In time she reached the edge of the vast escarpment below which stretched the loamy Vale of Blackmoor， now lying misty and still in the dawn.Instead of the colourless air of the uplands the atmosphere down there was a deep blue.Instead of the great enclosures of a hundred acres in which she was now accustomed to toil th ere were little fields below h er of less th an half-a-dozen acres， so nu merous that they looked from this height lik e the meshes of a net.Here the landscape was whitey-brown； down there， as in Froo m Valley， it was always green.Yet it was in that vale that her sorr ow had taken shape， and s he 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 V ale on her right sh e steered s teadily westward； passin g above the Hintocks， crossing at right-angles the high-road from Sherton-Abbas to Casterbridge， and skirting Dogbury Hill and HighStoy， with the dell between them called“The Devi l's Kitchen.”S till fo llowing the elevated way she reached Cro ss-in-Hand， where the stone p illar stands deso late and silen t， to mark th e site of a miracle， o r murder， or bo th.Three miles further sh e cut across th e straigh t and d eserted Ro man road called Long-As h Lan e； leaving which as soon as she reached it she dipped down a hill by a transverse lane into the s mall town or villag e of Eversh ead， being n ow about half-way over the distance.She made a halt here， and breakfasted a second time， h eartily enough—not at th e Sow-and-Acorn， for sh e avoid ed inns， but at a cottage by the church.
The second half of her journey was through a more gentle country， by way of Benvill Lane.Bu t as the mileage lessened between her and the spo t of her pilgrimage， so did T ess's confidence decrease， and her enter prise loo m ou t more formidably.She saw her purpo se in such s taring lines， and the landscapeso faintly， that she was sometimes in danger of losing her way.However， about noon she paused by a gate on the edge of the basin in which Emminster and its Vicarage lay.
The square tower， beneath which sh e knew that at that moment the Vicar and his congregation were gathered， had a severe look in her eyes.She wished that she had so mehow contrived to come on a weekday.Such a good man might be prejudiced against a woman who had chosen Sunday， never realizing'the necessities of her cas e.But it was incu mbent 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 patent leath er， and， stuffing the former into the hedge by the gate-post where she might readily find them again， descended the hill； the freshness of colour she h ad derived from the keen air thin ning away in spite of her as she drew near the parsonage.
Tess hoped for some accident that might favour her， but nothing favoured her.The shrubs on the Vicarage lawn rustled uncomfortably in the frosty breeze； she could not feel by any stretch of imagination， dressed to her highest as she was， that th e house was the residence of near relations； and y et nothin g essential， in nature or emotion， d ivided her fro m th em：in pains， pleas ures， thoughts， birth， death， and afterdeath， they were the same.
She nerved herself by an ef fort， entered the swing-gate， and rang the door-bell.The thing was done； there could be no retreat.No； the thing was not done.Nobody answered to her r inging.The effort had to be risen to and made again.She r ang a secon d time， and the agitation of the act， coupled with her weariness af ter th e fif teen miles'walk， led her to support her self while she waited by resting her hand on her h ip， and her elbow against the wall of the porch.The wind was so nipping that the ivy-leaves had become wizened and gray， each tapping incessandy upon its neighb our with a disquieting stir of her nerves.A p iece of b lood-stained paper， caught up fro m so me meat-buyer's dustheap， beat up and do wn the road without the gate； too f limsy to rest， too heavy to fly away； and a few straws kept it company.
The second peal had been louder， and still nobody came.Then she walked out of the po rch， opened the gate， and passed through.And though she looked dubiously at the house-f ront as if inclined to return， I t was with a br eath ofrelief that she closed the gate.A feeling haunted her that she might have been recognized（though how she could not tell）， and orders been given not to admit her.
Tess went as far as th e corner.Sh e had don e all she co uld do； bu t determined not to escap e present trepidation at the expense of future dis tress， she walked back again quite past the house， looking up at all the windows.
