12
The basket was heavy and the bundle was large, but she lugged themalong like a person who did not f ind her especial burden in material th ings.Occasionally she stopped to rest in a mechanical way by sorne gate or post; and then, giving the baggage another hitch upon her f ull round arm, went steadily on again.
It was a Sunday morning in late October, abou t four m onths after Tes s Durbeyfield's arriv al at Trantridge, and so me few weeks su bsequent to the night ride in The Chase.The time was not long past daybreak, and the yellow luminosity upon the horizon beh ind her back lig hted the ridge towards w hich her face was set—the barrier of the vale wherein she had of late been a stranger—which she would have to climb over to reach her birth-place.The ascent was gradual on this side, and the soil and scenery differed much from those within Blake-more Vale.Even the character and accent of the two peoples had shades of differen ce, despite the amalg amating effects of a round-ab out railway; s o that, though less than twenty miles from the place of her sojourn at Trantridge, her na tive v illage h ad s eemed a far-away spot.The field-f olk shut in th ere traded northward and westward, travelled, courted, and married northward and westward, thought northward and westward; those on this side mainly directed their energies and attention to the east and south.
The in cline was the same down which d'Urberville had driv en her so wildly on that day in Ju ne.Tess went up the remainder of its length without stopping, and on reaching the edge of the escarpment gazed over the familiar green world beyond, now half-veiled in mist.It was always beautiful from here; it was terrib ly beautiful to Tess to-day, for since her eyes last fell upon it she had learnt that the serpent hisses where the sweet birds sing, and her views of life had been totally changed for her by the lesson Verily another girl than the simple one s he had been at home was she who, bo wed by thought, stood still here, and turned to look behind her.She could not bear to look forward into the Vale.
Ascending by the long white road that Tess herself had just laboured up, she saw a two-wheeled vehicle, beside which walked a man, who held up his hand to attract her attention.
She obeyed the signal to wait for him with unspeculative repose, and in a few minutes man and horse stopped beside her.
“Why did you slip away by stealth like this?”said d'Urberville, with upbraiding breathlessness; “on a Sunday morning, too, when people were all in bed！I only discovered it by accident, and I have been driving like the deuce to overtake y ou.Just look at th e mare.Why go o ff like this?You know that nobody wished to hinder your going.And how unnecessary it has been for you to toil along on foot, an d encu mber y ourself with this h eavy load！I have followed like a madman, simply to drive you the rest of the distance, if you won't come back.”
“I shan't come back, ”said she.
“I thought y ou wouldn't—I said so！Well, then, put up y our baskets, and let me help you on.”
She lis tlessly placed her basket and bundle w ithin th e do g-cart, an d stepped up, and they sat side by side.She had no fear of him now, and in the cause of her confidence her sorrow lay.
D'Urberville mechanically lit a c igar, and the journey was continued wi th broken unemotional conversation on the commonplace objects by the wayside.He had quite forgotten his struggle to kiss her when, in the early summer, they had driven in the opposite direction along the same road.But she had not, and, sat now, like a puppet, reply ing to his remarks in m onosyllables.After so me miles they cam e in view of the clu mp of trees b eyond which the v illage of Marlott stood.It was on ly then that her still face showed the least emotion, a tear or two beginning to trickle down.
“What are you crying for?”he coldly asked.
“I was only thinking that I was born over there, ”murmured Tess.
“Well—we must all be born somewhere.”
“I wish I had never been born—there or anywhere else！”
“Pooh！Well, if y ou did n't wish to co me to Tr antridge wh y did y ou come?”
She did not reply.
“You didn't come for love of me, that I'll swear.”
“It's quite true.If I had g one for love o'you, if I had ever sin cerely loved you, if I loved you still, I should not so loathe and hate myself for my weakness as I do now……My eyes were dazed by you for a little, and that was all.”
He shrugged his shoulders.She resumed—
“I didn't understand your meaning till it was too late.”
“That's what every woman says.”
“How can you dare to use such words！”she cried, turning im petuously upon him, h er eyes flashing as the latent spirit（of which he was to see more some day）awoke in h er.“My God！I could knock y ou out of the gig！Did it never strike your mind that what every woman says some women may feel?”
“Very well, ”he said, laughing; “I am sorry to wound you.I did wrong—I admit it.”He dropped into some little bitterness as he continued：“Only you needn't be so ever lastingly fling ing it in my face.I a m rea dy to p ay to t he uttermost f arthing.You k now y ou need not work in the f ields or the dairies again You k now you may clothe y ourself with the best, instead of in the b ald plain way you have lately affected, as if y ou couldn't get a ribbon more than you earn.”
Her lip lifted slightly, though there was little s corn, as a rule, in her large and impulsive nature.
