''O no. The original d'Urbervilles decayed and disappeared sixty or eighty years
ago-at least, I believe so. This seems to be a new family which had taken the name;
for the credit of the former knightly line I hope they are spurious, I'm sure. But
it is odd to hear you express interest in old families. I thought you set less store
by them even than I.''
''You misapprehend me, father; you often do,'' said Angel with a little impatience.
''Politically I am sceptical as to the virtue of their being old. Some of the wise
even among themselves 'exclaim against their own succession,' as Hamlet puts it;
but lyrically, dramatically, and even historically, I am tenderly attached to them.''
This distinction, though by no means a subtle one, was yet too subtle for Mr
Clare the elder, and he went on with the story he had been about to relate; which
was that after the death of the senior so-called d'Urberville the young man developed
the most culpable passions, though he had a blind mother, whose condition should
have made him know better. A knowledge of his career having come to the ears of
Mr Clare, when he was in that part of the country preaching missionary sermons,
he boldly took occasion to speak to the delinquent on his spiritual state. Though
he was a stranger, occupying another's pulpit, he had felt this to be his duty,
and took for his text the words from St Luke: ''Thou fool, this night thy soul shall
be required of thee!'' The young man much resented this directness of attack, and
in the war of words which followed when they met he did not scruple publicly to
insult Mr Clare, without respect for his gray hairs.
Angel flushed with distress.
''Dear father,'' he said sadly, ''I wish you would not expose yourself to such
gratuitous pain from scoundrels!''
''Pain?'' said his father, his rugged face shining in the ardour of self-abnegation.
''The only pain to me was pain on his account, poor, foolish young man. Do you suppose
his incensed words could give me any pain, or even his blows? 'Being reviled we
bless; being persecuted we suffer it; being defamed we entreat; we are made as the
filth of the world, and as the offscouring of all things unto this day.' Those ancient
and noble words to the Corinthians are strictly true at this present hour.''
''Not blows, father? He did not proceed to blows?''
''No, he did not. Though I have borne blows from men in a mad state of intoxication.''
''No!'' ''A dozen times, my boy. What then? I have saved them from the guilt
of murdering their own flesh and blood thereby; and they have lived to thank me,
and praise God.''
''May this young man do the same!'' said Angel fervently. ''But I fear otherwise,
from what you say.''
''We'll hope, nevertheless,'' said Mr Clare. ''And I continue to pray for him,
though on this side of the grave we shall probably never meet again. But, after
all, one of those poor words of mine may spring up in his heart as a good seed some
Now, as always, Clare's father was sanguine as a child; and though the younger
could not accept his parent's narrow dogma he revered his practice, and recognized
the hero under the pietist. Perhaps he revered his father's practice even more now
than ever, seeing that, in the question of making Tessy his wife, his father had
not once thought of inquiring whether she were well provided or penniless. The same
unworldliness was what had necessitated Angel's getting a living as a farmer, and
would probably keep his brothers in the position of poor parsons for the term of
their activities; yet Angel admired it none the less. Indeed, despite his own heterodoxy,
Angel often felt that he was nearer to his father on the human side than was either
of his brethren.
An up-hill and down-hill ride of twenty-odd miles through a garish mid-day atmosphere
brought him in the afternoon to a detached knoll a mile or two west of Talbothays,
whence he again looked into that green trough of sappiness and humidity, the valley
of the Var or Froom. Immediately he began to descend from the upland to the fat
alluvial soil below, the atmosphere grew heavier; the languid perfume of the summer
fruits, the mists, the hay, the flowers, formed therein a vast pool of odour which
at this hour seemed to make the animals, the very bees and butterflies drowsy. Clare
was now so familiar with the spot that he knew the individual cows by their names
when, a long distance off, he saw them dotted about the meads. It was with a sense
of luxury that he recognized his power of viewing life here from its inner side,
in a way that had been quite foreign to him in his student-days; and, much as he
loved his parents, he could not help being aware that to come here, as now, after
an experience of home-life, affected him like throwing off splints and bandages;
even the one customary curb on the humours of English rural societies being absent
in this place, Talbothays having no resident landlord.
Not a human being was out of doors at the dairy. The denizens were all enjoying
the usual afternoon nap of an hour or so which the exceedingly early hours kept
in summer-time rendered a necessity. At the door the wood-hooped pails, sodden and
bleached by infinite scrubbings, hung like hats on a stand upon the forked and peeled
limb of an oak fixed there for that purpose; all of them ready and dry for the evening
milking. Angel entered, and went through the silent passages of the house to the
back quarters, where he listened for a moment. Sustained snores came from the cart-house,
where some of the men were lying down; the grunt and squeal of sweltering pigs arose
from the still further distance. The large-leaved rhubarb and cabbage plants slept
too, their broad limp surfaces hanging in the sun like half-closed umbrellas.
He unbridled and fed his horse, and as he re-entered the house the clock struck
three. Three was the afternoon skimming-hour; and, with the stroke, Clare heard
the creaking of the floor-boards above, and then the touch of a descending foot
on the stairs. It was Tess's, who in another moment came down before his eyes.
She had not heard him enter, and hardly realized his presence there. She was
yawning, and he saw the red interior of her mouth as if it had been a snake's. She
had stretched one arm so high above her coiled-up cable of hair that he could see
its satin delicacy above the sunburn; her face was flushed with sleep, and her eyelids
hung heavy over their pupils. The brim-fulness of her nature breathed from her.
It was a moment when a woman's soul is more incarnate than at any other time; when
the most spiritual beauty bespeaks itself flesh; and sex takes the outside place
in the presentation.
