And by a sort of fascination the three girls, one after another, crept out of
their 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 looking into her face.
''How it do seem! Almost more than I can think of!'' said Izz Huett.
Marian kissed Tess. ''Yes,'' she murmured as she withdrew her lips.
''Was that because of love for her, or because other lips have touched there
by now?'' continued Izz drily to Marian.
''I wasn't thinking o' that,'' said Marian simply. ''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 marry'n in the world-no fine lady, nobody in silks and satins; but she
who do live like we.''
''Are you sure you don't dislike me for it?'' said Tess in a low voice.
They hung about her in their 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 hinders me!''
''He ought to marry one of you,'' murmured Tess.
''You are all better than I.''
''We better than you?'' said the girls in a low, slow whisper. ''No, no, dear
''You are!'' she contradicted impetuously. And suddenly tearing away from their
clinging arms she burst into a hysterical fit of tears, bowing herself on the chest
of drawers and repeating incessantly, ''O yes, yes, yes!''
Having once given way she could not stop her weeping.
''He ought to have had one of you!'' she cried. ''I think I ought to make him
even now! You would be better for him than-I don't know what I'm 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 gently led her 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 had taught 'ee so much. But even you ought to be proud.
You BE proud, I'm sure!''
''Yes, I am,'' she said; ''and I am ashamed at so breaking down.''
When they were all in bed, and the light was out, Marian whispered across to
''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 bursting 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 then preserve a silence which might be deemed a treachery to him, and which
somehow seemed a wrong to these.
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 desire 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 dairy-work at this time of
year allowed a spare hour for idling. Looking over the damp sod in the direction
of the sun, a glistening ripple of gossamer webs was visible to their eyes under
the luminary, like the track of moonlight on the sea. Gnats, knowing nothing of
their brief glorification, wandered across the shimmer of this pathway, irradiated
as if they bore fire within them, then passed out of its line, and were quite extinct.
In the presence of these things he would remind her that the date was still the
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 journey 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 great 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 milking 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 great gravel-cliff immediately
over the levels, where they stood still and listened. The water was now high in
the streams, squirting through the weirs, and tinkling under culverts; the smallest
gullies were all full; there was no taking short cuts anywhere, and foot-passengers
were compelled to follow the permanent ways. From the whole extent of the invisible
vale came a multitudinous intonation; it forced upon their fancy that a great 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,
Clare was not particularly heeding.
''Did Crick speak to you today, dear, about his not wanting much assistance during
the winter months?''
''The cows are going dry rapidly.''
''Yes. Six of seven went to the straw-barton yesterday, and three the day before,
making nearly twenty in the straw already. Ah-is it that the farmer don't want my
help for the calving? O, I am not wanted here any more! And I have tried so hard
''Crick didn't exactly say that he would no longer require you. But, knowing
what our 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
''I don't think you ought to have felt glad, Angel. Because '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.
''I feel the red rising up at her having been caught! But why should I trifle
so! We will not trifle-life is too serious.''
''It is. Perhaps I saw that before you did.''
She was seeing it then. To decline to marry him after all-in obedience to her
emotion of last night-and leave the dairy, meant to go to some strange place, not
a dairy; 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.
''So that, seriously, dearest Tess,'' he continued, ''since you will probably
have to leave at Christmas, it is in every way desirable 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 for ever.''
''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
''I always shall.''
''O, I know you will!'' she cried, with a sudden fervour of faith in him. ''Angel,
I will fix the day when I will become yours for always!''
Thus at last it was arranged between 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
of 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 Anglebury and Sandbourne 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 divined that she was to be the chosen
one of somebody who was no common outdoor man; Tess had looked so superior as she
walked across the barton on that afternoon of her arrival; that she was of a good
family she could have sworn. In point of fact Mrs Crick did remember thinking that
Tess was graceful and good-looking as she approached; but the superiority might
have been a growth of the imagination aided by subsequent knowledge.
Tess was now carried along upon the wings of the hours, without 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 extensively with natural phenomena than with their
fellow-creatures; and she accordingly drifted into that passive responsiveness to
all things her lover suggested, characteristic 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 explanation, 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 representation to himself and to Tess of the
practical need for their immediate marriage, 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, when doomed as he had thought to an unintellectual
bucolic life, that such charms as he beheld in this idyllic creature would 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. Yet 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 fairly 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 you think 'twould have been better for us to wait till you were quite
settled in your midland farm?'' she once asked timidly. (A midland farm was the
idea just then.)
''To tell the truth, my Tess, I don't like you to be left anywhere away from
my protection and sympathy.''
The reason was a good one, so far as it went. His influence 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 farmland 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
was 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, having 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-honoured mode of procedure, and a hand in
the operations for a few days, whenever he should choose to come. Clare paid a visit
to the place, some few miles distant, one day at this time, to inquire particulars,
and returned to Talbothays in the evening. She found him determined to spend a short
time at the Wellbridge 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 decided
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 other side of London that
I have heard of,'' he said, ''and by March or April we will pay a visit to my father
Questions of procedure such as these arose and passed, and the day, the incredible
day, on which she was to become his, loomed large in the near future. 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 together, nothing to divide them, every incident shared
by them; why not? And yet why?