“Marian drinks.”
“Indeed！”
“Yes.The dairyman has got rid of her.”
“And you！”
“I don't drink， and I bain't in a decline.But—I am no great th ings 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 the morning milking？”
“Ah， yes.When you first came， sir， that was.Not when you had been there a bit.”
“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 y ou had I should h ave said‘Y es， 'and y ou would hav e married a woman who loved'ee！”
“Really！”
“Down to th e ground！”she whispered vehemently.“O m y 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 p athway.Why not be rev enged on so ciety by shaping his futur e d omesticities loosely， instead of kis sing th e 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， reasons.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 b adly used enough to wish fo r relief.And y ou at least love me disinterestedly.”
“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'sgood 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 agonypoint， and there's no other way！”
“Then don't get down， but sit where you are.”
He drove p ast the cross-roads， one mile， two miles， without showing any signs of affection.
“You love me very， very much， Izz？”he suddenly asked；
“I do—I have said I do！I loved y ou all the time we was at th e dair y together！”
“More than Tess？”
She shook her head.
“No， ”she murmured， “not more than she.”
“How's that？”
“Because nobody could love'ee more than T ess did……Sh e would have laid down her life for'ee.I could do no more.”
Like the pro phet on the top of Peor Izz Huett would fain have spok en perversely at such a moment， bu t the fasc ination exer cised o ver her roug her 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 someth ing as if a sob had solidified ther e.His ears repeated， “She would have laid down her life for'ee.I could do no more！”
“Forget our idle talk， Izz， ”he said， turning the h orse's head suddenly.“I don't know what I've been say ing！I will now drive y ou back to where your lane branches off.”
“So much for honesty towards'ee！O—how can I bear it—how can I—how can I！”
Izz Huett burst into wild tears， and beat her forehead as she s aw what she had done.
“Do you regret that poor little act of justice to an absent one？O， Izz， don'tspoil it by regret！”
She stilled herself by degrees.
“Very well， sir.Perhaps I didn't kn ow what I was saying， either， wh—when I agreed to go！I wish—what cannot be！”
“Because I have a loving wife already.”
“Yes， yes！You have.”
They reached the corner of the lane which they had passed half an hour earlier， and she hopped down.
“Izz—please please for get my momentary lev ity！”he cr ied.“It was so ill-considered， so ill-advised！”
“Forget it？Never， never！O， it was no levity to me！”
He felt ho w rich ly he deserved the repro ach that the w ounded cr y conveyed， and， in a sorr ow that was in expressible， leapt dow n and took her hand.
“Well， but， Izz， we'll part friends， anyhow？You don't know what I've had to bear！”
She was a r eally generous girl， and allowed no f urther bitterness to mar their adieux.
“I forgive'ee， sir！”she said.
“Now Izz， ”he said， wh ile she stood beside him there， forcing himself to the mentor's part he was far from feeling； “I want you to tell Marian when you see her that she is to be a good woman， and not to give way to folly.Promise that， and tell Retty that there are more worthy men than I in the world， that for my sake she is to act wisely and well—remember the words—wisely and well—for my sake.I send th is message to them as a dying man to the dying； for I shall never see them again.And you， Izzy， you have saved me by your honest words about m y wife fro m an incredible impulse towards folly and treach ery.Women may be bad， but they are not so bad as men in these things！On that one account I can never for get you.Be always， the good and sincere gir l you have hitherto b een； and th ink of me as a worthless lover， bu t a faithful fr iend.Promise.”
She gave the promise.
“Heaven bless and keep you， sir.Good-bye！”
He drove on； but no sooner had Izz turned into the lane， and Clare was out of sight， than she flung herself down on the bank in a f it of r acking anguish； and it was with a strained unnatural face that she entered her mother's cottage late that nig ht.Nobody ever was to ld how Izz spent the d ark hours that intervened between Angel Cltre's parting from her and her arrival home.
Clare， too， after bidding the girl farewell， was wrought to aching thoughts and quivering lips.But his sorrow was not for Izz.That evening he was within a feather-weight's turn of abandon ing his road to th e near est statio n， and driving acro ss that elevated dors al line of Sou th Wessex which d ivided him from his Tess's home.It was neither a contempt for her nature， nor the probable state of her heart， which deterred him.