“I have said I will not take any thing m ore fro m you, and I will no t—I cannot！I should be your creature to go on doing that, and I won't！”
“One would think y ou were a princess from your manner, in addition to atrue and original d'Urberville—ha！ha！Well, Tess, dear, I can say no more.I suppose I am a bad fellow—a damn bad fellow.I was born bad, and I have lived bad, and I shall die bad in all probability.But, upon my lost soul, I won't be bad towards you again, Tess.And if certain circu mstances should arise—you understand—in which you are in the le ast need, the l east difficulty, send me one line, and you shall have by return whatever you require.I may not be atTrantridge—I am going to London fo r a time—I can't stand the old wo man.But all letters will be forwarded.”
She said that she did no t wish him to drive her fur ther, and th ey stopped just under the clump of trees.D'Urberville alighted, and lifted her down bodily in his ar ms, afterwards placing her articles on the ground beside her.S he bowed to him slightly, her eye just lingering in his; and then she turned to take the parcels for departure.
Alec d'Urberville removed his cigar, bent towards her, and said—
“You are not going to turn away like that, dear?Come！”
“If you wish, ”she ans wered ind ifferently.“See how y ou've mastered me！”
She thereupon turned round and lifted her face to his, and remained like a marble term while he imprinted a kiss upon her cheek—half perfunctorily, half as if zest had not yet quite died out.H er eyes vaguely rested upon the remotest trees in th e lane wh ile the k iss was given, as though s he were nearly unconscious of what he did.
“Now the other side, for old acquaintance'sake.”
She turned her head in the sa me p assive way, as one might turn at th e request of a sketcher or hairdresser, and he kis sed the oth er side, his lip s touching ch eeks tha t were da mp a nd sm oothly chill as t he skin of th e mushrooms in the fields around.
“You don't give me your mouth and kiss me back.You never willingly do that—you'll never love me, I fear.”
“I have said so, often.It is true.I hav e never really and truly loved you, and I think I never can.”She added mournfully, “Perhaps, of all things, a lie on this thing would do the most good to me now; b ut I have ho nour enough left, little as'tis, not to tell that lie.If I d id love you I may have the best o'causes for letting you know it.But I don't.”
He e mitted a laboured brea th, as if th e sc ene were ge tting r ather oppressive to his heart, or to his conscience, or to his gentility.
“Well, you are absurd ly melancholy, Tess.I have no reason for flattering you now, and I can say plainly that you need not be so sad.You can hold your own for beauty against any woman of these parts, gentle or s imple; I say it toyou as a practical man and well-wisher.If you are wise you will show it to the world more than you do before it fades……And y et, Tess, will y ou come it to back to me?Upon my soul I don't like to let you go like this！”
“Never, never！I made up my mind as soon as I saw—what I ought to have seen sooner; and I won't come.”
“Then good morning, my four months'cousin—goodbye！”
He leap t up ligh tly, arranged th e reins, and was gone between the tall red-berried hedges.
Tess did not look after h im, but slow ly wound along the croo ked lane.I t was still ear ly, and thoug h the sun's lower limb was just fr ee of the h ill, his rays, ungenial and peering, addressed the eye rather th an th e touch as yet.There was not a hu man soul near.Sad October an d her sadder self seemed th e only two existences haunting that lane.
As she walked, howev er, so me fo otsteps appr oached b ehind her, th e footsteps of a man; and owing to the briskness of his advance he was close at her heels and had said“Good morning”before she had been long aware of his propinquity.He appeared to be an artisan of some sort, and carried a tin pot of red paint in his hand.He asked in a business-like manner if he should take her basket, which she permitted him to do, walking beside him.
“It is early to be astir this Sabbath morn！”he said cheerfully.
“Yes, ”said Tess.
“When most people are at rest from their week's work.”
She also assented to this.
“Though I do more real work to-day than all the week besides.”
“Do you?”
“All the week I work for the glory of man, and on Sunday for the glory of God.That's more real than the other—hey?I have a little to do h ere at this stile.”The man turned as he spoke to an opening at the roadside leading into a pasture.“If you'll wait a moment, ”he added, “I shall not be long.”
As he had h er basket sh e cou ld no t well do oth erwise; and s he waited, observing him.He set d own her basket and the tin pot, and stirring the paint with the brush that was in it began p ainting large square letters on the middle board of the three composing the stile, placing a comma after each word, as ifto give pause while that word was driven well home to the reader's heart—
THY, DAMNATION, SLUMBERETH, NOT
2 Pet.ii.3.
Against the peaceful landscape, the pale, decaying tints of the copses, the blue air of the horizon, and the lichened stile-boards, these staring vermilion words shone forth.Th ey seem ed to shou t themselves ou t and make the atmosphere ring.Some people might have cried“Alas, poor Theology！”at the hideous defacem ent—the las t gr oteque, ph ase of a creed wh ich had serv ed mankind well in its time.But the words entered Tess with accusatory horror.It was as if this man had known her recent history; yet he was a total stranger.
