devil's Kitchen." Still following the elevated way, she reached Cross-in -Hand, where the stone pillar stands desolate and silent, to mark the site of a mira- cle, or murder, or both. Three miles farther she cut across the straight and deserted Roman road called Long-Ash Lane ; leaving which as soon as she reached it, she dipped 340 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. down the hill by a transverse lane into the small town or village of Evershead, being now about half-way over the distance. She made a halt here, and breakfasted a second time, heartily enough — not at the Sow and Acorn, for she avoided inns, but at a cottage by the church. The second half of her journey was through a more gen- tle country, by way of Benvill Lane. But as the mileage lessened between her and the spot of her pilgrimage, so did Tess's confidence decrease, and her enterprise loom out more formidably. She saw her pur]30se in such staring lines, and the landscape so faintly, that she was sometimes in danger of losing her way. However, about noon she stood on the edge of the basin in which Emminster and its vicarage lay. Mounting upon a gate by the wayside, she sat there con- templating the scene. The square tower, beneath which she knew that at that moment the vicar and his household and congregation were gathered, had a severe look in her eyes. She wished that she had somehow contrived to come on a week-day. Such a good man might be prejudiced against a woman who had chosen Sunday, never realizing the necessities of her case. But it was incumbent upon her to go on now. She took off the thick boots in which she had walked thus far, put on her pretty thin ones of j)atent leather, and, stuffing the former into the hedge where she might readily find them again, descended the hill ; the fresh- ness of color she had derived from the keen air thinning away in spite of her as she di'ew near the parsonage. Tess hoped for some accident that might favor her, but nothing favored her. The shrubs on the vicarage lawn rustled nncomf ortabh' in the frosty breeze ; she could not feel, by any stretch of imagination, dressed to her highest as she was, that the house was the residence of near rela- tions; and yet nothing essential, in nature or emotion, divided her from them : in pains, pleasures, thoughts, birth, death, and after-death, thev were the same. She nerved herself l)y an effort, entered the swing- gate, THE WOMAN PAYS. 341 and rang the door-bell. The thing was done ; there could be no retreat. No ; the thing was not done. Nobody an- swered to her ringing. The effort had to be risen to and made again. She rang a second time, and the agitation of the act, coupled with her weariness after the fourteen miles' walk, led her to support herself while she waited by resting her hand on her hi]3, and her elbow against the wall of the porch. The ^dnd was so diying that the ivy-leaves had become ^dzened and gray, each tapping incessantly upon its neighbor with a disquieting stu^ of her nerves. A piece of blood-stained paper, caught up from some meat-buyer's dust-heap, beat up and do^vn the road mthout the gate 5 too flimsy to rest, too heavy to fly away j and a few straws kept it company. The second peal had been louder, and still nobod}' came. Then she walked out of the porch, opened the gate, and passed tlu'ough. And though, when she had half -closed it, she retained it in her hand, looking dubiously at the house- front as if inclined to return, it was with a breath of relief that she closed the gate. A feeling haunted her that she might have been observed, and recognized (though how she could not tell), and that orders had been given not to admit her. Tess went as far as the corner mth a sense that she had done all she could do ; but determined not to escape present trepidation at the expense of future distress, she walked back again quite past the house, looking up at all the win- dows. Ah — the explanation was that they were all at church, every one. She remembered her husband saying that his father always insisted upon the household, servants in- cluded, going to morning service, and, as a consequence, eating cold food when they came home. It was therefore only necessary to wait till the service was over. She would not make herseK conspicuous by waiting on the spot, and she started to get past the ct^urch into the lane. But as 342 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. she reached the chiu'chyard gate the people began pouring out, and Tess found herself in the midst of them. The Emminster congregation looked at her as only the congregation of small country townsfolk walking home at its leisure can look at a woman whom it perceives to be a stranger. She quickened her pace, and ascended the road by which she had come, to find a retreat between its hedges till the ^acai^'s family should have lunched, and it might be convenient for them to receive her. She soon distanced the church-goers, except two youngish men, who had come out in the rear of the majority, and, linked arm-in-arm, were beating up behind her at a quick step. As they drew nearer she could hear theii' voices engaged in earnest discourse, and, with the natural quickness of a woman in her situation, did not fail to recognize in those voices the quality of her husband's tones. The pedestrians were his two brothers, obviously. Forgetting all her plans, Tess's one dread was lest they should overtake her now, in her disorganized condition, before she was prepared to con^ front them; for, though she knew that they could not identify her, she instinctively di'eaded their scrutiny. The more briskly they walked the more briskly walked she. They were plainly bent upon taking a short, quick stroll before going indoors to lunch or dinner, to restore warmth to limbs chilled mth sitting through a long ser^dce. Only one person had preceded Tess i\]) the hill — a lady- like young woman, somewhat interesting, though, perhaps, a trifle guindee and prudish. Tess had nearly overtaken her when the speed of her brothers-in-law brought them so nearly behind her back that she could hear every word of their conversation. They said nothing, however, which par- ticularly interested her till, observing the young lady still farther in front, one of them remarked, "There is Mercy Chant. Let us overtake her." Tess knew the name. It was \he woman wlio had been destined for Angel's life-companion by his and her parents, THE W03L\X PAYS. 343 and wlioiii lie probably would have married 1>ut for her intrusive self. She would have known as much without previous information if she had waited a moment^ for one of the brothers proceeded to say : ^^ All ! jDoor Angel, poor Angel ! I never see that nice girl without more and more regretting Ms precipitancy in throwing liimseK away upon a dairymaid, or w^hatever she may be. It is a queer busi- ness, apparently. Wliether she has joined him yet or not I don't know ; but she had not done so some months ago w^heii I heard from him." ^'I can't say. He never tells me anything nowadays. His ill-considered marriage seems to have completed that estrangement from me which was begun by his extraordi- nary opinions." Tess beat up the long hill still faster 5 but she coidd not outwalk them without exciting notice. At last they out- sped her altogether, and passed her by. The young lady still farther ahead heard their footsteps and turned. Then there was a greeting and a shaking of hands, and the three went on together. They soon reached the summit of the hill, and, evidently intending this point to be the limit of their promenade, they slackened pace and turned all three aside to the gate whereon Tess had paused an hour before that time to reconnoitre the town before descending the hill. During their discourse one of the clerical brothers probed the hedge carefully with his umbrella, and dragged something to light. " Here's a pair of old boots,'' he said. '' Thrown away, I suppose, by some tramp or other." " Some impostor who wished to come into the town bare- foot, perhaps, and so excite our sympathies," said Miss Chant. "Yes, it must have been, for they are excellent walking-boots — by no means worn out. What a wicked thing to do ! I'll carry them home for some poor person." Outhbert Clare, who had been the one to find them, 344 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. picked them up for lier with the crook of his stick ; and Tess's boots were appropriated. She, who had heard this, walked past under the screen of her woollen veil, till, presently looking back, she perceived that the chui'ch 23arty had left the gate with her boots and retreated down the hill. Thereupon our heroine resumed her walk. Tears, blind- ing tears, were running down her face. She knew that it was all sentiment, all baseless impressibihty, which had caused her to read the scene as her own condemnation ; nevertheless, she could not get over it ; she could not con- travene in her own defenceless person all these untoward omens. It was impossible to think of returning to the vicarage. Angel's wife felt almost as if she had been hounded up that hill like a scorned thing by those — to her — superfine clerics. Innocently as the slight had been inflicted, it was somewhat unfortunate that she had encoun- tered the sons and not the father, who, despite his narrow- ness, was far less starched and ii'oned than they, and had to the full the gift of charity. As she again thought of her dusty boots, she almost pitied those habiliments for the quizzing to which they had been subjected, and felt how hopeless life was for their owner. ^' Ah ! " she said, still weeping in pity of herself, '^ they didn't know that I wore those over the roughest part of the road to save these pretty ones he bought for me — no — they did not know it ! And they didn't think that he chose the color o' my pretty frock — no — how could they ? If they had known perhaps they would not have cared, for they don't care much for him, poor thing ! " Then she wept for the beloved man whose conventional standard of judgment had caused her aU these latter sor- rows; and she went her way without knowing that the greatest misfortune of her life was this feminine loss of courage at the last and critical moment through her esti- mating her father-in-law by his sons. Her present con- THE WO]MAN PAYS. 345 ditioii was precisely one wliicli would have enlisted tlie sympatliies of old Mr. and Mrs. Clare. Theii* hearts went out of them at a bound towards extreme cases, when the subtle mental troubles of the less desperate among man- kind failed to win their interest or regard. In jumping at Publicans and Sinners they would forget that a word might be said for the worries of Scribes and Pharisees; and this defect or limitation might have recommended their own daughter-in-law to them at this moment as a fairly choice sort of lost person for their love. Thereupon she began to plod back along the road by which she had come not altogether full of hope, but fidl of a con^dction that a crisis in her life was approaching. No crisis, apparenth', had come ; and there was nothing left for her to do but to continue for the remainder of the win- ter upon that starve-acre farm. She did, indeed, take suf- ficient interest in herself to throw up her veil on this retui*n journey, as if to let the world see that she could at least ex- hibit a face such as Mercy Chant could not show. But it was done with a sorry shake of the head. ^' It is nothing — it is notliing!" she said. '' Nobody loves it; nobody sees it. Wlio cares about the looks of a castaway like me ! '' Her journey back was rather a meander than a march. It had no sprightliness ; no purj^ose ; only a tendency. Along the tedious length of Benvill Lane she began to grow tu-ed, and she leaned upon gates and paused by mile- stones. She did not enter any house till, at the seventh or eighth mile, she descended the steep long hill below wliich lay the village or townlet of Evershead, where in the morning she had breakfasted with such contrasting expectations. The cottage by the church, in which she again sat do"v\Ti, was almost the fii'st at that end of the village, and while the woman fetched her some milk from the pantry, Tess, look- ing down the street, perceived that the place seemed quite deserted. 346 TESS OF THE D'URBER\^LLES. " The people are gone to afternoon service, I suppose ? " she said. ''No, mv dear/' said the old woman. "'Tis too soon for that ; the bells haint strook out yet. They be all gone to hear the preacliing in Spring Barn. A ranter preaches there between the services — a excellent, fiery, Christian man, they say. But, Lord, I don't go to heai-'n ! " What comes in the regular way over the pulpit is hot enough for I." Tess soon went onward into the village, her footsteps echoing against the houses as though it were a place of the dead. Nearing the central part, her echoes were intruded on by other sounds; and seeing the barn before her, she guessed these to be the utterances of the preacher. His voice became so distinct in the still, clear air, that she could soon catch his sentences, though she was on the closed side of the barn. The sermon, as might be expected, was the extremest antinomian type; on justification by faith, as expounded in the theology of St. Paul. This fixed idea of the rhapsodist was delivered with animated enthusi- asm, in a manner entirely declamatory, for he had plainly no skill as a dialectician. Although Tess had not heard the beginning of the address, she learned what the text had been from its constant iteration : " foolish Galatians, ivlio JiafJi heivitclied you, tliai ye should not obey the truth, before ivhose eyes Jesus Christ hatJt been evidently set forth, crucified among you f " Tess was all the more interested, as she stood Hstening behin^l, in finding that the preachei^s doctrine was a vehe- ment form of the views of Angel's father, and her interest intensified when the speaker began to detail his own sj^ir- itual experiences of how he had come by those views. He had, he said, been the greatest of sinners. He had scoffed; he bad wantonlv associated with the reckless and the lewd. But a day of awakening had come, and, in a human sense, it had been brought about mainly by the influence of a THE WO^IAN PAYS. 347 certain clergyman, whom lie liad at fii'st grossly insulted j but Avhose parting words had sunk into his heart, and had remained there, till by the grace of Heaven they had worked this change in him, and made him what they saw him. But more startling to Tess than the doctrine had been the voice, wliich, impossible as it seemed, had been precisely like that of Alec D'Urber\alle. Her face fixed in painful suspense, she came round to the front of the barn, and passed before it. The low winter sun shone directly upon the great double-doored entrance on this side ; one of the doors being open, so that the rays stretched far in over the threshing-floor to the preacher and his audience, all snugly sheltered from the northern breeze. The listeners were en- tirely villagers, among them being the man whom she had seen carrying the paint-pot on a former memorable occasion. But her attention was given to the central figui'e, who stood upon some sacks of corn, facing the people and the door. The thi'ee o'clock sun shone full upon him, and the strange enervating conviction that her seducer confronted her, which had been gaining ground in Tess ever since she had heard his words distinctl}^, was at last established as a fact indeed. THE CONVERT. XLY. Till this moment she had never seen or heard from D'Urberville since her departure from Trantridge. The rencounter came at a hea\y moment, which of all moments was calculated to permit its impact with the least emotional shock. But such was the influence of unreason- ing memory that, though he stood there openly and palpably a converted man, who was sorrowing for his past irregular- ities, a sense of fear overcame her, paralyzing her movement so that she neither retreated nor advanced. To think of what emanated from that countenance when she saw it last, and to behold it now ! There was the same handsome unpleasantness of mien, but now he wore dark, neatlv trimmed, old-fashioned whis- kers, the sable mustache having disappeared ; and his dress was half -clerical ; a modification which had changed his expression sufficiently to abstract the dandyism from his features, and to hinder for a second her belief in his identity. To Tess's sense there was, just at first, a ghastly bi- zarrerie, a grim incongruity, in the march of these solemn words of Scripture out of such a mouth. This too-familiar intonation, less than four years earlier, had brought to her ears expressions of such divergent purpose that her heart became quite sick at the mere irony of the contrast. Yet he was in earnest, unmistakably. THK PREACHER WAS ALEC D URBERVILLE. THE CONVERT. 349 It was less a reform tlian a transfiguration. The former curves of sensnousness were now modulated to lines of de- votional passion. The lip-shapes that had meant seductive- ness were now made to express divine supplication ; the glow on the cheek that yesterday could be translated as riotousness was evangelized to-day into the splendor of pious enthusiasm ; animalism had become fanaticism ; Pa- ganism, Paulinism ; the bold, rolling eye that had flashed upon her shrinking form in the old time with such gross mas- tery now beamed with the rude energy of a theolatry that was almost ferocious. Those hard, black angularities which his face had used to put on when his wishes were thwarted by her modesty now did duty in picturing the incorrigil)le backslider who would insist upon tiu-ning again to his wal- lowing in the mire. The lineaments, as such, seemed to complain. They had been diverted from theii* hereditary connotation to signify impressions for which nature did not intend them. Strange that their very elevation was a misapplication, that to raise seemed to falsify. Yet could it be so? Was she not wrong in this? She would admit the ungenerous sentiment no longer. D'Ur- berville was not the fii'st wicked man who had turned away from his wickedness to save liis soul alive, and why should she deem it unnatural in him ? It was but the usage of thought which had been jarred in her at hearing good new words in bad old notes. The greater the sinner the greater the saint ; it was not necessary to dive far into Christian history to discover that. Such impressions as these moved her vaguely, and mth- out strict deflniteness. As soon as the nerveless pause of her surprise would allow her to stir, her impulse was to pass on out of his sight. He had obviously not discerned her yet in her position against the sun. But the moment that she moved again he recognized her. The effect upon her old lover was electric, far stronger 350 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. than the effect of his presence npon her. His fire, the tumnltnons ring of his eloquence, seemed to go out of him. His lip struggled and trembled under the words that lay upon it ; but deliver them it could not as long as she faced him. His eyes, after their first glance upon her face, hung determinedly in every other direction but hers, but came back in a desperate leap ever}- few seconds. This paralysis lasted, however, but a short time ; for Tess's energies re- tiumed with the atrophy of liis, and she walked as fast as she could do past the barn and onward. As soon as she could reflect it appalled her, this change in their relative platforms. , He who had wrought her un- doing was now on the side of the Spmt, while she remained unregenerate ; and, as in the legend, it had resulted that her Cyx^rian image had suddenly appeared u]3on his altar, and the fii'e of the priest had been well-nigh extinguished. She went on without turning her head. Her back seemed to be endowed with a sensitiveness to ocular beams — even her clothing — so alive was she to a fancied gaze which might be resting upon her from the outside of that barn. All the way along to this point her heart had been heavy with an inactive sorrow; now there was a change in the quality of its troul)le. That hunger for affection too long withheld was for the time displaced by an almost physical sense of an implacable past which still engu-dled her. It intensified her consciousness of error to a practical despair ; the break of continuity between her past and present exist- ence, which she had hoped for, had not, after all, taken place. Bygones would never be complete bygones tiU she was a bygone herself. Thus absorbed, she recrossed the northern half of Long- Ash Lane at right angles, and presently saw before her the road ascending whitely to the upland along whose margin the remainder of her journey lay. Its dry, pale surface stretched severely onward, unbroken by a single figure, vehicle, or mark, save some occasional horse-drop])ings which THE CONVERT. 351 dotted its cold aridity here and there. While sh:>wly breast- ing this ascent Tess became conscious of footsteps behind her, andj turning quickly, she saw approaching that well- known form, so strangely accoutred as a minister — the one personage in all the world she wished not to encounter alone on this side of the grave. There was not much time, however, for thought or elusion, and she yielded as calndy as she could to the necessity of letting him overtake her. She saw that he was excited, less by the speed of his walk than by the feelings within him. ^' Tess ! " he said. She slackened speed without looking round. " Tess ! " he repeated. '' It is I— ^Vlec ! " She then looked back at him, and he came up. ^^ I see it is," she answered, coldly. " Well — is that all ! Yet I deserve no more. Of course," he added, with a slight laugh, ^Hhere is sometliing of the ridiculous to your eyes in seeing me like this. But — I must put up with that. ... I heard you had gone away, nobod}" knew where. Tess, do you wonder why I have fol- lowed you 1 " " I do, rather ; and I would that you had not, with all my heart ! " "Yes — you may well say it," he returned, gravely, as the}' moved onward together, she with unwilling tread. " But don't mistake me ; and I ask this because you may have been led to do so in noticing — if you did notice it — how your sudden appearance unnerved me down there. It was but a momentary spasm ; and considering what you had been to me, it Avas natural enough. But Heaven helped me through it — though perhaps you think me a humbug for sajdng it — and immediately afterwards I felt that, of all persons in the world whom it was my duty and desire to save from the wrath to come — sneer if you like — the woman whom I had so grievously wronged was that 352 TESS OF THE D'URBERATLLES. person. I have come with that sole purpose in view — nothing more." There was the smallest vein of scorn in her words of rejoinder : ^' Have yon saved yourself ? Charity begins at home, they say." '' I have done nothing ! " said he, impetuously. " Heaven, as I have been telling my hearers, has done all. No amount of contempt that you can poiu' upon me, Tess, will equal what I have poured upon myself — the old Adam of my former years. Well, it is a strange story 5 believe it or not. But I can tell you the means by w^hich my conversion w^as brought about, and I hope you will be interested enough in me to listen. Have you ever heard the name of the parson of Emminster — you must have done so ? — old Mr. Clare ; one of the most earnest of his school ; one of the few in- tense men left in the Church ; not so intense as the ex- treme wing of Christian believers to which I belong, but quite an exception among the established clergy, the younger of whom are gradually attenuating the true doctrines by their sophistries, till they are but the shadow of what they were. He is one who, I firmly believe, has been the humble means of sa^dng more souls in this country than any other man you can name. You have heard of him f " '' I have," she said. " He came to Trantridge two or three years ago to preach on behalf of some missionarv societv ; and I, wretched fel- low that I was, insulted him when, in his disinterestedness, he tried to reason with me and show me the wav. He did not resent m}'- conduct, he simply said that some day I should receive the first-fruits of the Si)irit — that those who came to scoff sometimes remained to pray. There was a strange magic in his words. They sank into my mind, though I did not know it at the time, nor did he ; and by degrees I was brought to the light. Since then my one de- sire has been to hand on the good news to others, and that is what I w^as trying to do to-day 5 though it is only lately THE CONVERT. 