by Thomas Hardy
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 still living with them there, as he had arranged for her to do when he left England. He dispatched the inquiry that very day, and before the week was out there came a short reply from Mrs. Durbeyfield which did not remove 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 you 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 least apparently well that her mother’s stiff reticence as to her whereabouts did not long distress him. They were all angry with him, evidently. He would wait till Mrs. Durbeyfield could inform him of Tess’s return, which her letter implied to be soon. 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 had 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 judged 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 from Joan Durbeyfield, and indirectly to recover 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, which Tess had written from Flintcomb-Ash, and reread it. The sentences 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 coming soon,” I will bide on, Angel—oh so cheerfully! ... Think ... how it do hurt my heart not to see you ever—ever! Ah, if I could only make your dear heart ache one little minute of each day as mine does every day and all day long, it might lead you to show pity to your poor lonely one.... I would be content, aye, glad, to live with you as your servant if I may not as your wife, so that I could only be near you, and get glimpses of you, and think of you as mine.... I long for only one thing in heaven 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 longer believe in her more recent and severer regard of him, but would go and find her immediately. He asked his father if she had applied for any money during his absence. His father returned a negative, and then for the first time it occurred to Angel that her pride had stood in her way and that she had suffered privation. From his remarks his parents now gathered the real reason of the separation; and their Christianity was such that, reprobates being their especial care, the tenderness towards Tess which her blood, her simplicity, even her poverty, had not engendered, was instantly excited by her sin.
Whilst he was hastily packing together a few articles for his journey he glanced over 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 do love you,” and signed, “From Two Well-Wishers.”
54
IN A QUARTER of an hour Clare was leaving the house, whence his mother 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 hired a trap, and could hardly wait during the harnessing. In a very few minutes after, he was driving up the hill out of the town which, three or four months earlier in the year, Tess had descended with such hopes and ascended with such shattered purposes.
Benvill Lane soon stretched 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 enable him to keep the way. In something less than an hour and a half he had skirted the south 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 willfully tempt him again. The pale and blasted nettle-stems 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 upland overhanging the other Hintocks and, turning to the right, plunged into the bracing calcareous region of Flintcomb-Ash, the address from which she had written to him in one of the letters and which he supposed to be the place of sojourn referred to by her mother. Here, of course, he did not find her; and what added to his depression was the discovery that no “Mrs. Clare” had ever been heard of by the cottagers or by the farmer himself, though Tess was remembered well enough by her Christian name. His name she had obviously never used during their separation, and her dignified sense of their total severance was shown not much less by this abstention than by the hardships she had chosen to undergo (of which he now learnt for the first time) rather than apply to his father for more funds.
From this place they told him Tess Durbeyfield had gone without due notice to the home of her parents, on the other side of Blackmoor, and it 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 inquire for it. The farmer who had been so churlish with Tess was quite smooth-tongued to Clare, and lent him a horse and man to drive him towards Marlott, the gig he had arrived in being sent back to Emminster; for the limit of a day’s journey with that horse was reached.
Clare would not accept the loan of the farmer’s vehicle for a further distance than to the outskirts of the vale, and sending it back with the man who had driven him, he put up 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 years of her childhood was now inhabited by another family, who had never known her. The new residents were in the garden, taking as much interest in their own doings as if the homestead had never passed its primal time in conjunction with the histories of others, beside which the histories of these were but as a tale told by an idiot. They walked about the garden paths with thoughts of their own concerns entirely uppermost, bringing their actions at every moment into jarring collision with the dim ghosts behind them, talking as though the time when Tess lived there were not one whit intenser in story than now. Even the spring birds sang over their heads as if they thought there was nobody missing in particular.
On inquiry of these precious innocents, to whom even the name of their predecessors was a failing memory, Clare learned that John Durbeyfield was dead; that his widow and children had left Marlott, declaring 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 for 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. It 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 inscription ra
n thus:In memory of John Durbeyfield, rightly d‘Urberville, of the once powerful family of that Name, and Direct Descendant through an Illustrious 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 sexton, had observed Clare standing there 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 headstone, for all the flourish wrote upon en, is not paid for.”
