“Perhaps somebody in the house is in love, ”sh e said tentatively.“I've heard tell in my younger days that will cause it.Why, Crick—that maid we had years ago, do ye mind, and how the butter didn't come then—”
“Ah yes, yes！—but that isn't the r ights o't.It had nothing to d o with the love-making.I can mind all about it—'twas the damage to the churn.”
He turned to Clare.
“Jack Dollop, a'hore's-bird of a fellow we had here as milker at one time, sir, cour ted a y oung woman over at Mellsto ck, and deceived her as he had deceived many afore.But he had another sort o'woman to reckon wi'this time, and it was not the girl herself.One Holy Thursday, of all days in the almanack, we was here as we mid be now, only there was n o churning in hand, when we zid the girl's mother coming up to the door, wi'a great brass-mounted umbrella in her hand that would ha'felled an ox, and saying‘Do Jack Dollop work here?—because I want him！I have a big bone to pick with he, I can assure‘n！'And some way behind her mother walked Jack's young woman, crying bitterly into her handk ercher.‘O Lar d, here's a tim e！'said Jack, looking out o'winder at'em.‘She'll murder me！Where sh all I ge t—where shall I—?Don't tell her where I be！'And with that he s crambled into the churn thr ough the trapdoor, and shut h imself inside, just as the young woman's m other busted into the milk-house.‘The villain—where is h e?'says she, ‘I'll claw his face fo r'n, let me only catch him！'Well, she hunted about everywhere, bally ragging Jack by side and by seam, Jack lying a'most stifled inside the churn, and the poor maid—or y oung woman rath er—standing at the door cry ing her eyes out.I s hall never forget it, never！‘Twould have melted a marble stone！But she couldn't find him nowhere at all.”
The dairyman paused, and one or two words of co mment came fro m the listeners.
Dairyman Crick's stories often seemed to be ended when they were not really so, and strangers were betrayed into p remature interjections of fin ality; though old friends knew better.The narrator went on—
“Well, how the o ld wo man should h ave had the wit to guess it I could never tell, but she found out that he was inside that there churn.Without saying a word she took hold of the winch（it was turned by handpo wer then）, and round she s wung him, and Jack b egan to flop about inside.‘O Lard！s t the churn！let me out！'says he, popping out his head, ‘I shall be churned into a pummy！'（he was a cowardly chap in his heart, as such men mostly be）, ‘N ot till ye make amends for r avaging her virgin innocence！'says the old wo man.‘Stop the churn, you old witch！'screams he.‘You call me old witch, do ye, you deceiver！'says she, ‘when ye ought to ha'been calling me mother-in-law these last five months！'And on went the churn, and Jack's bones rattled round again.Well, none of us ventured to interfere; and at last‘a promised to make it right wi'her.‘Yes—I'll be as good as my word！'he said.And so it ended that day.”
While the listen ers wer e s miling their co mments ther e was a quic k movement b ehind their backs, an d they looked round.Tess, palefaced, had gone to the door.
“How warm'tis today！”she said, almost inaudibly.
It was war m, and non e of th em connected h er withdr awal with th e reminiscences of the dairyman.He went fo rward, and opened the door for her, saying with tender raillery—
“Why, m aidy”（he frequently, with u nconscious irony, gave her this pet name）, “the prettiest milker I've got in my dairy; you mustn't get so fagged as this at the first breath of summer weather, or we shall be finely put to for want of'ee by dog-days, shan't we, Mr.Clare?”
“I wa s fa int—and—I think I am better o ut o'doors, ”she said mechanically; and disappeared outside.
Fortunately for her the milk in the revo lving churn at t hat moment changed its squashing for a decided flick-flack.
“'Tis comin g！”cr ied Mr s.Crick, an d the attention of a ll wa s called of f from Tess.
That fa ir su fferer soon recovered h erself extern ally; b ut she re mained much depressed all the afternoon.When the evening milking was done she didnot care to be with the rest of them, and went out of doors wandering along she knew not whither.She was wretched—O so wretched—at the perception that to her co mpanions the dair yman's story had been rather a hu morous narr ation than otherwise; non e of them but herself seemed to see the sorrow of it; to a certainty, not on e kn ew how cru elly it touched th e tender place in her experience.The evening sun was now ugly to her, like a great inflamed wound in the sky.Only a solitary cracked-voiced reed-sparrow greeted her fro m the bushes by the river, in a sad, machine-made ton e, resemblin g that of a past friend whose friendship she had outworn.
