30
In the diminishing daylight they went along the level roadway throughthe meads, which stre tched away into gray mile s, and were backed in the extreme edge of distance by the swarthy and abrupt slopes of Egdon Heath.On its summit stood clumps and stretches of fir-trees, whose notched tips appeared like battlemented towers crowning blackfronted castles of enchantment.
so solitary that the hazel nuts had remained on the boughs till they slipped from their shells, and the blackberries hun g in heavy clusters.Ev ery now and then Angel would fling the lash of his whip round one of these, pluck it off, and give it to his companion.
They were so absorbed in the sense of being close to each other that they did not begin talking for a long wh ile, the silence being brok en only by th e clucking of the milk in the tall cans behind them.The lane they followed was The dull sky soon began to tell its meaning by sending down heralddrops of ra in, and the stagnan t a ir of the day changed in to a f itful br eeze whic h played abou t their fa ces.The qu icksilvery glaz e on the r ivers and po ols vanished; from broad mirrors of light they changed to lustreless sheets of lead, with a surface like a rasp.But that spectacle did not affect her preoccupation.Her counten ance, a natu ral carnation s lightly embrowned by the season, had deepened its tinge with the beating o f the raindro ps; and her hair, which the pressure of the cows'flanks had, as usual, caus ed to tu mble down from its fastenings and stray beyond the curtain of her calico bonnet, was made clammy by the moisture, till it hardly was better than seaweed.
“I ought not to have come, I suppose, ”she murmured, looking at the sky.
“I am sorry for the rain, ”said he.“But how glad I am to have you here！”
Remote Eg don disapp eared by degr ees beh ind the liquid gauze.Theevening grew darker, and the roads being crossed by gates it was no t safe to drive faster than at a walking pace.The air was rather chill.
“I am so af raid y ou will g et cold, with no thing upon y our ar ms and shoulders, ”he said.“Creep close to me, and perhaps the drizzle won't hurt you much.I sho uld be sorrier still if I did not think that th e rain might be helping me.”
She imperceptibly crept closer, and he wrapped round them b oth a lar ge piece of sail-clo th, Which was sometim es used to keep the sun of f the milk-cans.Tess held i t from slipping off him as well as herself, Clare's hands being occupied.
“Now we are all right again.Ah—no we ar e not！It runs do wn 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?”
The only reply that he could hear for a long while was th e smack of thehorse's hoofs on th e moistening ro ad, and the cluck of th e milk in th e cans behind them.
“Do you remember what you said?”
“I do, ”she replied.
“Before we get home, mind.”
“I'll try.”
He said no more th en.As they drove on th e fr agment 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 o ld 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 t heir residences without thinking of th em.There is something very sad in th e extinction of a family of renown, even if it was fierce, domineering, feudal renown.”
“Yes, ”said Tess.
They crept along towards a point in the expanse of shade just at hand at which a feeble light was beginning to assert its presence, a spot where, by day, a fitful wh ite streak of steam at intervals upo n the d ark gr een backgro und denoted intermitten t m oments of contact between their secluded world and modern life.Modern life stretched out its steam feeler to this point three or four times a day, touched the nativ e exis tences, 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 little railway station; a poor enough terr estrial star, yet in one sense of more importance to Talbothays Dairy and mankind than the celestial ones to which it stood in such hu miliating contrast The cans of n ew milk were unladen in the rain, Tess getting a little shelter from a neighbouring holly tree.
Then there was the hissing of a train, which drew up almost silently upon the wet rails, and the milk was rap idly swung can by can in to the truck.The light of the engine flas hed for a second upon T ess Durb eyfield's figure, motionless under the g reat ho lly tr ee.No object cou ld have looked more foreign to th e gleaming cranks and wheels th an this unsophisticated girl, with the round bare arms, the rainy face and hair, the suspended attitude of a friendlyleopard at pause, the print gown of no date or f ashion, and the cotton bo nnet drooping on her brow.
She mounted again beside her lover, with a mute obedience characteristic of impassion ed natures at times, and when they had wrapp ed themselv es up over head and ears in the sail-cloth again, they plunged back into the now thick night.Tess was so recep tive that the few minutes of contac t with the wh irl of material progress lingered in her thought.
“Londoners will dr ink it at their breakfasts to morrow, won't they?”she asked.“Strange people that we have never seen.”
“Yes—I suppose they will.Thoug h not as we send it.When its strength has been lowered, so that it may not get up into their heads.”
“Noble m en and noble women, ambassadors an d centur ions, ladies and tradeswomen, and babies who have never seen a cow.”
“Well, yes; perhaps; particularly centurions.”
“Who don't know anything of us, and where it comes fro m; or think how we two drove miles across the moor tonight in the rain that it might reach'em in time?”