“Ah, who put it up?”
The man told the name of a mason in the village, 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 first he would neither hire a conveyance nor go to a circuitous line of railway by which he might eventually reach the place. At Shaston, 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 village being small, he had little difficulty in finding Mrs. Durbeyfield’s tenement, which was a house in a walled garden, remote from the main road, where she had towed 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 felt his call to be somewhat of an intrusion. She came to the door herself, and the light from the evening sky fell upon her face.
This was the first time that Clare had ever met her, but he was too preoccupied to observe more than that she was still a handsome woman, in the garb of a respectable widow. He was obliged to explain that he was Tess’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 younger children had by this time crept to the door, where, pulling at his mother’s skirts, the youngest 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 address, Mrs. Durbeyfield, in kindness to a lonely wretched man!”
Tess’s mother again restlessly swept her cheek with her vertical 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 apparent that Joan spoke the truth in this, and he pressed her no further.
“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 station 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 night, having secured a bed at one of the hotels and telegraphed his address to his father immediately on his arrival, he walked out into the streets of Sandbourne. It was too late to call on or inquire for any one, and he reluctantly postponed his purpose till the morning. But he could not retire to rest just yet.
This fashionable watering-place, with its eastern and its western stations, its piers, its groves of pines, its promenades, and its covered gardens, was, to Angel Clare, like a fairy-place suddenly created by the stroke of a wand and allowed to get a little dusty. An outlying eastern tract of the enormous Egdon Waste was close at hand, yet on the very verge of that tawny piece of antiquity such a glittering novelty as this pleasure city had chosen to spring up. Within the space of a mile from its outskirts, every irregularity of the soil was prehistoric, every channel an undisturbed British trackway; not a sod having been turned there since the days of the Caesars. Yet 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 discern between the trees and against the stars the lofty roofs, chimneys, gazebos, and towers of the numerous fanciful residences of which the place was composed. It was a city of detached 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 fields to till. She was most probably engaged to do something in one of these large houses; and he sauntered along, looking at the chamber-windows 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 he reread Tess’s impassioned letter. Sleep, however, he could not—so near her, yet so far from her—and he continually lifted the window-blind and regarded the backs of the opposite 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, shortly after, went out, taking the direction of the chief post-office. At the door he met an intelligent postman coming out 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 coming and going every 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 received directions how to find the house and hastened thither, arriving with the milkman. The Herons, though an ordinary villa, stood in its own grou
nds, and was certainly the last place in which one would have expected to find lodgings, so private was its appearance. If poor Tess was a servant here, as he feared, she would go to the back-door to that milkman, and he was inclined to go thither also. However, in his doubts he turned to the front and rang.
The hour being early, the landlady herself opened the door. Clare inquired for Teresa d‘Urberville or Durbeyfield.
“Mrs. d‘Urberville?”
“Yes.”
Tess, then, passed as a married woman, and he felt glad even though she had not adopted his name.
“Will you kindly tell her that a relative is anxious to see her?”
“It is rather early. What name shall I give, sir?”
“Angel.”
“Mr. Angel?”
“No; Angel. It is my Christian name. She’ll understand.”
“I’ll see if she is awake.”
He was shown into the front room—the dining-room—and looked out through the spring curtains at the little lawn, and the rhododendrons and other shrubs upon it. Obviously her position was by no means so bad as he had feared, and it crossed his mind that she must somehow have claimed and sold the jewels to attain it. He did not blame her for one moment. Soon his sharpened ear detected footsteps upon the stairs, at which his heart thumped so painfully that he could hardly stand firm. “Dear me! What will she think of me, so altered as I am!” he said to himself; and the door opened.
Tess appeared on the threshold, not at all as he had expected to see her—bewilderingly otherwise, indeed. Her great natural beauty was, if not heightened, rendered more obvious by her attire. Sbe was loosely wrapped in a cashmere dressing-gown of grey-white, embroidered in half-mourning tints, and she wore slippers of the same hue. Her neck rose out of a frill of down, and her well-remembered cable of dark-brown hair was partially coiled up in a mass at the back of her head and partly hanging on her shoulder—the evident result of haste.
