Thus speaking she turned from the stile over which she had been leaning, and
faced him; whereupon his eyes, falling casually upon the familiar countenance and
form, remained contemplating her. The inferior man was quiet in him now; but it
was surely not extracted, nor even entirely subdued.
''Don't look at me like that!'' he said abruptly.
Tess, who had been quite unconscious of her action and mien, instantly withdrew
the large dark gaze of her eyes, stammering with a flush, ''I beg your pardon!''
And there was revived in her the wretched sentiment which had often come to her
before, that in inhabiting the fleshly tabernacle with which Nature had endowed
her she was somehow doing wrong.
''No, no! Don't beg my pardon. But since you wear a veil to hide your good looks,
why don't you keep it down?''
She pulled down the veil, saying hastily, ''It was mostly to keep off the wind.''
''It may seem harsh of me to dictate like this,'' he went on; ''but it is better
that I should not look too often on you. It might be dangerous.''
''Ssh!'' said Tess.
''Well, women's faces have had too much power over me already for me not to fear
them! An evangelist has nothing to do with such as they; and it reminds me of the
old times that I would forget!''
After this their conversation dwindled to a casual remark now and then as they
rambled onward, Tess inwardly wondering how far he was going with her, and not liking
to send him back by positive mandate. Frequently when they came to a gate or stile
they found painted thereon in red or blue letters some text of Scripture, and she
asked him if he knew who had been at the pains to blazon these announcements. He
told her that the man was employed by himself and others who were working with him
in that district, to paint these reminders that no means might be left untried which
might move the hearts of a wicked generation.
At length the road touched the spot called ''Cross-in-Hand.'' Of all spots on
the bleached and desolate upland this was the most forlorn. It was so far removed
from the charm which is sought in landscape by artists and view-lovers as to reach
a new kind of beauty, a negative beauty of tragic tone. The place took its name
from a stone pillar which stood there, a strange rude monolith, from a stratum unknown
in any local quarry, on which was roughly carved a human hand. Differing accounts
were given of its history and purport. Some authorities stated that a devotional
cross had once formed the complete erection thereon, of which the present relic
was but the stump; others that the stone as it stood was entire, and that it had
been fixed there to mark a boundary or place of meeting. Anyhow, whatever the origin
of the relic, there was and is something sinister, or solemn, according to mood,
in the scene amid which it stands; something tending to impress the most phlegmatic
''I think I must leave you now,'' he remarked, as they drew near to this spot.
''I have to preach at Abbot's-Cernel at six this evening, and my way lies across
to the right from here. And you upset me somewhat too, Tessy-I cannot, will not,
say why. I must go away and get strength. Е How is it that you speak so fluently
now? Who has taught you such good English?''
''I have learnt things in my troubles,'' she said evasively.
''What troubles have you had?''
She told him of the first one-the only one that related to him.
D'Urberville was struck mute. ''I knew nothing of this till now!'' he next murmured.
''Why didn't you write to me when you felt your trouble coming on?''
She did not reply; and he broke the silence by adding: ''Well-you will see me
''No,'' she answered. ''Do not again come near me!'' ''I will think. But before
we part come here.'' He stepped up to the pillar. ''This was once a Holy Cross.
Relics are not in my creed; but I fear you at moments-far more than you need fear
me at present; and to lessen my fear, put your hand upon that stone hand, and swear
that you will never tempt me-by your charms or ways.''
''Good God-how can you ask what is so unnecessary! All that is furthest from
''Yes-but swear it.''
Tess, half frightened, gave way to his importunity; placed her hand upon the
stone and swore.
''I am sorry you are not a believer,'' he continued; ''that some unbeliever should
have got hold of you and unsettled your mind. But no more now. At home at least
I can pray for you; and I will; and who knows what may not happen? I'm off. Goodbye!''
He turned to a hunting-gate in the hedge, and without letting his eyes again
rest upon her leapt over, and struck out across the down in the direction of Abbot's-Cernel.
As he walked his pace showed perturbation, and by-and-by, as if instigated by a
former thought, he drew from his pocket a small book, between the leaves of which
was folded a letter, worn and soiled, as from much re-reading. D'Urberville opened
the letter. It was dated several months before this time, and was signed by Parson
The letter began by expressing the writer's unfeigned joy at d'Urberville's conversion,
and thanked him for his kindness in communicating with the parson on the subject.
It expressed Mr Clare's warm assurance of forgiveness for d'Urberville's former
conduct, and his interest in the young man's plans for the future. He, Mr Clare,
would much have liked to see d'Urberville in the Church to whose ministry he had
devoted so many years of his own life, and would have helped him to enter a theological
college to that end; but since his correspondent had possibly not cared to do this
on account of the delay it would have entailed, he was not the man to insist upon
its paramount importance. Every man must work as he could best work, and in the
method towards which he felt impelled by the Spirit.
D'Urberville read and re-read this letter, and seemed to quiz himself cynically.
He also read some passages from memoranda as he walked till his face assumed a calm,
and apparently the image of Tess no longer troubled his mind.
She meanwhile had kept along the edge of the hill by which lay her nearest way
home. Within the distance of a mile she met a solitary shepherd.
''What is the meaning of that old stone I have passed?'' she asked of him. ''Was
it ever a Holy Cross?''
''Cross-no; 'twer not a cross! ''Tis a thing of ill-omen, Miss. It was put up
in wuld times by the relations of a malefactor who was tortured there by nailing
his hand to a post and afterwards hung. The bones lie underneath. They say he sold
his soul to the devil, and that he walks at times.''
