Clare could bear this no longer. His eyes were full of tears, which seemed like
drops of molten lead. He bade a quick goodnight to these sincere and simple souls
whom he loved so well; who knew neither the world, the flesh, nor the devil in their
own hearts; only as something vague and external to themselves. He went to his own
His mother followed him, and tapped at his door. Clare opened it to discover
her standing without, with anxious eyes.
''Angel,'' she asked, ''is there something wrong that you do away so soon? I
am quite sure you are not yourself.''
''I am not, quite, mother,'' said he.
''About her? Now, my son, I know it that-I know it is about her! Have you quarrelled
in these three weeks?''
''We have not exactly quarrelled,'' he said. ''But we have had a difference-''
''Angel-is she a young woman whose history will bear investigation?''
With a mother's instinct Mrs Clare had put her finger on the kind of trouble
that would cause such a disquiet as seemed to agitate her son.
''She is spotless!'' he replied; and felt that if it had sent him to eternal
hell there and then he would have told that lie.
''Then never mind the rest. After all, there are few purer things in nature then
an unsullied country maid. Any crudeness of manner which may offend your more educated
sense at first, will, I am sure, disappear under the influence or your companionship
and tuition.'' Such terrible sarcasm of blind magnanimity brought home to Clare
the secondary perception that he had utterly wrecked his career by this marriage,
which had not been among his early thoughts after the disclosure. True, on his own
account he cared very little about his career; but he had wished to make it at least
a respectable one on account of his parents and brothers. And now as he looked into
the candle its flame dumbly expressed to him that it was made to shine on sensible
people, and that it abhorred lighting the face of a dupe and a failure.
When his agitation had cooled he would be at moments incensed with his poor wife
for causing a situation in which he was obliged to practise deception on his parents.
He almost talked to her in his anger, as if she had been in the room. And then her
cooing voice, plaintive in expostulation, disturbed the darkness, the velvet touch
of her lips passed over his brow, and he could distinguish in the air the warmth
of her breath.
This night the woman of his belittling deprecations was thinking how great and
good her husband was. But over them both there hung a deeper shade than the shade
which Angel Clare perceived, namely, the shade of his own limitations. With all
his attempted independence of judgement this advanced and well-meaning young man,
a sample product of the last five-and-twenty years, was yet the slave to custom
and conventionality when surprised back into her early teachings. No prophet had
told him, and he was not prophet enough to tell himself, that essentially this young
wife of his was as deserving of the praise of King Lemuel as any other woman endowed
with the same dislike of evil, her moral value having to be reckoned not by achievement
but by tendency. Moreover, the figure near at hand suffers on such occasion, because
it shows up its sorriness without shade; while vague figures afar off are honoured,
in that their distance makes artistic virtues of their stains. In considering what
Tess was not, he overlooked what she was, and forgot that the defective can be more
than the entire.
At breakfast Brazil was the topic, and all endeavoured to take a hopeful view of
Clare's proposed experiment with that country's soil, notwithstanding the discouraging
reports of some farm-labourers who had emigrated thither and returned home within
the twelve months. After breakfast Clare went into the little town to wind up such
trifling matters as he was concerned with there, and to get from the local bank
all the money he possessed. On his way back he encountered Miss Mercy Chant by the
church, from whose walls she seemed to be a sort of emanation. She was carrying
an armful of Bibles for her class, and such was her view of life that events which
produced heartache in others wrought beatific smiles upon her-an enviable result,
although, in the opinion of Angel, it was obtained by a curiously unnatural sacrifice
of humanity to mysticism.
She had learnt that he was about to leave England, and observed what an excellent
and promising scheme it seemed to be.
''Yes; it is a likely scheme enough in a commercial sense, no doubt,'' he replied.
''But, my dear Mercy, it snaps the continuity of existence. Perhaps a cloister would
''A cloister! O, Angel Clare!''
''Why, you wicked man, a cloister implies a monk, and a monk Roman Catholicism.''
''And Roman Catholicism sin, and sin damnation. Thou are in a parlous state,
''I glory in my Protestantism!'' she said severely.
Then Clare, thrown by sheer misery into one of the demoniacal moods in which
a man does despite to his true principles, called her close to him, and fiendishly
whispered in her ear the most heterodox ideas he could think of. His momentary laughter
at the horror which appeared on her fair face ceased when it merged in pain and
anxiety for his welfare.
''Dear Mercy,'' he said, ''you must forgive me. I think I am going crazy!''
She thought that he was; and thus the interview ended, and Clare re-entered the
Vicarage. With the local banker he deposited the jewels till happier days should
arise. He also paid into the bank thirty pounds-to be sent to Tess in a few months,
as she might require; and wrote to her at her parents' home in Blackmoor Vale to
inform her of what he had done. This amount, with the sum he had already placed
in her hands-about fifty pounds-he hoped would be amply sufficient for her wants
just at present, particularly as in an emergency she had been directed to apply
to his father.