Ah—the ex planation was that th ey were all at church， every one.Sh e remembered her husban d say ing th at h is father alway s in sisted up on th e household， servants included， going to morning-service， and， as a consequence， eating cold f ood when they came home.I t was， therefore， o nly necessary to wait ti ll the servi ce was over.She would not make herself conspicuo us by waiting on the spot， and she started to get past the church into the lane.But as she reached the churchyard-gate the people began pouring out， and Tess found herself in the midst of them.
The Emminster congregation looked at her as only a congregation of small country-townsfolk walking home at its leisure can look at a woman out of the common wh om it per ceives to b e a stranger.S he quickened her pace， and ascended the road by which she had come， to f ind a retreat between its hedges till the Vicar's family should have lunched， and it might b e conven ient for them to receive her.She soon distanced the churchgoers， except two youngish men， who， linked arm-in-arm， were beating up behind her at a quick-step.
As they dre w nearer she could hear their voices engaged in earnes t discourse， and， with the natural quickness of a woman in h er situation， did not fail to reco gnize in tho se voices the quality of her husban d's tones.The pedestrians were his tw o broth ers.Forgetting a ll her pl ans， Tess's one d read was lest they should ov ertake her now， in her d isorganized condition， before she was p repared to co nfront them； for though she felt that th ey could not identify her she instinc tively dreade d their scru tiny.The m ore briskly th ey 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 with sitting through a long service.
Only one person had preceded Tess up the hill—a ladylike young woman， somewhat interesting， though， perhaps， a trif le guindée and prudish.Tess hadnearly overtaken her wh en the sp eed of her bro thers-in-law brought them so nearly behind her back that she cou ld hear every word of their convers ation.They said nothing， however， which particularly interested her till， observing the young lady still further in front， one of them remarked， “There is Mercy Chant.Let us overtake her.”
Tess knew the name.It was the woman who had been destined for Angel's life-companion by his and her parents， and whom he pr obably would have married bu t for her in trusive self.She would hav e known as much witho ut previous inf ormation if she had waited a m oment， for one of the brothers proceeded to say：“Ah！poor Angel， poor Angel！I never s ee that nice gir l without more and more regretting his precip itancy in throwin g himself away upon a dairy maid， or whatever she may be.It is a queer bus iness， apparently.Whether she has joined him yet or n ot I don't know； but she had not done so some months ago when I heard from him.”
“I can't say.He n ever tells me any thing nowad ays.His illconsidered marriage se ems to have comple ted that es trangement fro m m e whi ch was begun by his extraordinary opinions.”
Tess beat u p the long hill still fas ter； but she could no t outwalk the m without exciting notice.At last they outsped her altogether， and passed her by.The young lady still further ahead heard their footsteps and turned.Then there was a greeting and a shaking of hands， and the three went on together.
They soon r eached th e s ummit of th e hill， and， evidently in tending th is point to be the lim it， of their pro menade， slackened pace and turned all three aside to the gate whereat T ess had paused an hour befor e that time to reconnoitre the town before descending into it.D uring their discourse one of the clerical brothers probed the hedge carefully with his umbrella， and dragged something to light.
“Here's a pa ir of old boo ts， ”he said.“Thrown away， I suppose， by some tramp or other.”
“Some impostor who wished to come into the town harefoot， 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.”
Cuthbert Clare， who had been the one to find them， picked them up for her 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 church party had left the gate with her boots and retreated down the hill.
