28
Her refusal, thoug h unexpected, did not per manently daunt Clar e.His experience of wo men was great enough fo r him to be aware that thenegative often meant nothing more than the p reface to the affirmative; and it was little enough for him not to know that in the manner of the present negative there lay a great excep tion to the d allyings of coyness.That s he had already permitted him to make love to her he read as an additional assurance, not fully trowing that in the f ields and pastures to“sigh gratis”is by no means deemed waste; love-making being here more often accepted inconsiderately and for its own sweet sake th an in the carking anxious ho mes of the amb itious, where a girl's craving for an establishment paralyzes her healthy thought of a passion as an end.
“Tess, why did you say‘no'in such a positive way?”he asked her in the course of a few days.
She started.
“Don't ask me.I to ld you wh y—partly.I am not good en ough—not worthy enough.”
“How?Not fine lady enough?”
“Yes—something lik e th at, ”murmured she.“Y our friends would scor n me.”
“Indeed, you mistake them—my father and mother.As for my brothers, I don't care—”He clasped his fingers behind her back to keep her from slipping away.“Now—you did not mean it, sweet?—I am sure you did not]You have made me so restless that I cannot read, or play, or do anything.I am in no hurry, Tess, but I want to know—to hear from your own warm lips—that you will some day be mine—any time you may choose; but some day?”
She could only shake her head and look away from him.
Clare regarded her attentively, conned the characters of her face as if they had been hieroglyphics.The denial seemed real.
“Then I ought not to hold you in this way—ought I?I have no right to you—no right to seek out wh ere you are, or to walk w ith you！Honestly, Tess, do you love any other man?”
“How can you ask?”she said, with continued self-suppression.
“I almost know that you do not.But then, why do you repulse me?”
“I don't repulse y ou.I like y ou to—tell me y ou love me; an d y ou may always tell me so as you go about with me—and never offend me.”
“But you will not accept me as a husband?”
“Ah—that's different—it is for y our good, ind eed my dearest！O, believe me, it is only for y our sake！I don't like to give myself the great happiness o'promising to be yours in that way—because—because I am sure I ought not to do it.”
“But you will make me happy！”
“Ah—you think so, but you don't know！”
At such times as this, apprehend ing the grounds of her refus al to b e her modest sense of incompetence in ma tters social and polite, h e would say that she was wonderfully well-informed and versatile—which was certainly true, her natural quickness, and her admiration for him, having led her to pick up his vocabulary, his accent, and fragments of his knowledge, to a surprising ex tent.After these tender contests and her victory she would go away by herself under the remotest cow, if at milking-time, or into the sedge, or into her room, if at a leisure interval, and mourn silently, not a minute after an apparently phlegmatic negative.
The struggle was so fearful; her own heart was so strongly on the side of his—two ar dent hearts against one poor li ttle conscien ce—that she tried to fortify her resolution by every means in her power.She had come to Talbothays with a made-up mind.On no accoun t could she agree to a step which might afterwards cause bitter rueing to her husband for his blindness in wedding her.And she held that what h er conscience had decided for her when her mind was unbiassed ought not to be overruled now.
“Why don't somebody tell him all ab out me?”she said.“It was only forty miles off—why hasn't it reached here?Somebody must know.”
Yet nobody seemed to know; nobody told him.
For two or three day s no more was said.Sh e guessed fr om th e sad countenances of her chamber companions that they regarded her not only as the favourite, but as the chos en; but they could see for themselves that she did n ot put herself in his way.
Tess had never before known a time in which the thread of her life was so distinctly twisted of two strands, positive pleasur e and positive pain.At the next cheese-making the pair were again left alo ne together.The dairymanhimself had been lending a h and; but Mr.Crick, as well as his wife, seemed latterly to h ave acquired a suspic ion of mutual i nterest b etween these t wo; though they walked so circumspectly that suspicion was bu t of the f aintest.Anyhow, the dairyman left them to themselves.
They were b reaking up the masses of curd before putting them into the vats.The operation resembled the act of crumbling bread on a large scale; and amid the immaculate whiteness of the curds Tess Durbeyfield's hands sho wed themselves of the pinkness of the rose.Angel, who was filling the vats with his handfuls, suddenly ceased, and laid his hands flat upon hers.Her sleeves w ere rolled far above the elbow, and bending lower he kissed the inside vein of her soft arm.
Although th e ear ly Septem ber weather was su ltry, her ar m, fro m h er dabbling in the curds, was as cold an d damp to h is mouth as a newgathered mushroom, and tasted of the whey.But she was such a sheaf of susceptibilities that her pulse was accelerated by the touch, her blood driven to her finger-ends, and the cool arms flushed hot.Then, as though h er heart had said, “Is coy ness longer necessary?Truth is truth between man and woman, as between man and man, ”she lifted her eyes, and they beamed devotedly into his, as her lip rose in a tender half-smile.
