He look ed at her imploringly, as if h e would willingly hav e taken a lie from her lip s, knowing it to be on e, and have made of it, by som e sor t of sophistry, a valid denial.However, she only repeated—
“It is true.”
“Is he living?”Angel then asked.
“The baby died.”
“But the man?”
“He is alive.”
A last despair passed over Clare's face.
“Is he in England?”
“Yes.”
He took a few vague steps.
“My position—is this, ”he said abru ptly.“I thought—any m an wo uld have thought—that by giving up all ambition to win a wife with social standing, with fortune, with knowledge of the world, I should secure rustic innocence as surely as I should secur e pink cheeks; bu t—However, I am no man to reproach you, and I will not.”
Tess felt his position so e ntirely that the remainder had no t been needed.Therein lay just the distress of it; she saw that he had lost all round.
“Angel—I should no t have let it go on to marriage with y ou if I had no t known that, after all, there was a last way out of it for you; though I hoped you would never—”
Her voice grew 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 ******！How can I divorce you?”
“Can't you—now I have told y ou?I thought my confession would giv e you grounds for that.”
“O T ess—you are too, too—childish—unformed—crude, I suppose！I don't know what y ou are.Y ou don't understand the law—you d on't understand！”
“What—you cannot?”
“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 see m to y ou！Believe me—believe me, on m y soul, I never thoug ht but that y ou could！I hop ed you would not; y et 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 inquired.
“Of putting an end to myself.”
“When?”
She writh ed under this inqu isitorial manner o f his.“Las t night, ”sh e answered.
“Where?”
“Under your mistletoe.”
“My good—！How?”he asked sternly.
“I'll tell you if you won't be angry with me！”she said, shrinking.“It was with the cord of my box.But I could not—do the last thing！I was afraid that it might cause a scandal to your name.”
The un expected quality of this confession, wr ung fro m h er, and no t volunteered, shook him perceptibly.But he still held her, and, letting his glance fall from her face downwards, he said.
“Now, listen to this.You must not dare to think of such a horrible thing.How could y ou！You will promise me as your husband to attem pt that no more.”
“I am ready to promise.I saw how wicked it was.”
“Wicked！The idea was unworthy of you beyond deion.”
“But, Angel, ”she pleaded, eularging 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 dreamt 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 ou ght 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 worthless！So very greatly in the way.”
“Ssh！”
“Well, since you say no, I won't.I have no wish opposed to yours.”
He knew this to be true enough.Sin ce th e desperatio n of th e 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 they 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 of eating done was s mall on both sid es.Break fast over he ros e, an d telling her th e ho ur at which he might be expected to dinner, went off to the miller's in a mechanical pursuance of the plan o f studying that business, which had b een his only practical reason for coming here.
When he was gone Tess stood at the window, and presently saw his for m crossing the great stone bridge which conducted to the mill premises.He sankbehind it, cr ossed the railway beyond, and disapp eared.Then, without a sigh, she turned her attention to the room, and began clearing the table and setting it in order.
The charwoman soon came.Her pr esence was at first a strain upon Tess, but afterwards an alleviation.At halfpast twelve she left her a ssistant alone in the kitchen, and, retur ning to the sitting-roo m, 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 ki tchen to get the dinner served by the ti me he should en ter.He went f irst to the ro om where they had washed their hand s together the day before, and as he en tered the sitting-room the dish-covers rose from the dishes as if by his own motion.
“How punctual！”he said.
“Yes.I saw you coming over the bridge, ”said she.
The meal was passed in co mmonplace talk of what he had been doin g during the m orning at the Abbey Mill, of the m ethods of bolting and the old-fashioned machinery, which he f eared would not enlighten him greatly on modern improved methods, some of it seeming to have been in use ev et since the days it ground for the monks, in the adjoining conventual buildings—now a heap of ruins.He left the house again in the course of an hour, coming home at dusk, and o ccupying himself through the evening with his papers.She fear ed she was in the way, and, when the old woman was gone, retired to the k itchen, where she made herself busy as well as she could for more than an hour.
Clare's shape appeared at the door.
“You must not work like this, ”he said.“You are not my servant; y ou are my wife.”
She raised her eyes, and brightened somewhat, “I may think myself that—indeed?”she murmured, in piteous raillery.“You mean in name！Well, I do n't want to be anything more.”
“You may think so, Tess！You are.What do you mean?”
“I don't know, ”she said hastily, with tears in her accents.“I thought I—because I am not respectable, I mean.I told you I thought I was not respectable enough long ago—and on that account I didn't want to marry you, only—onlyyou urged 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 log ical deposit, like a vein of metal in a soft loam, which turned the edge of everything that atte mpted to traverse it.It had blocked his acceptance o f the C hurch; i t blocked his acceptance of Tess.Moreover, his affection itself was less fire than radiance, and, with regard to the other ***, 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.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 womankind 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 an tipathetic wav e which wa rps direc t souls with such persistence when once their vision finds itself mocked by appearances.There was, it is true, underneath, a back current of sympathy through which a woman of the world might have conquered him.But Tess did not think of this; she took everything as her d eserts, 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 hav e been Apostolic Charity herself returned to a self-seeking modern world.