Then those eyes flashed brightly through their filmy heaviness, before the remainder
of her face was well awake. With an oddly compounded look of gladness, shyness,
and surprise, she exclaimed-''O Mr Clare! How you frightened me-I-''
There had not at first been time for her to think of the changed relations which
his declaration had introduced; but the full sense of the matter rose up in her
face when she encountered Clare's tender look as he stepped forward to the bottom
''Dear, darling Tessy!'' he whispered, putting his arm round her, and his face
to her flushed cheek. ''Don't, for Heaven's sake, Mister me any more. I have hastened
back so soon because of you!''
Tess's excitable heart beat against his by way of reply; and there they stood
upon the red-brick floor of the entry, the sun slanting in by the window upon his
back, as he held her tightly to his breast; upon her inclining face, upon the blue
veins of her temple, upon her naked arm, and her neck, and into the depths of her
hair. Having been lying down in her clothes she was warm as a sunned cat. At first
she would not look straight up at him, but her eyes soon lifted, and his plumbed
the deepness of the ever-varying pupils, with their radiating fibrils of blue, and
black, and gray, and violet, while she regarded him as Eve at her second waking
might have regarded Adam.
''I've got to go a-skimming,'' she pleaded, ''and I have on'y old Deb to help
me today. Mrs Crick is gone to market with Mr Crick, and Retty is not well, and
the others are gone out somewhere, and won't be home till milking.''
As they retreated to the milk-house Deborah Fyander appeared on the stairs.
''I have come back, Deborah,'' said Mr Clare, upwards. ''So I can help Tess with
the skimming; and, as you are very tired, I am sure, you needn't come down till
Possibly the Talbothays milk was not very thoroughly skimmed that afternoon.
Tess was in a dream wherein familiar objects appeared as having light and shade
and position, but no particular outline. Every time she held the skimmer under the
pump to cool it for the work her hand trembled, the ardour of his affection being
so palpable that she seemed to flinch under it like a plant in too burning a sun.
Then he pressed her again to his side, and when she had done running her forefinger
round the leads to cut off the cream-edge, he cleaned it in nature's way; for the
unconstrained manners of Talbothays dairy came convenient now.
''I may as well say it now as later, dearest,'' he resumed gently. ''I wish to
ask you something of a very practical nature, which I have been thinking of ever
since that day last week in the meads. I shall soon want to marry, and, being a
farmer, you see I shall require for my wife a woman who knows all about the management
of farms. Will you be that woman, Tessy?''
He put it that way that she might not think he had yielded to an impulse of which
his head would disapprove.
She turned quite careworn. She had bowed to the inevitable result of proximity,
the necessity of loving him; but she had not calculated upon this sudden corollary,
which, indeed, Clare had put before her without quite meaning himself to do it so
soon. With pain that was like the bitterness of dissolution she murmured the words
of her indispensable and sworn answer as an honourable woman.
''O Mr Clare-I cannot be your wife-I cannot be!''
The sound of her own decision seemed to break Tess's very heart, and she bowed
her face in her grief.
''But, Tess!'' he said, amazed at her reply, and holding her still more greedily
close. ''Do you say no? Surely you love me?''
''O yes, yes! And I would rather by yours than anybody's in the world,'' returned
the sweet and honest voice of the distressed girl. ''But I CANNOT marry you!''
''Tess,'' he said, holding her at arm's length, ''you are engaged to marry some
''Then why do you refuse me?''
''I don't want to marry! I have not thought of doing it. I cannot! I only want
to love you.''
Driven to subterfuge, she stammered-
''Your father is a parson, and your mother wouldn' like you to marry such as
me. She will want you to marry a lady.''
''Nonsense-I have spoken to them both. That was partly why I went home.''
''I feel I cannot-never, never!'' she echoed.
''Is it too sudden to be asked thus, my Pretty?''
''Yes-I did not expect it.''
''If you will let it pass, please, Tessy, I will give you time,'' he said. ''It
was very abrupt to come home and speak to you all at once. I'll not allude to it
again for a while.''
She again took up the shining skimmer, held it beneath the pump, and began anew.
But she could not, as at other times, hit the exact under-surface of the cream with
the delicate dexterity required, try as she might; sometimes she was cutting down
into the milk, sometimes in the air. She could hardly see, her eyes having filled
with two blurring tears drawn forth by a grief which, to this her best friend and
dear advocate she could never explain.
''I can't skim-I can't!'' she said, turning away from him.
Not to agitate and hinder her longer the considerate Clare began talking in a
more general way:
''You quite misapprehend my parents. They are the most simple-mannered people
alive, and quite unambitious. They are two of the few remaining Evangelical school.
Tessy, are you an Evangelical?''
''I don't know.''
''You go to church very regularly, and our parson here is not very High, they
Tess's ideas on the views of the parish clergyman, whom she heard every week,
seemed to be rather more vague than Clare's, who had never heard him at all.
''I wish I could fix my mind on what I hear there more firmly than I do,'' she
remarked as a safe generality. ''It is often a great sorrow to me.''
She spoke so unaffectedly that Angel was sure in his heart that his father could
not object to her on religious grounds, even though she did not know whether her
principles were High, Low or Broad. He himself knew that, in reality, the confused
beliefs which she held, apparently imbibed in childhood, were, if anything, Tractarian
as to phraseology, and Pantheistic as to essence. Confused or otherwise, to disturb
them was his last desire:
Leave thou thy sister, when she prays,
Her early Heaven, her happy views;
Nor thou with shadow'd hint confuse
A life that leads melodious days.
He had occasionally thought the counsel less honest than musical; but he gladly
conformed to it now.
He spoke further of the incidents of his visit, of his father's mode of life,
of his zeal for his principles; she grew serener, and the undulations disappeared
from her skimming; as she finished one lead after another he followed her, and drew
the plugs for letting down the milk.