“Do you know why I did that, Tess?”he said.
“Because you love me very much！”
“Yes, and as a preliminary to a new entreaty.”
“Not again！”
She looked a sudden fear that her res istance might break down under her own desire.
“O, Tessy！”he went on, “I cannot think why you are so tantalizing.Why do you disappoint me so?You seem alm ost like a coquette, upon my life y ou do—a coquette of the first urban water！They blow hot and b low cold, just as you do; and it is the very last sort of thing to expect to f ind in a retreat like Talbothays……And y et, dearest, ”he q uickly added, observing how the remark had cut her, “I know you to be the most honest, spotless creature that ever lived.So how can I sup-pose you a flirt?Tess, why don't you like the idea of b eing my wife, if you love me as you seem to do?”
“I have never said I don't like the idea, and I never could say it; because—it isn't true！”
The stress now getting b eyond endurance h er lip quivered, and she was obliged to g o away.Clare was so pained and per plexed that he ran after and caught her in the passage.
“Tell me, tell me！”he said, passionately clasping her, in for getfulness of his curdy hands：“do tell me that you won't belong to anybody but me！”
“I will, I wil l tell you！”she excl aimed.“And I will give you a comple te answer, if y ou will l et me go now.I will t ell you my experiences—all about myself—all！”
“Your experiences, dear; yes, certainly; any number.”He expressed assent in loving satire, looking into her face.“My Tess has, no doubt, almost as many experiences as that wild convolvulu s out there on the gard en hedge, that opened itself this morning for the first time.Tell me anything, but don't use that wretched expression any more about not being worthy of me.”
“I will try—not！And I'll give you my reasons tomorrow—next week.”
“Say on Sunday?”
“Yes, on Sunday.”
At last she got away, an d did not stop in her retreat till she was in th e thicket of po llard willows at the lower side of the barton, where she could be quite unseen.Here Tess flung herself down upon the rustling undergrowth of spear-grass, as upon a bed, and r emained crou ching in palpitatin g misery broken by momentary shoots of joy, which her fears about the ending could not altogether suppress.
In reality, she was driftin g into acquiescence.Every seesaw of her breath, every wave of her blood, every pulse singing in.her ears, was a voice that
joined with nature in revolt against her scrupulousness.Reckless, inconsiderate acceptance of him; to close with him at the altar, revealing nothing, and chancing discovery; to snatch ripe pleasure before the iron teeth of pain co uld have time to shut upon her.that was what lov e counselled; and in almost a terror of ecstasy T ess divined that, despite her m any m onths of lon ely self-chastisement, wrestlings, communings, schemes to lead a f uture of austere isolation, love's counsel would prevail.
The afternoon advanced, and still she rem ained among the willows.She heard the rattle of taking down the pails f rom th e for ked stands; the“waow-waow！”which a ccompanied the getting together of th e cows.But she did not go to the milking.They wo uld see her agitation; an d the dairy man, thinking the cause to be love alone, would good-naturedly tease her; and that harassment could not be borne.
Her lover must have guessed her ov erwrought state, and invented so me excuse for h er non-appearance, for no inquiries were made or calls given.At half-past six the sun settled down up on the lev els, with the aspect of a great forge in th e heavens, and presently a m onstrous pumpkin-like moon arose on the o ther hand.The po llard willows, tor tured ou r of their natural shap e by incessant choppings, became spinyhaired monsters as they st ood up against it.She went in, and upstairs without a light.
It was now Wednesday.Thursday came, and Angel looked houghtfully at her from a d istance, but intruded in no way upon her.The indoor milkmaids, Marian and the rest, seemed to guess that so mething definite was a foo t, for they did not force any rem arks upon her in the bedchamber.Friday passed; Saturday.Tomorrow was the day.
“I shall give way—I shall say yes—I shall let myself marry him—I cannot help it！”Sh e jealously panted, with her hot face to the pillow that nigh t, on hearing one of the o ther girls sigh his na me in her sleep.“I can't bear to let anybody have him bu t me！Yet it is a wrong to him and may kill him when he knows！O my heart—O—O—O！”
29
“Now, who midye think I've heard news o'this morning?”saidDairyman Crick, as he s at down to breakfast next day, with a rid dling gaze round upon the munching men and maids.“Now, just who mid ye think?”
One guessed, and another guessed.Mrs.Crick d id not guess, b ecause she knew already.
“Well, ”said the d airyman, “'tis that slack-twisted'hore'sbird of a fe ller, Jack Dollop.He's lately got married to a widow-woman.”
“Not Jack Dollop?A villain—to think o'that！”said a milker.
The nam e entered quickly into Tess Durbey field's consciousness, for it was the name of the lover who had wronged his s weetheart, and had afterwards been so roughly used by the young woman's mother in the butter-churn.
