''By divorcing me.''
''Good heavens-how can you be so simple! How can I divorce you?''
''Can't you-now I have told you? I thought my confession would give you grounds
''O Tess-you are too, too-childish-unformed-crude, I suppose! I don't know what
you are. You don't understand the law-you don't understand!''
''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-believe 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 inquired.
''Of putting an end to myself.''
She writhed under this inquisitorial manner of his. ''Last night,'' she answered.
''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 unexpected quality of this confession, wrung from her, and not 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 you! You will promise me as your husband to attempt
that no more.''
''I am ready to promise. I saw how wicked it was.''
''Wicked! The idea was unworthy of you beyond description.''
''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 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 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 worthless! So very greatly
in the way!''
''Well, since you say no, I won't. I have no wish opposed to yours.''
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 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 small on both sides. Breakfast
over he rose, and telling her the hour at which he might be expected to dinner,
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 window, and presently saw his form crossing
the great stone bridge which conducted to the mill premises. He sank behind it,
crossed the railway beyond, and disappeared. 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 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 should
enter. He went first 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 own motion.
''How punctual!'' 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 improved methods, some
of it seeming to have been in use ever 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 occupying himself through the
evening with 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.
Clare's shape appeared at the door. ''You must not work like this,'' he said.
''You are not my servant; you 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 don't want to be
''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-only you 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 logical deposit,
like a vein of metal in a soft loam, which turned the edge of everything that attempted
to traverse it. It had blocked his acceptance of the Church; it blocked his acceptance
of Tess. Moreover, his affection itself was less fire 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. 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 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 through 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 herself returned to a self-seeking
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-venture to make any advances. It was on the third occasion of his starting
after a meal to go out to the flour-mill. As he was leaving the table he said ''Goodbye,''
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
''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 the butter and eggs and milk and honey on which she mainly lived,
that he drew sustenance from them, and other follies of that sort. But he did not
care for them now. He observed 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 wished for a moment
that he had responded yet more kindly, and kissed her once at least.
Thus they lived through this despairing day or two; in the same 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. She was awe-strikin to discover such determination under
such apparent flexibility. His consistency was, indeed, too cruel. She no longer
expected forgiveness now. More than once she thought of going away from him during
his absence at the mill; 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, withered 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 future which had hitherto prevailed.
''I suppose-you are not going to live with me-long, are you, Angel?'' she asked,
the sunk corners of her mouth betraying 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 you
may not see all my difficulties. How can we live together while that man lives?-he
being your husband in nature, and not I. If he were dead it might be different….
Besides, that's not all the difficulty; it lies in another 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 matter getting known-for it must get known. There
is not an uttermost part of the earth but somebody comes from it or goes to it from
elsewhere. Well, think of wretches of our flesh and blood growing up under a taunt
which they will gradually get to feel 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 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 judgement. Though unsophisticated
in the usual sense, she was not incomplete; and 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 was of the nature of strategy, she said to herself: yet that sort of hope she
could not extinguish. 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, and his lucid
picture of possible offspring who would scorn her was one that brought deadly convictions
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 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 vulpine slyness of Dame Nature, that, till now, Tess had been
hoodwinked by her love for Clare into forgetting it might result in vitalizations
that would inflict upon others what she had bewailed as misfortune to herself.
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. 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 women, she accepted the momentary presentment as if it
were the inevitable. And she may have been right. The intuitive heart of woman knoweth
not only its own bitterness, but its husband's, and even if these assumed reproaches
were not likely to be addressed to him or to his by strangers, they might have reached
his ears from his own fastidious brain.