Differing one from another in natures and moods so greatly as they did, they yet formed, bending, a curiously uniform row—automatic, noiseless; and an alien observer passing down the neighbouring lane might well have been excused for massing them as “Hodge.” As they crept along, stooping low to discern the plant, a soft yellow gleam was reflected from the butter-cups 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 the rest in everything, glanced up now and 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 style seemed a little superfluous. But they got no further in speech just then. They crept and crept, the hem of her petticoat just touching his gaiter, and his elbow sometimes brushing hers. At last 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!” he exclaimed, straightening himself slowly with an excruciated 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 any more if you feel fainty; leave the rest to finish it.”
Dairyman Crick withdrew, and Tess dropped behind. Mr. Clare also stepped out of line and began privateering about for the weed. When she found him near her, her very tension at what she had heard the night before made her the first to speak.
“Don’t they look pretty?” she said.
“Who?”
“Izzy Huett and Retty.”
Tess had moodily decided that either of these maidens would make a good farmer’s wife, and that she ought to recommend them and obscure her own wretched charms.
“Pretty? Well, yes—they are pretty girls—fresh looking. I have often thought so.”
“Though, poor dears, prettiness won’t last long!”
“Oh 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 you really do want a dairywoman and not a lady; and don’t think of marrying me!” She followed Dairyman Crick and had the mournful satisfaction of seeing that Clare remained behind.
From this day she forced herself to take pains to avoid him—never allowing herself, as formerly, to remain long in his company, even if their juxtaposition were purely accidental. She gave the other three every chance.
Tess was woman enough to realize from their avowals to herself that Angel Clare had the honour of all the dairymaids in his keeping, and her perception of his care to avoid compromising the happiness of either in the least degree bred a tender respect in Tess for what she deemed, rightly or wrongly, the self-controlling sense of duty shown by him, a quality 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 the atmosphere of the flat vale hung heavy as an opiate over the dairy-folk, the cows, and the trees. Hot, steaming rains fell frequently, making the grass where the cows fed yet more rank and hindering the late haymaking in the other meads.
It was Sunday morning; the milking was done; the outdoor milkers had gone home. Tess and the other three were dressing themselves rapidly, the whole bevy having agreed to go together to Mellstock Church, which lay some three or four miles distant from the dairy-house. She had now been two months at Talbothays, and this was her first excursion.
All the preceding afternoon and night heavy thunderstorms had hissed down upon the meads and washed some of the hay into the river; but this morning the sun shone out all the 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 been to flood the lane over-shoe to a distance of some fifty yards. This would have been no serious hindrance on a weekday; they would have clicked through it in their high pattens and boots quite unconcerned; but on this day of vanity, this Sun‘s-day, when flesh went forth to coquet with flesh while hypocritically affecting business with spiritual things; on this occasion for wearing their white stockings and thin shoes and their pink, white, and lilac gowns, 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 expected such a rise in the river in summer-time!” said Marian from the top of the roadside-bank 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 get there anyhow, without walking right through it or else going round the Turnpike way; and that would make us so very late!” said Retty, pausing hopelessly.
“And I do colour up so hot, walking into church late, and all the people staring round,” said Marian, “that I hardly cool down again till we get into the ‘That-it-may-please-Thees.’ ”
While they stood clinging to the bank they heard a splashing 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-Sabbatarian a one as a dog matic parson’s son often presented; his attire being his dairy-clothes, long wading boots, a cabbage-leaf inside his hat to keep his head cool, with a thistle-spud to finish him off.
“He’s not going to church,” said Marian.
“No—I wish he was!” murmured Tess.
Angel, in fact, rightly or wrongly (to adopt the safe phrase of evasive controversialists), preferred sermons in stones to sermons in churches and chapels on fine summer days. This morning, moreover, he had gone out to see if the damage to the hay by the flood was considerable or not. On his walk he observed the girls from a long distance, though they had been so occupied with their difficulties of passage as not to notice him. He knew that the water had risen at that spot, and that it would quite check their progress. So he had hastened on with a dim idea of how he could help them—one of them in particular.
The rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed quartet looked so charming in their light summer attire, clinging to the roadside-bank like pigeons on a roof-slope, that he stopped a moment to regard them before coming close. Their gauzy skirts had brushed up from the grass innumerable flies and butterflies, which, unable to escape, remained caged in the transparent tissue as in an aviary. Angel’s eye at last fell upon Tess, the hindmost of the four; she, being full of suppressed laughter at their dilemma, could not help meeting his glance radiantly.
