บทที่ บทที่ 44 · Chapter XLIV The Retreat

. Chapter XLIV The Retreat

By the disclosure in the barn her thoughts were led anew in the

direction which they had taken more than once of late—to the distant

Emminster Vicarage. It was through her husband’s parents that she had

been charged to send a letter to Clare if she desired; and to write to

them direct if in difficulty. But that sense of her having morally no

claim upon him had always led Tess to suspend her impulse to send these

notes; and to the family at the Vicarage, therefore, as to her own

parents since her marriage, she was virtually non-existent. This

self-effacement in both directions had been quite in consonance with

her independent character of desiring nothing by way of favour or pity

to which she was not entitled on a fair consideration of her deserts.

She had set herself to stand or fall by her qualities, and to waive

such merely technical claims upon a strange family as had been

established for her by the flimsy fact of a member of that family, in a

season of impulse, writing his name in a church-book beside hers.

But now that she was stung to a fever by Izz’s tale, there was a limit

to her powers of renunciation. Why had her husband not written to her?

He had distinctly implied that he would at least let her know of the

locality to which he had journeyed; but he had not sent a line to

notify his address. Was he really indifferent? But was he ill? Was it

for her to make some advance? Surely she might summon the courage of

solicitude, call at the Vicarage for intelligence, and express her

grief at his silence. If Angel’s father were the good man she had heard

him represented to be, he would be able to enter into her heart-starved

situation. Her social hardships she could conceal.

To leave the farm on a week-day was not in her power; Sunday was the

only possible opportunity. Flintcomb-Ash being in the middle of the

cretaceous tableland over which no railway had climbed as yet, it would

be necessary to walk. And the distance being fifteen miles each way she

would have to allow herself a long day for the undertaking by rising

early.

A fortnight later, when the snow had gone, and had been followed by a

hard black frost, she took advantage of the state of the roads to try

the experiment. At four o’clock that Sunday morning she came downstairs

and stepped out into the starlight. The weather was still favourable,

the ground ringing under her feet like an anvil.

Marian and Izz were much interested in her excursion, knowing that the

journey concerned her husband. Their lodgings were in a cottage a

little further along the lane, but they came and assisted Tess in her

departure, and argued that she should dress up in her very prettiest

guise to captivate the hearts of her parents-in-law; though she,

knowing of the austere and Calvinistic tenets of old Mr Clare, was

indifferent, and even doubtful. A year had now elapsed since her sad

marriage, but she had preserved sufficient draperies from the wreck of

her then full wardrobe to clothe her very charmingly as a simple

country girl with no pretensions to recent fashion; a soft gray woollen

gown, with white crape quilling against the pink skin of her face and

neck, and a black velvet jacket and hat.

“’Tis a thousand pities your husband can’t see ’ee now—you do look a

real beauty!” said Izz Huett, regarding Tess as she stood on the

threshold between the steely starlight without and the yellow

candlelight within. Izz spoke with a magnanimous abandonment of herself

to the situation; she could not be—no woman with a heart bigger than a

hazel-nut could be—antagonistic to Tess in her presence, the influence

which she exercised over those of her own sex being of a warmth and

strength quite unusual, curiously overpowering the less worthy feminine

feelings of spite and rivalry.

With a final tug and touch here, and a slight brush there, they let her

go; and she was absorbed into the pearly air of the fore-dawn. They

heard her footsteps tap along the hard road as she stepped out to her

full pace. Even Izz hoped she would win, and, though without any

particular respect for her own virtue, felt glad that she had been

prevented wronging her friend when momentarily tempted by Clare.

It was a year ago, all but a day, that Clare had married Tess, and only

a few days less than a year that he had been absent from her. Still, to

start on a brisk walk, and on such an errand as hers, on a dry clear

wintry morning, through the rarefied air of these chalky hogs’-backs,

was not depressing; and there is no doubt that her dream at starting

was to win the heart of her mother-in-law, tell her whole history to

that lady, enlist her on her side, and so gain back the truant.

In time she reached the edge of the vast escarpment below which

stretched the loamy Vale of Blackmoor, now lying misty and still in the

dawn. Instead of the colourless air of the uplands, the atmosphere down

there was a deep blue. Instead of the great enclosures of a hundred

acres in which she was now accustomed to toil, there were little fields

below her of less than half-a-dozen acres, so numerous that they looked

from this height like the meshes of a net. Here the landscape was

whitey-brown; down there, as in Froom Valley, it was always green. Yet

it was in that vale that her sorrow had taken shape, and she did not

love it as formerly. Beauty to her, as to all who have felt, lay not in

the thing, but in what the thing symbolized.

Keeping the Vale on her right, she steered steadily westward; passing

above the Hintocks, crossing at right-angles the high-road from

Sherton-Abbas to Casterbridge, and skirting Dogbury Hill and High-Stoy,

with the dell between them called “The Devil’s Kitchen”. Still

following the elevated way she reached Cross-in-Hand, where the stone

pillar stands desolate and silent, to mark the site of a miracle, or

murder, or both. Three miles further she cut across the straight and

deserted Roman road called Long-Ash Lane; leaving which as soon as she

reached it she dipped down a hill by a transverse lane into the small

town or village of Evershead, being now about halfway over the

distance. She made a halt here, and breakfasted a second time, heartily

enough—not at the Sow-and-Acorn, for she avoided inns, but at a cottage

by the church.

The second half of her journey was through a more gentle country, by

way of Benvill Lane. But as the mileage lessened between her and the

spot of her pilgrimage, so did Tess’s confidence decrease, and her

enterprise loom out more formidably. She saw her purpose in such

staring lines, and the landscape so faintly, that she was sometimes in

danger of losing her way. However, about noon she paused by a gate on

the edge of the basin in which Emminster and its Vicarage lay.