No； it was a s ense that， despite her love， as corrobor ated by Izz's admission， the facts had not changed.If he was right at first， he was right now.And the momentum of the course on which h e had embarked tended to keep him going in it， un less diverted by a stronger， more sustained force than had played upon him this afternoon.He could s oon come back to her.He took the train that n ight for Lo ndon， and f ive days after sho ok hands in farewell of h is brothers at the port of embarkation.
41
From the foregoing events of the winter-time let us pres s on to a nOctober day， more than eight， months subsequent to the par ting of Clare and Tess.We discover the latter in changed conditions； instead of a br ide with boxes and trunks which others bore， we see her a lonely woman with a basket and a bundle in her own porterage， as at an earlier time when she was no bride； instead of the ample means that were projected by her husband for her comfort through this probationary period， she can produce only a flattened purse.
After again leaving Marlott， her home， she had got through the spring and summer without any gr eat s tress up on her phy sical powers， the time being mainly spent in r endering light irregular service at dairywork near Port-Bredy to the west of the Blackmoor Valley， equally remote from her native place and from Talbothays.She preferred this to living on his allowance.Mentally she remained in utter st agnation， a con dition which the mechanical occup ation rather fostered than checked.Her consciousness was at that other dairy， at that other season， in the presence of the tender lover w ho had confronted her there—he who， the moment she had grasped him to keep for her own， h ad disappeared like a shape in a vision.
The dairy-work lasted only till the milk began to lessen， for she had no t met with a second regular engagement as at Talbothays， but had done duty as a supernumerary only.However， as harvest was now beginning， she had simply to remove from the pasture to the stubble to find plenty of further occupation， and this continued till harvest was done.
Of the five-and-twenty pounds which had r emained to h er of Clar e's allowance， after deducting the other half of the fifty as a contribution to her parents for the trouble and expense to which she had put th em， she had as y et spent but little.But there now followed an unfortunate interval of wet weather， during which she was obliged to fall back upon her sovereigns.
She could not bear to let them go.Angel had put them into her hand， h ad obtained them bright and new from his bank for her； his touch had consecrated them to sou venirs o f h imself—they appeared to have had as y et no other history than such as was created by his and her own experiences—and to disperse them was like giving away relics.But she had to do it， and one by one they left her hands.
She had been compelled to send her mother her address from time to time， but she concealed her circumstances.When her money had almost gone a letter from her mother reached her.Joan stated that they were in dreadful difficulty； the autumn rains h ad go ne th rough the th atch of the house， which r equired entire renewal； but this could not be done because the previous thatching had never been paid for.New rafters and a new ceiling upstairs also were required， which， with the previous bill， would amount to a sum of twenty pounds.As her husband was a man of means， and had doubtless returned by this time， could she not send them the money？
Tess had thirty pounds coming to her almost immediately from Angel's bankers， and， the case being so deplorable， as soon as the sum was received shesent the twenty as requested.Par t of the remainder she was ob liged to expend in winter clothing， leaving only a nominal sum for the whole inclement season at hand.When the last pound had gone， a remark of Angel's that whenever she required further resources she was to apply to his fath er， r emained to be considered.
But the more Tess thought of the step the more reluctant was she to take it.The same delicacy， pride， false shame， whatever it m ay be called， on Clare's account， which had led h er to hide fr om her own parents the prolongation of the estrangement， hindered her in owning to his that she was in want after the fair allowance he had left her.They probably despised her already； how much more they would despise her in the character of a mendicant！The consequence was that by no effort could the parson's daughter-in-law bring herself to let him know her state.
Her reluctan ce to communicate with her husban d's parents might， sh e thought， lessen with the lapse of time； but with h er own the reverse obtain ed.On her leaving their hous e after the short visit subsequent to her marriage they were under the im pression that sh e was ultimately going to join her husban d； and from that time to the present sh e had done no thing to disturb their belief that she was awaiting his return in comfort， hoping against hope th at his journey to Brazil would r esult in a sh ort stay only， after which he would come to fetch her， or that he would write for her to jo in him； in a ny case that they would soon present a united front to their families and the world.This hope she still fostered.To let her parents know that she was a deserted wife， dependent， now that she had relieved their necessities， on her own hands for a living， after theéclat of a marri age which was to nulli fy the colla pse of the firs t attempt， would be too much indeed.
The set of brilliants returned to her mind.Where Clare had deposited them she did not know， and it mattered little， if it were true that sh e could on ly use and not sell them.Even were they absolutely hers it would be passing mean to enrich herself by a legal title to them which was not essentially hers at all.
