by Thomas Hardy
“I don’t think you ought to have felt glad, Angel. Because ‘tis always mournful not to be wanted, even if at the same time ’tis convenient.”
“Well, it is convenient—you have admitted that.” He put his finger upon her cheek. “Ah!” he said.
“What?”
“I feel the red rising up at her having been caught! But why should I trifle so! We will not trifle—life is too serious.”
“It is. Perhaps I saw that before you did.”
She was seeing it then. To decline to marry him after all—in obedience to her emotion of last night—and leave the dairy meant to go to some strange place, not a dairy; for milkmaids were not in request now calving-time was coming on; to go to some arable farm where no divine being like Angel Clare was. She hated the thought, and she hated more the thought of going home.
“So that, seriously, dearest Tess,” he continued, “since you will probably have to leave at Christmas, it is in every way desirable and convenient that I should carry you off then as my property. Besides, if you were not the most uncalculating girl in the world, you would know that we could not go on like this forever.”
“I wish we could. That it would always be summer and autumn, and you always courting me and always thinking as much of me as you have done through the past summer-time!”
“I always shall.”
“Oh, I know you will!” she cried with a sudden fervour of faith in him. “Angel, I will fix the day when I will become yours for always!”
Thus at last it was arranged between them, during that dark walk home, and the myriads of liquid voices on the right and left.
When they reached the dairy, Mr. and Mrs. Crick were promptly told—with injunctions to secrecy; for each of the lovers was desirous that the marriage should be kept as private as possible. The dairyman, though he had thought of dismissing her soon, now made a great concern about losing her. What should he do about his skimming? Who would make the ornamental butterpats for the Anglebury and Sandbourne ladies? Mrs. Crick congratulated Tess on the shilly-shallying having at last come to an end, and said that directly she set eyes on Tess she divined that she was to be the chosen one of somebody who was no common outdoor man; Tess had looked so superior as she walked across the barton on that afternoon of her arrival; that she was of a good family she could have sworn. In point of fact Mrs. Crick did remember thinking that Tess was graceful and good-looking as she approached, but the superiority might have been a growth of the imagination aided by subsequent knowledge.
Tess was now carried along upon the wings of the hours, without the sense of a will. The word had been given, the number of the day written down. Her naturally bright intelligence had begun to admit the fatalistic convictions common to field-folk and those who associate more extensively with natural phenomena than with their fellow-creatures; and she accordingly drifted into that passive responsiveness to all things her lover suggested, characteristic of the frame of mind.
But she wrote anew to her mother, ostensibly to notify the wedding-day; really to again implore her advice. It was a gentleman who had chosen her, which perhaps her mother had not sufficiently considered. A post-nuptial explanation, which might be accepted with a light heart by a rougher man, might not be received with the same feeling by him. But this communication brought no reply from Mrs. Durbeyfield.
Despite Angel Clare’s plausible representations to himself and to Tess of the practical need for their immediate marriage, there was in truth an element of precipitancy in the step, as became apparent at a later date. He loved her dearly, though perhaps rather ideally and fancifully than with the impassioned thoroughness of her feeling for him. He had entertained no notion, when doomed as he had thought to an unintellectual bucolic life, that such charms as he beheld in this idyllic creature would be found behind the scenes. Unsophistication was a thing to talk of, but he had not known how it really struck one until he came here. Yet he was very far from seeing his future track clearly, and it might be a year or two before he would be able to consider himself fairly started in life. The secret lay in the tinge of recklessness imparted to his career and character by the sense that he had been made to miss his true destiny through the prejudices of his family.
“Don’t you think ‘twould have been better for us to wait till you were quite settled in your midland farm?” she once asked timidly. (A midland farm was the idea just then.)
“To tell the truth, my Tess, I don’t like you to be left anywhere away from my protection and sympathy.”
The reason was a good one, so far as it went. His influence over her had been so marked that she had caught his manner and habits, his speech and phrases, his likings and his aversions. And to leave her in farmland would be to let her slip back again out of accord with him. He wished to have her under his charge for another reason. His parents had naturally desired to see her once at least before he carried her off to a distant settlement, English or colonial; and as no opinion of theirs was to be allowed to change his intention, he judged that a couple of months’ life with him in lodgings whilst seeking for an advantageous opening would be of some social assistance to her at what she might feel to be a trying ordeal—her presentation to his mother at the vicarage.
Next, he wished to see a little of the working of a flour-mill, having an idea that he might combine the use of one with corn-growing. The proprietor of a large old water-mill at Wellbridge—once the mill of an abbey—had offered him the inspection of his time-honoured mode of procedure, and a hand in the operations for a few days whenever he should choose to come. Clare paid a visit to the place, some few miles distant, one day at this time to inquire particulars, and returned to Talbothays in the evening. She found him determined to spend a short time at the Wellbridge flour-mills. And what had determined him? Less the opportunity of an insight into grinding and bolting than the casual fact that lodgings were to be obtained in that very farmhouse, which before its mutilation had been the mansion of a branch of the d‘Urberville family. This was always how Clare settled practical questions; by a sentiment which had nothing to do with them. They decided to go immediately after the wedding, and remain for a fortnight instead of journeying to towns and inns.