353 that I have preached hereabout : the first months of my ministry have been spent in the North of England among strangers, where I preferred to make my earhest clnmsy attempts, so as to acquire courage before undergoing that severest of all tests of one's sincerity, addressing those who have known one, and have been one's companions in the days of darkness. If you could only know, Tess, the sense of secui'ity, the certainty, you would, I am siu'e " " Don't go on with it ! " she cried, passionately, as she turned away from him to a stile by the wayside, on which she bowed her face. "I can't believe in such sudden things ! I feel indignant with you for talking to me like this, when you know — when you know what harm you've done me ! You, and those Hke you, take your fill of pleasure on earth by making the life of such as me bitter and black with sorrow j and then it is a fine thing, when you have had enough of that, to think of securing your pleasure in heaven hj becoming converted. Out upon such — I don't iDclieve in vou — I hate it ! " ^^ Tess," he insisted ; " don't speak so ! It came to me like a shining light ! And you don't believe me ? What don't vou beheve?" " Your conversion." U Why f " She di'opped her voice. '^ Because a better man than you does not believe in such." ^' What a woman's reason ! Who is this better man ? " " I cannot tell vou." "Well," he declared, a resentment beneath his words seeming ready to spring out at a moment's notice ; " God forbid that I should say I am a good man — and you know I don't say any such thing. I am new to goodness, truly 5 but new-comers see farthest sometimes." '' Yes," she replied. " But I cannot believe in your con- vei'sion to a new spirit. Such flashes as you feel, Alec, I fear don't last ! " 2a 354 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. Thus speaking, she turned from the stile over which she had been leaning, and faced him ; whereupon his eyes, fall- ing accidentally upon the familiar countenance and form, remained contemplating her. The inferior man was cer- tainly quiet in him now ; but it was surely not extracted, nor even entirely subdued. " Don't look at me like that ! " he said, abruptly. Tess, who had been quite unconscious of her action and mien, instantly withdrew^ the large, dark gaze of her eyes, stammering, with a flush, " I beg yoiu- pardon." And there was revived in her the wi'etched sentiment which had often come to her before, that in inhabiting the fleshy tal^ernacle with which natm-e had endowed her she was somehow doing wrong. " No, no. Don't beg nn^ pardon. But since you wear a veil to hide your good looks, why don't you keep it down f " She pulled down the veil, saying hastily, '^ It was to keep off the wind." " It may seem harsh and imperious of me to dictate hke this," he went on. '' But it is better that I should not look too often on j^ou. It might be dangerous for both." " Ssh ! " said Tess. ''Well, women's faces have had too much power over me already for me not to fear them. An evangelist has nothing to do with such as that j and it reminds me of the old times that I would forget." After this their conversation dwindled to a casual renipa-k now and then as they rambled onward, Tess inwardly w^ondering how far he w^as going with her, and not liking to send him back b}- positive mandate. Frequently when they came to a gate or stile they found painted thereon in red letters some text of Scripture, and she asked him if he knew who had been at the pains to blazon these announce- ments. He told her that the man was employed by him- self and others who were working with him in that district, to paint these i-eminders, that no means might be left un- THE CONVERT. 355 tried wliicli might move the hearts of a wicked genera- tion. At length the road touched the spot called " Cross-in- Hand." Of all spots on this bleached and desolate upland this was the most forlorn. It was so far removed from the charm which is sought in landscape by artists and \dew- seekers as to reach a new kind of beauty, a negative beauty of tragical blankness. The place took its name from a stone pillar which stood there, a strange, rude monolith, from a stratum unknown in any local quarry, on which was rudely carved a human hand. Differing accounts were given of its history and purport. Some authorities stated that a devotional cross had once formed the complete erection there, of which the present relic was but the stump ; others tliat the stone as it stood was entii-e, and that it had been placed there to mark a boundary or a place of meet- ing. Anyhow, whatever the origin of the relic, there was and is something sinister, or solemn, according to mood, in the scene amid which it stands ; something tending to impress the most phlegmatic passer-by. '' I think I must leave you now," he remarked, as they drev/ near to this place. "I have to preach at Abbot's Cernel at six this evening, and my way lies across to the right from here. And you upset me somewhat too, Tessie — I cannot, wUl not, say why. I must go away and get strength. . . . How is it that you speak so fluently now? ^Vho has taught you such good Enghsh ? " ^' I have learnt things in my troubles," she said, evasively. " What troubles have you had f " She told him of the fii'st one — the onlv one that related to him. D'Urber\dlle was struck mute. " I knew nothing of this till now!" he murmured. "Wby didn't you write to me when you felt your trouble coming on ? " She did not reply, and he broke the silence by adding, ^' Well — you will see me again." 356 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. " No," she answered. " Do not again come near me ! " ''I will tliink. But before we part, come here." He stepped np to the pillar. " This was once a Holy Cross. ReUcs are not in my creed ; but I fear you at moments — far more than you need fear me 5 and to lessen my fear^ put your hand upon that stone hand, and swear that you will never tempt me — by your charms or w^ays." " Good God — how can you ask what is so unnecessary ! All that is furthest from my thought ! " ^' Yes — ^but swear it, swear it ! " he pleaded. Tess, half frightened, gave way to his importunity, placed her hand upon the stone and swore. "I am sorry you are not a believer," he continued; 'nhat some unl^eliever should have got hold of you and unsettled your mind. But no more now. At home at least I can pray for you ; and I will ; and who knows what may not happen "? I'm off. Good-by ! " He turned to a gap in the hedge, and without letting his eyes again rest upon her, leaped over, and struck out across the down in the du^ection of Abbot's Cernel. As he walked his pace showed perturbation, and by and by, as if instigated by a bracing thought, he drew from his pocket a small Bible, between the leaves of which was folded a letter, worn and soiled, as from much re-reading. D'Urberville opened the letter. It was dated several months before this time, and was signed by Parson Clare. Tlie letter began ))y expressing the winter's unfeigned joy at D'UrberviUe's conversion, and thanked him for his kindness in communicating with the parson on the subject. It expressed Mr. Clare's warm assurance of forgiveness for D'UrberviUe's former conduct, and his interest in the young man's plans for the future. He, Mr. Clare, would much have liked to see D'Urberville in the Church to whose min- istry he had devoted so many years of his own life, and would have helped him to enter a theological college to that end ; but since his correspondent had not cared to do this THE CONVERT. 357 oil account of tlie delay it would have entailed, he was not the man to insist upon its paramount importance. Every man must Avork as he could best work, and in the method towards which he felt unpelled by the Spii*it. D'Urberville read and re-read this letter, and seemed to fortify himself thereby. He also read some passages from his Bible as he walked; till his face assumed a calm, and apparently the image of Tess no longer troubled his mind. She meanwhile had kej^t along the edge of the hill by which lay her nearest way home. Within this distance of a mile she met a solitary shepherd. "What is the meaning of that old stone I have passed? " she asked of him. " Was it ever a Holv Cross ? " '^ Cross — no ; 'twere not a cross ! 'Tis a thing of ill-omen, miss. It was put up in wuld times by the relations of a malefactor who was tortured there by nailing his hand to a post, and afterwards hung. The bones he underneath. They say he sold his soul to the devil, and that he walks at times." She felt the petite mort at the unexpectedly gruesome information, and left the solitary man behind her. It was dusk when she drew near to Flintcomb-Ash, and in the lane at the entrance to the hamlet she approached a girl and her lover without their observing her. They were talking no secrets, and the clear, unconcerned voice of the young woman, in response to the warmer accents of the man, spread into the chilly air as the one soothing thing within the dusky horizon, f idl of a stagnant obscimty upon which nothing else intruded. For a moment the voices cheered the heart of Tess, till she reasoned that this interview had its origin, on one side or the other, in the same attraction which had been the prelude to her owti tribulation. When she came close the girl turned serenely and recognized her, the young man walking off in embarrassment. The woman was Izz Huett, whose interest in Tess's excursion immedi- ately superseded her own proceedings. Tess did not ex- 358 TESS OF THE DXTRBERTILLES. plain very clearly its results, and Izz, who was a girl of tact, began to speak of her own little affair, a phase of which Tess had just witnessed. " He is Amby Seedling, the chap who used to sometimes come and help at Talbothays," she explained, indifferently. " He actually inquired and found out that I had come here, and has followed me. He says he's been in love wi' me these two year. But I've hardly answered him." XLVI. Se\^ral days had passed since her futile journey, and Tess was afield. The dry winter wind still blew, but a screen of thatched hurdles erected in the eye of the blast kept its force away from her. On this sheltered side was a turnip-slicing machine, whose bright blue hue of new j^aint seemed almost vocal in the othermse colorless scene. Oj)- posite its front was a long mound or '• grave," in which the roots had been preserved since early winter. Tess was standing at the uncovered end, chopping off with a bill- hook the fibres and earth from each root, and throwing it after the operation into the slicer. A man was turning the handle of the machine, and from its trough came the newly cut swedes, the fresh smell of whose yellow chips was ac- companied by the sounds of the snuffling wind, the smart swish of the slicing-blades, and the choppings of the hook in Tess's leather-gloved hand. The wide acreage of blank agricultural brownness, ap- parent where the swedes had been pulled, was beginning to be striped in wales of darker broAvn, gradually broadening to ribands. Along the edge of each of these something crept upon ten legs, moving without haste and without rest up and down the whole length of the field; eight of the THE CO^m]RT. 359 legs being tliose of horses, two those of the man, the plow going between them, turning up the cleared gromid for a spring sowing. For hours nothing reheved the Joyless monotony of things. Then, far beyond the ploughing-teams, a black speck was seen. It had come from the corner of a fence, where there was a gap, and its tendency was up the incline, towards the swede-cutters. From the proportions of a mere point, it advanced to the shape of a ninepiu, and could soon be perceived to be a man in black, arriving from the direction of Flintcomb-Ash. The man at the slicer, ha^dng nothing else to do with his eyes, continually observed the comer, l)ut Tess, who was occupied, did not perceive him till he was quite near, when her companion directed her at- tention to his approach. It was not her hard taskmaster. Farmer Groby 5 it was one in a semi-cleric costume, who now represented what had once been the dare-devil Alec D'Urberville. He had e\d- dentl}^ been hoping to find her there alone, and the sight of the grinder seemed to embarrass him. Not being caught in the midst of his preaching, there was less enthusiasm about him now. A pale distress was already on Tess's face, and she pulled her curtained hood further over it. D'Ur- berville came up and said quietly, '^ I want to speak to you, Tess r. ?? "You have refused my last request," said she, "not to come near me." " Yes, but I have a good reason." " Well, tell it." "It is more serious than you may think." He glanced round to see if he were overheard. They were at some distance from the man who turned the slicer, and the move- ment of the machine, too, sufficiently prevented Alec's words reaching other ears. However, D'Urber\dlle placed himself so as to screen Tess from the laborer, turning his back to the latter. "It is this," he continued, with impetuous 300 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. gravity : "in thinking of your soul and mine wlien we last met, I neglected to inquii*e as to youi* worldly condition. You were well dressed, and I did not tliink of it. But I see now that it is hard — harder than it used to be when I — knew you — harder than you deserve. Perhaps a good deal of it is owing to me." She did not answer, and there they stood, he watching her inquiringly, she, with bent head, her face completely screened by the hood, resuming her trimming of the swedes. By going on with her work she felt better able to keep him outside her emotions. " Tess," he added, with a sigh that verged on a cry, "yours was the very worst case I ever was concerned in. Wretch that I was to foul that innocent life ! The whole blame was mine — the whole blackness of the sin, the awful, awful iniquity. You, too, the real blood of which I am but the imitation, what a blind young thing you were as to possibilities ! I say in all earnestness that it is a sinful shame for parents to bring up their girls in such dangerous ignorance of the gins and nets that the wicked may set for them, whether their motive be a good one or the result of simple indifference." Tess still did no more than listen, tin-owing doT\"n one globular root and taking another with automatic regular- ity, the pensive contour of the mere field-woman alone marking her. " But it is not that I came to say," D'UrberviUe went on. " My cu'cumstances are these. I have lost my mother since you were at Trantridge, and the place is my own. But I intend to sell it, and devote myself to missionary work in Africa, either as an ordained deacon or as an outside worker — I care very little which. Now, what I want to ask you is, will you put it in my power to do my duty — to make the only reparation I can make for the wrong I did you : that is, will you be my wife, and go with me ? I have already obtained this to save time." He drew a piece of parch- THE CONVERT. 3C1 iiieut from his pocket, with a slight fumbling of embarrass- ment. " What is it ? " said she. " A marriage license." '' Oh no, su' — no ! " she said, quickly. " You will not ? Why is that ? '' And as he asked the question a strange Avretcliedness, which was not entirely the wi'etchedness of thwarted duty, crossed D'Urberyille's face. It was unmistakably a symptom that something of his old passion for her had been reyiyed ; duty and desire ran hand-in-hand. " Surely," he began again, in more im- petuous tones, and then looked round at the laborer who turned the slicer. Tess, too, felt that the argument could not be ended there. Informing the man that a friend had come to see her, with whom she wished to walk a little way, she moyed off \vitli D'Urberyille across the zebra-striped field. When they reached the first newly ploughed section he hekl out his hand to help her over it; but she stepped forward on the summits of the earth-rolls as if she did not see him. " You will not marry me, Tess ? " he repeated, as soon as they were over the fm-rows. " I cannot." " But why ? " " I have no affection for you." " But you would get to feel that in time, perhaps — as soon as you really could forgive me f " '' Never ! " '^ Why so positive ? " '' I love somebody else." The words seemed to astonish him. " You do ? " he said. '■'■ Somebody else ? But has not a sense of what is morally right and proper any weight with you ? " " No, no, no — don't say that ! " "Anyhow, then, yom' love for this other man may be only a passing feeling which you wiU overcome " 3G2 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. ^' No — no ; for ... I have married him." '^ All ! " he exchiimed 5 and he stopped dead and gazed at her. " I did not wish to tell — I did not mean to ! '' she went on, rapidly. " It is a secret here, or at any rate but dimly known. So will you, please will you, keep from questioning me ? You must remember that we are now strangers." " Strangers — are we ? Strangers ! " For a moment a flash of his old irony marked his face ; but he determinedly chastened it down. "Is that man your husband F' he asked, mechanically, denoting by a sign the laborer who turned the machine. " That man ! " she said, proudly. " I should tliink not ! " " Who then "l " " Do not ask what I do not wish to tell ! " she begged, and in her eagerness flashed an appeal to him from her up- turned face and lash-shadowed eyes. D'Urberville was disturbed. " But I only asked for your sake ! " he pleadly, hotly. " Thunder of heaven, I came here, I swear, as I thought for your good. Tess — don't look at me so — I cannot stand your looks ! There never were such eyes, surely, before Christianity or since ! There — I won't lose my head ; I dare not. I own that the sight of you has revived my love for you, which, I believed, was extinguished wdth aU. such feelings. But I thought that our marriage might be a sanctification for us both. ' The unbelieving husband is sanctified by the wife, and the un- believing Avife is sanctified by the husband,' I said to my- self. But my plan is prevented ; and I must bear the dis- appointment." He reflected with his eyes on the ground. " Married — married ! Well, that being so," he added, quite calmly, tearing the license slowly into halves, and putting them in his pocket ; " that being prevented, I should like to do some good to you and your husband, whoever he may be. There are many questions that I am tempted to THE COm^RT. 363 ask, but I will not do so, of course, iu opposition to your wishes. Tlioug'li, if I could know your husband, I might more easily benefit him and you. Is he on this farm ? " " No," she murmured. '^ He is far away.'^ " Far aw^ay 1 From you f What sort of husband can he be!" " O, do not speak against him ! It was through you " " Ah, is it so ? . . . That's bad, Tess ! " ''Yes." " But to stay away from you — to leave you to work like this ! " " He does not leave me to work ! " she cried, springing to the defence of the absent one wdth aU her fervor. " He don't know it. It is by my own arrangement." " Then, does he write ? " "I — I cannot teU you. There are things which are private to ourselves." '' Of coui'se that means that he does not. You are a de- serted ^^df e, my poor Tess ! " In an impulse, he tm-ned sud- denly to take her hand ; the buft'-glove was on it, and he seized only the rough leather fingers which did not express the life or shape of those within. " You must not — you must not ! " she cried, fearfully, slipping her hand from the glove as from a pocket, and lea^'ing it in his grasp. "O, mil you go away — for the sake of me — my husband — go, in the name of your own Christianity ! " " Yes, yes ; I will," he said, hastily, and thrusting the glove back to her turned to leave. Facing round, however, he said, '^ Tess, as God is my judge, I meant no sin in tak- ing your hand ! " A pattering of hoofs on the soil of the field, which they had not noticed in their preoccupation, ceased close behind them ; and a voice reached her ear : " What the devil are ye doing away from your work at this time o' day ? " 3G4 TESS OF THE DTTRBERVILLES. Farmer Groliy had espied the two figures from the dis- tance, and had inquisitively ridden across, to learn what was theii" bnsiness in his field. '' Don't speak like that to her ! " said D'Urberville, his face blackening- mth something that was not Christianity. " Indeed, Mister ! And what mid Methodist pa'sons have to do with she ? " "^^^10 is the fellow?" asked D'Urberville, tm-ning to Tess. She went close np to him. " Go — I do beg yon ! " she said. "What? And leave yon to that t^Tant? I can see in his face what a chnrl he is." ^'He won't hnrt me. He's not in love with me. I can leave at Lady-Day." "Well, I have no right but to obey, I suppose. But — well, good-by," Her defender, whom she dreaded more than her assailant, ha\dng reluctantly disappeared, the farmer continued his reprimand, wliich Tess took with the greatness coolness, that sort of attack being independent of sex. To have as a master this man of stone, who would have cuffed her if he had dared, was almost a relief, after her former ex- periences. She silently walked back towards the summit of the field that was the scene of her labor, so absorbed in the inter\dew which had just taken place that she was hardly aware that the nose of Grobv's horse almost touched her shoulders. " If so be you make an agreement to work for me till Lady-Day, I'll see that you carry it out," he growled. " 'Od rot the women — now 'tis one thing, and then 'tis an- other ! But I'll put up with it no longer ! " Knowing very well that he did not harass the other women of the farm as he harassed her, out of spite for the flooring lie had once received, she did for one moment pic- ture what might have been the result if she had been free to accept the offer just made to her^ of being Alec's wife. THE CONVERT. 