53
It was evening at Emminster Vicarage.The two customary candleswere burning under their green shades in the Vicar's study, but he had not been sitting there.Occasionally he came in, stirred the small fire which sufficed for the increasing mildness of the spring, and went out again; sometimes pausing at the front door, going on to the drawingroom, then returning again to the front door.
It faced westward, and though gloom prevailed inside, there was still light enough without to see with distinctness.Mrs.Clare, who had been sitting in the drawing-room, followed him hither.
“Plenty of time y et, ”said the Vicar.“He doesn't reach ChalkNewton till six, even if the train should be punctu al, and ten miles of country-road, five of them in Crimmercrock Lane, are not jogged over in a hurry by our old horse.”
“But he has done it in an hour with us, my dear.”
“Years ago.”
Thus they passed the minutes, each well knowing that this was only waste of breath, the one essential being simply to wait.
At length th ere was a s light nois e in th e lane, and the old ponychaise appeared indeed outside the railings.They saw alight the refrom a form which they af fected to r ecognize, bu t would actually have passed by in the street without identifying had he not got out of their carriage at the particular moment when a particular person was due.
Mrs.Clare r ushed through the dark p assage to th e door, and h er husband came more slowly after her.
The new arrival, who was just about to enter, saw their anxious faces in the doorway and the gleam of the west in their spectacles because they confronted the last rays of day; but they could only see his shape against the light.
“O, my boy, my boy—home again at last！”cried Mrs.Clare, who cared no more at th at mo ment for the stains o f heter odoxy which had caused all this separation than for the du st upon his clothes.Wh at woman, indeed, among the most fa ithful adhere nts o f the tru th, believes the promises and thre ats of the Word in the sense in which she believes in h er own childr en, or wou ld not throw her theology to the wind if weighed against their happiness?As soon as they reached the room where the candles were lighted she looked at his face.
“O, it is not Angel—not my son—the Angel who went away！”she cried in all the irony of sorrow, as she turned herself aside.
His father, too, was shocked to see him, so reduced was that figure from its former contours by worry and the bad season that Clare had experienced, in the climate to which he had so rashly hurried in his first aversion to the mockery of events at ho me.You co uld see the skeleton beh ind th e man, and alm ost th e ghost behind the skeleto n.He matched Cr ivelli's dead Chris tus.His sunk en eye-pits were of m orbid hue, and the light in his ey es had waned.The angular hollows and lines of his aged ancestors had succeeded to their reign in his face twenty years before their time.
“I was ill over there, you know, ”he said.“I am all right now.”
As if, however, to falsify this asser tion, his le gs seemed to give way, and he suddenly sat down to save himself from falling.It was only a slight attack of faintness, re sulting fro m the t edious day's journey, and the exci tement o f arrival.
“Has any letter come for me lately?”he asked.“I received the last you sent on by the merest chance, and after considerable delay through being inland; or I might have come sooner.”
“It was from your wife, we supposed?”
“It was.”
Only one other had recently come.They had not sent it on to him, knowing he would start for home so soon.
He hastily opened th e letter produced, and was much disturb ed to read in Tess's handwriting the sentiments expressed in her last hurried scrawl to him.
O why have you treated me so monstrously, Angel！I do no t deserve it.I have thought it all over carefully, and I can never, never forgive you！You know that I d id not intend to wrong you—why have y ou so wronged me?You are cruel, cruel indeed！I will try to forget you.It is all injustice I h ave received atyour hands.
“It is qui te true！”said Angel, throwing down the letter.“Perhaps she wil l never be reconciled to me！”
“Don't, Angel, be so anxious about a mere child of the soil！”said h is mother.
“Child of the soil！Well, we all are children of the soil.I wish she were so in the s ense y ou m ean; but let me now explain to y ou what I hav e never explanied before, that her father is a d escendant in the male line of one of th e oldest Norman houses, like a good many others who lead obs cure agricultural lives in our villages, and are dubbed‘sons of the soil.'”
He soon retired to bed; and the nex t morning, feeling exceedingly unwell, he remained in his room pondering.The circumstances amid which he had lef t Tess were such that tho ugh, while on the south of the Equ ator and jus t in receipt of her loving epistle, it had seemed the easiest thing in the world to rush back into her arms the moment he chose to forgive her, now that he had arrived it was not so easy as it had seemed.She was passionate, and her present letter, showing th at her es timate o f h im h ad ch anged under h is d elay—too ju stly changed, h e sadly owned, —made him ask him self if it wo uld be wise to confront her unannounced in the presence of h er parents.Supposing that her love had indeed turned to dislike during the last weeks of separation, a sudden meeting might lead to bitter words.