“And has he married the valian t matron's daughter, as he promised?”asked Angel Clare absently, as he turned over the newspaper he was reading at the little table to which h e was always banished by Mrs.Crick, in her sens e of his gentility.
“Not he, sir.Never meant to, ”rep lied the dair yman.“As I say, 'tis a widow-woman, and she had money, it seems—fifty poun'a yearor so; and that was all he was after.They were married in a great hurry; and then she told him that by marrying she had lost her f ifty poun'a year.Just fancy the state o'my gentleman's mind at that news！Never such a cat-and-dog life as they've been leading ever since！Serves him well beright.But onluckily the poor woman gets the worst o't.”
“Well, the silly body should have told en sooner th at the ghost of her firs t man would trouble him, ”said Mrs.Crick.
“Ay; ay, ”responded the dairyman indecisively.“Still, you can see exactly how'twas.She wanted a home, and didn't like to run the r isk of losing him.Don't ye think that was something like it, maidens?”
He glanced towards the row of girls.
“She ought to ha'told him just before they went to church, when he could hardly have backed out, ”exclaimed Marian.
“Yes, she ought, ”agreed lzz.
“She must have seen what he was after, and should ha'refused him, ”cried Retty spasmodically.
“And what do you say, my dear?”asked the dairyman of Tess.
“I think she ought to have told him the true state of things—or else refused him—I don't know, ”replied Tess, the bread-and-butter choking her.
“Be cust if I'd have don e either o't, ”said B eck Knibbs, a married helper from one of the cottages, “All's fair in lov e and war.I'd ha'married en just as she did, and if he'd said two words to me abo ut not telling him befor ehand anything whatsomdever about my first chap that I hadn't chose to tell, I'd ha'knocked him down w i'th e ro lling-pin—a s cram little f eller like he！Any woman could do it.”
The laughter which followed this sally was supplemented only by a sorry smile, for form's sake, from Tess.What was comedy to them was tragedy to her; and she cou ld hardly bear th e mirth.She soon rose from table, an d, with an impression that Clare would follow her, went along a little wriggling path, now stepping, to one side of the irrig ating channels, and now to the other, till she stood by th e main s tream of the Var.Men had been cutting the waterw eeds higher up the river, and masses of them were floating past her—moving islands of green crowfoot, whereon she might almost have ridden; long locks of which weed had lodged against the piles driven to keep the cows from crossing.
Yes, there was the pain of it.This question of a woman telling her story—the heaviest of crosses to herself—seemed but amusement to others.It was as ifpeople should laugh at martyrdom.
“Tessy！”came fro m behind h er, and Clare sp rang across the gully, alighting beside her feet.“My wife—soon！”
“No, no; I cannot.For your sake, O Mr.Clare; for your sake, I say no！”
“Tess！”
“Still I say no！”she repeated.
Not expecting this he had put his arm lightly round her waist the moment after speaking, beneath her hangin g tail of hair.（The y ounger dairy maids, including Tess, breakfasted with th eir hair loos e on Sunday mornings befo re building it u p ex tra high for attending church, a style th ey could no t adopt when milking with their heads against the cows.）If she had said“Yes”instead of“No”he would have kissed her; it had evidently been his in tention; but her determined negative deterred his scrupulous heart.Th eir condition of domiciliary co mradeship put her, as the wo man, to such disadvantag e by its enforced intercourse, th at he felt it u nfair to her to exercise any pressure of blandishment which he might have honestly employed had she been better able to avoid him.He released her momentarily-imprisoned waist, and withheld the kiss.
It all turned on that release.What had given her strength to refuse him this time was solely the ta le of the wido w told by the dairy man; and tha t would have been overcome in another moment.But Angel said no more; his face was perplexed; he went away.
Day after day they met—somewhat less cons tantly than b efore; and thus two or thr ee weeks went by.The end of Septemb er drew near, and she could see in his eyes that he might ask her again.
His plan of procedure was dif ferent now—as though he had made up his mind that her neg atives were, after all, only coyness and youth startled by the novelty of the proposal.The fitful evasiveness of her manner when the subject was under discussion co untenanced the idea.So he play ed a m ore coax ing, game; and while never going bey ond words, or attem pting the ren ewal o f caresses, he did his utmost orally.
In th is way Clare pers istently wooed her in undertones like that of the purling milk—at the co w's side, at skimmings, at butter-makings, at ch eese-makings, among broody poultry, and among farrowing pigs—as no milkmaid was ever wooed before by such a man.
Tess knew that she must break down.Neither a religious sense of a certain moral validity in the previous union nor a conscientious wish for candour could hold out against it much longer.She loved him so passionately, and he was so godlike in h er ey es; and being, though untr ained, ins tinctively refined, h er nature cried for his tutelary guidance.And thus, though Tess kept repeating to herself, “I can never be his wife, ”the words were vain.A proof of herweakness lay in the very utterance of what calm strength would not have taken the trouble to formulate.Every sound of his voice beginning on the old subject stirred her with a terrifying bliss, and she coveted the recantation she feared.