365 It would liave lifted lier comj^letely out of subjection, not onh' to lier oppressive emplo^'er, but to a wliole world who seemed to despise her. " But no, no I '' she said, breath- lessly. ^' I could not have married him now. He is so un- pleasant to me ! " That very night she began an appeahng letter to Clare, concealing from liim her hardshiiDs, and assuring him of her undying affection. Any one who had been in a position to read between the lines would have seen that at the back of her great love was some monstrous fear — almost a des- peration — as to some secret cii'cumstances which were not disclosed. But again she did not finish her effusion : he had asked Izz to go with him, and perhaps he did not care for her at all. She put the letter in her box, and wondered if it would ever reach Angel's hands. After this her daily tasks were gone tlu'ough hea\Tly enough, and brought on the day which was of great import to agriculturists — the day of the Candlemas Fail'. It was at this fail* that new engagements were entered into for the twelve months following the ensuing Lady-Day, and those of the farming population who thought of changing their phices duly attended at the county-to^\ni where the fau* was held. Nearlv all the laborers on Flintcomb-Ash Farm in- tended flight, and early in the morning there was a general exodus in the direction of the town, which lav at a distance of from ten to a dozen miles over hillv countrv. Though Tess also meant to leave at the quarter-day, she was one of the few who did not go to the fair, ha\dng a vaguely shaped hope that something would happen to render another out- door engagement unnecessary. It was a peaceful February day, of wonderfid softness for the time, and one would almost have thought that win- ter was over. She had hardlv finished her dinner when D'Urberville's fio-ure darkened the windows of the cottao-e wherein she was a lodger^ which she had all to herself to- day. 366 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. Tess instantly jiunped up, but her visitor had knocked at the door, and she could hardly in reason run away. D'Urberville's knock, his walk uj^ to the door, had some in- describable quality of diJBference from his air when she last saw him. They seemed to be performed as acts of which the doer is ashamed. At first she thought that she would not open the door; but, as there was no sense in that either, she arose, and, having lifted the latch, stepped back quickl}^ He came in, saw her before him, and flung him- self down in a chair before speaking. " Tess — I couldn't help it," he began, desperately, as he wiped his heated face, which had also a superimposed flush of excitement. ^' I felt that I must call to at least ask how you are. I assui'e you I had not been thinking of you at all till I saw you that Sunday : now I cannot get rid of your image, try how I may ! It is hard that a good woman should do harm to a bad man ; yet so it is. If you w^ould only pray for me, Tess ! " The distraction of his manner was almost pitiable, and yet Tess did not pity him. '' How can I pray for you," she said, " when I am forbidden to beheve that the great Power who moves the world would alter His ]3lans on my account ? " '' You reaUy think that ? " " Yes. I have been cured of the presumption of think- ing otherwise." ^' Cured? By whom?" " By my husband, if I must tell." ''Ah — your husband — your husband. How strange it seems ! I remember you hinted something of the sort the other day. What do you really believe in these matters, Tess?" he asked. "You seem to have no religion — per- haps owing to me." '' But I have." D'Urberville looked at her with misgiving. "Do you think that the line T take is aU wrong?" " A good deal of it." THE COm'ERT. 367 " H'm— and yet I've felt so sure about it," he said, un- easily. '^ I believe in the spirit of the Sermon on the Mount, and so did my dear husband. But I don't beUeve " Here she gave her negations. " The fact is/' said D'Urberville, dryly, " whatever your dear husband beheved you accept, and whatever he re- jected you reject, without the least inquiiy or reasoning on your own part. That's just hke you women. Your mind is enslaved to his." " Ah, because he knew everything ! " said she, with a triumphant simplicity of faith in Angel Clare that the most perfect man could hardly have deserved, much less her husband. ^' Yes, but you should not take opinions wholesale from another person hke that. A pretty fellow he must be, to teach you such scepticism ! " '' He never forced my judgment ! He would never argue on the subject wi' me. But I looked at it in this way; what he believed, after inquuing deep into doctrines, was much more likely to be right than what I might believe, who hadn't looked into the doctrines at all." ^' What used he to say? He must have said something." She reflected ; and with her acute memory for the letter of Angel Clare's remarks, even when she did not compre- hend their spirit, she recalled a merciless polemical syllo- gism that she had heard him use when, as it occasionally happened, he indulged in a species of thinking aloud with her at his side. In delivering it she gave also Clare's accent and manner with reverential fidelitv. '^ Say that again," asked D'Urber\TlLe, who had hstened with the greatest attention. She repeated the argument, and D'Urberville murmured the words after her, '^ Anything else ? " he presently asked. ^' He said at another time something lil^e this ; " and she gave another, which might possibly have been paralleled 368 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. in many a work of tlie pedigree ranging from the Bidion- naire FhilosophiqHe to Huxley's Essays. '' Ah — ha ! How do you remember them ? " ^'- 1 wanted to beheve what he believed, though he didn't wish me to ; and I managed to coax liim to tell me a few of his thoughts. I can't say I quite understand that one ; but I know it is right ! " ''H'm. Fancy your being able to teach me what you don't knoAv yourself." He fell into thought. ^^And so I threw in my spiritual lot wi' his/' she resumed. '' I didn't wish it to be different. What's good enough for him is good enough for me." ''Does he know that you are as big an infidel as he?" '' No — I never told him — if I am an infidel." '' Well — you are better off to-day than I am, Tess, after all. You don't believe that you ought to preach my doc- trine, and, therefore, do no despite to your conscience in abstaining. I do believe I ought to preach it, but like the devils I beheve and treml^le, for I suddenly leave off preach- ing it, and give way to my passion for you." ''How?" " Wliy," he said, wearily, "I have come all the way here to see you to-day. But I started from home to go to Cas- terbridge Fau*, where I have undertaken to preach the Word from a wagon at haK-past two this afternoon, and where all the brethren are expecting me this minute. Here's the announcement." He drew from his breast-pocket a poster whereon was printed the day, hour, and place of meeting, at which he, D'Urberville, would preach as aforesaid. "But how can you get tliere?" said Tess, looking at the chx'k. " I cannot get there. I have come here." " Wliat — you have really arranged to preach " " I have arranged to preach and I shall not be there — by THE CONVERT. 369 reason of my biu'iiing desire to see a woman whom I once despised ! — No, by my word and truth, I never despised you 5 if I had I should not love you now. Why I did not despise you was on account of your intrinsic puiity in spite of all ; you withdrew youi'self from me so quickly and res- olutely when you saw the situation • you did not remain at my pleasure ; so there was one victim in the world for whom I had no contempt, and you are she. But you may well despise me now. I thought I worshipped on the moun- tains, but I find I still serve in the groves. Ha ! ha ! " '' O Alec D'Urberville ! what does this mean ? Wliat have I done ? " "Done!" he said, with a soidless sneer at himself. " Nothing intentionally. But you have been the means — the innocent means — of my backsliding, as they caU it. I ask myself, am I, indeed, one of those ^ servants of corrup- tion' who, ^ after ^ they have escaped the pollutions of the world, are again entangled therein and overcome ' — whose latter end is worse than their beginning?" He laid his hand on her shoulder. " Tess, Tess, I was on the way to, at least, social salvation till I saw you again," he said, shak- ing her as if she were a child, temper and mood showing warm in him. " And why, then, have you tempted me ! I was fii'ui as a man could be till I saw that mouth again — surely there never was such a maddening mouth since Eve's." His voice sank, and a hot archness shot from his black eyes. ^' You temptress, Tess ; you dear damned witch of Babylon — I coidd not resist you as soon as I met you again ! " " I coiddn't help your seeing me again ! " said Tess, re- coihng. '• I know it — I repeat that I do not blame you. But the fact remains. Wlien I saw you ill-used on the farm that day I was nearly mad to think that I had no legal right to protect you — that I coidd not have it ; whilst he who has it seems to neglect you utterly." '' Don't speak against him — he is absent ! " she cried; ex- 24 370 TESS OP THE D'URBERYILLES. citedly. "Treat him honorable — ^lie has never wronged you ! Leave his wife, before any scandal spreads that may do grievous harm to his honest name ! '' " I Avill — I will/' he said, like a man awakening from a lui'id dream. "I have broken my engagement to preach the Gospel to those poor sinners — it is the fii-st time I have done such a monstrous thing ! A month ago I should have been horrified at such a possibility. I'll go away — to hide — and — ah, can I ! — pray." Then, suddenly : " One clasp, Tessie — one ! Only for old friendship " " I am without defence, Alec — a good man's honor is in my keeping — think — think ! " " Oh yes — yes ! My God ! " He clenched his lips, morti- fied with hhnself for his weakness. His eyes were equally barren of amatory and religious hope. The corpses of those old black passions which had lain inanimate amid the lines of Ms face ever since his conversion seemed to wake and come together as in a resurrection. He went out indeter- minately, hardly responsil)le for his acts. Though D'Urberville had declared that this breach of his engagement to-day was the simple backsliding of a believer, Tess's words, as echoed from Angel Clare, had made a deep impression upon him, and continued to do so after he had left her. He moved on in silence, as if his energies were l)enumbed by the hitherto undreamt-of possil-)ility that his faith was vain. Reason had had nothing to do with his conversion, and the drops of logic that Tess had let fall into the sea of his enthusiasm served to chill its effervescence to stagnation. He said to himself, as he pondered again and again over the crystallized i)hrases that she had handed on to him, "That fellow little thought that, by telling her those things, he might be paving my way back to her ! " THE CONVERT. 371 XLYII. It is the threshing of the last wheat-rick at Flintcomb- Ash Farm. The dawn of tlie March morning is singularly inexpressive, and there is nothing to show where the east- ern horizon lies. Against the twilight rises the trapezoidal summit of the stack, Avhich has stood forlornly here through the washing and bleaching of the winter weather. Wlien Izz Huett and Tess arrived at the scene of opera- tions only a rustling denoted that others had preceded them ; to which, as the light increased, there were presently added the silhouettes of two men on the summit. They were busily '^ unhahng " the rick, that is, stripping oif the thatch before beginning to throw down the sheaves ; and while this was in progress Izz and Tess, with the other women-workers, in theii' whitey-brovTi pinners, stood wait- ing and shivering, Farmer Groby having insisted upon their being on the spot thus early to get the job over if possible by the end of the day. Close under the shadow of the stack, and as yet barely visible, was the red tyrant that the women had come to serve — a timber-framed construction, with straps and wheels appertaining — the thresliing-ma- chine, which, whilst it was going, kept up a despotic de- mand upon the endurance of their muscles and nerves. A little way off there was another indistinct figaire ; this one black, with a sustained hiss that spoke of strength very much in reserve. The long chimney running up beside an ash-tree, and the warmth which radiated from the spot, explained Avithout the necessity of much daylight that here was the engine which was to act as the primum mohUe of tins little world. By the engine stood a dark, motionless being, % sooty and grim}^ embodiment of tallness, in a sort of trance, with a heap of coals by his side : it was the engine- 372 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. man. The isolation of liis manner and color lent liim the appearance of a creature from Tophet^ who had strayed into the pellucid smokelessness of this region of yelloAv grain and pale soil, with which he had nothing in common, to amaze and to discompose its aborigines. What he looked he felt. He was in the agricultm-al world, but not of it. He served fire and smoke; these denizens of the fields served vegetation, weather, frost, and sun. He travelled with this engine from farm to farm, from county to county, for as yet the steam-threshing machine was itinerant in Wessex. He spoke in a strange northern accent, his thoughts turned inwards ujjon him- self, his eye on his ii'on charge, hardly perceiving the scenes around him, and caring for them not at all : holding only strictly necessary intercoui'se with the natives, as if some ancient doom compelled him to wander here against his will in the service of his Plutonic master. The long strap which ran from the di'iving- wheel of his engine to the red thresher under the rick was the sole tie-line between agri- culture and him. While they uncovered the sheaves he stood apathetic beside his portable repository of force, round whose hot blaclmess the morning air quivered. He had nothing to do with preparatory labor. His fire was waiting incandes- cent, liis steam was at high pressure, in a few seconds he could make the long strap move at an invisible velocity. Beyond its extent the environment might be corn, straw, or chaos ; it was all the same to him. If any of the native idlers asked him what he called himself, he replied, shortly, ''an engineer." The rick was unhaled by full daylight; the men then took their places, the women mounted, and the work began. ' Farmer Groby — or, as they called him, '' he " — had arrived ere this, and by his orders Tess was placed on the platfoi-m of the machine, close to the man who fed it, her business l)eing to untie every sheaf of corn handed on to her by Izz THE CONVERT. 373 Hiiett, who stood next, but on the rick ; so that the feeder could seize it and spread it over the revolving drum which whisked out every grain in one moment. They were soon in full progress, after a preparatory hitch or two, which rejoiced the hearts of those who hated ma- chinery. The work sped on till breakfast-time, when the thresher was stopped for half an hour; and on starting again after the meal the whole supplementaiy strength of the farm was thrown into the labor of constructing the straw-stack, which began to grow beside the stack of corn. A hasty lunch was eaten as they stood, mthout leaving their positions, and then another couple of hours brought them near to dinner-time ; the inexorable wheels continuing to spin, and the penetrating hum of the thresher to thrill to the very marrow all who were near the revolving T\di'e cage. The old men on the rising straw-rick talked of the past davs when thev had been accustomed to thresh with flails on the oaken barn floor 5 when everything, even to mnnow- ing, was effected by hand labor, which, to their thinking, though slow, produced better results. Those, too, on the corn-rick talked a little; but the persi^iring ones at the machine, including Tess, could not lighten their duties by the exchange of many words. It was the ceaselessness of the work which tried her so severely, and began to make her msh that she had never come to Flintcomb-Ash. The women on the corn-rick — Marian, who was one of them, in particular — could stop to drink ale or cold tea from the flagon now and then, or to exchange a few gossiping re- marks while they wiped their faces or cleared the frag- ments of straw and husk from their clothing ; but for Tess there was no respite ; for, as the drum never stopped, the man who fed it could not stop, and she, who had to supply the man with untied sheaves, could not stop either, except at those intervals of relief which were absolutely necessary. For some probably economical reason it was usually a woman who was chosen for this particular duty, and Groby 374 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. gave as Lis motive in selecting Tess that she was one of those who best combined strength with quickness in nntj'ing, and both with staying power, and this may have been true. The hum of the thresher, which prevented speech, increased to a raving whenever the suj^ply of corn was in excess of the regular quantity. As Tess and the man who fed could never tmm their heads, she did not know that just before the dinner-hour a person had come silently into the field by the gate, and had been standing under a second rick watch- ing the scene, and Tess in particular. He w^as in a tweed suit of fashionable pattern, and he twii'led a gay walking- cane. " Who is that ? '' said Izz Huett to Marian. She had at fii'st addressed the inquiry to Tess, but the latter could not hear it. ^' Somebody's fancy-man, I s'pose," said Marian, lacon- icallv. '^ I'll lay a guinea he's after Tess." '' Oh no. 'Tis a ranter pa'son who's been sniffing after her lately, not a dandy like this." ^' Well — this is the same man." " The same man as the preacher ? But he's quite differ- ent." ''He hev left off his black coat and white neckercher, and hev cut off his whiskers ; but he's the same man for all that." " D'ye really think so ? Then I'll teU her," said Marian. '' Don't. She'll see him soon enough." ''Well, I don't think it at all right for him to join his preaching to courting a married woman, even though her husband mid be abroad, and she, in a sense, a widow." " O — he can do her no harm," said Izz, drvlv. " Her mind can no more be heaved from that one place where it do bide than a stooded wagon from the hole he's in. Lord love 'ee, neither court-paying, nor preaching, nor the seven thunders themselves, can wean a woman when 'twould be better for her that she should be weaned." THE CONVERT. 375 Dinner- time came, and tlie whirling ceased, wherenpon Tess left lier post^ her knees trembling so wretchedly with the shaking of the machine that she could scarcely walk. '^ You ought to het a quart o' drink into 'ee, as I've done/' said Marian. "You wouldn't look so white then. Why, souls above us, yom* face is as if you'd been hag-rode ! " It occurred to the good-natured Marian that, as Tess was so tired, her discovery of her visitor's presence might have the bad eifect of taking aw^ay her appetite; and Marian was thinking of inducing Tess to descend by a ladder on the f mother side of the stack, when the gentleman came for- ward and looked up. Tess uttered a short little '^ O ! " and a moment after she said, quickly, " I shall eat my dinner here — right on the rick." Sometimes, when they were so far from their cottages, they all did this ; but as there was rather a keen wind going to-day, Marian and the rest descended, and sat under the gTOT\T.ng stack of straw. The new-comer was, indeed. Alec D'Urberville, the late EvangeMst, despite his changed attire and aspect. It was obvious at a glance that the original WeltJusf had come back : that he had restored himself, as nearlv as a man could do who had gTOwn three years older, to the old jaunty, slap- dash guise under which Tess had first known her adndrer, and cousin so-called. Having decided to remain v>^here she was, Tess sat down among the bundles out of sight on the ground, and began her meal ; till, by and by, she heard footsteps on the ladder, and immediately after Alec ap- peared upon the stack — now an oblong and level platform of sheaves. He strode across them, and sat down opposite to her mthout a word. Tess continued to eat her modest dinner, a slice of thick pancake which she had brought with her. The other work- folk were by this time all gathered under the rick, where the loose straw formed a comfortable nest. 376 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. ^^ I am here again, as yon see/' at length said D'Urberville. '' Why do you tronble me so ! " she cried, reproach flash- ing from her very finger-ends. " I trouble ijou f I think I may ask, why do you trouble me?" ^' Indeed I don't trouble you ! " " You say you don't ? But yon do ! You haunt me. Those very eyes that you turned upon me with such a bitter flash a moment ago, they come to me just as you showed them then, in the night and in the day. Tess, it is just as if my emotions, which have been flowing in a strong stream heavenward, had suddenly found a sluice open in the direc- tion of 3^ou, which they have at once gushed through. The gospel channel is left diy forthwith j and it is you who have done it — you ! " She gazed with parted lips. " Wliat — you have given up yom- preaching entirely?" she asked. She had gathered from Angel sufficient of the incredulity of modern thought to despise flash enthusiasms; but, as the woman, she was somewhat appalled. In affected lightness D'Urberville continued : " Entirely. I have broken every engagement since that afternoon I was to address the drunkards at Casterbridge Fair„ The deuce onlv knows what I am thought of bv the brethren. Ali-ha ! The brethren ! No doubt they pray for me — weej) for me ; for they are kind people in theii- way. But what do I care ? How could I go on with the thing when I had lost my faith — it would liave been h^-pocrisy of the l)asest kind ! Among them I should have stood like HvmeutTus and Alexander, who were delivered over to Satan that thevniii>lit learn not to blasj)lieme. What a grand revenge you have taken ! I saw vou innocent, and I deceived vou. Four vears after you find me a Christian enthusiast ; you then work upon me, perhaps to my complete perdition. But Tess, my coz, as I used to call you, this is only my way of talking, and you must not look so horribly concerned. Of course you THE CONA^ERT. 377 liave done notliing except retain your pretty face and shapely fignre. I saw it on the rick before you saw me — that tight pinafore-thing sets it off^ and that tilt-bonnet — you field-girls should never wear those bonnets if you wish to keep out of danger." He regarded her silently for a few moments, and, with a short cynical laugh, resumed : ''I beheve that if the bach- elor-apostle, whose deputy I thought I was, had been tempted l^y such a pretty face he would have let go the plough for her sake as I do." Tess attempted to expostulate, but at this juncture all her fluency failed her, and without heeding he added: ''Well, this Paradise that you supply is perhaps as good as any * other, after all. But to speak seriously, Tess." D'Url)er- viUe rose and came nearer, reclining sideways amid the sheaves, and resting upon his elbow. "Since I last saw you, I have been thinking of what you said that lie said about religion. I have come to the conclusion that there does seem rather a want of common sense in the propitia- tory scheme ; how I could have been so filled b}^ poor old Clare's enthusiasm, and have gone so madly to work, trans- cending even him, I cannot make out. As for what you said last time, on the strength of your wonderful husband's intelligence — whose name you have never told me — about having what they call an ethical system without any dogma, I don't see my way to that at all." " Wliy, you can have the rehgion of loving-kindness and purity at least, if you can't have more." " Oh no. I'm a different sort of fellow from that ! If there's no Power to say, ' Do this, and it will be a good thing for you after you are dead ; do that, and it will be a bad thing for you,' I can't warm up. Hang it, I am not going to feel responsible for my deeds and passions any more, if there's nobody to be responsible to 5 and if I were you, my dear, I wouldn't either." She tried to argue and tell him that he had mixed in his 378 TESS OF THE B'URBERVILLES. dull brain two distinct matters, tlieolog}' and morals, wliicli in the primitive days of mankind had been quite distinct, and had nothing in common bnt long association. But owing to Angel Clare's reticence, to her absolute want of training in polemics, and to her being a vessel of emotions rather than reasons, she could not get on. "Well, never mind," he resumed, "here I am, my love, as in the old times ! " " Not as then — never as then — it is different ! " she cried. " And there was never warmth with me. 0, whv didn't vou keep 3^our faith, if the loss of it have brought 'ee to speak to me hke this ! " " Because vou've knocked it out of me ; so the e^dl be upon your sweet head. Your husband httle thought how his teacliing woidd recoil upon him ! Ha-ha — I'm a^^ully glad you have made an apostate of me, all the same. Tess, I am more taken with vou than ever, and I pity you, too. For all your closeness, I see you are in a bad way — neglected by one w^ho ought to cherish you. The words of the stern prophet that I used to read come back to me. Don't vou know them, Tess ? — ' And she shall follow after her lover, but she shall not overtake him ; and she shaU seek him, but shall not find him : then shall she say, I will go and return to my first husband ; for then was it better with me than now.' " She could not get her morsels of food dowm her throat ; her Hps were dry, and she was ready to choke. The voices and laughs of the work-folk eating and drinking under the rick came to her as if they were a quarter of a mile off. " It is cruelty to me ! " she said. " How — how can you treat me to this talk, if vou care ever so little for me ? " " True, true," he said, wincing a httle. " I did not come to reproach you for my fall. I came, Tess, to say that I don't like you to be Avorking like this, and I have come on