Clare therefore thought it would be best to prepare Tess and her family by sending a line to Marlott announcing his return, and his hope that she was stil l living with them there, as he had arranged for h er to do when he left England.He despatch ed th e inquiry that v ery day, and bef ore th e week was out th ere came a sho rt reply fro m Mrs.Du rbeyfield w hich did n ot rem ove his embarrassment, for it bore no address, though to his surprise it was not written from Marlott.
SIR—J write these few lines to say that my Daughter is away from me at present, and J am not sure when she will return, but J will let you know as Soon as she do.J do not feel at liberty to tell y ou Where she is temperly biding.J should say that me and my Family have left Marlott for some Time.—Yours,
J.DURBEYFIELD.
It was such a relief to Clare to learn that Tess was at le ast apparently well that her mother's stiff reticence as to her whereabouts did not long distress him.They were a ll angry with hi m, evidently.He would wait till Mrs.Durbeyfield could infor m him of Tess's return, which her letter implied to be soo n.He deserved no more.His had been a love“which alters when it alteration finds.”He had undergone some strange experiences in his absence; he h ad seen the virtual Faustina in the literal Cornelia, a spiritual Lucretia in a corporeal Phryne; he had thought of the woman taken and set in the midst as one deserving to be stoned, and of the wife of Uriah being made a queen; and he had asked himself why he had not iudg ed Tess constructively rather than biographically, by the will rather than by the deed?
A day or two passed while he waited at his father's house for the promised second note fro m Joan Durbeyfield, and ind irectly to recov er a little more strength.The strength showed signs of coming back, but there was no sign of Joan's letter.Then he hunted up the old letter sent on to him in Brazil, wh ich Tess had wr itten f rom F lintcomb-Ash, and re-r ead it.The s entences touched him now as much as when he had first perused them.
I must cry to you in my trouble—I have no one else……I think I must die if you do not come soon, or tell me to come to you……Please, please not to be just; only a little kind to me……If you would come I could die in your arms！I would be well content to do that if so be you had forgiven me……If you will send me one little line and say, I am co ming soon, I will b ide o n, Angel, O so cheerfully……Think how it do hurt my heart not to see y ou ever, ever！Ah, if I could only make y our dear heart ache one little minute of each day as mine does every day and all d ay long, it might lead y ou to show pity to y our poor lonely one……I would be conten t, ay, glad, to live with you as y our servant, if I may not as your wife; so that I could only be near you, and get glimpses of you, and think of y ou as mine……I long for only one th ing in h eaven, or earth, or under the earth, to meet you, my own dear！Come to me, come to me, and save me from what threatens me.
Clare determined that he would no lo nger believe in her more recent and severer regard of him; bu t would go and find her immediately.He asked his father if she had applied for any money during his absence.His father returneda negative, and then for the first time it oc curred to Angel that her prid e had stood in her way, and that sh e h ad s uffered pr ivation.Fro m his remarks his parents now gathered the real reason of the s eparation; and their Christianity was such that, reprobates being their especial care, the tenderness towards Tess which her blood, her sim plicity, even her pov erty, had not engendered, was instantly excited by her sin.
Whilst he was hastily packing to gether a few articles for his journey he glanced ov er a poor plain missive also lately come to hand—the one from Marian and Izz Huett, beginning—
“Honour'd Sir—Look to your wife if you do love her as much as she d o you, ”and signed, “From Two Well-Wishers.”
54
In a quarter of an hour Clare was leaving the house, whence hismother watched his thin figure as it disappeared into the street.He had declined to borrow his father's old mare, well knowing of its necessity to the household.He went to the inn, where he hir ed a trap, and could hard ly wait dur ing the harnessing.In a very few m inutes after he was driving up the hill out o f the town which, three or fou r months earlier in the year, Tess had descended with such hopes and ascended with such shattered purposes.
Benvill Lane soon s tretched before him, its hedges and trees purple with buds; but he was looking at other things, and only recalled himself to the scene sufficiently to en able h im to ke ep the way.In so mething less t han an hour-and-a-half he had s kirted the so uth of the King's Hintock estates and ascended to the untoward solitude of Cross-in-Hand, the unholy stone whereon Tess had been compelled by Alec d'Urberville, in his whim of reformation, to swear the strange oath that she would never wilfully tempt him again.The pale and blasted nettlestems of the preceding year even now lingered nakedly in the banks, young green nettles of the present spring growing from their roots.
Thence he went along the verge of the up land overh anging th e o ther Hintocks, and, turning to the righ t, plunged in to the bracing calcareous regio n of Flintcomb-Ash, the address from which she had written to him in one of the letters, an d which he su pposed to b e the p lace of sojourn r eferred to b y her mother.Here, of course, he did not find her; and what added to his depr ession was the discovery that no“Mrs.Clare”had ever been heard of by the cottagers or by the f armer h imself, though Tess was rem embered well enough by her Christian name.His name she had obviously never used during their separation, and her dignified sense o f their total severance was shown no t much less by this abstention than by the hardsh ips she had chosen to und ergo（of which he now learnt for the first time）rather than apply to his father for more funds.