In these long June days the milkmaids, and, indeed, most of the household, went to b ed at sunset or sooner, the m orning w ork before milking b eing so early and he avy at a time of full pa ils.Tess usually accompanied her fellows upstais.Tonight, however, she was the first to go to their common chamber; and she h ad dozed when the other girls came in.She saw them undressin g in the orange light of the vanished sun, which flushed their forms with its colour; she dozed again, but sh e was r eawakened by their voices, and quietly turned her eyes towards them.
Neither of h er thre e ch amber-companions had g ot in to bed.They were standing in a group, in their nightgowns, barefooted, at the window, the last red rays of the west still warming their faces and necks, and the walls around them.All were watching somebody in the garden with deep interest, their three faces close together：a jovial and round one, a pale one with dark hair, and a fair one whose tresses were auburn.
“Don't push！You can see as well as I, ”said Retty, the auburn-haired and youngest girl, without removing her eyes from the window.
“'Tis no use for y ou to be in love with him an y m ore than m e, Retty Priddle, ”said jolly-faced Marian, the eldes t, slily.“His thoughts be of o ther cheeks than thine！”
Retty Priddle still looked, and the others looked again.
“There he is again！”cried Izz Huett, the pale girl with dark damp hair and keenly cut lips.
“You needn't say anything, Izz, ”answered Retty.“For I zid you kissing his shade.”
“What did you see her doing?”asked Marian.
“Why—he was standin g over the whey-tub to let of f the whey, and th e shade of his face came upon the wall beh ind, close to Izz, who was standin g there filling a vat.She p ut her mouth against the wall and kissed the sh ade of his mouth; I zid her, though he didn't.”
“O Izz Huett！”said Marian.
A rosy spot came into the middle of Izz Huett's cheek.
“Well, ther e was no harm in it, ”sh e declared, with attempted cooln ess.“And if I be in love wi'eh, so is Retty, too; and so be y ou, Marian, come to that.”
Marian's full face could not blush past its chronic pinkness.
“I！”she said.“What a tale！Ah, there he is again！Dear eyes—dear face—dear Mr.Clare！”
“There—you've owned it！”
“So have y ou—so have we all, ”said Marian, with the dry frankness o f complete indifference to opinion.“It is silly to pretend otherwise am ongst ourselves, though we need not own it to o ther f olks.I would just marry'n tomorrow！”
“So would I—and more, ”murmured lzz Huett.
“And I too, ”whispered the more timid Retty.
The listener grew warm.
“We can't all marry him, ”said Izz.
“We shan't, either of us; which is worse still, ”said the eldest.“There he is again！”
They all three blew him a silent kiss.
“Why?”asked Retty quickly.
“Because he likes Tess Durbeyfield best, ”said Marian, lowering her voice.“I have watched him every day, and have found it out.”
There was a reflective silence.
“But she don't care anything for'n?”at length breathed Retty.
“Well—I sometimes think that too.”
“But how silly all this is！”said lzz Huett impatiently.“Of course he won't marry any one of us; or Tess either—a gentleman's son, who's going to be agreat landowner and fa rmer abroad！More lik ely to ask us to co me wi'en as farm-hands at so much a year！”
One sighed, and another sighed, and Marian's plump figure sighed biggest of all.Somebody in bed hard by sighed too.Tears came into the eyes of Retry Priddle, the pretty red-haired y oungest—the last bud of the Paridelles, so important in the county annals.They watched silently a little longer, their three faces still close toge ther as before, and the triple hues of the ir hair mingling.But the un conscious Mr.Clare had gone indoors, and they saw him no more; and, the shades beginn ing to deepen, they crept into their beds.In a few minutes they heard him ascend the ladder to h is own room.Marian was so on snoring, but lzz did not drop into forgetfulness for a long time.Retty Priddle cried herself to sleep.