“We did not drive en tirely on accou nt of thes e precious Londoners; we drove a little on our own—on account of that anxious matter which you will, 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.O 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 tell you—”
“But suppose it to b e entirely for my happin ess, and my worldly convenience also?”
“O yes; if it is for your happiness and worldly convenience.But my life before I came here—I want—”
“Well, it is for my conveniences as well as my happiness.If I have a very large farm, either English or colonial, you will be invaluable as a w ife to me; better th an a wom an ou t of the lar gest mansion in the coun try.So please—please, dear Tessy, disabuse your mind of the feeling that you will stand in myway.”
“But my history.I want you to know it—you must let me tell you—you 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; father was not very industrious, and he drank a little.”
“Yes, yes.Poor child！Nothing n ew.”He pressed her more closely to his side.
“And then—there is something very unusual about it—about me.I—I was—”
Tess's breath quickened.
“Yes, dearest.Never mind.”
“I—I—am n ot a Durbey field, but a d'Urberville—a descend ant of th e same family as thos e th at owned th e old house we passed.And—we are al l gone to nothing！”
“A d'Urberville！—Indeed！And is that all 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 everything, and do think that as reasoners the only pedigrees we ou ght to respect ar e those spir itual ones of the wise and virtuous, without reg ard to corporeal paternity.But I am extremely interted in this news—you can have no idea of how interested I am！Are you not interested yourself in being one of that wellknown line?”
“No.I have thought it sad—especially since coming here, and knowin g that many of the hills and fields I see once belonged to my father's people.But other h ills and fields belonged to Re tty's people, and p erhaps o thers to Marian's, so that I don't value it particularly.”
“Yes—it is surprising how many of the present tillers of the soil were once owners of it, and I so metimes wonder that a certain school of politicians don't make capital of the circu mstance; but they don't seem to k now it……I won der that I d id not see th e resemblance of your name to d'Urberville, and trace the manifest corruption.And this was the carking secret！”
She had not told.At the last moment her courage had failed her, she feared his blame for not telling him sooner; and her instinct for self-preservation was stronger than her candour.
“Of course, ”con tinued the unwitting Clare, “I sh ould have been glad to know y ou to be descended ex clusively fro m the long-suffering, du mb, unrecorded rank and f ile of the English nation, an d not fro m the self-s eeking few who made themselves powerfu l at the exp ense of the rest.Bu t I a m corrupted away from th at by my af fection for you, Tess[h e laughed as h e 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 acc eptance of y ou as m y wife, af ter I have made you the well-read wo man that I mean to make you.My mother too, poor soul, will think so much better of y ou on account of it.Tess, you must spell y our name correctly—d'Urberville—from this very day.”
“I like the other way rather best.”
“But y ou m ust, dear est?Good heavens, why dozens o f mushroom millionaires would jump at such a p ossession！By the bye, there's one of t hat kidney who has tak en the name—where hav e I heard of him?—Up in the neighbourhood of The Chase, I think.Why, he is the very man who had that rumpus with my father I told 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 Teresa d'Urberville, I have you.Take my name, and so y ou will escape y ours！The secr et is ou t, so why should y ou any longer 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 course！”
“I mean, that it is only your wanting me very much, and being hardly able to keep alive without me, whatever my offences, that wou ld make me feel I ought to say I will.”
“You will—you do say it, I know！You will be mine for ever 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 hy sterical girl by any means, and he was surprised.
“Why do you cry, dearest?”
“I can't te ll—quite！—I am so glad to think—of being yours, and ****** you happy！”
“But this does not seem very much like gladness, my Tessy！”
“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 like me to be your hubsand?”
“yes, yes, yes！But O, I sometimes wish I had never been born！”
“Now, my dear Tess, if I did not know that you are very much excited and very inexperienced, I should say that remark was not very complimentary.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 clasp ed his neck, and for th e 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 believe?”she asked, flushed, and wiping her eyes.
“Yes.I never really doubted—never, never！”
So they dro ve on throu gh the gloom, for ming one bundle inside the sail-cloth, the horse going as he would, and the rain driving against them.She had consented.She might as well have agreed at first Th e“appetite for joy”which pervades all creation, that tremendous force which sways humanity to its purpose, as the tide sways the helpless weed, was not to be controlled by vaguelucubrations over the social rubric.
“I must write to my mother, ”she said.“You don't mind my doing that?”