pur- pose for yoii. You say you have a husband who is not I. "Well, perhaps you have ; but I've never seen him, and you've THE CONA^ERT. 379 not told me Ids name ; and altogether he seems rather a mythological personage. However, even if you have one, I think I am nearer to you than he is. I, at any rate, try to help you out of trouble, but he does not, bless his invisible face ! Tess, my trap is waiting just under the hill, and — darhno' mine, not his ! — vou know the rest." Her face had been rising to a dull crimson fii*e wliile he spoke ; but she did not answer. " You have been the cause of my backshding," he con- tinued, stretching his arms towards her waist. "You should be willing to share it, and leave that mule you call husband forever." One of her leather gloves, which she had taken off to eat her skimmer-cake, lay in her lap, and without the slightest warning she passionately swung the glove by the gauntlet directly in his face. It was heavy and thick as a warrior's, and it struck him flat on the mouth. Fancy might have regarded the act as the recrudescence of a trick in which her mailed progenitors were not unpractised. Alec fiercely started up from liis reclining position ; a scarlet oozing appeared where her blow had alighted, and in a moment the blood began dropping from his mouth upon the straw. But he soon controlled himself, cahnlv drew his handker- chief from his pocket, and mopped his bleeding lips. She too had sprung up, but she sank dowTi again. " Now punish me ! " she said, turning up her eyes to his with the hopeless defiance of the sparrow's gaze before its captor twdsts its neck. "' Whip me, crush me ; you need not mind those people under the rick. I shall not cry out. Once victim, alwavs victim — that's the law." " Oh no, no, Tess," he said, blandly. " I can make full al- lowance for this. Yet you most unjustly forget one thing, that I would have married vou if vou had not put it out of my power to do so. Did I not ask you flatly to be my wife — hey ? Answer me." " You did." 380 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. "And you cannot be. But remember one thing." His voice hardened as his temper got the better of him with the recollection of his sincerity in asking her and her present ingratitude, and he stepped across to her side and held her by the shoulders, so that she shook under his gi^asp. " Re- member, my lady, I was once your master. I will be your master again. If you are any man's wife you are mine ! " The threshers now began to stir below. " So much for our quarrel," he said, letting her go. "Now I shall leave you, and shall come again for your answer during the afternoon. You don't know me yet. But I know you.'' She had not spoken again, remaining as if stunned. D'Urlierville retreated over the sheaves, and descended the ladder, while the workers l^elow rose and stretched their arms, and shook down the beer they had drunk. Then the threshing-macliine started afresh ; and amid the renew^ed rustle of the straw Tess resumed her position by the buzz- ing drum, untying sheaf after sheaf in endless succession. XLYIII. In the afternoon the farmer made it known that the rick was to be finished that night, since there was a moon by which they could see to work, and the man with the engine was engaged for another farm on the morrow. Hence the twanging and humming and rustling proceeded with even less intermission than was usual. It was not till ' nammet ' time, about three o'clock, that Tess raised her eyes and gave a momentary glance round. She felt but little surprise at seeing that Alec D'Urberville had come back, and was standing under the hedge by the gate. He had seen her lift her eyes, and waved his hand urbanely to her, while he blew her a kiss. Tess looked THE CONVERT. 381 down again, and carefully abstained from gazing in that direction. Thus the afternoon dragged on. The wheat-rick shi-ank low^er, and the straw-rick grew higher, and the corn-sacks were carted away. At six o'clock the wheat-rick was about shoulder-high from the ground. But the unthreshed sheaves remaining untouched seemed countless still, notwithstand- ing the enormous numbers that had been gulped dowm by the insatiable swallower, fed by the man and Tess, tlu'ough whose two young hands the greater part of them had passed; and the enormous stack of straw, where in the morning there had been nothing, appeared as the fceces of the same l^uzzing red glutton. From the west sky a i^^ath- ful sliine — all that wild Mjirch could afford in the way of sunset — had bm-st forth after the cloudy day, flooding the tired and sticky faces of the thi'eshers and dyeing them with a copper}^ liglit, as also the flapping garments of the women, which clung to them like didl flames. A panting ache ran through the rick. The man who fed was wear}^, and Tess could see that the red nape of his neck was covered with dirt husks. She still stood at her post, her flushed and perspiring face coated with the corn-dust, and her white bonnet embrowned by it. She was the only woman whose place was upon the machine, so as to be shaken bodily l)y its spinning, and this incessant whiri-ing and quivering, in which every fibre of her body participated, had thro^^m her into a stupefied reverie, in which her arms worked on independently of her consciousness. She hardly knew where she was, and did not hear Izz Huett — who, with the sinking of the rick, had necessarily moved further down from her side — offer to change places with her. B}^ degTees the freshest among them began to grow cadav- erous and saucer-eyed. Whenever Tess lifted her head she beheld always the great upgrown straw-stack, with the men in shh't- sleeves upon it, against the gray north sky ; in front of it the long, straight elevator like a Jacob's ladder, on 382 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. which a perpetual stream of threshed straw ascended, a yel- low river ruuniug up-hill, and spouting out on the top of the rick. She knew that Alec D'Urberville was still on the scene, observing her from some point or other, though she could not say where. There was an excuse for his remaining, for, when the threshed rick drew near its final sheaves, a little ratting was always done, and men unconnected with the threshing sometimes dropped in for that performance — sporting characters of all descriptions, gents with terriers and facetious pipes, roughs with sticks and stones. But there was another hour's work l^efore the layer of live rats at the base of the stack would be reached ] and as the evening light in the dii'ection of the Giant's Hill by Abbot's Cernel dissolved away, the white-faced moon of the season arose from the horizon that lav towards Middle- ton and Shottsf ord on the other side. For the last hour or two Marian had felt uneasy about Tess, whom she could not get near enough to speak to, the other women having kept up theii' strength by di'inking ale, and Tess having done without it through traditionary di^ead, owing to its results at her home in childhood. But Tess still kept going : if she could not fill her part she would have to leave ; and this contingency, which she would have regarded with equanimity, and even w^ith relief, a month or two earher, had become a terror since D'Urberville had begun to hover round her. The sheaf -pitchers and feeders had now worked the rick so low that people on the ground could talk to them. To Tess's surprise, Farmer Groby came up on the machine to her, and said that if she desired to join her friend he did not wish her to keep on any longer, and woidd send some- body else to take her place. The ^'friend" was D'Urber- ville, she knew, and also that this concession had been granted in obedience to the request of that friend, or ene- my. She shook her head and toiled on. THE CONVERT. 383 The time for tlie rat-catchiug arrived at last, and the hunt began. The creatures had crept downwards with the subsidence of the rick till they were all together at the bottom, and, being now nncovered from their last refuge, they ran across the open ground in all directions, a loud shriek from the l^y this time half -tipsy Marian informing her companions that one of the rats had invaded her per- son — a terror which the rest of the women had guarded against by various schemes of skirt-tucking and self-eleva- tion. The rat was at last dislodged, and, amid the bark- ing of the dogs, mascnline shouts, feminine screams, oaths, stampings, and confusion as of Pandemonium, Tess untied her last sheaf ; the di'uni slowed, the whizzing ceased, and she stepped from the platform of the machine to the gronnd. Her lover, who had only looked on at the rat-catching, was promptly at her side. " What — after all — my insulting slap, too ! " said she in an nnUerbreath. She was so ntterlv exhausted that she ft/ had not strength to speak londer. ^' I should indeed be foolish to feel offended at anything yon sav or do," he answered, in the seductive voice of the Trantridge time. " How the little limbs tremble ! You are as weak as a bled calf, you know you are ; and yet you need have done nothing since I arrived. How could you be so obstinate ? However, I have told the farmer that he has no right to employ women at steam-threshing. It is not proper work for them ; and on all the better class of farms it has been given up, as he knows very well. I will walk with you as far as your home." " Oh yes," she answered, with a jaded gait. '^ Walk with me if you will ! I do bear in mind that you came to marry me before you knew of my state. Perhaps — perhaps you be a little better and kinder than I have been thinking you were. Whatever is meant as kindness I am gratef id for ; whatever is meant in any other way I am angry at. I can- not sense your meanings sometimes." }84 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. 4- " If I cannot legitimize our former relationship, at lea I can assist you. And I will do it with much more regard for 3^our feelings than I formerly showed. My rehgious mania, or whatever it was, is over. But I retain a little good natui'e ; I hope I do. Now, Tess, by aU that's tender and strong between man and woman, trust me. I have enough, and more than enough, to put you out of anxiety, both for youi'self and your parents and sisters. I can make them all comfortable if you will only show confidence in me." " Have you seen them lately ? " she quickly inquired. ^' Yes. They didn't know where you were. It was only by chance that I found you here." The cold moon looked aslant upon Tess's fagged face be- tween the twigs of the garden-hedge, as she paused outside the cottage which was her temporary home, D'Urberville pausing beside her. " Don't mention my httle brothers and sisters — don't make me break down quite ! " she said. " If you want to help them — God knows they need it — do it mthout teUing me. But no, no ! " she cried. '^ I will accept nothing from you, either for them or for me." He did not accompany her further, since, as she lived mth the household, aU was public indoors. No sooner had she herself entered, laved herself in a wasliing-tub, and mechanically shared supper with the family, than she fell into thought, and, mthdrawing to the table under the wall by the light of her oavu little lamp, wrote in a passionate mood : "My own Husband, — ^' Let me call you so — I must — even if it makes you an- giy to think of such an unworthy wife as I. I must cry to you in my trouble — I have no one else. I am so exposed to temptation, Angel. I fear to say who it is, and I do not like to write about it at all. But I cling to you in a way you cannot think I Can you not come to me now, at once, THE CONVERT. 385 before anything terrible happens ? 0, I know you cannot, because you are so far away. I think I must die if you do not come soon, or tell me to come to you. The punishment you have measured out to me is deserved, indeed — I do know that — well deserved — and you are right and just to be angry with me. But, Angel, please, please not to be just — only a little kind to me, even if I do not deserve it, and come to me ! If you would come, I could die in your arms ! I would be well content to do that if you had forgiven me. " Angel, I live entirely for you. I love you too much to blame you for going away, and I know it was necessary you should find a farm. Do not think I shall say a word of sting or bitterness. Only come back to me. I am deso- late without you, my darling, O, so desolate ! I do not mind having to work ; but if you will send me one little line, and say, T (U)i coming soon,'' I will bide on. Angel — O, so cheer- fully ! " It have been so much my rehgion ever since w^e were married to be faithful to you in every thought and look, that even when a man speaks a compliment to me before I am aware, it seems wronging you. Have you never felt one little bit of what vou used to feel when we were at the daily ! If you have, how can you keep away from me ? I am the same woman. Angel, as she you fell in love with ; yes, the very same ! — not the one you disliked but never saw. What was the past to me as soon as I met you? It was a dead thing altogether. I became another woman, Med full of new life from you. How could I be the early one ? Why do you not see this ? Dear, if you would only be a Little more conceited, arhd believe in youi'self so far as to see that you was strong enough to work this change in me, you would perhaps be in a mind to come to me, your poor wife. • "How silly I was in my happiness when I thought I could trust you always to love me ! I ought to have known that such as that was not for poor me, But I am ^0 386 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. sick at heart, not only for old times, bnt for tlie present. Think — tliink how it do hnrt my heart not to see you ever — ever ! Ah, if I could only make your dear heart ache one little minute of each day as mine does every day and all day long, it might lead you to show pity to yom* poor lonely one. " People still sa}^ that I am rather pretty, Angel (hand- some is the Avord they use, since I msh to be truthful). Perhaps I am what they say. But I do not value my good looks : I only like to have them because they belong to you, my dear, and that there may be at least one thing about me worth your having. So much have I felt this, that when I met mth annoyance on account of the same I tied up my face in a bandage as long as people would believe in it. O Angel, I tell you all this not from vanity — you will cer- tainly know I do not — but only that you may come to me. " If you really cannot come to me will you let me come to you ? I am, as I say, harried, pressed to do what I will not do. It cannot be that I shall yield one inch, yet I am in terror as to what an accident might lead to, and I so defenceless on account of mv fii'st error. I cannot sav more about this — it makes me too miserable. But if I break do"v\m by falling into some fearful snare, my last state will be worse than my first. Heaven, I cannot think of it ! Let me come at once, or at once come to me ! ^^ I would be content, ay, glad, to hve ^^dth you as your ser- vant, if I may not as your wife ; so that I could only be near you, and get glimpses of you, and think of you as mine. " The daylight has nothing to show me, since you be not here, and I don't like to see the rooks and starlings in the fields, because I grieve and grieve to miss you who used to see them with me. I long for only one thing in heaven or earth or under earth, to meet you, my own dear ! Come to me — come to me^ and save me from what threatens me ! '^ Your faithful, heartbroken '' Tess/' THE CONVERT. 387 XLIX. The appeal duly found its way to the breakfast- table of the quiet vicarage to the westward, iu that valley where the air is so soft and the soil is so rich that the effort of growth requires but superficial aid by comparison with the tillage of Flintcomb-Ash, and where to Tess the human world seemed so different (though it was much the same). It was purely for security that she had been requested by Angel to send her conmiunications tlirough his father, whom he kept pretty well informed of his changing ad- dresses in the country he had gone to exploit for himself vdth a heavy heart. ''Now/' said old Mr. Clare to his wife, when he had read the envelope, "if Angel proposes leaving Rio for a visit home at the end of next month, as he told us that he hoped to do, I think this may hasten his plans, for I believe it to be from his wife." He breathed deeply at the thought of her, and the letter was redii'ected, to be promptly sent on to Angel. " Dear fellow, I hope he will get home safely," murmured Mrs. Clare. " To my dying day I shall feel that he has been ill-used. You should have sent him to Cambridge in spite of his heterodoxy, and given him the same chance as the other boys had. He would have grown out of it under proper influence, and perhaps would have taken Orders after all. Church or no Church, it would have been f au^er to him." This was the only wail with which Mrs. Clare ever dis- turbed her husband's peace in respect of their sons. And she did not vent this often ; for she was as considerate as she was devout, and knew that his mind too was troubled by doubts as to his justice in this matter. Only too ofteii 388 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. had she heard him, lying awake at night, stifling sighs for Angel with prayers. But the uncompromising Evangehcal did not even now hold that he would have been justified in giving his son, an unbeliever, the same academic advan- tages that he had given to the two brothers, when it was possible, if not probable, that those very advantages might have been used to decry the doctrines which he had made it his life's mission and desii'e to propagate, and the mission of his ordamed sons likemse. To put with one hand a ped- estal under the feet of the two faithful ones, and with the other to elevate the unfaithful by the same artificial means, he deemed to be alike inconsistent with his convictions, liis position, and his hopes. Nevertheless, he loved his mis- named Angel, and in secret mourned over this treatment of him as Abraham might have moulded over the doomed Isaac while they went up the hill together. His silent self- generated regrets were far bilterer than the rej^roaches which his wife rendered audible. They blamed themselves for this unlucky marriage. If Angel had never been destined for a farmer he would never have been thrown with agricultural ghls. They did not distinctly know what had separated him and his wife, nor the date on which the separation had taken place. At first they had supposed it must be something of the natui^e of a serious aversion. But in his later letters he occasionally alluded to the intention of coming home to fetch her ; from which expressions they hoped the division might not owe its origin to anything so hopelessl}^ permanent as that. He had told them that she was with her relatives, and in then* doubts they had decided not to intrude into a situation which they knew no way of bettering. The eyes for which Tess's letter had been intended were gazing at this time on a limitless expanse of country from the back of a mule, which was bearing him from the inte- rior of the South- American Continent towards the coast, THE CONVERT. 389 His experiences of this strange land liad been sad. The severe illness from which he had snffered shortly after his arrival had never wholly left him^ and he had by degrees almost decided to relinqnish his hope of farming here, though, as long as the bare possibility existed of his re- maining, he kept this change of view a secret from his parents. The crowds of agricultural laborers who had come out to the country in his wake, dazzled by representations of easy independence, had suffered, died, and wasted awa}^ He saw mothers from English farms trudging along T\dth their infants in their arms, when the child would be stricken with fever and would die ; the mother would pause to dig a hole in the loose earth with her bare hands, would burv the infant therein with the same natural grave-tools, shed one tear, and again trudge on. AngePs original intention had not been emigration to Brazil, but a northern or eastern farm in his own countrv. He had come to this place in a fit of desperation, the Brazil movemotit among the English agriculturists having by chance coincided with his desii'e to . escape from his past existence. Dming this time of his absence he had mentally aged a dozen years. What arrested him now as of value in life was less its beauty than its pathos. Having long discred- ited the old systems of mysticism, he now began to dis- credit the old appraisements of morality. He thought they wanted readjusting. Who was the moral man ? Still more pertinent^, who was the moral woman? The beauty or ugliness of a character lay, not only in its achievements, but in its aims and impulses ; its true liistory lay, not among things done, but among things willed. How, then, about Tess ? Viewing her in these lights, a regi'et for his hasty judg- ment began to oppress him. Did he reject her eternally, 390 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. or did lie not? He could no longer say that he would always reject her, and not to say that was, in spirit, to accept her now. This growing fondness for her memory coincided in point of time with her residence at Flintcomb-Ash ; but it was before she had felt herself at liberty to trouble him about her circumstances or her feelings. He was greatly per- plexed 5 and in his perplexity as to her motives in with- holding intelligence he did not inquire. Thus her silence of docihty was misinterpreted. How much it really said, if he had understood ! That she adhered with literal exact- ness to orders which he had given and forgotten ; that, despite her natural fearlessness of natui^e, she asserted no rights, made no claim, admitted his judgment to be in every respect the true one, and bent her head dumbly thereto. In the before-mentioned jom'ney by mules thi'ough the interior of the country another man rode beside him. An- gel's companion was also an Englishman, bent on the same errand, though he came from another part of the island. They were both in a state of mental depression, and they spoke of home affaii's. Confidence begat confidence. With that cm^ious tendency e\dnced by men, more especially when in distant lands, to entrust to strangers details of their lives which they would on no account mention to friends, Angel admitted to this man as they rode along the sorrowf id facts of his marriage. The stranger had sojourned in many more lands and among many more peoples than Angel j to his cosmopolitan mind such deviations from the social norm, so immense to domesticity, were no more than are the irregularities of vale and mountain-chain to the whole terrestrial curve. He viewed the matter in quite a different light from Angel ; thought that what Tess had been was of no importance be- side what she would be, and plainly told Clare that he was "WTong in coming away from her. The next day they were di'enched in a thunderstorm. THE C0N\T:RT. 391 Angel's companion was struck down with fever, and died by the week's end. Clare waited a few hours to buiy him, and then went on his way. The cursory remarks of tlie large-minded stranger, of whom he knew absolutely nothing beyond a commonplace name, were sublimed by his death, and influenced Clare more than all the reasoned ethics of the philosophers. His own parocliiahsm made him ashamed by its contrast. His inconsistencies rushed upon him in a flood. He had per- sistently elevated Hellenic Paganism at the expense of Christianity; yet in that civilization an illegal surrender was not certain disesteem. Surely then he might have regarded that abhorrence of the un-intact state, which he had inherited with the creed of mysticism, as at least open to correction when the result was due to treachery. A remorse struck into him. The words of Izz Huett, never quite stilled in his memory, came back to him. He had asked Izz if she loved him, and she had replied in the affirmative. Did she love him more than Tess did ? No, she had replied ; Tess would lay doTVTi her life for him ; and she herself coidd do no more. He thought of Tess as she had appeared on the day of the wedding. How her eyes had lingered upon him ; how she had hung upon his words as if they wxre a god's. And during the terrible evening over the hearth, when her simple soul uncovered itself to his, how pitiful her face had looked in the rays of the fiiT, in her inability to realize that his love and protection could possibly be withdrawn. Thus from being her critic he grew to be her advocate. Cynical things he had uttered to himself about her ; but no man can be a cvnic and live ; and he withdrew them. The mistake of expressing them had arisen from his allowing himself to be influenced b}" general principles, to the disre- gard of the particular instance. But the reasoning is somewhat musty ; lovers and hus- bands have gone over the ground before to-day. Clare had 392 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. been liarsli towards her ) there is no doubt of it. Men are too often harsh with w^omen they love or have loved; women with men. And yet these harshnesses are tender- ness itself when compared with the universal harshness out of which they grow; the harshness of the position towards the temperament, of the means towards the aims, of to-day towards yesterday, of hereafter towards to-day. The historic interest of her family — that ancient and masterful line of D'Urber\T.Ues — whom he had despised as a spent force, touched his sentiments now. Why had he not known the difference between the political value and the imaginative value of these things ? In the latter quality her D'Urberville descent was a fact of great dimensions ; w^orthless to economics, it was a most useful ingredient to the dreamer^ to the moralizer on declines and falls. It was a fact that would soon be forgotten — that bit of distinction in poor Tess's blood and name, and obli\don would fall upon her hereditarv link with the marble monuments and leaded skeletons at Kingsbere. So does Time ruthlessly destroy his own romances. In recalling her face again and again, he thought now that he could see therein a flash of the dig- nity which must have graced her grand-dames ; and the vision sent that aura through his veins which he had for- merly felt, and which left behind it a sense of sickness. Despite her not in\'iolate past, what still abode in such a woman as Tess outvalued the freshness of her fellows. Was not the gleaning of the grapes of Epliraim better than the vintage of Abi-ezcr ? So spoke Love renascent preparing the way for Tess's devoted outpoui-ing which was then just being forw^arded to him by his father, though owing to his distance inland it was to be a long time in reaching him. Meanwhile the ^vidter's expectation that Angel would come soon in response to the entreaty was alternately gi-eat and small. What lessened it was that the facts of her life which had led to the parting had not changed — THE COXVERT. 