He came beneath them in the water, which did not rise over his long boots, and stood looking at the entrapped flies and butterflies.
“Are you trying to get to church?” he said to Marian, who was in front, including the next two in his remark, but avoiding Tess.
“Yes, sir; and ‘tis getting late; and my colour do come up so—”
“I’ll carry you through the pool—every Jill of you.”
The whole four flushed as if one heart beat through them.
“I think you can‘t, sir,?
?? said Marian.
“It is the only way for you to get past. Stand still. Nonsense—you are not too heavy! I’d carry you all four together. Now, Marian, attend,” he continued, “and put your arms round my shoulders, so. Now! Hold on. That’s well done.”
Marian had lowered herself upon his arm and shoulder as directed, and Angel strode off with her, his slim figure, as viewed from behind, looking like the mere stem to the great nosegay suggested by hers. They disappeared round the curve of the road, and only his sousing footsteps and the top ribbon of Marian’s bonnet told where they were. In a few minutes he reappeared. Izz Huett was the next in order upon the bank.
“Here he comes,” she murmured, and they could hear that her lips were dry with emotion. “And I have to put my arms round his neck and look into his face as Marian did.”
“There’s nothing in that,” said Tess quickly.
“There’s a time for everything,” continued Izz, unheeding. “A time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing; the first is now going to be mine.”
“Fie—it is Scripture, Izz!”
“Yes,” said Izz, “I’ve always a’ ear at church for pretty verses.”
Angel Clare, to whom three-quarters of this performance was a commonplace act of kindness, now approached Izz. She quietly and dreamily lowered herself into his arms, and Angel methodically marched off with her. When he was heard returning for the third time, Retty’s throbbing heart could be almost seen to shake her. He went up to the red-haired girl, and while he was seizing her he glanced at Tess. His lips could not have pronounced more plainly, “It will soon be you and I.” Her comprehension appeared in her face; she could not help it. There was an understanding between them.
Poor little Retty, though by far the lightest weight, was the most troublesome of Clare’s burdens. Marian had been like a sack of meal, a dead weight of plumpness under which he had literally staggered. Izz had ridden sensibly and calmly. Retty was a bunch of hysterics.
However, he got through with the disquieted creature, deposited her, and returned. Tess could see over the hedge the distant three in a group, standing as he had placed them on the next rising ground. It was now her turn. She was embarrassed to discover that excitement at the proximity of Mr. Clare’s breath and eyes, which she had contemned in her companions, was intensified in herself; and as if fearful of betraying her secret, she paltered with him at the last moment.
“I may be able to clim’ along the bank perhaps—I can clim’ better than they. You must be so tired, Mr. Clare!”
“No, no, Tess,” said he quickly. And almost before she was aware, she was seated in his arms and resting against his shoulder.
“Three Leahs to get one Rachel,” he whispered.
“They are better women than I,” she replied, magnanimously sticking to her resolve.
“Not to me,” said Angel.
He saw her grow warm at this, and they went some steps in silence.
“I hope I am not too heavy?” she said timidly.
“Oh no. You should lift Marian! Such a lump. You are like an undulating billow warmed by the sun. And all this fluff of muslin about you is the froth.”
“It is very pretty—if I seem like that to you.”
“Do you know that I have undergone three-quarters of this labour entirely for the sake of the fourth quarter?”
“No.”
“I did not expect such an event to-day.”
“Nor I.... The water came up so sudden.”
That the rise in the water was what she understood him to refer to, the state of her breathing belied. Clare stood still and inclined his face towards hers.
“Oh, Tessy!” he exclaimed.
The girl’s cheeks burned to the breeze, and she could not look into his eyes for her emotion. It reminded Angel that he was somewhat unfairly taking advantage of an accidental position, and he went no further with it. No definite words of love had crossed their lips as yet, and suspension at this point was desirable now. However, he walked slowly, to make the remainder of the distance as long as possible; but at last they came to the bend, and the rest of their progress was in full view of the other three. The dry land was reached, and he set her down.
Her friends were looking with round, thoughtful eyes at her and him, and she could see that they had been talking of her. He hastily bade them farewell and splashed back along the stretch of submerged road.
The four moved on together as before till Marian broke the silence by saying, “No—in all truth; we have no chance against her!” She looked joylessly at Tess.
“What do you mean?” asked the latter.