“Then we will start off to examine some farms on the other side of London that I have heard of,” he said, “and by March or April we will pay a visit to my father and mother.”
Questions of procedure such as these arose and passed, and the day, the incredible day, on which she was to become his, loomed large in the near future. The thirty-first of December, New Year’s Eve, was the date. His wife, she said to herself. Could it ever be? Their two selves together, nothing to divide them, every incident shared by them; why not? And yet why?
One Sunday morning Izz Huett returned from church and spoke privately to Tess.
“You was not called home1 this morning.”
“What?”
“It should ha’ been the first time of asking to-day,” she answered, looking quietly at Tess. “You meant to be married New Year’s Eve, deary?”
The other returned a quick affirmative.
“And there must be three times of asking. And now there be only two Sundays left between.”
Tess felt her cheek paling; Izz was right; of course there must be three. Perhaps he had forgotten! If so, there must be a week’s postponement, and that was unlucky. How could she remind her lover? She who had been so backward was suddenly fired with impatience and alarm lest she should lose her dear prize.
A natural incident relieved her anxiety. Izz mentioned the omission of the banns to Mrs. Crick, and Mrs. Crick assumed a matron’s privilege of speaking to Angel on the point.
“Have ye forgot ‘em, Mr. Clare? The banns, I mean.”
“No, I have not forgot ‘em,” says Clare.
As soon as he caught Tess alone he assured her: “Don’t let them tease you about the banns. A licence will be quieter for us, and I have decided on a licence without consulting you. So if you go to church o
n Sunday morning you will not hear your own name, if you wished to.”
“I didn’t wish to hear it, dearest,” she said proudly.
But to know that things were in train was an immense relief to Tess notwithstanding, who had well nigh feared that somebody would stand up and forbid the banns on the ground of her history. How events were favouring her!
“I don’t quite feel easy,” she said to herself. “All this good fortune may be scourged out of me afterwards by a lot of ill. That’s how Heaven mostly does. I wish I could have had common banns!”
But everything went smoothly. She wondered whether he would like her to be married in her present best white frock or if she ought to buy a new one. The question was set at rest by his forethought, disclosed by the arrival of some large packages addressed to her. Inside them she found a whole stock of clothing, from bonnet to shoes, including a perfect morning costume, such as would well suit the simple wedding they planned. He entered the house shortly after the arrival of the package and heard her upstairs undoing them.
A minute later she came down with a flush on her face and tears in her eyes.
“How thoughtful you’ve been!” she murmured, her cheek upon her shoulder. “Even to the gloves and handkerchief! My own love—how good, how kind!”
“No, no, Tess; just an order to a tradeswoman in London—nothing more.”
And to divert her from thinking too highly of him, he told her to go upstairs and take her time and see if it all fitted; and, if not, to get the village sempstress to make a few alterations.
She did return upstairs and put on the gown. Alone, she stood for a moment before the glass, looking at the effect of her silk attire; and then there came into her head her mother’s ballad of the mystic robe,That never would become that wife That had once done amiss,
which Mrs. Durbeyfield had used to sing to her as a child, so blithely and so archly, her foot on the cradle, which she rocked to the tune. Suppose this robe should betray her by changing colour, as her robe had betrayed Queen Guinevere. Since she had been at the dairy she had not once thought of the lines till now.
33
ANGEL FELT THAT he would like to spend a day with her before the wedding, somewhere away from the dairy, as a last jaunt in her company while they were yet mere lover and mistress; a romantic day, in circumstances that would never be repeated; with that other and greater day beaming close ahead of them. During the preceding week, therefore, he suggested making a few purchases in the nearest town, and they started together.
Clare’s life at the dairy had been that of a recluse in respect to the world of his own class. For months he had never gone near a town, and requiring no vehicle, had never kept one, hiring the dairyman’s cob or gig if he rode or drove. They went in the gig that day.
And then for the first time in their lives they shopped as partners in one concern. It was Christmas Eve, with its loads of holly and mistletoe, and the town was very full of strangers who had come in from all parts of the country on account of the day. Tess paid the penalty of walking about with happiness super-added to beauty on her countenance by being much stared at as she moved amid them on his arm.
In the evening they returned to the inn at which they had put up, and Tess waited in the entry while Angel went to see the horse and gig brought to the door. The general sitting-room was full of guests, who were continually going in and out. As the door opened and shut each time for the passage of these, the light within the parlour fell full upon Tess’s face. Two men came out and passed by her among the rest. One of them had stared her up and down in surprise, and she fancied he was a Trantridge man, though that village lay so many miles off that Trantridge folk were rarities here.
“A comely maid that,” said the other.
“True, comely enough. But unless I make a great mistake—” And he negatived the remainder of the definition forthwith.