393 could never cliange ; and that, if her presence had not attenuated them, her absence could not. Nevertheless she addressed her mind to the tender question of what she could do to please him best if he should arrive. Sighs were expended on the wish that she had taken more notice of the tunes he played on his harp, that she had inquii-ed more curiously of him which were his favorite ballads among those the country girls sang. She indirectly inquired of Amby Seedling, who had followed Izz from Talbothays, and by chance Ambv remembered that, among the snatches of melody hi which they had indulged at the dairyman's, to induce the cows to let do^\^l their milk, Clare had seemed to lilvc " Cupid's Gardens," " I have parks, I have hounds," and " The break o' the day " ; and had seemed not to care for " The Tailor's Breeches," and " Such a beauty I did grow," excellent ditties as they were. To perfect the baUads was her whimsical desire; she practiced them privately at odd moments, especially " The break o' the day " : Arise, arise, arise ! And pick your love a posy, All of the sweetest flowers That in the garden grow. The turtle doves and small birds In every bough a building, So early in the spring-time, At the break o' the day ! It would have melted the heart of a stone to hear her singing these ditties, whenever she worked apart from the rest of the gii'ls in this cold, dry time ; the tears running dovni her cheeks all the while at the thought that perhaps he would not, after all, come to hear her, and the simple, silly words of the songs resounding in painful mockery of the aching heart of the singer. Tess was so wrapt up in this fanciful di^eam that she seemed not to know how the season was advancing; that 394 TESS OF THE D'URBERYILLES. the days had leugthened, that Lady-Day was at hand, and would soon be followed by Old Lady-Day, the end of her term here. But before the quarter-day had quite come somethmg happened which made Tess think of far different matters. She w^as at her lodging as usual one evening, sitting in the downstau's room with the rest of the familv, when some- body knocked at the door and inquired for Tess. Through the doorway she saw against the declining light a figm'e ^\ith the height of a woman and the breadth of a child, a tall, thin, girhsh creature whom she did not recognize in the twiliglit tiU the gu4 said " Tess ! " ^' What — is it 'Liza Lu 1 " asked Tess, in startled accents. Her sister, whom a little over a year ago she had left at home as a child, had sprung up by a sudden shoot to a form of this presentation, of which as yet Lu seemed her- self scarce able to understand the meaning. Her thin legs, visible below her once long frock, now short by her grow- ing, and her uncomfortable hands and arms, revealed her youth and inexperience. " Yes, I have been traipsing about all day, Tess," said Lu, with unemotional gravity, " a trying to find 'ee ; and I'm very tired." " What is the matter at home ? " '^ Mother is took very bad, and the doctor says she's dy- ing ; and as father is not very well neither, and says 'tis wrong for a man of such a high family as his to slave and drave at common laboring work, we don't know wdiat to do." Tess stood in reverie a long time before she thought of asking 'Liza Lu to come in and sit down. When she had done so, and 'Liza Lu was having some tea, she came to a decision. It was imperative that she should go home. Her agreement did not end till Old Lady-Day, the sixth of April, but as the interval thereto was not a long one, she resolved to run the risk of starting at once. THE CON^T]RT. 395 To go that niglit would be a gain of twelve hours ; but her sister was too tired to undertake such a distance till the morrow. Tess ran down to where Marian and Izz lived, informed them of what had happened, and begged them to make the best of her case to the farmer. Returning, she got Lu a supper, and after that, having tucked the younger into her own bed, packed up as many of her belongings as would go into a mthy basket, and started, directing Lu to follow her next morning. L. She plunged into the chilly equinoctial darkness as the clock struck ten, for her fifteen miles' walk under the steely stars. In lonely districts night is a protection rather than a danger to a noiseless pedestrian, and knowing this from experience, Tess pursued the nearest coui-se along by-lanes that she would almost have feared in the da}i:ime; but marauders were lacking now, and spectral fears were driven out of her mind by thoughts of her mother. Thus she pro- ceeded mile after mile, ascending and descending till she came to Bulbarrow, and about midnight looked from that height into the abyss of chaotic shade which was all that revealed itself of the vale on whose farther side she was born. Haidng already traversed about five miles on the upland, she had now some ten or eleven in the lowland l^efore her jom'uey would be finished. The winding road downwards became just visible to her under the wan star- light as she followed it, and soon she paced a soil so con- trasting -v^dth that above it that the difference was percep- tible to the tread and to the smell. It was the heavy clay land of Blackmoor Vale, and a part of the Vale to which turnpike roads had never penetrated. Superstitions linger 396 TESS OF THE D^URBERVILLES. longest on these liea\^ soils. Having once been forest, at this shadowy time it seemed to assert something of its old character, the far and the near being blended, and every tree and tall hedge making the most of its presence. The harts that had been hnnted here ; the ^^dtches that had been pricked and dncked ; the gi^een-spangled fairies that " whick- ered " at you as j^ou passed — the place teemed with, beliefs in them still, and they formed an impish multitude now. At Nuzzlebury she passed the village inn, whose sign creaked in response to the greeting of her footsteps, which not a human soul heard but herself. Under the thatched roofs her mind's eye beheld relaxed tendons and flaccid muscles, spread out in the darkness beneath coverlets made of little pm^ple patchwork squares, and undergoing a bracing process at the hands of sleep for renewed labor on the mor- To^f, as soon as a hint of pink nebulosity appeared on Ham- bledon Hill. At three she turned the last corner of the maze of lanes she had threaded, and entered Marlott, passing the field in which, as a club-girl, she had fii'st seen Angel Clare, when he had not danced with her 5 the sense of disappointment remained T\dth her yet. In the dii'ection of her mother's house she saw a light. It came from the bedroom "v^-indow, and a branch waved in front of it and made it wink at her. As soon as she could discern the outline of the house — newlv thatched with her monev — it had all its old effect upon Tess's imagination. Part of her body and hfe it ever seemed to l)e ; the slope of its dormers, the finish of its gables, the broken courses of brick which topped the chim- ney, all had something in common with her personal char- acter. A stupefaction had come into these features, to her regard ; it meant the illness of her mother. She opened the door so softly as to disturb nobody; the lower room was vacant, but the neighbor who was sitting up with her mother came to the top of the stairs, and whis- pered that Mrs. Durbej^eld was no better, though she was THE CONVERT. 397 sleeping just then. Tess prepared herself a breakfast, and then took her place as nurse in her mother's chamber. In the morning, when she contemplated the cliildren, they had all a cm'iously elongated look 5 although she had been away little more than a year, their growth was astounding ; and the necessity of applying herseK heart and soul to their needs took her out of her own cares. Her father's ill-health was of the same indefinite kind, and he sat in his chair as usual. But the day after her ar- rival he was unusually bright. He had a rational scheme for living, and Tess asked him what it was. ^^ I'm thinking of sending round to all the old antiqueer- uns in this part of England," he said, ^' asking them to sub- scribe to a fund to maintain me. I'm sure they'd see it as a romantical, artistical, and proper thing to do. They spend lots o' money in keeping up old ruins, and fijiding the bones o' things, and such like ; and living remains must be more interesting to 'em still, if they only knowed o' me. Woidd that somebody would go round and teU 'em what there is living among 'em, and they thinldn^- nothing of him ! If Pa'son Tringham, who discovered me, had hved, he'd ha' done it, I'm sure." Tess postponed her arguments on this high project till she had gTappled with pressing matters in hand, which seemed little improved by her remittances. When indoor necessities had been eased, she turned her attention to ex- ternal things. It was now the season for planting and sow- ing; many gardens and allotments of the \dllagers had already received their spring tillage ; but the garden and the allotment of the Durbeyflelds were behindhand. She found to her dismay that this was owing to their having eaten aU the seed potatoes — that last lapse of the improvi- dent. With her slender means she obtained what others she coidd procuiT, and in a few days her father was well enough to see to the garden under Tess's persuasive eiforts : while she herseK undertook the allotment-plot which they 398 TESS OF THE D'URBERYILLES. rented in a field a conple of hnndred yards out of the vil- lage. She liked doing it after the confinement of the sick cham- ber, where she was not now requu'ed by reason of her moth- er's improvement. Violent motion relieved thought. The plot of gTOund was in a high, dry, open enclosure, where there were forty or fifty such pieces, and where labor was at its briskest when the hii'ed labor of the day had ended. Digging began usually at six o'clock, and extended indefi- nitely into the dusk or moonlight. Just now heaps of dead weeds and refuse were burning on many of the plots, the dry weather favoring their combustion. One fine day Tess and 'Liza Lu worked on here with their neighbors till the last rays of the sun smote flat upon the white pegs that divided the plots. As soon as twilight suc- ceeded to sunset, the flare of the couch-grass and cabbage- stalk fires began to light up the allotment fitfully, theii' out- lines appearing and disappearing under the dense smoke as wafted by the wind. When a fire glowed, banks of smoke, blown level along the ^Tound, w^ould themselves become illuminated to an opaque lustre, screening the work-people from one another; and the meaning of the "pillar of a cloud," which was a wall by day and a light by night, could be understood. As evening thickened, some of the gardening men and women gave over for the night, but the greater number remained to get their planting done, Tess being among them, though she sent her sister home. It was on one of the couch-burning plots that she labored with her fork, its four shining prongs resounding against the stones and dry clods in little cHcks. Sometimes she was completely in- volved in the smoke of her fire ; then it would leave her figure free, irradiated by the brassy glare from the heap. She was oddly dressed to-night, and presented a somewhat staring aspect, her attire being a gown bleached by many washings, with a short black jacket over it, the effect of the THE CONVERT. 399 whole being that of a wedding and funeral gnest in one. The women farther back wore white aprons, which, ^\dth their pale faces, were all that could be seen of them in the gloom, except when at moments they caught a flash from the flames. Westward, the Ynry boughs of the bare thorn hedge which formed the boundary of the field rose against the pale opalescence of the lower sky that deepened upward to blue- black, where Jupiter hung like a full-blown jonquil, so bright as almost to throw a shade. A few small nonde- script stars were appearing elsewhere. In the distance a dog barked, and wheels occasionally rattled along the dry road. Still the prongs continued to click busily, for it was not late, and though the air was fresh and keen there was a whisper of spring in it that cheered the workers on. Some- thing in the place, the hour, the crackling fires, the fantastic mysteries of light and shade, made others as well as Tess enjoy being there. Nightfall, which in the fi'ost of winter comes as a fiend, and in the warmth of summer as a lover, came as a tranquillizer on this March day. Nobody looked at his or her companions. The eyes of all were on the soil as its tinned surface was revealed by the fii-es. Hence, as Tess stirred the clods, and sang her foolish little songs with scarce now a hope that Clare would ever hear them, she did not for a long time notice the per- son who worked nearest to her — a man in a long smock- frock who, she found, was forking the same plot as herself, and whom she supposed her father had sent there to ad- vance the work. She became more conscious of him when the direction of his digging brought him closer to her. Sometimes the smoke divided them ; then it swerved, and the two were visible to each other, but divided from all the rest. Tess did not speak to her fellow- worker, nor did he speak to her. Nor did she think of him fiu'ther than to recollect 400 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. that he had not been there when it was broad daylight, and that she did not know him as any one of the Mario tt labor- ers, which was no wonder, her absences having been so long and frequent of late years. B}^ and by he dug so close to her that the fii-e-beams w^ere reflected as distinctly from the steel prongs of his fork as from her own. On going up to the fire to throw a pitch of dead w^eeds upon it, she found that he did the same on the other side. The fire flared up, and she beheld the face of D'Urber\TlLe. The unexpectedness of his presence, the grotesqueness of his appearance in a gathered smock-frock, such as was now worn only by the most old-fashioned of the laborers, had a ghastly comicality that chilled her as to its bearing. D'Urber^dlle emitted a low, long laugh. '' If I were inclined to joke I should say. How much this seems like Paradise ! " he remarked, whimsically looking at her with an inclined head. " What do you say ? " she weakly asked. "A jester might say this is just like Paradise. You are Eve, and I am the old Other One come to tempt you in the disguise of an inferior animal. I used to be quite up in that scene of Milton's when I was theological. Some of it goes — " ' Empress, the way is ready, and not long. . . . If thou accept My conduct, I can bring thee thither soon.' 'Lead then,' said Eve. And so on. My dear, dear Tess, I am only putting this to yon as a thing that you might have supposed or said quite untruly, because jou think so badly of me." " I never said you were Satan, or thought it. I don't think of you in that way at all. My thoughts of you are quite cold, except when you affront me. Wliat, did j^ou come digging here in such a dress entirel}'' because of me ? " "Entirely. To see you; nothing more. The smock- THE C0N\T:RT. 401 frock, wliicli I saw lianging for sale as I came along, was an after-tliought, that I mightn't be noticed. I come to protest against your working like tliis." " But I like doing it — it is for my father." " Your engagement at the other place is ended ? " '' Yes." '^ Wliere are you going to next ? To join your dear hus- band ? " She could not bear the humiliating reminder. "O — I don't know," she said, bitterly. " I have no husl^and ! " '' It is quite true — in the sense you mean. But you have a friend, and I have determined that you shall be comfort- able in spite of yourself. When you get down to your house you mil see what I have sent there for you." "O Alec, I wish you wouldn't give me anything at all ! I cannot take it from you ! I don't like — it is not right ! " " It is right ! " he cried, firmly. " I am not going to see a woman Vv hom I feel so tenderly for as I do for you in trouble without trjdng to help her." " But I am very well off ! I am only in trouble about — about — not about living at aU ! " She turned, and desper- ately resumed her digging, tears dripping upon the fork- handle and upon the clods. ''About the children — voui' brothers and sisters," he re- sumed. " I've been thinking of them." Tess's heart quivered — he was touching her in a weak place. He had divined her chief anxiety. Since returning home her soul had gone out to those children with an affec- tion that was passionate. " If yoiu' mother does not recover, somebody ought to do something for them ; since your father will not be able to do much, I suppose." " He can with my assistance. He must ! " " And with mine." " No, sir ! " 26 402 TESS OF THE D'URBER\^LLES. '^ How damned foolish this is ! " burst out D'Urberville. " Why, he thinks we are the same family ; and wUl be quite satisfied." '^ He don't. I've undeceived him." ^' The more fool you ! " D'Urber\dlle in anger went away from her to the hedge, where he pulled oif the long smock- frock which had disguised him j and rolling it up and push- ing it into the couch-fire, went away. Tess could not get on with her digging after this ; she felt restless; she wondered if he had gone back to her father's house ; and, taking the fork in her hand, proceeded homewards. Some twenty yards from the house she was met by one of her sisters. '' O Tess — what do you think ! 'Liza Lu is a-cr}dng, and there's a lot of folk in the house, and mother is a good deal better, but they think father is dead ! " The child realized the grandem* of the news, but not as yet its sadness, and stood looking at Tess with round-eyed importance, till, beholding the effect it produced upon her, she said, " What, Tess, shan't we talk to father never no more 1 '^ " But father was only a Httle bit ill ! " exclaimed Tess, distractedlv. 'Liza Lu came up. " He di^opped down just now, and the doctor who was there for mother said there was no chance for him, because his heart was growed in." Yes; the Durbeyfield couple had changed places; the dying one was out of danger, and the indisposed one was dead. The news meant even more than it sounded. Her father's life had a value apart from his personal achieve- ments, or perhaps it Avould not have had nnich. It was the last of the three lives for whose duration the house and premises were held under a lease ; and it had long been coveted by the tenant-farmer for his regular laborers, who were stinted in cottage accommodation. Moreover, '4i\d- ers" were disapproved of in villages almost as much as THE CONl^RT. 403 little freeliolders, because of tlieir independence of manner, and when a lease determined it was never renewed. Thus the Diu'bevfields, once D'Urbervilles, saw descend- ing upon them the destiny which, no doubt, when they were among the Olympians of the county, they had caused to descend man}^ a time, and severely enough, upon the heads of such landless ones as they themselves were now. So do flux and reflux — the rhythm of change — alternate and per- sist in everything under the sky. LI. At length it was the eve of Old Lady-Day, and the agri- cultural world was in a fever of mobility such as only oc- curs at that 2:»articular date of the year. It is a day of fulfilment ; agreements for outdoor ser\dce during the en- suing year, entered into at Candlemas, are to be now car- ried out. The laborers — or "workfolk," as they used to call themselves immemoriallv, till the other word was intro- duced from without — who wish to remain no longer in old places are removing to the new farms. These annual migrations from farm to farm were on the increase here. When Tess's mother was a child, the major- ity of the field-folk about Marlott had remained all their lives on one farm, which had been the home also of their fathers and gi-andfathers ; but latterly the desire for yearly removal had risen to a high pitch. With the younger fam- ilies it was a pleasant excitement which might possibly be an advantage. The Eg;yTt of one family was the Land of Promise to the family who saw it from a distance, till by residence there it became in turn theii' Egypt also ; and so they changed and changed. However, aU the mutations so increasingly discernible 404 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. in tillage life did not originate entirely in the agricnltural unrest. A depoj)ulation was also going on. The \illage had formerly contained, side by side mth the agricnltm-al laborers, an interesting and better-informed class, ranking distinctly above the former — the class to which Tess's father and mother had belonged — and including the carpenter, the smith, the shoemaker, the huckster, together ^yith. nonde- script workers other than farm-laborers ; a set of peoj)le who owed a certain stability of aim and conduct to the fact of their being life-holders like Tess's father, or copyholders, or, occasionally, small freeholders. But as the long hold- ings fell in they were seldom again let to similar tenants, and were mostly pulled do^v^ai, if not absolutely required by the farmer for his hands. Cottagers who were not directly employed on the land were looked upon with disfavor as a rule, and the banishment of some starved the trade of others, who were thus obhged to follow. These families, who had formed the backbone of the \Tllage life in the past, who were the depositaries of the village traditions, had to seek refuge in the large centres ; the process, hnmorously desig- nated by statisticians as " the tendency of the rural popula- tion towards the large to^Tis," being really the tendency of water to flow up-hill when forced by machinery. The cot- tage accommodation at Marlott having been in this manner considerably curtailed by demolitions, every house which remained standing was required by the agriculturist for his work-people. Ever since the occurrence of the event whicli had cast such a shadow over Tess's life, the Durbevfield family (whose descent was not credited) had been tacitly looked on as one which would have to go when their lease ended, if only in the interests of morality. It was, indeed, quite true that this household had not been shining exam- ples, either of temperance, soberness, or chastity. The father, and even the mother, had got drunk at times, the younger children seldom had gone to church, and the eldest daughter had made queer uui'(^vhtvMt. Tess did not read Church-Latin like a Cardinal, but she knew that this was the door of her ancestral sepulchre, and that the tall knights of whom her father had chanted in hiis cups lay inside. 