“He likes ‘ee best—the very best! We could see it as he brought ’ee. He would have kissed ‘ee if you had encouraged him to do it, ever so little.”
“No, no,” said she.
The gaiety with which they had set out had somehow vanished, and yet there was no enmity or malice between them. They were generous young souls; they had been reared in the lonely country nooks where fatalism is a strong sentiment and they did not blame her. Such supplanting was to be.
Tess’s heart ached. There was no concealing from herself the fact that she loved Angel Clare, perhaps all the more passionately from knowing that the others had also lost their hearts to him. There is contagion in this sentiment, especially among women. And yet that same hungry heart of hers compassionated her friends. Tess’s honest nature had fought against this, but too feebly, and the natural result had followed.
“I will never stand in your way, nor in the way of either of you!” she declared to Retty that night in the bedroom (her tears running down). “I can’t help this, my dear! I don’t think marrying is in his mind at all; but if he were even to ask me I should refuse him, as I should refuse any man.”
“Oh! Would you? Why?” said wondering Retty.
“It cannot be! But I will be plain. Putting myself quite on one side, I don’t think he will choose either of you.”
“I have never expected it—thought of it!” moaned Retty. “But oh, I wish I was dead!”
The poor child, torn by a feeling which she hardly understood, turned to the other two girls, who came upstairs just then.
“We be friends with her again,” she said to them. “She thinks no more of his choosing her than we do.”
So the reserve went off, and they were confiding and warm.
“I don’t seem to care what I do now,” said Marian, whose mood was tuned to its lowest bass. “I was going to marry a dairyman at Stickleford, who’s asked me twice; but—my soul—I would put an end to myself rather ’n be his wife now! Why don’t ye speak, Izz?”
“To confess, then,” murmured Izz, “I made sure today that he was going to kiss me as he held me; and I lay still against his breast, hoping and hoping, and never moved at all. But he did not. I don’t like biding here at Talbothays any longer! I shall go hwome.”
The air of the sleeping-chamber seemed to palpitate with the hopeless passion of the girls. They writhed feverishly under the oppressiveness of an emotion thrust on them by cruel Nature’s law—an emotion which they had neither expected nor desired. The incident of the day had fanned the flame that was burning the inside of their hearts out, and the torture was almost more than they could endure. The differences which distinguished them as individuals were abstracted by this passion, and each was but portion of one organism called sex. There was so much frankness and so little jealousy because there was no hope. Each one was a girl of fair common sense, and she did not delude herself with any vain conceits, or deny her love, or give herself airs, in the idea of outshining the others. The full recognition of the futility of their infatuation from a social point of view; its purposeless beginning; its self-bounded outlook; its lack of everything to justify its existence in the eye of civilization (while lacking nothing in the eye of Nature); the one fact that it did exist, ecstasizing them to a killing joy—all this imparted to them a resignation, a dignity, which a practical and sordid expectation of
winning him as a husband would have destroyed.
They tossed and turned on their little beds, and the cheese-wring dripped monotonously downstairs.
“B’ you awake, Tess?” whispered one, half an hour later.
It was Izz Huett’s voice.
Tess replied in the affirmative, whereupon also Retty and Marian suddenly flung the bedclothes off them and sighed, “So be we!”
“I wonder what she is like—the lady they say his family have looked out for him!”
“I wonder,” said Izz.
“Some lady looked out for him?” gasped Tess, starting. “I have never heard o’ that!”
“Oh yes—‘tis whispered; a young lady of his own rank, chosen by his family; a Doctor of Divinity’s daughter near his father’s parish of Emminster; he don’t much care for her, they say. But he is sure to marry her.”
They had heard so very little of this; yet it was enough to build up wretched, dolorous dreams upon, there in the shade of the night. They pictured all the details of his being won round to consent, of the wedding preparations, of the bride’s happiness, of her dress and veil, of her blissfull home with him, when oblivion would have fallen upon themselves as far as he and their love were concerned. Thus they talked and ached and wept till sleep charmed their sorrow away.
After this disclosure Tess nourished no further foolish thought that there lurked any grave and deliberate import in Clare’s attentions to her. It was a passing summer love of her face, for love’s own temporary sake—nothing more. And the thorny crown of this sad conception was that she whom he really did prefer in a cursory way to the rest, she who knew herself to be more impassioned in nature, cleverer, more beautiful than they, was in the eyes of propriety far less worthy of him than the homelier ones whom he ignored.