His manner was—what man's is not?—so much that of o ne who would love and ch erish and defend her un der any conditions, chan ges, char ges, or revelations, that her gloom lessened as she basked in it.The season meanwhile was drawing onward to the equinox, and though it was still fin e, the days were much shorter.The dairy had again worked by morning candle-light for a long time; and a fresh renewal of Clare's pleading occurred one morning between three and four.
She had run up in her bedgown to h is door to call him as usual; then had gone back to dress and call the others; and in ten minutes was walking to the head of the stairs with the candee in her hand.At the same moment he came down his steps fro m ab ove in his s hirt-sleeves and put his arms across the stairway.
“Now, Miss Flir t, befo re y ou go down, ”he said perem ptorily.“It is a fortnight since I spoke, and this won't do an y longer.You must tell me what you mean, or I shall have to leave this house.My door was ajar just now, and I saw you.For your own safety I must go.You don't know.Well?Is it to be y es at last?”
“I am only just up, Mr.Clare, and it is too early to take me to task！”she pouted.“You need not call me Flirt.'Tis cruel and untrue.Wait till by and by.Please wait till by and by！I will really think, seriously about it between n ow and then.Let me go downstairs！”
She looked a little like what he said she was as, holding the cand lesideways, she tried to smile away the seriousness of her words.
“Call me Angel, then, and not Mr.Clare.”CallmeAngel, then, andnotMr.Clare.”
“Angel.”
“Angel dearest—why not?”
“'Twould mean that I agree, wouldn't it?”
“It would only mean that you love me, even if y ou cannot marry me; and you were so good as to own that long ago.”
“Very well, then, ‘Angel dearest, 'if I must, ”she murmured, looking at her candle, a roguish curl coming upon her mouth, notwithstanding her suspense.
Clare had resolved never to kiss her until he had obtained her promise; but somehow, as Tess stood there in her prettily tucked-up milking gown, her h air carelessly heaped upon h er head till there should be leisure to arrange it when skimming and milking were done, he broke his resolve, and brought his lips to her cheek for one moment.She passed downstair s very quickly, never looking back at h im or saying another word.The other maids were alr eady down, and the subject was not pursued.Excep t Marian they all looked wistfully an d suspiciously at th e p air, in the sad yellow ray s which the morning can dles emitted in contrast with the first cold signals of the dawn without.
When skimming was d one—which, as the milk di minished with the approach of autumn, was a lessening process day by day—Retty and the rest went out.The lovers followed them.
“Our tre mulous liv es ar e so d ifferent fro m th eirs, ar e they not?”h e musingly observed to her, as he regar ded the three figures tripping before him through the frigid pallor of opening day.
“Not so very different, I think, ”she said.
“Why do you think that?”
“There are very few women's lives that are not—tremulous, ”Tess replied, pausing over the new word as if it impressed her.“There's more in those three than you think.”
“What is in them?”
“Almost either of'em, ”she began, “would make—perhaps would make—a properer wife than I.And perhaps they love you as well as I—almost.”
“O, Tessy！”
There were signs that it was an exquisite relief to her to hear the impatient exclamation, though she had resolved so intrep idly to let gen erosity make one bid against herself.That was nowdone, an d she h ad not the power to attempt self-immolation a second time then.They were joined by a milker from one of the cottages, and no more was said on that which concerned them so d eeply.But Tess knew that this day would decide it.
In the afternoon several of the d airyman's household and assistants went down to the meads as u sual, a long way from th e dairy, where many of the cows were milk ed without being driven ho me.The supply was getting less as the animals advanced in calf, and the supernumerary milkers of the lush green season had been dismissed.
The work progressed leisurely.Each pailful was poured into tall cans that stood in a lar ge spring-waggon which had been brought upon the scene; an d when they were milked the cows trailed away.
Dairyman C rick, who was ther e with the res t, h is wrapp er gl eaming miraculously white against a leaden evening sky, suddenly looked at his heavy watch.
“Why, 'tis later than I thought, ”h e said.“Begad！W e shan't be soon enough with this milk at the station, if we don't mind.There's no time today to take it ho me and mix it with the bulk afore send ing off.It must go to station straight from here.Who'll drive it across?”
Mr.Clare volunteered to do so, though it was none of his business, asking Tess to accompany him.The even ing, thoug h s unless, h ad been war m and muggy for the season, and Tess had co me o ut with her milking-hood o nly, naked-armed and jacketless; cer tainly not dressed for a dr ive.She therefor e replied by glancing over her scant habiliments; but Clare gently urged her.She assented by relinquishing her pail and stool to the dairyman to take home, and mounted the springwaggon beside Clare.