From th is place they to ld him Tess Durbeyfield had gone, w ithout du e notice, to th e ho me of her par ents on th e o ther side of Blackmoor, and i t therefore became necessary to find Mrs.Durbeyfield.She had told him she was not now at Marlott, but had been curiously reticent as to her actual address, and the only course was to go to Marlott and inquir e for it.The farmer who had been so churlish with Tess was quite s mooth-tongued to Clare, and lent him a horse and man to dr ive him towards Marlott, th e gig he h ad arrived in being sent back to Emminster; for the limit of a day's journey with that horse was reached.
Clare would not ac cept the loan of the far mer's vehicle fo r a further distance than to the outskirts of the Vale, and, sending it back with the man who had driven him, he put u p at an inn, and next day entered on foot the region wherein was the spot of his dear Tess's birth.It was as yet too early in the year for much colour to appear in the gardens and foliage; the so-called spring was but winter overlaid with a thin coat of greenness, and it was of a parcel with his expectations.
The house in which Tess had passed the y ears of her ch ildhood was no w inhabited by another family who had never known her.The new residents were in the g arden, taking as much interest in their own doings as if the ho mestead had never p assed its pr imal time in conjunction with th e his tories of o thers, beside which the histories of th ese were but as a tale told by an idio t.They walked abou t the g arden paths with thoughts of their own concerns en tirely uppermost, bringing their actions at every moment into jarring collision with the dim ghosts behind them, talking as though the time when Tess lived ther e were not one whit in tenser in story than now.Even the sprin g birds sang over their heads as if they thought there was nobody missing in particular.
On inquiry of these precious inno cents, to who m even the name of their predecessors was a failin g memory, Clare learned that John Durbeyfield was dead; th at h is widow an d children h ad left Marlott, declar ing that they were going to live at Kingsbere, but instead of doing so had gone on to another place they mentioned.By this time Clare abhorred the house fo r ceasing to contain Tess, and hastened away from its hated presence without once looking back.
His way was by the field in which he had first beheld her at the dance.I t was as bad as the house—even worse.He passed on through the churchyard, where, amongst the new headstones, he saw one of a somewhat superior design to the rest.The inion ran thus：
In memory of John Durbeyfield, rightly d'Urberville, of the once powerfulfamily of that Nam e, and Direct Des cendant through an Illus trious Line from Sir Pagan d'Urberville, one of the Knights of the Conqueror.Died March 10th, 18—
HOW ARE THE MIGHTY FALLEN.
Some man, apparently the sex ton, had observed Clare standing th ere, and drew nigh.“Ah, sir, now that's a man who didn't want to lie here, but wished to be carried to Kingsbere, where his ancestors be.”
“And why didn't they respect his wish?”
“Oh—no money.Bless your soul, sir, why—there, I wouldn't wish to say it everywhere, but—even this heads tone, for all th e flourish wr ote upon en, is not paid for.”
“Ah, who put it up?”
The man told the name of a mason in the v illage, and, on leaving the churchyard, Clare called at the mason's house.He found that the statement was true, and paid the bill.This done he turned in the direction of the migrants.
The distance was too long for a walk, but Clare felt such a strong desire for isolation that at f irst he would neither hire a conveyance nor go to a circuitous line of ra ilway by which he might e ventually re ach t he p lace.At Shas ton, however, he found he must hire; but the way was such that he did not enter Joan's place till about seven o'clock in the evening, having traversed a distance of over twenty miles since leaving Marlott.
The v illage being s mall he had little d ifficulty in f inding Mrs.Durbeyfield's tenement, which was a house in a walled garden, rem ote from the main road, where she had stowed away her clumsy old furniture as best she could.It was plain that for some reason or other she had not wished him to visit her, and he f elt his call to be so mewhat of an intrusion.She came to the door herself, and the light from the evening sky fell upon her face.
This was th e first t ime tha t Cl are had ever met he r, bu t he was t oo preoccupied to observe more than that she was still a handsome woman, in the garb of a respectab le w idow.He was oblig ed to explain that he was T ess's husband, and his object in coming there, and he did it awkwardly enough.“I want to see her at once, ”he added.“You said you would write to me again, but you have not done so.”
“Because she've not come home, ”said Joan.
“Do you know if she is well?”
“I don't.But you ought to, sir, ”said she.
“I admit it.Where is she staying?”
From the beginning of the interview Joan had disclosed her embarrassment by keeping her hand to the side of her cheek.
“I—don't know exactly where she is staying, ”she answered.“She was—but——”
“Where was she?”
“Well, she is not there now.”