The d eeper-passioned Tess was ver y far fro m s leeping even then.This conversation was another or the b itter pills she had been ob liged to swallo w that day.Scarce the least feeling of iealousy arose in her breast.For that matter she knew h erself to ha ve the prefe rence.Being more f inely formed, better educated, and, though the youngest except Retty, more woman than either, she perceived that only the sligh test ordinary care was necessary for hold ing her own in Angel Clare's heart against these her candid friends.But th e grave question was, ought sh e to do th is?There was, to be sure, h ardly a ghost of a chance for either of th em, in a ser ious sense; b ut there was, or had been, a chance of o ne or the o ther insp iring him with a passing f ancy for her, and enjoying th e pleasur e of his atten tions while he stay ed here.Such uneq ual attachments had led to marriage; and she had hear d from Mrs.Crick th at Mr.Clare had o ne day asked, in a laug hing way, what would b e the use of his marrying a fine lady, and all the while ten thousand acres of Colonial pasture to feed, and cattle to rear, and corn to reap.A far mwoman w ould be th e only sensible kind of wife for him.But whether Mr.Clare h ad spoken seriously or not, why should she, who could never conscientiously allow any man to marry her now, and who had religious ly determined that she never would be tempted to do so, dr aw of f Mr.Clare's atten tion fro m o ther wo men, for the br ief happiness of sunning herself in his eyes while he remained at Talbothays?
22
They came downstairs y awning next morning; b ut sk imming andmilking wer e proceeded with as us ual, an d th ey went indoors to break fast Dairyman Crick was dis covered stamping about the house.He had received a letter, in which a customer had complained that the butter had at wang.
“And begad, so't have！”said the dairyman, who held in his left h and a wooden slice on which a lump of butter was stuck.“Yes—taste for yourself！”
Several of them gathered round him; and Mr.Clare tasted, Tess tasted, also the other indoor milkmaids, one or two of the milkingmen, and last of all Mrs.Crick, who came out from the waiting breakfast-table.There certainly was a twang.
The dairyman, who had thrown him self into abstraction to b etter realize the taste, an d so d ivine the p articular species of noxious weed to which it appertained, suddenly exclaimed—
“'Tis garlic！and I thought there wasn't a blade left in that mead！”
Then all the old hands remembered that a cer tain dry mead, into which a few of the cows had been ad mitted of late, had, in years gone by, spoilt, the butter in the same way.The dairyman had not recognized the taste at that time, and thought the butter bewitched.
“We must overhaul that mead, ”he resumed; “this mustn't continny！”
All having armed themselves with old pointed knives they went out together.As the in imical plan t cou ld only be present in very m icroscopic dimensions to have escaped ord inary obs ervation, to find i t s eemed ra ther a hopeless attempt in the stretch of rich grass before them.However, they formed themselves into line, all assisting, owing to the importance of the search; the dairyman at the upper en d with Mr.Clare, who had volunteered to help; then Tess, Marian, Izz Huett, and Retty; then Bill Lewell, Jonathan, and the married dairywomen—Beck Knibbs, with h er woolly black hair and rolling eyes; and flaxen Frances, consmnptive from the winter damps of the water-meads—who lived in their respective cottages.
With eyes fixed upon the ground they crept slow ly across as trip of the field, returning a little further down in such a manner that, when they should have finished, not a single inch of the pasture but would have fallen under, the eye of some one of them.It was a most tedious business, not more than half a dozen shoots of garlic being dis coverable in the whole field; yet such was th e herb's pungency that probably one bite of it by one cow had been sufficient to season the whole dairy's produce for the day.
Differing one from an other in nature and moods so greatly as they did, they yet formed, bending, a cur iously uniform row—automatic, noiseless; and an alien obs erver passin g down the neighbouring lane might well have b een excused for massing them as“Hodge.”As they crept along, stooping lo w to discern the plant, a soft y ellow gleam was ref lected from the buttercups into their shaded faces, giving them an elfish, moonlit aspect, though the sun was pouring upon their backs in all the strength of noon.
Angel Clare, who communistically stuck to his rule of taking part with th e rest in everything, glanced up now an d then.It was not, of course, by accident that he walked next to Tess.
“Well, how are you?”he murmured.
“Very well, thank you, sir.”she replied demurely.
As they had been discussing a score of personal matters only half-an-hour before, the introductory sty le seemed a little su perfluous.But th ey got no further in speech just the n.They crept and crept, the he m of her petticoat justtouching h is gaiter, and his elbow so metimes brushing h ers.At las t the dairyman, who came next, could stand it no longer.
“Upon my soul and body, this here stooping do fairly make my back open and shut！”h e exclaimed, straigh tening him self slowly with an excruciating look till quite upright.“And you, maidy Tess, you wasn't well a day or two ago—this will make your head ache finely！Don't do any more, if yon feel fainty; leave the rest to finish it.”