Clare had just returned from the stable-yard and, confronting the man on the threshold, heard the words and saw the shrinking of Tess. The insult to her stung him to the quick, and before he had considered anything at all, he struck the man on the chin with the full force of his fist, sending him staggering backwards into the passage.
The man recovered himself and seemed inclined to come on, and Clare, stepping outside the door, put himself in a posture of defence. But his opponent began to think better of the matter. He looked anew at Tess as he passed her, and said to Clare, “I beg pardon, sir; ‘twas a complete mistake. I thought she was another woman, forty miles from here.”
Clare, feeling then that he had been too hasty and that he was, moreover, to blame for leaving her standing in an inn-passage, did what he usually did in such cases: gave the man five shillings to plaster the blow; and thus they parted, bidding each other a pacific good night. As soon as Clare had taken the reins from the ostler and the young couple had driven off, the two men went in the other direction.
“And was it a mistake?” said the second one.
“Not a bit of it. But I didn’t want to hurt the gentleman’s feelings—not I.”
In the meantime the lovers were driving onward.
“Could we put off our wedding till a little later?” Tess asked in a dry, dull voice. “I mean, if we wished?”
“No, my love. Calm yourself. Do you mean that the fellow may have time to summon me for assault?” he asked good-humouredly.
“No—I only meant—if it should have to be put off.”
What she meant was not very clear, and he directed her to dismiss such fancies from her mind, which she obediently did as well as she could. But she was grave, very grave, all the way home, till she thought, “We shall go away, a very long distance, hundreds of miles from these parts, and such as this can never happen again, and no ghost of the past reach there.”
They parted tenderly that night on the landing, and Clare ascended to his attic. Tess sat up, getting on with some little requisites lest the few remaining days should not afford sufficient time. While she sat she heard a noise in Angel’s room overhead, a sound of thumping and struggling. Everybody else in the house was asleep, and in her anxiety lest Clare should be ill she ran up and knocked at his door and asked him what was the matter.
“Oh, nothing, dear,” he said from within. “I am so sorry I disturbed you! But the reason is rather an amusing one: I fell asleep and dreamt that I was fighting that fellow again who insulted you, and the noise you heard was my pummelimg away with my fists at my portmanteau, which I pulled out to-day for packing. I am occasionally liable to these freaks in my sleep. Go to bed and think of it no more.”
This was the last drachm required to turn the scale of her indecision. Declare the past to him by word of mouth she could not, but there was another way. She sat down and wrote on the four pages of a note-sheet a succinct narrative of those events of three or four years ago, put it into an envelope, and directed it to Clare. Then, lest the flesh should again be weak, she crept upstairs without any shoes and slipped the note under his door.
Her night was a broken one, as it well might be, and she listened for the first faint noise overhead. It came, as usual; he descended, as usual. She descended. He met her at the bottom of the stairs and kissed her. Surely it was as warmly as ever!
He looked a little disturbed and worn, she thought. But he said not a word to her about her revelation, even when they were alone. Could he have had it? Unless he began the subject, she felt that she could say nothing. So the day passed, and it was evident that whatever he thought he meant to keep to himself. Yet he was frank and affectionate as before. Could it be that her doubts were childish? That he forgave her? That he loved her for what she was, just as she was, and smiled at her disquiet as at a foolish nightmare? Had he really received her note? She glanced into his room and could see nothing of it. It might be that he forgave her. But even if he had not received it, she had a sudden enthusiastic trust that he surely would forgive her.
Every morning and night he was the same, and thus New Year’s E
ve broke—the wedding-day.
The lovers did not rise at milking-time, having through the whole of this last week of their sojourn at the dairy been accorded something of the position of guests, Tess being honoured with a room of her own. When they arrived downstairs at breakfast-time, they were surprised to see what effects had been produced in the large kitchen for their glory since they had last beheld it. At some unnatural hour of the morning the dairyman had caused the yawning chimney-corner to be whitened, and the brick hearth reddened, and a blazing yellow-damask blower to be hung across the arch in place of the old grimy blue cotton one with a black-sprig pattern which had formerly done duty here. This renovated aspect of what was the focus indeed of the room on a dull winter morning threw a smiling demeanour over the whole apartment.
“I was determined to do summat in honour o‘t,” said the dairyman. “And as you wouldn’t hear of my gieing a rattling good randy wi’ fiddles and bass-viols complete, as we should ha’ done in old times, this was all I could think o’ as a noiseless thing.”
Tess’s friends lived so far off that none could conveniently have been present at the ceremony even had any been asked, but as a fact nobody was invited from Marlott. As for Angel’s family, he had written and duly informed them of the time and assured them that he would be glad to see one at least of them there for the day if he would like to come. His brothers had not replied at all, seeming to be indignant with him; while his father and mother had written a rather sad letter, deploring his precipitancy in rushing into marriage, but making the best of the matter by saying that though a dairywoman was the last daughter-in-law they could have expected, their son had arrived at an age at which he might be supposed to be the best judge.