This evening, night, and morning were passed pre cisely as th e preceding ones had been passed.On one, and only one, o ccasion did she—the formerly free and independent Tess—venture to make any advances.It was on the third occasion of his starting after a meal to go out to th e f lour-mill.As he was leaving the table he said“Good-bye, ”and she replied in the same words, at the same time inclining her mouth in the way of his.He did not avail himself of the invitation, saying, as he turned hastily aside—
“I shall be home punctually.”
Tess shrank into hers elf as if she had been struck.Often eno ugh had hetried to reach those lips against her consent—often had he said gaily that her mouth and breath tasted of the butter and eggs and milk and honey on whi ch she mainly lived, that he drew susten ance from them, and other follies of that sort.But he did not care for them now.He observed her sudd en shrinking, and said gently—
“You know, I have to think of a co urse.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 w ished for a moment that he had responded yet more kindly, and kissed her once at least.
Thus th ey lived through th is desp airing d ay or two; in th e s ame house, truly; but more widely apart than before they were lovers.It was evident to her that he was, as he had said, living with paralyzed activities, in his endeavour to think of a plan of procedure.S he was awe-stricken to discoversuchdetermination under such apparent flexibility.His consistency was, indeed, too cruel.She no longer expected forgiveness now.More than once she though t of going away from him during his absence at the mill; but she f eared 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 meditatin g, verily.His though t had beenunsuspended; he was beco ming ill with thinking; eaten ou t with th inking, withered by think ing; s courged our of all h is for mer pu lsating f iexuous domesticity.He walked about saying to himself, “What's to be done—what's to be done?”and by chance sh e ov erheard him.It caused h er to break the reserve about their future which had hitherto prevailed.
“I suppose—you are n ot going to live with me—long, are you, Angel?”she asked, the suck corners of her mouth b etraying 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, cannot live with you in the ordinary sense.At present, whatever I feel, I do not despise you.And, let me speak plainly, or youmay not see all my difficulties.How can we live together while that man lives?—he being your husban d in Nature, and not I.If he were dead it might be different……Besides, th at's not all the difficulty; it lies in anoth er consideration—one bearing upon the future of other people than ourselves.Think of years to come, and children being born to us, and this past m atter getting known—for it must get kn own.There is not an utter most p art of the earth but so mebody comes from it or goes to it from elsewhere.Well, think of wretches of our flesh and blood growing up un der a taunt which they will gr adually get to fe el the full force of with their 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 fly to others?”
Her eyelids, weighted with trouble, continued drooping as before.
“I cannot say Remain, ”she answered, “I cannot; I had not thought so far.”
Tess's feminine ho pe—shall we confess it—had been s o obstin atelyrecuperative as to r evive in her surreptitious visions of a do miciliary intimacy continued long enough to break dow n his coldn ess even against his judg ment.Though uns ophisticated in the usual sense, she was not incom plete; an d it would have denoted deficiency of womanhood if she had not instinctively known what an argument lies in propinquity.Nothing else would serve her, she knew, if this failed.It was wrong to hope in what w as of the nature of strategy, she said to herself：y et that sort of hope she co uld not ex tinguish.His last representation had now been made, and it was, as she said, a new view.She had truly never thought so far as that, an d his lucid picture of p ossible 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 b e saved from leading any life whatever.Like all who have been previsioned by suffering, she could, in the words of M.Sully-Prudhomme, hear a penal sentence in the fiat, “You shall be born, ”particularly if addressed to potential issue of hers.
Yet such is the vulpin e slyness of Da me Nature, that, till now, Tess had been hoodw inked by her love for Clare into f orgetting it might r esult in vitalizations that would infli ct upo n others what she had bewailed as amisfortune to herself.
She ther efore cou ld n ot withs tand his ar gument.But withtheselfcombating, proclivity of the sup ersensitive, an answer thereto arose in Clare's own mind, and he almost feared it.It w as based on her excep tional physical nature; and she might have used it promisingly.She might have added besides：“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 wo men, she accepted the momentary presentment as if it were the inevitable.And she may have b een right.The intuitive heart of wo man knoweth not only its own bitterness, b ut its husband's, and even if th ese assumed r eproaches were no t likely to be addressed to him or to his by strangers, they might have reached his ears from his 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 Clar e's love was doubtless ethereal to a fault, im aginative toimpracticability.With th ese n atures, corpor eal presence is sometimes les s appealing than corpor eal absence; the la tter cre ating an id eal presen ce that conveniently drops the d efects of th e real.She fo und that her personality did not plead her caus e so forcibly as s he had anticipated.The figurative phrase was true：she was another woman than the one who had excited his desire.
“I have thou ght over wh at y ou say, ”she rem arked to him, moving her forefinger over the tablecloth, her other hand, which bore the ring that mocked them both, supporting her forehead.“It is quite tr ue all of it; it must be.You must go away from me.”