27 418 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. She musingly turned to mtlidi'aw, passing near an altar- tomb, the oldest of them all, on which was a recumbent figm^e. In the dusk she had not noticed it before, and would hardly have noticed it now but for an odd fanc}^ that the effigy moved. As soon as she drew close to it she discov- ered all in a moment that the figure was a li\dng person ; and the shock to her sense of not having been alone was so violent that she was quite overcome, and sank down nigh to fainting, not, however, till she had recognized Alec D'Ur- berville in the form. He leapt off the slab and supported her. " I saw you come in," he said, smiling, " and would not interrupt your meditations. A family gatheiing, is it not, with these old fellows under us here ? Listen." He stamped with his heel heavily on the floor, whereupon there arose a hollow echo from below. " That shook them a bit, I'll warrant ! " he continued. ''And you thought I was the mere stone reproduction of one of them. But no. The old order changeth. The little finger of the sham D'Urber\iUe can do more for you than the whole djmasty of the real underneath. . . . Now com- mand me. What shall I do ? " '' Go away ! " she murmured. " I will — I'U look for your mother," said he, blandly. But in passing her he whispered : " Mind this ; you'll be civil vet ! " ^Tien he was gone she bent down upon the entrance to the vaults, and said : " Wliy am I on the ■\\Tong side of this door ! '^ In the meantime Marian and Izz Huett had journeyed onward with the chattels of the ploughman in the direction of their land of Canaan — the Egypt of some other family who had left it only that morning. But the girls did not for a long time think of where they were going. Their talk was of Angel Clare and Tess, and her persistent lover, THE CONVERT. 419 whose connection with Tess's previous history they had partly heard and partly guessed ere this. " 'Tisn't as though she had never known him afore/' said Marian. " His having won her once makes all the differ- ence in the world. 'Twould be a thousand pities if he were to tole her away again. Mr. Clare can never be anything to uSj Izz ; and why should we grudge him to her, and not try to mend this quarrel? If he could on'y know what straits she's put to, and what's hovering round, he might come to take care of his own." " Could we let him know ? " They thought of this all the way to their destination ; but the bustle of re-establishment in their new place took up all their attention then. But when they were settled, a month later, they heard of Clare's approaching return, though they had learnt nothing more of Tess. Upon that, agitated anew by theii' attacliment to him, yet honorably disposed to her, Marian uncorked the penny ink-bottle they shared, and a few lines wxre concocted between the two gii'ls. " Hoxor'd Sir, — " Look to your Wife if you do love her as much as she do love you. For she is sore put to by an Enemy in the shape of a Friend. Sir, there is one near her who ought to be Away. A woman should not be try'd beyond her Strength, and continual dropping ^dll wear ^way a Stone — ay, more — a Diamond. ^^ From Two Well- Wishers." This they addressed to Angel Clare at the only place they had ever heard him to be connected ^\dth, Emminster Vicar- age ; after which they continued in a mood of emotional exaltation at their own generosity, which made them sing in hysterical snatches and weep at the same time, FULFILMENT. LIII. It was evening at Emminster Vicarage. The two cus- tomary shaded candles were burning in the vicar's study, but he had not been sitting there. Occasionally he came in, stirred the small fire which sufficed for the increasing mildness of spring, and went out again ; sometimes pausing at the front door, going on to the di'avvdng-room, then re- turning again to the front door. It faced westward, and though gloom i3revailed indoors, there was stiU light enough without to see with distinctness. Mrs. Clare, who had been sitting in the di'awing-room, fol- lowed him hither. " Plenty of time yet," said the vicar. ^' He doesn't reach Chahv-Newton till six, even if the train should be punctual, and ten mile« of country road, five of them in Crimmer- crock Lane, are not jogged over in a hurry by our old horse." " But he has done it in an hour with us, my dear." " Years ago." Thus they passed the minutes, each weU knowing that this was only waste of breath, the one essential being sim- ply to wait. At length there was a slight noise in the lane, and the old pony-chaise appeared indeed outside the railings. They FULFIL3IEXT. ' 421 saw alight therefrom a foriii a\ liich they affected to recog- nize, but would actually have passed by in the street with- out identifying had he not got out of their carriage at the particular moment when a particular person was due. Mrs. Clare rushed through the dark passage to the door, and her husband came more slowly after. The new arrival, who was just about to enter, saw their anxious faces in the doorway and the gleam of the west in their spectacles be- cause they confronted the last rays of day, but they could only see his shape against the light. " O my boy, my boy — home again at last ! " cried Mrs. Clare, who cared no more at that moment for the stains of heterodoxy which had caused all this sei)aration than for the dust upon his clothes. What woman, indeed, among the most faithful adherents to the truth, believes in the promises and threats of the Word in the sense in which she believes in her own childi^en, or would not throw her theology to the wind if weighed against their happiness f As soon as they reached the room where the candles were lighted she looked at his face. " O, it is not Angel — not my son — the Angel who went away ! " she cried, in all the irony of sorrow, as she tiu'ned herself away. His father, too, was shocked to see him, so reduced was that figure from its former contom's by worry and the bad season which Clare had experienced, in the climate to which he had so rashly hurried in his first aversion to the mockery of events at home. You could see the skeleton behind the man, and almost the ghost behind the skeleton. His sunken ej^e-pits were of morbid hue, and the hght in his eyes had waned. The angular hollows and fines of his aged ances- tors had succeeded to their reign in his face twenty years before their time. " I was ill over there, you know," he said. " I am all right now." As if, however, to falsify this assertion, his legs seemed 422 .TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. to give way, and he suddenly sat down to save himself from falling. It was only a slight attack of faintness, resulting from the tedious day's journey and the excitement of arrival. '■^ Has any letter come for me lately ? " he asked. ^' I re- ceived the last you sent on by the merest chance, and after considerable delay through being inland, or I might have come sooner." ''It was from your wife, we supposed?" " It was." Only one other had recently come. They had not sent it on to him, knowing he would start for home so soon. He hastily opened the letter produced, and was much disturbed to read in Tess's handwriting the sentiments ex- pressed in her last hurried scrawl to him. " O, why have you treated me so monstrously. Angel ! I do not deserve it. I have thought it all over carefully, and I can never, never forgive you ! You know that I did not intend to wrong 3'ou — why have you so wronged me ? You are cruel, cruel indeed ! I ^Yi\\. try to forget you. It is aU injustice I have received at your hands ! — T." " It is quite true ! " said Angel, throwing down the letter. '' Perhaps she will never be reconciled to me ! " "Don't, Angel, be so anxious about a mere child of the soil ! " said his mother. " Child of the soil ! Well, we are all children of the soil ; but let me now explain to you what I have never ex- plained before, that her father is a descendant in the male line of one of the oldest Norman houses, like a good many others who lead obscure agricultural lives in our villages, and are dubbed ' sons of the soil.' " He soon retired to bed ; and the next moruing, feeliug exceedingly unwell, he remained in his room pondering. The circumstances amid which he had left Tess were such that though, while on the south of the equator and just in re- FULFILLMENT. 423 ceipt of her loving epistle, it had seemed the easiest thing in the woi-ld to rush back into her arms ; now that he had ai'rived it was not so easy as it had seemed. She was pas- sionate^ and her present letter, showing that her estimate of liim had changed nnder his delay — too justly changed, he sadly owned, made him ask himself if it would be mse to confront her unannounced in the presence of her parents. Supposing that her love had indeed turned to dislike dur- ing the separation, a sudden meeting might lead to bitter words. Clare therefore thought it would be best to prepare Tess and her family by sending a line to Marlott announcing his return, and his hope that she was still li\4ng ^Yith. them there, as he had arranged for her to do when he left Eng- land. He despatched the inquiry that very day, and before the week was out there came a short reply from Mrs. Dur- beyfield, which did not remove his embarrassment, for it bore no address, though it was not written from Marlott. '^ Sir,— " J \\Tote these few lines to say that my Daughter is away from home at present, and J am not sure when she \\dll re- turn, but J will let vou know as Soon as she do. J do not feel at liberty to tell you Where she is staying. J should say that me and my Family have left Marlott for some Time. " Yours, '^ J. DURBEYFIELD." It was such a relief to Clare to learn that Tess was at least still alive that her mother's reticence as to her where- abouts did not long distress him. He would wait till Mrs. Durbeyfield could inform him of Tess's return, which her letter implied to be soon. He deserved no more. His had been a love " wdiich alters when it alteration finds." He had undergone some strange experiences in his absence ; he had seen the \drtual Faustina in the literal Cornelia, a 424 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. spiiitual Liicretia in a corporeal Phiyne ; lie Lad tliouglit of the woman taken and set in the midst as one deserving to be stoned, and of the wife of Uriah being made a queen ; and he had asked himself wh}^ had he not judged Tess con- structively rather than biographic ally, by the will rather than by the deed ? Day after day jDassed wliile he waited at his father's house for the promised second letter from Joan Durbeyfleld, and indirectly to recover a Httle more strength. The strength showed signs of coming back, but there was no sign of the letter. Then he hunted up the old letter sent on to him in Brazil, which Tess had ^^itten from Flint- comb- Ash, and which had brought him back. He re-read it. The sentences touched him as much as when he had first perused them. '^ I must cry to you in my trouble — I have no one else. ... I think I must die if you do not come soon, or tell me to come to you. . . . Please, please not to be just — only a little kind to me. ... If vou woidd come, I could die in your arms ! I would be weU content to do that if so be you had forgiven me. ... If you will send me one little line, and say, 'J am coming soon/ I will bide on. Angel — O, so cheerfullv ! . . . Think how it do hm^t mv heart not to see you ever — ever ! Ah, if I coidd only make joiiv dear heart ache one httle minute of each day as mine does every day and all day long, it might lead you to show pity to your poor lonely one. ... I would be content, ay, glad, to live with you as yom- servant, if I may not as yoiu* wife 5 so that I could only be near you, and get glimpses of you, and tliink of you as mine. ... I long for only one thing in heaven or earth or under the earth, to meet you, my own dear ! Come to me, come to me, and save me from what threatens me ! " Clare determined he would no longer believe in her more FULFILMENT. 425 recent and severer regard of him ; but would go and find her immediately. He asked his father if she had apphed for any money during his absence. His father retm'ned a negative, and then for the fii^st time it occurred to Angel that her pride had stood in her way, and that she had suf- fered privation. From his remarks his parents now gath- ered the real reason of the separation ; and their Christian- ity was such that, reprobates being their especial care, the tenderness towards Tess which her blood, her simplicity, even her poverty, had not engendered, was instantly excited by her sin. Wliilst he was hastily packing together a few articles for his journey he glanced over a poor, plain missive lately come to hand, the one from Marian and Izz Huett, begin- ning : "Honor'd Sir, — '' Look to vour Wife if von do love her as much as she do love you," and signed, "From Two Well- Wishers." LIV. In a quarter of an hour Clare was leaving the house, whence his mother watched his thin figure as it disappeared into the street. He had declined to borrow his father's old mare, well knowing of its necessity to the household. He went to the inn, where he hii^ed a trap, and coidd hardly wait during the harnessing. In a very few minutes after he was driving up the hill out of the town, which, three or four months earlier in the year, Tess had descended mth such hopes, and ascended with such shattered purposes. Benvill Lane soon stretched before him, its hedges and trees pm-ple with buds ; but he was looking at other things, 426 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. and only recalled himself to tlie scene sufficiently to enable Mm to keep the way. In something less than an h6uY and a half he had skii-ted the south of the King's Hintock estates and ascended to the untoward solitude of Cross-in-Hand, the unholy stone whereon Tess had been compelled by Alec D'Urberville, in his converted character, to swear the strange oath that she would never wiKully tempt him again. The pale and blasted nettle-stems of the preceding year even now lingered nakedly in the banks, young green nettles of the present spring grooving from their roots. Thence he went along the verge of the upland overhang- ing the other Hintocks, and, turning to the right, plunged into the bracing calcareous region of Flintcomb-Ash, the addi'ess from which she had written to him in one of the letters, and which he supposed to be the place of sojom^n referred to by her mother. Here, of course, he did not find her now J and what added to his depression was the dis- covery that no '^ Mrs. Clare " had ever been heard of by the cottagers or by the farmer himself, though Tess was re- membered well enough by her Christian name. His name she had obviously never used during their separation, and her dignified sense of their total severance was shown not much less by this abstention than by the hardships she had chosen to undergo (of which he now learned for the fii'st time) rather than apply to his father for more funds. From this place they told him Tess Diu'beyfield had gone, without due notice, to the home of her parents on the other side of Blackmoor, and it therefore became necessary to find Mrs. Durbevfiold. She had told him she was not now at Marlott, but had been curiouslv reticent as to her actual ad- dress, and the only course w^as to go to Marlott and inquire for it. The farmer who had been so churlish mth Tess was quite smooth-tongued to Clare, and lent him a horse and man to drive him to Marlott, the gig he had arrived in being sent back to Emminster; for the limits of a day's jom-ney with that horse was reached. FULFIL3IENT. 427 Clare Tvould not accept the loan of the farmer's vehicle for a farther distance than to the outskirts of the Vale, and, sending it back with the man who had driven him, he put up at an inn, and next day entered on foot the region wherein was the spot of his dear Tess's birth. It was as yet too early in the year for much color to appear in the gardens and foliage ; the scene was but muter overlaid with a thin coat of green, and it was of a jDarcel with his expectations. The house in which Tess had passed the years of her childhood was now inhabited by another family who had never knoT\Ti her. The new residents were in the garden, taking as much interest in theii' own doings as if the home- stead had never passed its primal time in conjunction ^vith. the histories of others, beside which the histories of these would be but as a tale that is told. They walked about the garden paths with thoughts of their owti concerns entii^ely uppermost, bringing their actions at every moment into jarring collision with the dim figures behind them, talking as though the time when Tess lived there were not one whit intenser in story than now. Even the S23ring bu'ds sang over their heads as if they thought there was nobody miss- ing in particular. On inquiiy of these precious innocents, to whom even the name of their predecessors was a fading memory, Clare learned that John Durbeyfield was dead ; that his widow and children had left Marlott, declaring they were going to live at Kingsbere, but instead of doing so they had gone on to a place near Chaseborough. B3' this time Clare ab- horred the house for ceasing to contain Tess, and hastened away from its hated presence Avithout once looking back. His way was by the field in which he had first beheld her at the dance. It was as bad as the house — even worse. He passed on through the churchyard, where, amoug the new headstones, he saw one of a somewhat superior design to the rest. The inscription ran thus : 428 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. ''In Memory of John Durbeyfield, rightly D'Urberville, of the once Powerful Family of that Name, and Du'ect Descendant through an Illustrious Line from Sir Bryan D'Urberville, one of the Knights of the Conqueror. Died March 10th, 18—. "How ARE THE MiGHTY FALLEN." Some man, apparently the sexton, had observed Clare standing there, and drew nigh. "Ah, sii^, now that's a man who didn't want to lie here, but wished to be carried to Kingsbere, where his ancestors be." " And why didn't they respect his wish ? " "O — no money. Bless your soul, sir, why — there, I wouldn't wish to say it ever^^where, but — even this, head- stone, for all the flourish wrote upon en, is not paid for." " Ah — who put it up ? " The man told the name of a mason in the village, and, on leaving the chm-chyard, Clare called at the mason's house. He found that the statement was true, and paid the bill. This done, he turned in the direction of Chase- borough. The distance was too long for a walk, but Clare felt such a strong desii-e for isolation that at first he would neither hire a conveyance nor go to a circuitous line of railway by which he might eventually reach the place. At Shaston, however, he found he must hu*e ; but the way was such that he did not approach Joan's retreat till about seven o'clock in the evening, having traversed a distance of over twenty miles since leaving Marlott. The village being small, he had little difficulty in finding Mrs. Durbeyfield's tenement, which was a house in a waUed garden remote from the main street, where she had stowed away her awkward old furniture as best she could. It was plain that for some reason or other she had not wislied him to visit her, and he felt his call to be somewht^t of an intru- FULFILMENT. 429 sion. She came to the door herseK, and the light from the evening sky fell upon her face. This was the fii'st time that Clare had ever met her, but he was too preoccupied to observe more than that she was still a handsome woman, in the garb of a 3:espectable widow. He was obliged to explain that he was Tess's husband, and his object in coming there, and he did it awkwardly enough. "I want to see her at once," he added. '^You said you would write to me again, but you have not done so." " Because shelve not come home," said Joan. " Do you know if she is well ? " " I don't. But you ought to, su^," said she. '' I admit it. Where is she stajdng f " From the beginning of the interview Joan had disclosed her embarrassment by keeping her hand to the side of her cheek. " I — don't know exactly where she is stajdng," she answered. '' She was — but " ^' Where was she ? " ^' Well, she is not there noAv." In her evasiveness she paused again, and the younger childi'en had by this time crept to the door, where, pulling at his mother's skii'ts, the youngest murmured, " Is this the gentleman who is going to marry Tess ? " " He has married her," Joan whispered. " Go inside." Clare saw her efforts for reticence, and asked, " Do you think Tess would wish me to try and find her ? If not, of com'se " " I don't think she would." '^ Are vou sure ? " ^'I am sure she woiddn't." He was turning away ; and then he thought of Tess's tender letter. " I am sure she would ! " he retorted, passion- ately. " I know her better than you do." " That's veiy likely, sir ; for I have never reaUy known her." 430 TESS OF THE D'URBERYILLES. " Please tell me her address, Mrs. Dnrbey field, in kindness to a lonely, wretched man." Tess's mother again restlessly swept her cheek with her vertical hand, and seeing that he suffered, she at last said, in a low voice, ^' She is at Sandbourne." "All — where there? Sandboiirne has become a large place, they say." " I don't know more particularly than I have said — Sand- bourne. For myself, I was never there." It was apparent that Joan spoke the truth in this, and he pressed her no further. " Are you in want of anything ? " he said, gently. " No, su'," she replied. " We are fairly well provided for." Without entering the house, Clare turned away. There was a station tliree miles ahead, and pa}dng off his coach- man, he walked thither. The last train to Sandbourne left shortly after, and it bore Clare on its wheels. LV. At eleven o'clock that night, having secured a bed at one of the hotels and telegraphed his address to his father im- mediatelv on his arrival, he walked out into the streets of Sandbourne. It was too late to call on or inquire for any one, and he reluctantly postponed his purpose tiU the morn- ing. But he could not retire to rest just yet. This fashionable watering-place, with its eastern and its w^estern stations, its piers, its gi'oves of pines, its prome- nades, and its covered gardens, was, to Angel Clare, like a fairy place suddenly created by the stroke of a wand, and allowed to get a little dusty. An outlpng easternmost tract of the enormous Egdon Waste was close at hand, yet on the very verge of that tawny piece of antiquity such a fulfil:\ient. 431 glittering novelty as this pleasure-city had chosen to spring up. Within the space of a mile from its outskirts every iiTegularity of the soil was prehistoric, every ravine an un- distiu'bed British trackway, not a sod having been turned since the days of the Caesars. Yet the exotic had grown here, suddenly as the prophet's gourd j and had drawn hither Tess. By the midnight lamps he went up and down the mnd- ing ways of tliis new world in an old one, and could discern between the trees and against the stars the lofty roofs, chim- neys, gazebos, and towers of the numerous fanciful resi- dences of which the place was composed. It was a city of detached mansions ; a Mediterranean lounging-place on the Enghsh Channel ; and as seen now by night, it seemed even more imposing than it was. The sea was near at hand, but not intrusive j it murmured, and he thought it was the pines ; the pines murmui'ed in precisely the same tones, and he thought they were the sea. Where could Tess possibly be, a cottage gu4, his young w^ife, amidst all this wealth and fashion? The more he pondered the more was he puzzled. Were there any cows to milk here ? There certainly were no fields to till. She was most probably engaged to do something in one of these large houses ; and he sauntered along, looking at the cham- ber-windows, and theii" lights going out one by one, and wondered which of them might be hers. Conjecture was useless, and just after twelve o'clock he entered and went to bed. Before putting out his Hght, he re-read Tess's impassioned letter. Sleep, however, he could not — so near her, yet so far from her — and he continually lifted the i\dndow-blind and regarded the backs of opposite houses, and wondered behind which of the sashes she re- posed at that moment. He might almost as well have sat up all night. In the morning he arose at seven, and shorth^ after went out, tak- ing the dii'ection of the chief post-office. At the door he 432 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. met an intelligent postman coming out witli letters for the morning delivery. '^Do yon know the addi'ess of a Mrs. Clare?" asked Angel. The postman shook his head. Then, remembering that she wonld have been likely to continue the nse of her maiden name, Clare said, "Or a Miss Dm-beyfield f " " Dnrbeyfleld ?" This also was strange to the postman addressed. " There's visitors coming and going every day, as yon know, sir," he said ; '' and without the name of the honse 'tis impossible to find 'em." One of his comrades hastening out at that moment, the name was repeated to him. " I know no name of Durbevfield ; but there is the name of D'Urberville at The Herons," said the second. " That's it," cried Clare, pleased to think that she had re- verted to the real word. " Wliat place is The Herons?" "A stylish lodging-honse. 