She felt the PETIT MORT at this unexpectedly gruesome information, and left the
solitary man behind her. It was dusk when she drew near to Flintcomb-Ash, and in
the lane at the entrance to the hamlet she approached a girl and her lover without
their observing her. They were talking no secrets, and the clear unconcerned voice
of the young woman, in response to the warmer accents of the man, spread into the
chilly air as the one soothing thing within the dusky horizon, full of a stagnant
obscurity upon which nothing else intruded. For a moment the voices cheered the
heart of Tess, till she reasoned that this interview had its origin, on one side
or the other, in the same attraction which had been the prelude to her own tribulation.
When she came close the girl turned serenely and recognized her, the young man walking
off in embarrassment. The woman was Izz Huett, whose interest in Tess's excursion
immediately superseded her own proceedings. Tess did not explain very clearly its
results, and Izz, who was a girl of tact, began to speak of her own little affair,
a phase of which Tess had just witnessed.
''He is Amby Seedling, the chap who used to sometimes come and help at Talbothays,''
she explained indifferently. ''He actually inquired and found out that I had come
here, and has followed me. He says he's been in love wi' me these two years. But
I've hardly answered him.''
Several days had passed since her futile journey, and Tess was afield. The dry winter
wind still blew, but a screen of thatched hurdles erected in the eye of the blast
kept its force away from her. On the sheltered side was a turnip-slicing machine,
whose bright blue hue of new paint seemed almost vocal in the otherwise subdued
scene. Opposite its front was a long mound or ''grave'', in which the roots had
been preserved since early winter. Tess was standing at the uncovered end, chopping
off with a bill-hook the fibres and earth from each root, and throwing it after
the operation into the slicer. A man was turning the handle of the machine, and
from its trough came the newly-cut swedes, the fresh smell of whose yellow chips
was accompanied by the sounds of the snuffling wind, the smart swish of the slicing-blades,
and the choppings of the hook in Tess's leather-gloved hand.
The wide acreage of blank agricultural brownness, apparent where the swedes had
been pulled, was beginning to be striped in wales of darker brown, gradually broadening
to ribands. Along the edge of each of these something crept upon ten legs, moving
without haste and without rest up and down the whole length of the field; it was
two horses and a man, the plough going between them, turning up the cleared ground
for a spring sowing.
For hours nothing relieved the joyless monotony of things. Then, far beyond the
ploughing-teams, a black speck was seen. It had come from the corner of a fence,
where there was a gap, and its tendency was up the incline, towards the swede-cutters.
From the proportions of a mere point it advanced to the shape of a ninepin, and
was soon perceived to be a man in black, arriving from the direction of Flintcomb-Ash.
The man at the slicer, having nothing else to do with his eyes, continually observed
the comer, but Tess, who was occupied, did not perceived him till her companion
directed her attention to his approach.
It was not her hard taskmaster, Farmer Groby; it was one in a semi-clerical costume,
who now represented what had once been the free-and-easy Alec d'Urberville. Not
being hot at his preaching there was less enthusiasm about him now, and the presence
of the grinder seemed to embarrass him. A pale distress was already on Tess's face,
and she pulled her curtained hood further over it.
D'Urberville came up and said quietly-
''I want to speak to you, Tess.''
''You have refused my last request, not to come near me!'' said she.
''Yes, but I have a good reason.''
''Well, tell it.''
''It is more serious than you may think.''
He glanced round to see if he were overheard. They were at some distance from
the man who turned the slicer, and the movement of the machine, too, sufficiently
prevented Alec's words reaching other ears. D'Urberville placed himself so as to
screen Tess from the labourer, turning his back to the latter.
''It is this,'' he continued, with capricious compunction. ''In thinking of your
soul and mine when we last met, I neglected to inquire as to your worldly condition.
You were well dressed, and I did not think of it. But I see now that it is hard-harder
than it used to be when I-knew you-harder than you deserve. Perhaps a good deal
of it is owning to me!''
She did not answer, and he watched her inquiringly, as, with bent head, her face
completely screened by the hood, she resumed her trimming of the swedes. By going
on with her work she felt better able to keep him outside her emotions.
''Tess,'' he added, with a sigh of discontent,-''yours was the very worst case
I ever was concerned in! I had no idea of what had resulted till you told me. Scamp
that I was to foul that innocent life! The whole blame was mine-the whole unconventional
business of our time at Trantridge. You, too, the real blood of which I am but the
base imitation, what a blind young thing you were as to possibilities! I say in
all earnestness that it is a shame for parents to bring up their girls in such dangerous
ignorance of the gins and nets that the wicked may set for them, whether their motive
be a good one or the result of simple indifference.''
Tess still did no more than listen, throwing down one globular root and taking
up another with automatic regularity, the pensive contour of the mere fieldwoman
alone marking her.
''But it is not that I came to say,'' d'Urberville went on. ''My circumstances
are these. I have lost my mother since you were at Trantridge, and the place is
my own. But I intend to sell it, and devote myself to missionary work in Africa.
A devil of a poor hand I shall make at the trade, no doubt. However, what I want
to ask you is, will you put it in my power to do my duty-to make the only reparation
I can make for the trick played you: that is, will you be my wife, and go with me?
Е I have already obtained this precious document. It was my old mother's dying wish.''
He drew a piece of parchment from his pocket, with a slight fumbling of embarrassment.
''What is it?'' said she.
''A marriage licence.''
''O no, sir-no!'' she said quickly, starting back.
''You will not? Why is that?''
And as he asked the question a disappointment which was not entirely the disappointment
of thwarted duty crossed d'Urberville's face. It was unmistakably a symptom that
something of his old passion for her had been revived; duty and desire ran hand-in-hand.
''Surely,'' he began again, in more impetuous tones, and then looked round at
the labourer who turned the slicer.