He deemed it best not to put his parents into communication with her by informing
them of her address; and, being unaware of what had really happened to estrange
the two, neither his father nor his mother suggested that he should do so. During
the day he left the parsonage, for what he had to complete he wished to get done
As the last duty before leaving this part of England it was necessary for him
to call at the Wellbridge farmhouse, in which he had spent with Tess the first three
days of their marriage, the trifle of rent having to be paid, the key given up of
the rooms they had occupied, and two or three small articles fetched away that they
had left behind. It was under this roof that the deepest shadow ever thrown upon
his life had stretched its gloom over him. Yet when he had unlocked the door of
the sitting-room and looked into it, the memory which returned first upon him was
that of their happy arrival on a similar afternoon, the first fresh sense of sharing
a habitation conjointly, the first meal together, the chatting by the fire with
The farmer and his wife were in the field at the moment of his visit, and Clare
was in the rooms alone for some time. Inwardly swollen with a renewal of sentiment
that he had not quite reckoned with, he went upstairs to her chamber, which had
never been his. The bed was smooth as she had made it with her own hands on the
morning of leaving. The mistletoe hung under the tester just as he had placed it.
Having been there three or four weeks it was turning colour, and the leaves and
berries were wrinkled. Angel took it down and crushed it into the grate. Standing
there he for the first time doubted whether his course in this conjecture had been
a wise, much less a generous, one. But had he not been cruelly blinded? In the incoherent
multitude of his emotions he knelt down at the bedside wet-eyed. ''O Tess! If you
had only told me sooner, I would have forgiven you!'' he mourned.
Hearing a footstep below he rose and went to the top of the stairs. At the bottom
of the flight he saw a woman standing, and on her turning up her face recognized
the pale, dark-eyed Izz Huett.
''Mr Clare,'' she said, ''I've called to see you and Mrs Clare, and to inquire
if ye be well. I thought you might be back here again.''
This was a girl whose secret he had guessed, but who had not yet guessed his;
an honest girl who loved him-one who would have made as good, or nearly as good,
a practical farmer's wife as Tess.
''I am here alone,'' he said; ''we are not living here now.'' Explaining why
he had come, he asked, ''Which way are you going home, Izz?''
''I have no home at Talbothays Dairy now, sir,'' she said.
''Why is that?''
Izz looked down.
''It was so dismal there that I left! I am staying out this way.'' She pointed
in a contrary direction, the direction in which he was journeying.
''Well-are you going there now? I can take you if you wish for a lift.'' Her
olive complexion grew richer in hue.
''Thank 'ee, Mr Clare,'' she said.
He soon found the farmer, and settled the account for his rent and the few other
items which had to be considered by reason of the sudden abandonment of the lodgings.
On Clare's return to his horse and gig Izz jumped up beside him.
''I am going to leave England, Izz,'' he said, as they drove on. ''Going to Brazil.''
''And do Mrs Clare like the notion of such a journey?'' she asked.
''She is not going at present-say for a year or so. I am going out to reconnoitre-to
see what life there is like.''
They sped along eastward for some considerable distance, Izz making no observation.
''How are the others?'' he inquired. ''How is Retty?''
''She was in a sort of nervous state when I zid her last; and so thin and hollow-cheeked
that 'a do seem in a decline. Nobody will ever fall in love wi' her any more,''
said Izz absently.
Izz lowered her voice.
''Yes. The dairyman has got rid of her.''
''I don't drink, and I bain't in a decline. But-I am no great things at singing
afore breakfast now!''
''How is that? Do you remember how neatly you used to turn ''Twas down in Cupid's
Gardens' and 'The Tailor's Breeches' at morning milking?''
''Ah, yes! When you first came, sir, that was. Not when you had been there a
''Why was that falling-off?''
Her black eyes flashed up to his face for one moment by way of answer.
''Izz!-how weak of you-for such as I!'' he said, and fell into reverie. ''Then-suppose
I had asked YOU to marry me?''
''If you had I should have said 'Yes', and you would have married a woman who
''Down to the ground!'' she whispered vehemently. ''O my God! did you never guess
it till now!'' By-and-by they reached a branch road to a village.
''I must get down. I live out there,'' said Izz abruptly, never having spoken
since her avowal.
Clare slowed the horse. He was incensed against his fate, bitterly disposed towards
social ordinances; for they had cooped him up in a corner, out of which there was
no legitimate pathway. Why not be revenged on society by shaping his future domesticities
loosely, instead of kissing the pedagogic rod of convention in this ensnaring manner?
''I am going to Brazil alone, Izz,'' said he. ''I have separated from my wife
for personal, not voyaging, reason. I may never live with her again. I may not be
able to love you; but-will you go with me instead of her?''
''You truly wish me to go?''
''I do. I have been badly used enough to wish for relief. And you at least love
''Yes-I will go,'' said Izz, after a pause.
''You will? You know what it means, Izz?''
''It means that I shall live with you for the time you are over there-that's
good enough for me.''
''Remember, you are not to trust me in morals now. But I ought to remind you
that it will be wrong-doing in the eyes of civilization-Western civilization, that
is to say.''
''I don't mind that; no woman do when it comes to agonyЦ point, and there's no
''Then don't get down, but sit where you are.''
He drove past the cross-roads, one mile, two miles, without showing any signs
''You love me very, very much, Izz?'' he suddenly asked.
''I do-I have said I do! I loved you all the time we was at the dairy together!''
''More than Tess?''
She shook her head.
''No,'' she murmured, ''not more than she.''
''Because nobody could love 'ee more than Tess did! Е She would have laid down
her life for 'ee. I could do no more.''
Like the prophet on the top of Peor, Izz Huett would fain have spoken perversely
at such a moment, but the fascination exercised over her rougher nature by Tess's
character compelled her to grace.
Clare was silent; his heart had risen at these straightforward words from such
an unexpected unimpeachable quarter. In his throat was something as if a sob had
solidified there. His ear repeated, ''SHE WOULD HAVE LAID DOWN HER LIFE FOR 'EE.
I COULD DO NO MORE!''