'Tis all lodging-honses here, bless 'ee." Clare received directions how to find the honse, and hastened thither, arri\dng mth the milkman. The Herons, though an ordinary \dlla, stood in its own grounds, and was certainly the last place in which one would have expected to find lodgings, so private was its appearance. If poor Tess were a servant here, as he feared, she would go to the back door to that milkman, and he was inclined to go thither also. However, in his doubts he turned to the front, and rang. The hour being earty, the landlady herself opened the door. Clare inquired for Teresa D'Urberville or Durbev- field. " Mrs. D'UrberviUe ? " " Yes." Tess, then, passed as a married woman, and he felt glad, even though she had not adopted his name. "Will you kindly tell her that a relative is anxious to see her?" FULFILIMENT. 433 " It is rather early- What name shall I give, sir ? " " Angel." " Mr. Angel ? " "No 5 Angel. It is my Christian name. She'll nnderstancl." "I'U see if she is awake." He was shown into the front room — the dining-room — and looked ont throngh the spring ciirtains at the little lawn, and the rhododendrons and other shrnbs npon it. Obvionsly, her position was by no means so bad as he had feared, and it crossed his mind that she mnst somehow have claimed and sold the jewels to attain it. He did not blame her for one moment. Soon his sharpened ear detected footsteps npon the stands, at which his heart thumped so painfully that he could hardl}^ stand fii-m. " Dear me ! what wiU she think of me, so altered as I am ! " he said to himself ; and the door opened. Tess appeared on the threshold — not at all as he had ex- pected to see her — bewilderingly otherwise, indeed. Her great natui-al beauty w^as, if not heightened, rendered more obvious by her attu'e. She was loosely wrapped in a gray- white cashmere dressing-gown embroidered in half -mourn- ing tmts, and she wore shppers of the same hue. Her neck rose out of a friU. of do^\Ti, and her well-remembered cable of dark-broA\Ti hair was partially coiled up in a mass at the back of her head and partly hanging on her shoulder — the evident result of haste. He held out his arms, but they had fallen again to his side ; for she had not come forward, remaining stiU in the opening of the doorway. Mere yellow skeleton that he was now, he felt the contrast between them, and thought his appearance distasteful to her. " Tessie ! " he said, huskily, '^ can you forgive me for going away ? Can't you — come to me ? How do you get tobe— hke this?" "It is too late ! " said she, her voice sounding hard through the room, and her eyes shining unnaturally. 28 434 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. "I did not think rightly of you — I did not see you as you were/' he continued to ]3lead. " I have learnt to since, dearest Tessie mine ! " " Too late, too late ! " she said, waving her hand in the impatience of a person whose tortures cause every instant to feel an hour. ^' Don't come close to me, Angel ! No — you must not. Keep away ! " ^' But don't vou love me, mv dear wife, because I have been so pulled down by illness f You are not so fickle — I am come on purpose for you — my mother and father A\dll welcome you now." '' Yes — oh yes, yes ! But I say, I say, it is too late ! " she almost shrieked. She seemed like a fugitive in a dream, who tried to move away, but could not. '' Don't you know all — don't you know it ? Yet how do you come here if you do not know?" " I inquired here and there, and I found the way." '^ I waited and waited for you ! " she went on, her tones suddenly resuming their old fluty pathos. " But you did not come, and I wrote to you, and you did not come ! He kept on saying you would never come any more, and that I was a foolish woman. He was very kind to me, and mother, and to all of us after father's death. He " ^' I don't imderstand." '^ He has won me — back to him." Clare looked at her keenly, then, gathering her meaning, flagged like one plague-stricken, and his glance sank; it fell on her hands, which, once rosy, were now white and delicate. She continued: "He is upstairs. ... I hate him uoav, because he told me a lie — that you would not come again ; and you have come. These clothes are what he has put upon me : I didn't care what he did wi' me. But "wdU you go away. Angel, please, and never come any more ! " They stood fixed, their baffled hearts looking out of their FULFILMENT. 435 eyes witli a joylessness pitiM to see. Both seemed to im- plore something to shelter them from reahty. ^^ Ah — it is my fault ! " said Clare. But he could not get on. Speech was as inexpressive as silence. But he had a vague consciousness of one thing, though it was not clear to him till later ; that his original Tess had spiritually ceased to recognize the body before him as hers — allowing it to drift, like a corpse upon the current, in a direction dissoci- ated from its living will. A few instants passed, and he found that Tess was gone. His face grew colder and more shrunken as he stood, con- centrated on the moment, and a minute or two after he found himself in the street, walking along, he did not know whither. LVI. Mrs. Brooks, the lady who was the householder at The Herons, and owner of all the handsome furniture, was not a person of an unusually curious tui^n of mind. She was too deeply materialized, poor woman, by her long and en- forced bondage to that arithmetical demon, Profit-and-Loss, to retain much curiosity for its own sake, and apart from possible lodgers' pockets. Nevertheless, the visit of Angel Clare to her well-paying tenants, Mr. and Mrs. D'Urberville, was sufficiently exceptional in point of time and manner to rein^'igorate the feminine proclivity which had been stifled down as useless, save in its bearing on the letting trade. Tess had spoken to her husband from the doorway, with- out entering the dining-room, and Mrs. Brooks, who stood within the partly closed door of her own sitting-room at the back of the passage, could hear fragments of the con- versation — if conversation it could be called — between those 436 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. two wretched soiils. She heard Tess reascend the stairs to the fii'st floor, and the departure of Clare, and the closing of the front door behind him. Then the door of the room above was shut, and Mrs. Brooks knew that Tess had re- entered her apartment. As the young lady was not fully di'cssed, Mrs. Brooks knew that she would not emerge again for some time. She accordingly ascended the stairs softly and stood at the door of the front room — a di-awing-room, connected with the room immediately behind it (which was a bedi-oom) by folding-doors in the common manner. This first floor, containing Mrs. Brooks's best apartments, had been taken by the week by the D'Urbervilles. The back room was now in silence ; but from the drawing-room there came sounds. All that she could at first distinguish of them was one syllable, continually repeated in a low note of moaning, as if it came from a soul bound to some Ixionian wheel — " 0, O, O ! " Then a silence, then a hea^y sigh, and again — " 0, 0, O ! " The landlady looked through the keyhole. Only a small space of the room inside was visible, but within that space came a corner of the breakfast-table, w^hicli was already spread for the meal, and also a chair beside. Over the seat of the chair Tess's face was bowled, her posture being a kneeling one in front of it ; her hands were clasped over her head, the skirts of her dressing-gown and the embroidery of her nightgown flowed upon the floor behind her and upon the chaii-, and her stockingless feet, from which the slippers had fallen, protmded upon the carpet. It was from her lips that came the murmur of unspeakable despair. Then a man's voice from the adjoining bedroom, " Wliat's the matter ? " She did not answer, but went on in a tone which was a soliloquy rather than an exchimation, and a dirge rather than a soliloquy. Mrs. Brooks could only catch a portion : FULFILMENT. 437 " And then my dear, dear husband came home to me . . . and I did not know it ! . . . And you had used your cruel persuasion upon me . . . you did not stop using it — no — you did not stop ! My little sisters and brothers and my mother's needs — they were the things you moved me by . . . and you said my husband woidd never come back — never ; and you taunted me, and said what a simpleton I was to expect him. . . . And at last I beheved you and gave way ! . . . And then he came back ! Now he is gone. Gone a second time, and I have lost him now forever . . . and he will not love me the littlest bit ever anymore — only hate me ! » . . Oh yes, I have lost him now — again because of — you ! " In writhing, with her head on the chau-, she turned her face towards the door, and Mrs. Brooks coidd see the pain upon it ; and that her lips were bleeding from the clench of her teeth upon them, and that the long lashes of her closed eyes stuck in wet tags to her cheeks. She con- tinued: "And he is dying — he looks as if he is dying! . . . And my sin will kill him and not kill me ! . . . O, you have torn my life all to pieces . . . made me a victmi, a caged wretch ! . . . My own true husband will never, never — O Heaven — I can't bear this ! — I cannot ! " There were more and sharper words from the man ; then a sudden rustle ; she had sprung to her feet. Mrs. Brooks, thinking that the speaker w^as coming to rush out of the door, hastily retreated do^^oi the stairs. She need not have done so, however, for the door of the sitting-room was not opened. Mrs. Brooks felt it unsafe to listen on the landing again, and entered her own parlor below. She could hear nothing tlu-ough the floor, although she listened intently, and thereupon went to the kitchen to finish her interrupted breakfast. Coming up presently to the front room on the gi'ound floor, she took up some sew- ing, waiting for her lodgers to ring, that she might take away the breakfast, which she meant to do herself, to dis- 438 TESS OF THE D'URBERYILLES. cover wliat was the matter, if possible. Overhead, as she sat, she could now hear the floor-boards sUghtly creak, as if some one were walking about, and presently the movement was explained by the rustle of garments against the banis- ters, the opening and the closing of the front door, and the form of Tess passing to the gate on her way into the street. She was fidly dressed now in the walking-costume of a well- to-do young lady, in which she had arrived, with the sole addition that over her hat and black feather a veil was drawn. Mrs. Brooks had not been able to catch any word of farewell, temporary or otherwise, between the tenants of the rooms above. They might have quarrelled, or Mr. D'Urberville might still be asleep, for he was not an early riser. She went into the back room which was more especially her own apartment, and continued her sewing there. The lady lodger did not return, nor did the gentleman ring his bell. Mrs. Brooks pondered on the delay, and on what probal)le relation the visitor who had called so early stood to the couple upstairs. In reflecting she leant back in her chair. As she did so her eyes glanced casually over the ceiling till they were arrested by a spot in the middle of its white surface which she had never noticed there before. It was about the size of a wafer when she first observed it, but it speedily grew as large as the palm of her hand, and then she could perceive that it was red. The oblong Avhite ceil- ing, vnth its scarlet blot in the midst, had the appearance of a gigantic ace of hearts. Mrs. Brooks had strange quahns of misgiving. She got upon the table, and touched the spot in the ceiling with her fingers. It was damp, and she fancied that it was a blood stain. Descending from the tal)le, she left the parlor, and went upstairs, intending to enter the room overhead, which was the chamber at the back of the di-amng-room. But, nerve- FULFIKMENT. 439 less woman as she had now become, she conld not bring herself to attempt the handle. She listened. The dead silence within was broken only by a regular beat. Drip, drip, di'ip. Mrs. Brooks hastened downstairs, opened the front door, and ran into the street. A man she knew, one of the work- men emploj^ed at an adjoining villa, was passing by, and she begged him to come in and go upstairs with her ; she feared something had happened to one of her lodgers. The workman assented, and followed her to the landing. She opened the door of the drawing-room, and stood back for him to pass in, entering herself behind him. The room was empty ; the breakfast — a substantial repast of coffee, eggs, and a cold ham — lay spread upon the table untouched, as when she had taken it up, excepting that the carving- knife was missing. She asked the man to go through the folding-doors into the adjoining room. He opened the door, entered a step or two, and came back almost instantly, with a rigid face. " My good , the gentleman in bed is dead! I think he has been hui-t with a knife — a lot of blood has run down upon the floor ! " The alarm was soon given, and the house which had lately been so quiet resounded with the tramp of many footsteps, a surgeon among the rest. The wound was deep ; the point of the blade had touched the lieart of the victim, who lav on his back, pale, fixed, dead, as if he had scarcely moved after the infliction of the blow. In a quarter of an hour the news that a gentleman who was a temporary visitor to the town had been stabl)ed to the heart in his bed, spread through every street and villa of the popular watering- place. / 440 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. LYII. Meanwhile Angel Clare had walked automatically along the way by which he had come, and entering his hotel, sat down over the breakfast, staring at nothingness. He went on eating and drinking unconsciously, till on a sudden he demanded his bill ; having paid which, he took his dressing- bag in his hand, the onl}" luggage he had brought with him, and went out. At the moment of his departure a telegram was handed to him — a few words from his mother, stating that they were glad to know his addi'ess, and informing him that his brother Cuthbert had i3roposed to and been accepted by Mercy Chant. Clare crumpled uj) the paper, and followed the route to the station ; reaching it, he found that there woidd be no train leaving for an hoiu' and more. He sat down to wait, and having waited a quarter of an hour, felt that he could wait there no longer. Broken in heart and numbed, he had nothing to Inu'ry for, but he wished to get out of a town which had been the scene of such an experience, and turned to walk to the first station onward, and let the train pick him up there. The highway that he followed was open, and at a little distance dipped into a valley, across which it could be seen running from edge to edge. He had traversed the greater part of this depression, and was climbing the western acclivity, when, pausing for breath, he unconsciously looked back. Why he did so he could not say, but something seemed to impel the act. The tape-like surface of the road diminished in his rear as far as he could see, and as he gazed a moving spot intruded on the white vacuity of its per- spective. FULFILMENT. 441 It was a human figure, runniug. Clare waited, with a dim sense that somebody was trying to overtake him. The form descending the incline was a woman's, yet so entii-ely was his mind blinded to the idea of his wife's fol- lowing him that, even when she came nearer, he did not recognize her under the totally changed attire in which he now beheld her. It was not till she was quite close that he could believe her to be Tess. ^' I saw you — turn away from the station — just before I got there — and I have been following you all this way ! " She was so pale, so breathless, so quivering in every muscle, that he did not ask her a single question, but seiz- ing her hand, and pidling it within his arm, he led her along. To avoid meeting any possible wayfarers, he left the high- road, and took a footpath under some fii'-trees. When they were deep among the moaning boughs he stopped, and looked at her inquiringly. "Angel," she said, as if waiting for this, "do you know what I have been running after you for ? To tell you that I have kiUed him ! " A pitiful white smile lit her face as she spoke. " What ! " said he, thinking from the strangeness of her manner that she was in some delirium. "I have done it — I don't know how," she continued. " Still, I owed it to 'ee, and to myself. Angel. I feared long ago, when I struck him on the mouth with my glove, that I might do it some day for the wi'ong he did to me in my simple youth, and to you through me. He has come be- tween us and ruined us, and now he can never do it any more. I never loved liim at all, Angel, as I loved you. You know it, don't you ? You believe it ? You didn't come back to me, and I was obUged to go back to him, or sell what was not mine to sell, the heir-things of your family. Why did you go away; — why did you — when I loved you so ? I can't think why you did it. But I don't blame you ; only. Angel, will you forgive me my sin against you, now 442 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. I have killed him? I thought as I ran along that you would he sure to forgive me now I have done that. It came to me as a shining hght that I should get you back that way. I could not bear the loss of 'ee any longer — you don't know how entirely I was unable to bear your not lov- ing me. Say you do now, dear, dear husband: say you do, now I have killed him ! " " I do love you, Tess — O, I do — it is all come back ! " he said, tightening his arms round her with fevered pressiu-e. '' But how do you mean — you have killed him!" " I mean that I have," she murmured in a reverie. '' What, bodily ? Is he dead ? " '^ Yes. He heard me crying about you, and he bitterly taunted me ; and called you by a foul name ; and then I did it. Mv heart could not bear it. He had taunted me about you before. And then I di'essed myself and came awav to find you." By degrees he was inclined to believe that she had faintly attempted, at least, what she said she had done ; and his hor- ror at her impulse was mixed with amazement at the strength of her affection for himself, and at the strangeness of its (juality, which had apparently extinguished her moral sense altogether. Unal)le to reahze the gravity of her conduct, she seemed at last content ; and he looked at her as she lay upon his shoidder, weeping with happiness, and wondered what o))scure strain in the D'Urberville blood had led to this aberration — if it were an aberi'ation. There momen- tarily flashed through his mind that the family tradition might have arisen because the D'UrberviUes had been known to do these things. As well as his confused and excited ideas could reason, he supposed that in the mo- ment of mad grief of which she spoke her mind had lost its balance, and plunged her into this abyss. It was very teiTible if true ; if a temporary hallucination, sad. But, anyhow, here was this deserted wife of his, this jias- sionately fond woman, clinging to him without a suspicion FULFILMENT. 443 that lie would be any tiling to lier but a protector. He saw that for him to be otherwise was not, in her mind, within the region of the possible. Tenderness was absolutely dominant in Clare at last. He kissed her endlessly with his white lips, and held her hand, and said, '^ I will not de- sert you ! I will iDrotect you by every means in my power, dearest love, whatever you may have done or not have done ! " They then walked on under the trees, Tess turning her head every now and then to look at him. Worn and un- handsome as he had become, it was plain that she did not discern the least fault in his appearance. To her he was, as of old, all that was perfection, personally and mentally. He was still her Antinous, her Apollo even ; his sickly face was beautiful as the morning to her affectionate regard on this day no less than when she first beheld him ; for was it not the face of the one man on earth who had loved her purely, and who had l^elieved in her as pure ? With an instinct as to possibilities, he did not now, as he had intended, make for the first station beyond the town, but plunged still farther under the firs, which here abounded for miles. Each clasping the other round the waist, they promenaded over the dry bed of fir-needles, throAvn into a vague, intoxicating atmosphere at the con- sciousness of being together at last, with no li\dng soul be- tween them, ignoring that there was a corpse. Thus they proceeded for several miles till Tess, arousing herself, looked about her, and said, timidly, "Are we going anywhere in particular ! " " I don't know, dearest. Why ? " " I don't know." '' Well, we might walk a few miles farther, and when it is evening find lodgings somewhere or other — in a lonely cottage, perhaps. Can jou walk well, Tessie ? " '^ Oh yes ! I could walk for ever and ever with youi* arm round me ! " 444 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. Upon the whole it seemed a good thing to do. There- iij)on the}' quickened their pace, avoiding high-roads, and following obscnre paths tending more or less northward. But there was an unpractical vagueness in their movements throughout the day : neither one of them seemed to con- sider any question of effectual escape, disguise, or long con- cealment. Their every idea was temporar}^ and unforef end- ing, like the plans of two children. At midday they drew near to a roadside inn, and Tess would have entered it with him to get something to eat, but he persuaded her to remain among the trees and bushes of this half -woodland, half -moorland part of the country till he should come back. Her clothes were of recent fashion- even the ivory-handled parasol that she carried was of a shape unknown in the retired sj^ot to which they had now wandered ; and the cu.t of such articles would have attracted attention in the settle of a tavern. He soon re- turned, with food enough for half a dozen people, and two bottles of wine — enough to last them for a day or more, should any emergency arise. They sat down upon some dead boughs and shared their meal. Between one and two o'clock they packed up the re- mainder and went on again. '' I feel strong enough to walk any distance," said she. '' I think we may as well steer in a general way towards the interior of the countrv, where we can hide for a time, and are less likely to be looked for than anywhere near the coast," Clare remarked. ^^ Later on, when they have for- gotten us, we can make for some port." She made no reply to this beyond that of clas2)ing him more tightly, and straight inland they went. Though the season was an English May, the weather was serenely bright, and during the afternoon it was quite warm. Through the latter miles of their walk' their footpath had taken them into the deptlis of the New Forest, and, towards evening, turning the corner of a lane, they perceived be- FULFIKMENT. 