Having fin ished his text he pick ed u p her basket, and she mechanically resumed her walk beside him.
“Do you believe what you paint?”she asked in low tones.
“Believe that tex?Do I believe in my own existence！”
“But, ”said she trem ulously, “suppo se y our sin was not of y our own seeking?”
He shook his head.
“I cannot split hairs on that bur ning query, ”he said.“I have walk ed hundreds of miles this past su mmer, painting these texes on every wall, g ate, and stile in the length and breadth of this district.I leave their application to the hearts of the people who read'em.”
“I think they are horrible, ”said Tess.“Crushing！killing！”
“That's what they are meant to be！”he replied in a trade voice.“But you should read my hottest ones—them I kips for slums and seaports.They'd make ye wriggle！Not but what this is a v ery good tex for rur al districts……A h—there's a nice bit of blank wall up by that barn standing to waste.I must put one there—one that it will b e good for dangerous y oung females like y erself to heed.Will ye wait, missy?”
“No, ”said she; and taking her basket Tess tr udged on.A little way forward she turned h er h ead.The o ld gray wall b egan to adv ertise a s imilar fiery lettering to the first, with a strange and unwonted mien, as if distressed at duties it had never b efore been called upon to perfor m.It was with a sud den flush th at sh e read and r ealized what was to b e the insc ription he was no whalf-way through—
THOU, SHALT, NOT, COMMIT—
Her cheerful friend saw her looking, stopped his brush, and shouted—
“If you want to ask f or edification on these things of moment, there's a very earnest good man going to preach a ch arity-sermon to-day in the parish you are going to—Mr.Clare of Emminster.I'm not of his persuasion now, but he's a good man, and he'll expound as well as any parson I know.'Twas he began the work in me.”
But Tess did not answer; she throbbingly resumed her walk, her eyes fixed on the groun d.“Pooh—I don't believe God said such things！”she m urmured contemptuously when her flush had died away.
A plume of smoke soared up suddenly from her father's chimney, the sight of which made her heart ache.The aspect of the interior, when she reached it, made her heart ache more.Her mother, who had just come down stairs, turned to greet her from the fireplace, where she was kindling barked-oak twigs under the breakfast kettle.The young children were still above, as was also her father, it being Sunday morning, when he felt justified in lying an additional half-hour.
“Well！—my dear Tess！”exclaimed her surprised mother, jumping up and kissing the girl.“How be y e?I didn't see y ou till you was in upon me！Have you come home to be married?”
“No, I have not come for that, mother.”
“Then for a holiday?”
“Yes—for a holiday; for a long holiday, ”said Tess.
“What, isn't your cousin going to do the handsome thing?”
“He's not my cousin, and he's not going to marry me.”
Her mother eyed her narrowly.
“Come, you have not told me all, ”she said.
Then Tess went up to her mother, put her face upon Joan's neck, and told.
“And yet th'st not got hi m to marry'ee！”reit erated h er mother.“Anywoman would have done it but you, after that！”
“Perhaps any woman would except me.”
“It wo uld ha ve b een som ething like a st ory t o come ba ck with, if you had！”continued Mrs.Durbeyfield, ready to burst into tears of vexation.“Afterall the talk about y ou and him which has reached us here, who would have
expected it to end like this！Why didn't ye think of doing some good for your family instead o'thinking only of yourself?See how I've got to teave and slave, and y our po or weak fath er with his heart clogged like a dr ipping-pan.I did hope for something to come o ut o'this！To see what a pr etty pair y ou and h e made that day when y ou drove away together f our months ago！See wh at he has given us—all, as we thought, because we wer e his kin.But if he's not, it must have been done because of his love for'ee.And yet you've not got him to marry！”
Get Alec d'Urberville i n the mind to marry her！He marry her！On matrimony he had never once said a word.And what if he had?Ho w a convulsive snatching at social salvation might have impelled her to answer him she could not say.But her poor foolis h mother little knew her present feelings towards this man.Perh aps it was unusual in the circu mstances, unlu cky, unaccountable; but there it was; and this, as sh e had said, was what made her detest herself.She had never wholly cared for him, she did not at all care for him now.S he had dreaded him, winced befor e him, succu mbed to adr oit advantages he took of her helplessness; then, temporarily blinded by his ardent manners, had been stirred to confused surrender awhile：had suddenly despised and disliked him, and had run away.That was all.Hate him she did not quite; but he was dust and ash es to her, and even for h er name's sake she scar cely wished to marry him.