Meanwhile her husband's days had been by no means free from trial.At this moment he was lying ill of fever in the clay lands near Curitiba in Brazil， having been drenched with thunder-storms and p ersecuted by other h ardships， in co mmon with all the English f armers and far mlabourers who， just at this time， were deluded in to going thither by the pro mises of the Brazilian Government， and by the baseless assum ption that those f rames which， ploughing and sowing o n English u plands， had resisted all the weath ers to whose mood they had b een born， could resist equally well all the weathers by which they were surprised on Brazilian plains.
To return.Thus it happ ened that when the last of Tess's sov ereigns had been spent she was unprovided with others to take their place， while on account of the seaso n she found it increasingly difficult to get employment.Not b eing aware of the rarity of intelligence， energy， health， and willingness in any sphere of life， she r efrained from seeking an indoo r occupation； fear ing towns， large houses， people of means and social s ophistication， and of manners other th an rural.From that direction of gentility Black Care had come.Society might be better than she supposed from her slight experience of it.But she had no proof of this， and her instinct in the circumstances was to avoid its purlieus.
The small dairies to the west， beyond Port-Bredy， in which she had served as supernumerary milkmaid during the spring and summer required no further aid.Room would probably have been made for her at Talbothays， if only out of sheer compassion； but comfortable！or table as her life had been there she could not go back.The anticlimax would be too in tolerable； and her return might bring reproach upon her idolized husband.She could not have borne their pity， and their whispered remarks to one another upon her strange situation； though she would a lmost hav e faced a k nowledge of h er c ircumstances by eve ry individual there， so long as her story had remained isolated in the mind of each.It was the interchange of ideas ab out her that made her sensitiveness wince.Tess could not account for this distinction； she simply knew that she felt it.
She was now on her way to an upland far m in the centr e of the coun ty， to which she had been recommended by a wandering letter which had reached her from Marian.Marian had som ehow hear d that T ess was sep arated from her husband—probably through Izz Huett—and the good-natured and now tippling girl， deeming Tess in tro uble， had hastened to notify to her fo rmer friend that she herself had gone to this upland spot after leaving th e dairy， and would like to see her there， where there was room for other hands， if it was really true thatshe worked again as of old.
With th e sh ortening of the d ays all hope of o btaining her husband's forgiveness began to leave her； and there was something of the habitude of the wild a nimal in the un reflecting instinct wi th which she rambled o n—disconnecting herself by littles from her eventful past at every step， obliterating her identity， giving no thought to accidents or contingencies which might make a quick discovery of her whereabou ts by others of im portance to her own happiness， if not to theirs.
Among the difficulties of her lonely position not the least was the attention she excited by her appearance， a certain bearing of distinction， which she had caught from Clare， b eing superadded to her natural attr activeness.Whilst th e clothes lasted which had been prep ared for her marriage， these casual glances of interest caused her no inconvenience， but as soon as she was co mpelled to don the wrapper of a fieldwoman， rude words were addressed to her more than once； but no thing occurred to cause her bodily fear till a particular November afternoon.
She had preferred the country west of the River Brit to the upland farm for which she was now bound， because， for one thing， it was nearer to the home of her husband's father； and to hover about that region unreco gnized， with the notion that she might decide to call at the Vicarage some day， gave her pleasure.But having once decided to try the higher and d rier levels， s he pressed b ack eastward， marching afoo t towar ds th e village of Chalk-New ton， wher e she meant to pass the night.
The lane was long and unvaried， and， owing to the rapid shortening of th e days， dusk came upon her before she was aware.She had reached the top of a hill down which the lane stretched its serpentine length in glimpses， when she heard footsteps behind her back， and in a few moments she was overtaken by a man.He stepped up alongside Tess and said—
“Good-night， my pretty maid：”to which she civilly replied.
The light s till remaining in the sky lit up h er face， though the landscape was nearly dark.The man turned and stared hard at her.
“Why， surely， it is the young wench who was at Trantridge awhile—youngSquire d'Urberville's friend？I was there at that time， though I don't live there now.”
She recognized in him the well-to-do boor whom Angel h ad knocked down at the inn for addr essing her coarsely.A spasm of anguish shot thro ugh her， and she returned him no answer.
“Be honest enough to own it， and that what I s aid in the town was tru e， though your fancy-man was so up about it—hey， my sly one？You ought to beg my pardon for that blow of his， considering.”