In her evasiveness she paused again, and the y ounger children had by this time crep t to the doo r, where, pulling at his mother's skirts, the y oungest murmured—
“Is this the gentleman who is going to marry Tess?”
“He has married her, ”Joan whispered.“Go inside.”
Clare saw her efforts for reticence, and asked—
“Do you think Tess would wish me to try and find her?If not, of course—
“I don't think she would.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am sure she wouldn't.”
He was turning away; and then he thought of Tess's tender letter.
“I am sure she would！”he retorted passionately.“I know her better than you do.”
“That's very likely, sir; for I have never really known her.”
“Please tell me her addr ess, Mrs.Durbey field, in kindness to a lonely wretched man！”
Tess's mother again restlessly swept her cheek with her ver tical hand, and seeing that he suffered, she at last said, in a low voice—
“She is at Sandbourne.”
“Ah—where there?Sandbourne has become a large place, they say.”
“I don't know more particularly than I have said—Sandbourne.For myself, I was never there.”
It was appar ent th at Joan spoke the truth in this, and he pressed her nofurther.
“Are you in want of anything?”he said gently.
“No, sir, ”she replied.“We are fairly well provided for.”
Without entering the house Clare turned away.There was a s tation three miles ahead, and paying off his coachman, he walked thither.The last train to Sandbourne left shortly after, and it bore Clare on its wheels.
55
At eleven o'clock that nigh t, having secur ed a bed at one of thehotels and telegraphed his address to his father immediately on his arrival, he walked out into the str eets of Sandbourne.It was too late to call on or in quire for any one, and he relu ctantly postponed his purp ose till th e morning.But he could not retire to rest just yet.
This fashionable watering-place, with its easte rn and its wester n stations, its piers, its groves of p ines, its pro menades, and its covered gardens, was, to Angel Clare, like a fairy place sudd enly created by the s troke of a wand, and allowed to get a little du sty.An outlying eastern tract of the enor mous Egdon Waste was close at hand, yet onthe very verge of that tawny piece of antiquity such a glitterina nov elty as this p leasure city had chosen to sp ring up.Within the space o f a mile fr om its outskirts every irregularity of th e so il was prehistoric, every channel an undisturbed British trackway; not a sod having been turned there since the days of the Cesars.Y et the exotic had grown here, suddenly as the prophet's gourd; and had drawn hither Tess.
By the midnight lamps he went up and down the winding ways of this new world in an old one, and could d iscern between the trees and against the stars the lof ty roofs, chim neys, gazebos, and towers of the nu merous fanciful residences o f which the pla ce was co mposed.It was a city of d etached mansions; a Mediterranean lounging-place on the English Channel; and as seen now by night it seemed even more imposing than it was.
The sea was near at hand, but not intrusive; it murmured, and he thought it was the pines; the pines murmured in precisely the same tones, and he thought they were the sea.
Where could Tess possibly be, a cottage-girl, his young wife, amidst all this wealth and fashion?The more he pondered the more was he puzzled.Were there any cows to milk here?There certainly were no f ields to till.She was most probably engaged to do so mething in one of these large houses; and he sauntered along, looking at the chamberwindows and their lights going out one by one; and wondered which of them might be hers.
Conjecture was useless, and just after twelve o'clock he entered and went to bed.Before putting out his light h e reread Tess's impas sioned letter.Sleep, however, he could not, —so near her, yet so far from her—and he continu ally lifted the w indow-blind and reg arded the backs of the oppos ite houses, and wondered behind which of the sashes she reposed at that moment.
He might almost as well have sat up all night.In the morning he arose at seven, and s hortly after went out, taking th e direction of th e chief post-office.At the door he met an intelligent p ostman co ming ou t with letters for the morning delivery.
“Do you know the address of a Mrs.Clare?”asked Angel.
The postman shook his head.
Then, remembering that she would have been likely to continue the use of her maiden name, Clare said—
“Or a Miss Durbeyfield?”
“Durbeyfield?”
This also was strange to the postman addressed.
“There's visitors co ming and going ev ery day, as you know, sir, ”he said; “and without the name of the house'tis impossible to find'em.”
One of his comrades hastening out at that moment, the name was repeated to him.
“I know no name of Durbeyfield; but there is the name of d'Urberville at The Herons, ”said the second.
“That's it?Cried Clare, pleased to think that she had reverted to the real pronunciation.”What place is The Herons?”
“A stylish lodging-house.'Tis all lodging-houses here, bless'ee.”
Clare r eceived direction s how to fi nd the hous e, and hastened thither, arriving with the milkman.The Herons, though an ordinary villa, s tood in its own grounds, and was certain ly the last p lace in which on e would have expected to find lodg ings, so private was its app earance.If p oor Tess was a servant here, as he feared, she would go to the backdoor to that milkman, and he was inclined to go thither also.However, in his doubts he turned to the front and rang.