“You ought to have been more careful if you didn't mean to get him to make you his wife！”
“O mother, my mother！”cried the agonized girl, turning passionately upon her parent as if her poor heart would break.“How could I be expected to know?I was a ch ild when I left this house four months ago.Why didn't you tell me there was danger in men-folk?Why didn't you warn me?Ladies know what to fend hands against, because they read novels, that tell them of these tricks; but I never had the chance o'learning in that way, and you did not help me！”
Her mother was subdued.
“I thought if I spoke of his fond feelin gs and what they might lead to, you would be hontish wi'him and lose your chance, ”She m urmured, wiping hereyes with her apron.“Well, we must make the best of it, I suppose.'Tis nater, after all, and what do please God！”
13
The event of Tess D urbeyfield's return from the manor of her boguskinsfolk was rumoured abroad, if rumour be not too large a word for a space of a squar e mile.In th e afternoon several y oung gir ls of Marlott, fo rmer schoolfellows and acquaintances of Tess, called to see her, arriving dressed in their best starched and ironed, as became visitors to a person who had made a transcendent conquest（as they supposed）, and sat round the r oom looking at her with great curiosity.For the fact that it was this said thirty-first cousin, Mr.d'Urberville, who had fallen in love with her, a gentleman not altogether local, whose reputation as a r eckless gallant and h eart-breaker w as beg inning to spread beyond the immediate boundaries of Trantridge, lent Tess's supposed position, by its f earsomeness, a f ar higher fascination than it wou ld h ave exercised if unhazardous.
Their interest was so deep that the younger ones whispered when her back was turned—
“How pretty she is; and how that best frock do set her off！I believe it cost an immense deal, and that it was a gift from him.”
Tess, who was reach ing up to get th e tea-things from the cornercupboard, did not hear these commentaries.If she had h eard them, she might soon have set h er fr iends righ t o n the matter.B ut h er mother he ard, an d Joan's simpl e vanity, having been denied the hope of a dashing marriage, fed itself as well as it cou ld upo n the sensation of a das hing flirtatio n.Upon the whole she felt gratified, even though such a limited and evanescent triumph should involve her daughter's reputation; it might end in marriage yet, and in the war mth of her responsiveness to their admiration she invited her visitors to stay to tea.
Their chatter, their laughter, th eir, good-humoured innuendoes, above all, their flashes and flicker ings of envy, rerived Tess's spirits also; and, as the evening wore on, she caught the infection of their excitement, and grew almost gay.The marble hardn ess left her f ace, she moved with so mething of her old bounding step, and flushed in all her young beauty.
At moments, in spite of thought, she would reply to their inquiries with a manner of s uperiority, as if r ecognizing that her exper iences in the field o f courtship had, indeed, been slightly enviable.But so far was she from being, in the words of Robert South, “in love with her own ruin, ”that the illusion was transient as lightning; cold reason came back to mock her spasmodic weakness; the ghas tliness of her momentary pride would co nvict her, an d recall h er to reserved listlessness again.
And the despondency of the nex t morning's dawn, when it was no longer Sunday, but Monday; and no best clothes; and the laughing visitors were gone, and she awo ke alone in her old bed, the innocent younger children breathing softly around her.In place of the ex citement of her return, and the interest it had inspired, she saw bef ore her a long and s tony highway which she had to tread, without aid, and with little sympathy.Her depression was then terrible, and she could have hidden herself in a tomb.
In the course of a f ew weeks Tess rev ived sufficiently to show herself so far as was necessary to get to church one Sunday morning.She liked to hear the chanting—such as it was—and th e old Psal ms, and to j oin in the Mor ning Hymn.That innate love of melody, which she had inher ited from her ballad-singing mother, gave the simples t music a p ower over her which could well-nigh drag her heart our of her bosom at times.
To be as mu ch out of ob servation as possible for reasons of her own, and to escape th e gallan tries of the y oung men, she set out bef ore the chimin gbegan, and took a back seat under the gallery, close to the lumber, where only old men and wo men came, and w here the bier stood on end among the churchyard tools.
Parishioners dropped in by twos and threes, depos ited themselves in rows before her, rested three-quarters of a minute on their foreheads as if they were praying, tho ugh th ey were no t; th en sat up, and look ed ar ound.When th e chants came on one of h er favourites happened to be chosen among the rest—the old dou ble chant“Langdon”—but she did n ot know what it was called, though sh e would much have liked to know.Sh e tho ught, without ex actly wording the thought, how strange and godlike w as a co mposer's power, who from the grave co uld lead thro ugh sequences of emotion, which he alone had felt st first, a girl like her who had never heard of his name, and never wou ld have a clue to his personality.
The people who had tur ned their heads turned them again as the serv ice proceeded; and at last observing her they whispered to each other.She knew what their whispers were about, grew sick at heart, and felt that she could come to church no more.