Still no answer ca me fr om Tess.There se emed only one esc ape for he r hunted soul.She sudden ly took to her heels with the sp eed of the w ind， and， without looking behind her， ran along the ro ad till she came to a gate which opened directly into a plantation.In to this she plu nged， and did not pause til l she was deep enough in its shade to be safe against any possibility of discovery.
Under foot the leaves were dry， and the foliag e of so me h olly bushes which grew among the deciduous trees was dense enough to keep off draughts.She scraped together the dead leaves till she had formed them into a large heap， making a sort of nest in the middle.Into this Tess crept.
Such sleep as she got was naturally fitful； she fan cied she heard strange noises， but persuaded herself that they were caused by the breeze.She thoug ht of her husband in some vague warm clime on the other side of the globe， while she was here in the cold.Was there another such a wretched being as she in the world？Tess asked herself； and， thinking of her wasted life， said， “All is vanity.”She repea ted the words mechan ically， till she r eflected that this was a most inadequate thought for modern days.Solomon had thought as far as that more than two thousand years ago； she herself， though not in the van of thinkers， had got much further.If all were only vanity， who would mind it？All was， alas， worse than v anity—injustice， punishment， exaction， death.The wife of Angel Clare put h er hand to her brow， and felt its curve， and th e edges of her eye-sockets perceptible under th e so ft skin， and thought as s he did so th at a time would come when the bone would be bare.“I wish it were now， ”she said.
In the midst of these w himsical f ancies she heard a new str ange sound among the leaves.It might b e the wind； y et th ere was scarcely any w ind.Sometimes it was a palpitation， sometimes a flutter； sometimes it was a sort ofgasp or gurgle.Soon she was certain th at the noises came from wild creatur es of some kind， the more so when， originating in the boughs overhead， they were followed by the fall of a heavy body upon the ground.Had she been ensconced here under other and more pleasant conditions she would have become alarmed； but， outside humanity， she had at present no fear.
Day at length broke in the slay.When it had been day aloft for some little while it became day in the wood.
Directly the assuring an d prosaic ligh t of the wor ld's active hours had grown stron g she cr ept from under her hillo ck of leaves， and look ed aro und boldly.Then she perceived what h ad been go ing on to disturb her.The plantation wherein she h ad taken shelter ran dow n at this spot into a peak， which ended it hitherward， outside the hedge bein g arable ground.Under the trees several pheasants lay about， their rich plumage dabbled with blood； some were dead， s ome feeb ly twitch ing a wing， so me staring up at the sky， so me pulsating quickly， some contorted， some stretched out—all of them writhing in agony， except the fortunate ones whose tortures had ended dur ing the night by the inability of nature to bear more.
Tess guessed at once the meaning of this.The birds had been driven down into this corner the d ay before by some shooting-party； and while those that had dropp ed dead und er th e sho t， o r had died before nigh tfall， h ad b een searched for and carried of f， many badly wounded bir ds h ad escaped and hidden themselves away， or risen am ong the thick boughs， where they had maintained their position till they grew weaker with loss of blood in th e night-time， when they had fallen one by one as she had heard them.
She had occasionally caught g limpses of these men in girl-hood， looking over h edges， or p eering through bus hes， and po inting th eir guns， str angely accoutred， a blood-thirsty light in their eyes.She had been told that， rough and brutal as they seemed just then， they were n ot like this all the year round， but were， in fact， qu ite civil persons sav e durin g cer tain weeks of autu mn and winter， when， like the inhabitants of the Malay Peninsula， they ran amuck， and made it their purpose to destroy life—in this case harmless feathered creatures， brought into being by artificial means solely to gratify these propensities—at once so unmanner ly and so unchiv alrous towar ds their weaker fellows inNature's teeming family.
With the impulse of a soul who could feel for kindred sufferers as much as for herself， Tess's first thought was to put th e still living bir ds out of th eir torture， and to this end with her own h ands she broke the necks of as many as she could f ind， leaving them to lie where sh e had fo und them till the gamekeepers should come—as they probably would co me—to look for them a second time.
“Poor darlings—to suppose myself the most miserable being on ear th in the sight o'such misery as y ours！”she exclaim ed， her tears running down as she killed the birds tenderly.“And not a twinge of bodily pain about me！I be not mangled， and I be n ot bleeding， and I h ave two hands to feed and clothe me.”She was ashamed of herself for her gloom of the night， based on nothing more tangible than a s ense of cond emnation under an arbitrary law of so ciety which had no foundation in Nature.