Dairyman Crick withdrew, and Tess dropped b ehind.M r.Clare als o stepped out of line, and began privateering about for the weed.When she found him near her, her very tension at what she h ad heard the night before made her the first to speak.
“Don't they look pretty?”she said.
“Who?”
“lzzy Huett and Retty.”
Tess had moodily decided that either of these maidens would make a good farmer's wife, and that she ough t to recommend them, and obscure her o wn wretched charms.
“Pretty?W ell, yes—they are pretty girls—fresh looking.I have often thought so.”
“Though, poor dears, prettiness won't last long！”
“O no, unfortunately.”
“They are excellent dairywomen.”
“Yes：though not better than you.”
“They skim better than I.”
“Do they?”
Clare remained observing them—not without their observing him.
“She is colouring up, ”continued Tess heroically.
“Who?”
“Retty Priddle.”
“Oh！Why is that?”
“Because you are looking at her.”
Self-sacrificing as her mood might be Tess could not well go further and cry, “Marry one of them, if y ou really do want a dairywoman and not a lady; and don't think of marry ing me！”She followed D airyman Crick, and had the mournful satisfaction of seeing that Clare remained behind.
From this d ay she forced hers elf to take pain s to avo id him—never allowing her self, as f ormerly, to remain long in his co mpany, even if their juxtaposition were purely accidental.She gave the other three every chance.
Tess was woman en ough to r ealize fro m their avowals to herself that Angel Clar e had th e ho nour of all the dairy maids in his keeping, and her perception o f his c are to avoid co mpromising th e happin ess o f ei ther in the least de gree bred a te nder resp ect in Tess for what she de emed, rig htly or wrongly, the self-con trolling sense of duty shown by him, a qu ality which she had never expected to find in one of the opposite sex, and in the absence of which more than one of the simple hearts who were his housemates might have gone weeping on her pilgrimage.
23
The hot weather of July had crept upon them unawares, and th eatmosphere of the f lat v ale hun g heavy as an opiate over the dairy-folk, th e cows, and the trees.Hot steaming rains fell frequently, making the grass where the cows fed yet more rank, and hinderi ng th e late h aymaking in the other meads.
It was Sund ay morning; the milking was done; the outdoor milkers had gone ho me.Tess and the other thr ee were dr essing them selves rapid ly, th e whole bevy having agreed to go together to Mellstock Church, which lay some three or four miles distant from the dairyhouse.She had now been two months at Talbothays, and this was her first excursion.
All the preceding af ternoon and nig ht heavy th understorms had hiss ed down upon the meads, and washed some of the hay into the riv er; bu t this morning the sun shone out all th e more brilliantly for the deluge, and the air was balmy and clear.
The crooked lane leading from their own parish to Mellstock ran along the lowest levels in a portion of its length, and when the girls reached the most depressed spot they found that the result of the rain had b een to flood the lane over-shoe to a d istance of some fifty yards.This would hav e been no serious hindrance o n a week-day; they wou ld have clicked through it in th eir high pattens and boots quite unconcerned; but on this day of vanity, this Sun's-day, when flesh went for th to coquet with flesh while hy pocritically af fecting business with spiritual things; on this occas ion for wearin g their white stockings an d th in shoes, and their pink, wh ite, and lilac g owns, on which every mud spot would be visible, the pool was an awkward impediment.They could hear the church-bell calling—as yet nearly a mile off.
“Who would have exp ected such a r ise in the river in su mmertime！”said Marian, from the top of the roadsidebank on which they had climbed, and were maintaining a precarious footing in the hope of creeping along its slope till they were past the pool.
“We can't g et th ere any how, without walking right throug h it, or els e going round the Turnpike way; and that would make us so very late！”s aid Retty, pausing hopelessly.
“And I do colour up so hot, walking into church late, and all the p eople staring round, ”said Marian, “that！hardly cool down again till we get into the That-it-may-please-Thees.”
While th ey stood cling ing to the bank they hear d a splashin g round the bend of the road, and presently appeared Angel Clare, advancing along the lane towards them through the water.
Four hearts gave a big throb simultaneously.
His aspect was probably as un-Sab batarian a one as a dogmaticparson's son often pr esented; h is attire b eing his dairy clo thes, long w ading boo ts, a cabbage-leaf inside his hat to keep his head cool, with a thistlespud to finish him off.
“He's not going to church, ”said Marian.
“No—I wish he was！”murmured Tess.