“Of course n ot, dear child.You are a child to me, Tess, not to know how very proper it is to write 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 further 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！”
31
Tess wrote a most touching and urgent letter to her mother the verynext day, and by the end of the week a response to her co mmunication 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 f or it.De ar Tess, we ar e all glad to Hear that you are going really to be married soon.But with respect to your question, Tess, J say between ourselves, quite private but very strong, that on no accou nt do you say a word of y our Bygone Trouble to him.J did not tell everything to your Father, he being so Proud on account of his Respectability, which, perhaps, your Intend ed is th e same.Many a wom an—some of the Highest in the Land—have had a T rouble in th eir time; and why should y ou Trumpet yours when others don't Trumpet theirs?No girl would be such a Fool, specially 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 t hat's i n y our heart—so sim ple！—J made y ou pro mise me never to let it out by Word or Deed, having your Welfare in my Mind; and you most solemnly did pro mise it go ing from this Door.J hav e not named either that Questio n or y our coming marriage to y our Father, as h e would b lab it everywhere, poor Simple Man.
Dear Tess, keep up your Spirits, and we mean to send you a Hogshead of Cyder for your W edding, knowing there is no t much in y our parts, an d thin Sour Stuff what ther e is.So no m ore at presen t; and with k ind love to y our Young Man.-From your affectte.Mother.
“O mother, mother！”murmured Tess.
She was recognizing how light was the touch of events the most oppressive upon Mrs.Durbeyfield's elastic spirit.Her mother did not see life as Tess saw it.That haun ting episode of by gone day s was to her mother but a passing accident.Bu t p erhaps her mother was r ight as to th e course to be followed, whatever 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 by a co mmand 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 au tumn which followed h er assent, b eginning with the month of October, formed a seaso n through which sh e lived in sp iritual altitudes more nearly approaching ecstasy than any other period of her life.
There was h ardly a touch of earth in her love for Clare.To her sublime trustfulness he was all that goodn ess could be—knew all that a gu ide, philosopher, and friend, should know.She thought every line in the contour of his person th e perfection of masculine beauty, his soul the sou l of a saint, h is intellect that of a seer.The wisdom of her love fo r him, as lov e, sustained her dignity; she seemed to be wearing a crown.The compassion of his love for her, as she saw it, made her lift up her heart to h im in devotion.He would sometimes catch h er lar ge, worshipf ul ey es, that had no b ottom to them, looking at him from their depths, as if she saw something immortal before her.
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 could be so disinter ested, chivalrous, protective, in their love for women as he.Angel Clare was far from all that she thought him in this resp ect; absurd ly far, ind eed; but h e 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 brigh t than hot—tess Byronic than Shelleyan; could love desperately, but with a love more especially inclined to t he i maginative and ethereal; it was a fastidious e motion which could jealou sly guard th e lov ed on e against his very self.This amazed and enraptured Tess, whose slight experiences had been so infelicitous till now; andin her reaction from indignation against the male *** she swerved to excess of honour for Clare.
They unaffectedly sought each o ther's co mpany; in her hones t faith sh e did no t d isguise her des ire to be w ith him.The sum of h er instincts on this matter, if c learly stated, would have been th at the elus ive q uality in her *** which attracts men in general might be distasteful to so perfect a man after an avowal of love, since it must in its very nature carry with it a suspicion of art.
The country custo m of unreserv ed co mradeship out of doors durin g betrothal was the only custo m she k new, and to her it had no strangen ess; though it seemed oddly anticipative 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 by 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 n ever out of the sound of some purling weir, whose buzz acco mpanied their own m urmuring, while the beams of the sun, almost as horizon tal as the mead itself, formed a pollen of radiance over the landscape.They saw tiny blue fogs in the shado ws 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 Clar e and Tess would stretch a quarter of a mile ahead of them, like two long fingers pointing af ar to where th e green a lluvial r eaches abutted ag ainst the s loping sides of the vale.
Men were at work here and ther e—for it was the season for“taking up”the meadows, or digging the little waterways clear for the winter irrigation, and mending their banks where trodden down by the cows.The shovelfuls of loam, black as jet, brought there by the river when it was as wide as the whole valley, were an essence of soils, pounded champaigns of the past, steeped, refined, and subtilized to extraordinary richness, out of which came all the fertility of t he 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 accusto med to public dalliance, though actually as shy as she who, with lips parted an d eyes askance on the labourers, wor e the look of a wary animal the while.
“You are no t ash amed o f owning me as y ours before them！”she sai d gladly.
“O no！”
“But if it should reach the ears of y our friends a t Emminster that you are walking about like this with me, a milkmaid——”
“The most bewitching milkmaid ever seen.”
“They might feel it a hurt to their dignity.”
“My dear girl—a d'Urberville hurt the dignity of a Clare！It is a grand card to play—that of y our belonging to such a family, and I am res erving it for a grand effect when we are m arried, and have the p roofs of y our descent fr om Parson Tringham.Apart fro m th at, my futur e is to be totally foreign to m y family—it will not affect even the surface of their lives.We shall leave this part of England—perhaps England itself—and what does it matter h ow people regard us here?You will like going, will you not?”