“But what can you do?”
“I can go home.”
Clare had not thought of that.
“Are you sure?”he inquired.
“Quite sure.We ought to part, and w e may as well get it past and done.You once said that I was apt to win men against their better judgment; and if I am constantly before y our ey es I may cause y ou to chang e y our plans in opposition to y our reason and wish; and afterwar ds y our repentance and my sorrow will be terrible.”
“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 dif ference between the proposition and the covenant, which she had felt only too quickly.
“I feared it would co me to th is, ”she m urmured, her countenance meekly fixed.“I don't com plain, Angel.I—I think it b est.What y ou said has q uite convinced me.Yes, though nobody else shou ld reproach me if we should stay together, y et so mewhen, y ears hence, y ou might get angry with me f or any ordinary matter, and knowing what y ou do of m y bygones you yourself might be tempted to say words, and they might b e overheard, p erhaps by my own children.O, what only hurts me now would torture and kill me then！I w ill go—to-morrow.”
“And I shall not stay here.Though I didn't like to initiate it, I have seen that it was advisable we should part—at least for a while, till I can b etter 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, sh e was appalled by the deter mination r evealed in the dep ths of this gentle being she had married—the w ill to subdue the grosser to the sub tler emotion, the substance to the con ception, the flesh to th e spirit.Propensities, tendencies, habits, wer e as dead leaves upon the ty rannous wind of his imaginative ascendency.
He may have observed her look, for he 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 s he went u pstairs and began to pack also.Both k new that it was in thei r two minds t hat they might part the next morning for ever, despite the g loss of assuaging conjectures thrown over their proceeding because they were of the sort to whom any parting which has an air of fina lity is a tor ture.He knew, an d she knew, tha t, tho ugh the f ascination which each had exercised over the oth er—on her p art independently of accomplishments—would probably in the first days of their separation be e venmore potent than ever, time must attenuate that effect; the practical arguments against accepting her as a hous emate might p ronounce th emselves more strongly in the boreal lig ht of a remo ter view.Moreover, when two people are once parted—have abandoned a common domicile and a common environment—new growths insens ibly bud upward to fill each vacated place; unforeseen accidents hinder intentions, and old plans are forgotten.
37
Midnight came and passed silently, for there was nothing toannounce it in the Valley of the Froom.
Not long after on e o'c lock there was a slight creak in the darkenedfarm-house once the m ansion of the d'Urbervilles.Tess, who used the upperchamber, heard it and awoke.It had come from the corner step of the staircase, which, as usual, was loosely nailed.She saw the door of her bedroom open, andthe f igure of her husban d crossed th e stream of moonlight w ith a cur iouslycareful tread.He was in his shirt and trousers only, and her first flush of joydied when s he perce ived that h is ey es were fixe d in an unn atural star e onvacancy.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-disturbing force clare would
occasionally walk in h is sleep, and even perform strange feats, such as he h ad done on the night of their return from market just before their marriage, when he reenacted in his bedroom his combat with the man who had insulted her.Tess saw that continu ed m ental distress had wrought him into that somnambulistic state now.
Her loyal confidence in him lay so deep down in her heart that, awake or asleep, he in spired her w ith no sort o f personal fear.If he had entered with a pistol in his hand he would scarcely have disturbed h er trus t in hisprotectiveness.
Clare came close, and bent over her.“Dead, dead, dead！”he murmured.
After fixedly regarding her for some moments with th e sa me gaz e o f unmeasurable 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 body, he carried her across the room, murmuring—
“My poor, p oor Tess—my dearest, d arling Tess！So sweet, so good, so true！”
The words of endearment, withheld so severely in his waking h ours, were inexpressibly sweet to h er forlorn and hungry heart.If it had been to save her weary life she would not, by moving or strug gling, have put an en d to the position she found hers elf in.Thus she lay in absolute stillness, scar cely venturing to breathe, an d, wonderin g what he was going to do with her, suffered herself to be borne out upon the landing.
“My wife—dead, dead！”he said.
He paused in his labours for a moment to lean with her against the banister.Was he going to throw her down?Selfsolicitude was near extinction in her, and in the know ledge that he had p lanned to d epart on the morrow, possibly for always, she lay in his ar ms in this precarious position with a sense rath er of luxury than of terror.If they could o nly fall together, and both be dashed to pieces, how fit, how desirable.
However, he did not let her fall, bu t took advantage of the su pport of th e handrail to imprint a k iss upon her lips—lips in the daytime scorned.Then he clasped her with a renewed firmness of hold, and descended the staircase.The creak of the loose stair did not awaken him, and they reached the ground-floor safely.Freeing one of h is hands fro m his gr asp of her for a moment, he slid back the doorbar and passed out, slightly striking his stockinged toe against the edge of th e door.But this he seemed no t to mind, and, h aving roo m f or extension in the open air, he lifted her against his shoulder, so that he could car-ry her with ease, th e absence of clothes taking much from his burden.Thus he bore her off the premises in the direction of the river a few yards distant.