Thereupon our hero ine resu med h er walk.Tears， blind ing tears， were running do wn her face.She knew thatit was all sen timent， all baselessimpressibility， which had causedher to read the scen e as h er owncondemnation； nevertheless she could not get over it； she could not contravene in her own d efenceless person all th ese untoward omens.It was im possible to think of returning to the Vicarage.Angel's wife felt almost as if she h ad been hounded up that h ill like a scorned thing by those—to her—superfine clerics.Innocently as the slight had been inflicted， it was so mewhat unfortunate that she had encountered the sons and not the father， who， despite his narrowness， was far less starched and ironed 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 sig hing in p ity of herself， “they didn't know that I wore those over the ro ughest p art o f 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 co lour o'm y pretty frock—no—how could they？If they had known perhaps they would no t have cared， for th ey don't care much for h im， po or thing！”
Then she gr ieved for the beloved man whose conventional standard of judgment had caused her all these latter sorrows； and she went her way without knowing that the greates t misfortu ne of her lif e was this feminine loss of courage at the last and critical moment through her estimating her father-in-law by his sons.Her present condition was precisely one which would have enlisted the sympathies of old Mr.and Mrs.Clare.Their h earts went o ut of them at a bound towar ds extreme cases， when the subtle mental trou bles of th e less desperate among mankind failed to win their interest or regard.In ju mping at Publicans an d Sinners th ey would for get that a word might be said fo r theworries of Scribes and Pharisees； and this defect or li mitation m ight hav e recommended their own daughter-in-law to them at th is 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 full of a conviction that a crisis in her life was approaching.No crisis， apparently， had supervened； and there was nothing left for her to d o but to con tinue up on that star veacre far m till she could ag ain summon courage to face the Vicarage.She did， indeed， take sufficient interest in herself to throw up her veil on this return journey， as if t o let the world see that she could at least exhibit 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 nothing！”s he said.“Nobody loves it； nobody sees it.Who cares about the looks of a castaway like me！”
Her journey back was rather ameander than a march.It had nosprightliness， no purpose； only a tendency.Along the tedious length of BenvillLane sh e b egan to gro w tired， an d she lean t upon gates and paused by mile-stones.
She did not enter any house till， at the seven th or eighth mile， sh e descended the steep lo ng hill belo w which lay the villag e or townlet of Evershead， where in the m orning sh e had breakf asted with s uch contrasting expectations.The co ttage by the chur ch， in which she again s at down， was almost t he f irst a t that e nd of the v illage， and w hile th e wo man f etched her some milk from the pantry， Tess， looking down the street， p erceived that the place seemed quite deserted.
“The people are gone to afternoon service， I suppose？”she said.
“No， my dear， ”said the old woman.“'Tis too soon for that； the bells hain't strook out yet.They be all gone to h ear the preaching in y onder barn.A ranter preaches there between the serv ices—an excellent， f iery， Christian man， they say.But， Lord， I don't go to hear'n！What comes in the regu lar way over the pulpit is hot enough for I.”
Tess soon w ent onward into the village， her footsteps echoing against the houses as th ough it wer e a place of the dead.Nearing th e cen tral p art her echoes were intrud ed on by other sounds； and seeing th e barn not far of f the road， 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 ex pected， was of 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 enthusiasm， in a manner entirely declamatory， for he had plainly no skill as a dialectic ian.Although T ess had not heard the beginning of the address， she learn t what the text had been from its cons tant iteration—
“O foolish Galatians， who hath bewitched you， that ye should not obey the truth， before whose eyes Jesus Christ hath been evidently set forth， crucified among you？”
Tess was all the more interested， as s he stood listening behind， in f inding that the preacher's doctrine was a vehement form of the views of Angel's father， and her interest intensified when the speaker b egan to de tail his own spirit ual experiences of how he had co me by those views.He had， he said， been the greatest of sinners.He had scof fed； he had wantonly associated with the reckless and the lewd.But a day of awakening had co me， and， in a hu man sense， it had been brought about mainly by the influence of a certain clergyman， whom he had at f irst grossly insulted； but whose parting words had sunk into his heart， and had remained there， till by the grace of Heaven th ey had worked this change in him， and made him what they saw him.
But more s tartling to Tess than the doctrine h ad been th e vo ice， which， impossible as i t se emed， wa s prec isely t hat of Alec d'Urberville.He r fa ce fixed in painful suspense she came ro und to the front of the barn， and p assed before it.The low w inter sun b eamed dir ectly upon th e gr eat doubledoored 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 lis teners were en tirely v illagers， a mong th em being th e man whom sh e had seen carry ing the red paint-p ot on a former memorable occasion.B ut her a ttention was giv en to th e ce ntral f igure， who stood upon some sacks of corn， facing the peo ple and the d oor.Th e thr 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 distinctly， was at last established as a fact indeed.