445 hind au ornamental gate a large board on which was painted in white letters, '^ This desirable Mansion to be Let Fiu*- nished " j particnlars following, with du'ections to appty to some London agents. Passing through the gate they could see the house, a dignified building, of regular design and large accommodation. '' I know it," said Clare. ^' It is Bramshui^st Manor- house. You can see that it is shut up, and grass is growing on the drive." '^ Some of the mndows are open," said Tess. ^' Just to ail' the rooms, I suppose." "All these rooms empty, and we without a roof to our heads ! " " You are getting tii-ed, my Tess," he said. '' We'll stop soon." And Idssing her sad mouth, he again led her on- wards. He was growing weary likewise, for they had walked not less than twenty miles, and it became necessary to consider what they should do for rest. They looked from afar at isolated cottages and little inns, and were inchned to ap- proach one of the latter, when their hearts failed them, and they sheered off. At length their gait dragged, and they stood still. " Could we sleep under the trees?" she asked. He thought the season insufficiently advanced. " I have been thinking of that empty mansion we passed," he said. " Let us go back towards it again." They retraced their steps, but it was half an hour before they stood without the entrance-gate as earlier. He then requested her to stay where she was, whilst he went to see who was within. She sat down among the bushes within the gate, and Clare crept towards the house. His absence lasted some considerable time, and Tess was wildly anxious, not for herself, but for him. He had found out from a boj^ that there was only an old woman in charge as care-taker, and 446 TESS OF THE D'URBER\T:LLES. she only came tliere on fine days, from the liamlet near, to open and shut the mndows. She would come to shut them at sunset. '^ Now, we can get in through one of the lower windows, and rest there," said he. Under his escort she went tardily forward to the main front, whose shuttered ^\dndows, like sightless eyeballs, ex- cluded the possibility of watchers. The door was reached by a flight of steps, and one of the ^vindows beside it was open. Clare clambered in, and pulled Tess in after him. Except the hall, the rooms were all in darkness, and they ascended the staircase. Up here also the shutters were tightly closed, the ventilation being perfunctorily done, for the day at least, by opening the hall mndow in front and an upper window behind. Clare unlatched the door of a large chamber, felt his way across it, and parted the shut- ters to the width of two or three inches. A shaft of daz- zling sunlight glanced into the room, revealing heavy, old- fashioned furniture, crimson damask hangings, and an enormous four-post bedstead, along the head of which were carved running figures, apparently Atalanta's race. " Rest at last ! " said he, setting down his bag and the parcel of viands. They remained in gi'cat quietness till the care-taker should have come to shut the windows ; as a precaution, putting themselves in total darkness bv barrina: the shutters as be- fore, lest the woman should open the door of their chamber for any casual reason. Between six and seven o'clock she came, but did not approach the wing they were in. They heard her close the windows, fasten them, lock the door, and go away. Then Clare again stole a chink of light from the window, and they shared another meal, till by and by they were enveloped in the shades of night, which they had no candle to disperse. FULFIL3IENT. 447 LVIII. The night was strangely solemn and still. In the small hours she whispered to him the whole story of how he had walked in his sleep with, her in his arms across the Froom stream, at the imminent risk of both their hves, and laid her doA\Ti in the stone coffin at the ruined abbey. He had never known of that till now. ^' Why didn't you tell me next day ? " he said. ^' It might have prevented much misunderstanding and woe." " Don't think of what's past ! " said she. " I am not going to think outside of now. Why should we? Who knows what to-morrow has in store ? ^' But it apparently had no sorrow. The morning was wet and foggy, and Clare, rightly informed that the care-taker only opened the windows on fine days, ventured to creep out of then- chamber and explore the house, leavmg Tess asleep. There was no food on the premises, but there was water, and he took advantage of the fog to emerge from the mansion, and fetch tea, bread, and butter from a shop in the little town two miles beyond, as also a small tin ket- tle and spirit-lamp, that they might get fii*e mthout smoke. His re-entry awoke her ; and they breakfasted on what he had brought. They were indisposed to stir abroad, and the day passed, and the night following, and the next, and the next; tiU, almost mthout their ])eing aware, five days had slipped by in absolute seclusion, not a sight or sound of a human being disturbing their peacefulness, such as it was. The changes of the weather were their only events, the birds of the New Forest their only company. By tacit consent they hardly once spoke of any incident of the past subsequent to their wedding-day. The gloomy intervening time seemed 448 TESS OP THE D'URBERVILLES. to sink into eliaos, over which the present and prior time;-; closed as if it never had been. Whenever he snggested that they should leave theii- shelter Y.nd go forward to- wards Southampton or London, she showed a strange un- willingness to move. "Why should we put an end to all that's sweet and lovely ! " she deprecated. " What must come wiU come." And, looking through the shutter-chink, "■ All is trouble outside there ; inside here content ! " He peeped out also. It was quite true ; mthin was af- fection, union, error forgiven ; outside was the inexorable. "And — and," she said, pressing her cheek against his, "I fear what you think o' me now may not last. I do not wish to outlive youi' present feeling for me. I would rather not. I would rather be dead and buried when the time comes for you to despise me, so that it may never be known to me that you despised me." " I cannot ever despise you." "I also hope that. But considering what my life has been, I cannot see why any man should, sooner or later, be able to heljD despising me. . . . How mckedly mad I was ! Yet formerly I never could bear to hurt a fly or a worm, and the sight of a bird in a cage used often to make me crv." They remained yet another day. In the night the duU sky cleared, and the result was that the old care-taker at the cottage awoke early. The brilliant sunrise made her unusually l)risk, and she decided to open the contiguous mansion immediate^, and to air it thoroughly on such a day. Thus it occurred that, having arrived and opened the lowers rooms before six o'clock, she ascended to the bed- chaml)ers, and was about to turn the handle of the one wherein the}^ lay. At that moment she fancied she could hear the l^reathiug of persons within. Her slippers and her antiquity had rendered her progress a noiseless one so far, and she made for instant retreat; then, deeming tliat her hearing might have deceived her, she turned anew to FULFILIMENT. 449 the door, and softly tried the handle. The lock was ont of order, bnt a piece of f urnitnre had been moved forward on the inside, which prevented her opening the door more than an inch or two. A stream of morning light through the shutter-chink fell upon the faces of the pair, ^^i-apped in profound slumber, Tess's lips being parted like a half- open flower near his cheek. The care-taker was so struck ^vith their innocent appearance, and with the elegance of Tess's gown hanging across a chair, her silk stockings be- side it, and the other hal)its in which she had arrived, be- cause she had none else, that her first indignation of the effrontery of tramps and vagabonds gave way to a momen- tary sentimentality over this genteel elopement, as it seemed. She closed the door, and withdrew as softly as she had come, to go and consult with her neighliors on the odd discovery. Not more than a minute had elapsed after her withdi'awal when Tess woke, and then Clare. Both had a sense that something had disturbed them, though they could not say what J and the uneasy feehng which it engendered grew stronger. As soon as he was dressed he narrowly scanned the lawn through the two or three inches of shutter-chink. ^' I think we -will leave at once," said he. ^' It is a fine day. And I cannot help fancying somebody is al)out the house. At any rate, the woman will be sure to come to-da3^" She passively assented, and, putting the room in order, they took up the few articles that belonged to them, and departed noiselessly. When they had got into the forest she turned to take a last look at the house. "Ah, happy house — good-by ! " she said. " My life can only be a question of a few weeks. Why should we not have stayed there ! " '• Don't say it, Tess ! We shall soon get out of this dis- trict altogether. We'll continue our course as we have begun it, and keep straight north. Nobody will think of looking for us that way. We shall be looked for at the Wessex ports if we are sought at all. When we are in the north we will get to a port and away." 29 450 TESS OP THE D'URBERVILLES. Having thus persuaded her the plan was pursued, and they kept a bee-line northward. Theii^ long repose at the manor-house lent them walking power now ; and towards midday they approached the steepled city of Melchester, which lay directly in their way. He decided to rest her in a clump of trees during the afternoon, and push onward under cover of darkness. At dusk Clare purchased food as usual, and their night march began, the boundary between Upper and Mid-Wessex being crossed about eight o'clock. To walk across country without much regard to roads was not new to Tess, and she showed her old agility in the performance. The intercepting city, ancient Melchester, they were obliged to pass through in order to take advan- tage of the town bridge for crossing a large river that ob- structed them. It was about midnight when they went along the deserted street, lighted fitfully by their few lamps, keeping off the pavement that it might not echo their foot- steps. The graceful pile of cathedral architecture rose on then- right hand, but it was lost upon them now. Once out of the to'v\Ti they followed the turnpike road, which plunged across an open plain. Though the sky was dense with cloud, a diffused light from some fragment of a moon had hitherto helped them a little. But the moon had now sunk, the clouds seemed to settle almost on their heads, and the night grew as dark as a cave. However, they found their way along, keeping as much on the turf as possible, that their tread might not resound, which it was easy to do, there being no hedge or fence of any kind. ^1 around was open loneliness and black solitude, over which a stiff breeze blew. They had proceeded thus gropingly several miles when on a sudden Clare became conscious of some vast erection close in his front, rising sheer from the grass. They had almost struck themselves against it. " What monstrous place is this ? " said Angel. '' It hums," said she. '' Hearken ! '' rULFIL.^IENT. 451 He listened. Tlie wind, playing upon tlie edifice, pro- duced a booming tune, like the note of some gigantic one- stringed harp. No other sound came from it, and lifting his hand and advancing a step or two, Clare felt the vertical surface of the wall. It seemed to be of solid stone, without joint or moulding. Carrying his fingers onward, he found that what he had come in contact with was a colossal rect- angular pillar; by stretching out his left hand he could feel a similar one adjoining. At an indefinite height over- head something made the black sky blacker, which had the semblance of a vast architrave uniting the pillars horizon- taUv. They carefully entered beneath and between ; the sur- faces echoed their soft rustle ; but they seemed to be still out-of-doors. The place was roofless. Tess drew her breath fearfully, and Angel, perplexed, said, "What can it be?" Feelino; sideways, they encountered another tower-like pillar, square and uncompromising as the first ; beyond it another and another. The place was all doors and pillars, some connected above by continuous arcliitraves. " A very Temple of the Winds," he said. The next pillar was isolated ; others composed a trilithon ; others were prostrate, their flanks forming a causeway wide enough for a carriage ; and it was soon obvious that they made up a forest of monoliths grouped upon the grassy expanse of the plain. The couple advanced farther into tills pa^dhon of the night, till they stood in its midst. " It is Stonehenge ! " said Clare. '^' The heathen temple, you mean ? " " Yes. Older than the centuries ; older than the D'Ur- berviUes. WeU, what shall we do, darling ? We may find shelter farther on." But Tess, really tired by this time, flung herself upon an oblong slab that lay close at hand, and was sheltered from the ^vind by a piUar. Owing to the action of the sun dur- ing the preceding day the stone was warm and dry, in comforting contrast to the rough and chill grass around, 452 TESS OF THE D'UKBERVILLES. which had damped her skirts and shoes. ^' I don^t want to go any farther, Angel/^ she said, stretching out her hand for his. '^ Can't we bide here ? '^ " I fear not. This spot is visible for miles by day, al- though it does not seem so now.'' '^ One of my mother's people was a shepherd hereabouts, now I think of it. And you used to say at Talbothays that I was a heathen. So now I am at home." He knelt down beside her outstretched form, and put his lips upon hers. ^' Sleepy are you, dear ? I thuik you are lying on an altar." ^' I hke very much to be here," she murmured. "It is so solemn and lonely — after my great happiness — with nothing but the sky above my face. It seems as if there were no folk in the world but we two ; and I wish there were not — except 'Liza Lu." Clare thought she might as well rest here tiU it should get a little hghter, and he flung his overcoat uj^on her, and sat down by her side. " Angel, if anything happens to me, will you watch over 'Liza Lu for my sake ? " she asked, when they had hstened a long time to the mud among the pillars. " I wiU." " She is so good and simple and pm'e. O Angel — I wish you would marry her if you lose me, as you will do shortly. O, if you would ! " " If I lose you I lose aU ! And she is my sister-in-law." " That's nothing, dearest. People marry sister-laws con- tinually about Marlott ; and 'Liza Lu is so gentle and sweet. O, I could share you with her willingly when we are spirits ! If you woidd train her. Angel, and bring her up for your own self ! She has aU the best of me without the l)ad of me, and if she were to become yours it would almost seem as if death had not divided us. WeU, I have said it. I won't mention it again. How could I ex- pect it ! " She ceased, and he fell into thought. In the FULFILMENT. 453 far northeast sky lie could see between the pillars a level streak of light. The uniform concavity of black cloud was hf ting bodily like the lid of a pot, letting in at the earth's edge the coming day, against which the towering monolitlis and trilithons began to be blackly defined. '' Did they sacrifice to God here ? " asked she. " No," said he. ^^ Who to?" ^' I believe to the sun. That lofty stone set away by itself is in the dii-ection of the sun, which ^vill presently rise be- hind it." " This reminds me, dear," she said. ^' You remember you never would interfere with any behef o' mine before we were married ? But I knew your mind all the same, and I thought as you thought — not from any reasons o' my own, but because you thought so. Tell me now, Angel, do you think we shall meet again after we are dead ? I want to know." He kissed her to avoid a reply at such a time. " O Angel — I fear that means no ! " said she, "vvith a sup- pressed sob. ''And I wanted so to see you again — so much, so much ! What — not even you and I, Angel, who love each other so well ? " Like a greater than himself, to the critical question at the critical time he did not answer ; and they were again silent. In a minute or two her breathing became more regular, her clasp of his hand relaxed, and she fell asleep. The band of silver paleness along the east horizon made even the distant parts of the Great Plain appear dark and near ; and the whole enormous landscape bore that impress of reserve, taciturnity, and hesitation which is usual just before day. The eastward pillars and their architraves stood up blackly against the light, and the great flame- shaped Sun-stone beyond them ; and the stone of sacrifice midway. Presently the night wind died out, and the quiv- ering little pools in the cup-hke hollows of the stones lay 454 TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. still. At the same time something seemed to move on the verge of the dip eastward — a mere dot. It was the head of a man approaching them from the hollow beyond the Sun-stone. Clare wished they had gone onward, but in the circumstances decided to remain quiet. The figure came straight towards the circle of pillars in which they were. He heard something behind him, the brush of feet. Turning, he saw over the prostrate column another figure ; then, before he was aware, another was at hand on the right, under a trilithon, and another on the left. The dawn shone full on the front of the man westward, and Clare could discern from this that he was tall, and walked as if trained. They all closed in with evident pui'pose. Her story then was true ! Springing to his feet, he looked around for a weapon, means of escape, anything. By this time the nearest man was upon him. '^ It is no use, sir," he said. " There are sixteen of us on the Plain, and the whole country is reared." ^^Let her finish her sleep ! " he implored in a whisper of the men as they gathered round. AYlien they saw where she lay, which they had not done till then, they showed no objection, and stood watching her, as still as the pillars around. He went to the stone, and bent over her, holding one poor little hand ; her breath- ing now was quick and smaU, like that of a lesser creature than a woman. All waited in the growing light, their faces and hands as if they were silvered, the remainder of their figures dark, the stones glistening a green-gi^ay, the Plain stin a mass of shade. Soon the light was strong, and a ray shone upon her unconscious form, peering under her eyelids and Avaking her. '^ AVIiat is it, Angel ? " she said, starting up. ^^ Have they come for me ? " ^' Yes, dearest," he said. " They have come." ^' It is as it should be," she murmured. ^' Angel, I am almost glad — yes, glad ! This happiness could not have FULFIOIENT. 455 lasted. It was too niucli. I have had enough ; and now I shall not live for you to despise me ! " She stood np, shook herself, and went forward, neither of the men having moved. " I am ready," she said, quietly. LIX. The city of Wintoncester, that fine old city, aforetime capital of Wessex, lay amidst its convex and concave down- lands in all the brightness and warmth of a July morning. The gabled brick-and-tile and freestone houses had almost dried off for the season their integiiment of hchen, the streams in the meadows were low, and in the sloping High Street, from the West Gateway to the mediaeval cross, and from the mediaeval cross to the bridge, that leisurely dust- ing and sweeping was in progress which usually ushers in an old-fashioned market-day. From the western gate aforesaid the highway, as every Wintoncestrian knows, ascends a long and regular incline of the exact length of a measured mile, leaving the houses graduall}^ behind. Up this road from the precincts of the city two persons were walking rapidly, as if unconscious of the tr^dng ascent — unconscious through preoccupation, and not through buoyancy. They had emerged upon this road through a narrow barred wicket in a high wall a little lower down. They seemed anxious to get out of the sight of the houses and of their kind, and this road appeared to offer the quickest means of doing so. Though they were young, they walked with bowed heads, which gait of grief the sun's rays smiled on pitilessly. One of the paii^ was Angel Clare, the other a tall, slim, budding creature — half girl, half woman — a spiritualized 456 TESS OP THE D'URBERVILLES. image of Tess, slighter than she, but with the same beauti- ful eyes — Clare's sister-in-law, 'Liza Lu. Their pale faces seemed to have slu-unk to haK their natural size. They moved on hand in hand, and never spoke a w^ord, the drooping of their heads being that of Giotto's " Two Apostles." Wlien they had nearly reached the top of the great West Hill the clocks in the town struck eight. Each gave a start at the notes, and, walking onward yet a few steps, they rea(3hed the fii^st mile-stone, standing whitely on the gi-een margin of the grass, and backed by the down, which here was open to the road. Thej^ entered upon the tiu'f, and, impelled by a force which seemed to overrule their will, sud- denly stood still, turned, and waited in paralyzed suspense behind the stone. The j)rospect from this summit was almost unlimited. In the valley beneath lay the city they had just left, its more prominent buildings showing as in an isometric drawing — among them the broad cathedral tower, with its Norman windows and immense length of aisle and nave, the spires of St. Thomas's, the pinnacled tower of the Col- lege, and, more to the right, the tower and gables of the ancient hospice, where to this day the pilgrim may receive his dole of bread and ale. Behind the city swept the rotund upland of St. Catherine's Hill 5 farther off, landscape be- yond landscape, till the horizon was lost in the radiance of the sun hanging above it. Against these far stretches of country rose, in front of the other city edifices, a large red-brick building, with level gray roofs, and rows of short barred windows bespeaking captivity, the whole contrasting greatly by its formalism with the quaint irregularities of the Gothic erections. It was somewhat disguised from the road in passing it by yews and evergreen oaks, but it was visible enough up here. The wicket from which the pair had lately emerged was in the waU of this structure. From the middle of the l)uil(l- ing an ugly flat-toj^ped octagonal tower ascended against FULFILTHENT. 457 the east horizon, and viewed from this spot, on its shady side and against the light, it seemed the one blot on the city's beauty. Yet it was with this blot, and not with the beauty, that the two gazers were concerned. Upon the cornice of the tower a tall staff was fixed. Their eyes were riveted on it. A few minutes after the hour had struck something moved slowly up the staff, and extended itself upon the breeze. It was a black flag. "Justice" was done, and the President of the Immortals (in ^schylean phrase) had ended his sport mth Tess. And the D'Urver\dlle knights and dames slept on in their tombs unknowing. The two speechless gazers bent themselves down to the earth, as if in prayer, and remained thus a long time, absolutely motionless; the flag continued to wave silently. As soon as they had strength they arose, joined hands again, and went on. 80 THE END. ^'^TOO^S!? *'• S. SMITH & CO., oks and Pictures, I '54 Broad w a V.