The square tower, beneath which she knew that at that moment the Vicar

and his congregation were gathered, had a severe look in her eyes. She

wished that she had somehow contrived to come on a week-day. Such a

good man might be prejudiced against a woman who had chosen Sunday,

never realizing the necessities of her case. But it was incumbent upon

her to go on now. She took off the thick boots in which she had walked

thus far, put on her pretty thin ones of patent leather, and, stuffing

the former into the hedge by the gatepost where she might readily find

them again, descended the hill; the freshness of colour she had derived

from the keen air thinning away in spite of her as she drew near the

parsonage.

Tess hoped for some accident that might favour her, but nothing

favoured her. The shrubs on the Vicarage lawn rustled uncomfortably in

the frosty breeze; she could not feel by any stretch of imagination,

dressed to her highest as she was, that the house was the residence of

near relations; and yet nothing essential, in nature or emotion,

divided her from them: in pains, pleasures, thoughts, birth, death, and

after-death, they were the same.

She nerved herself by an effort, entered the swing-gate, and rang the

door-bell. The thing was done; there could be no retreat. No; the thing

was not done. Nobody answered to her ringing. The effort had to be

risen to and made again. She rang a second time, and the agitation of

the act, coupled with her weariness after the fifteen miles’ walk, led

her to support herself while she waited by resting her hand on her hip

and her elbow against the wall of the porch. The wind was so nipping

that the ivy-leaves had become wizened and gray, each tapping

incessantly upon its neighbour with a disquieting stir of her nerves. A

piece of blood-stained paper, caught up from some meat-buyer’s

dust-heap, beat up and down the road without the gate; too flimsy to

rest, too heavy to fly away; and a few straws kept it company.

The second peal had been louder, and still nobody came. Then she walked

out of the porch, opened the gate, and passed through. And though she

looked dubiously at the house-front as if inclined to return, it was

with a breath of relief that she closed the gate. A feeling haunted her

that she might have been recognized (though how she could not tell),

and orders been given not to admit her.

Tess went as far as the corner. She had done all she could do; but

determined not to escape present trepidation at the expense of future

distress, she walked back again quite past the house, looking up at all

the windows.

Ah—the explanation was that they were all at church, every one. She

remembered her husband saying that his father always insisted upon the

household, servants included, going to morning-service, and, as a

consequence, eating cold food when they came home. It was, therefore,

only necessary to wait till the service was over. She would not make

herself conspicuous by waiting on the spot, and she started to get past

the church into the lane. But as she reached the churchyard-gate the

people began pouring out, and Tess found herself in the midst of them.

The Emminster congregation looked at her as only a congregation of

small country-townsfolk walking home at its leisure can look at a woman

out of the common whom it perceives to be a stranger. She quickened her

pace, and ascended the road by which she had come, to find a retreat

between its hedges till the Vicar’s family should have lunched, and it

might be convenient for them to receive her. She soon distanced the

churchgoers, except two youngish men, who, linked arm-in-arm, were

beating up behind her at a quick step.

As they drew nearer she could hear their voices engaged in earnest

discourse, and, with the natural quickness of a woman in her situation,

did not fail to recognize in those noises the quality of her husband’s

tones. The pedestrians were his two brothers. Forgetting all her plans,

Tess’s one dread was lest they should overtake her now, in her

disorganized condition, before she was prepared to confront them; for

though she felt that they could not identify her, she instinctively

dreaded their scrutiny. The more briskly they walked, the more briskly

walked she. They were plainly bent upon taking a short quick stroll

before going indoors to lunch or dinner, to restore warmth to limbs

chilled with sitting through a long service.

Only one person had preceded Tess up the hill—a ladylike young woman,

somewhat interesting, though, perhaps, a trifle _guindée_ and prudish.

Tess had nearly overtaken her when the speed of her brothers-in-law

brought them so nearly behind her back that she could hear every word

of their conversation. They said nothing, however, which particularly

interested her till, observing the young lady still further in front,

one of them remarked, “There is Mercy Chant. Let us overtake her.”

Tess knew the name. It was the woman who had been destined for Angel’s

life-companion by his and her parents, and whom he probably would have

married but for her intrusive self. She would have known as much

without previous information if she had waited a moment, for one of the

brothers proceeded to say: “Ah! poor Angel, poor Angel! I never see

that nice girl without more and more regretting his precipitancy in

throwing himself away upon a dairymaid, or whatever she may be. It is a

queer business, apparently. Whether she has joined him yet or not I

don’t know; but she had not done so some months ago when I heard from

him.”

“I can’t say. He never tells me anything nowadays. His ill-considered

marriage seems to have completed that estrangement from me which was

begun by his extraordinary opinions.”

Tess beat up the long hill still faster; but she could not outwalk them

without exciting notice. At last they outsped her altogether, and

passed her by. The young lady still further ahead heard their footsteps

and turned. Then there was a greeting and a shaking of hands, and the

three went on together.

They soon reached the summit of the hill, and, evidently intending this

point to be the limit of their promenade, slackened pace and turned all

three aside to the gate whereat Tess had paused an hour before that

time to reconnoitre the town before descending into it. During their

discourse one of the clerical brothers probed the hedge carefully with

his umbrella, and dragged something to light.

“Here’s a pair of old boots,” he said. “Thrown away, I suppose, by some

tramp or other.”

“Some imposter who wished to come into the town barefoot, perhaps, and

so excite our sympathies,” said Miss Chant. “Yes, it must have been,

for they are excellent walking-boots—by no means worn out. What a

wicked thing to do! I’ll carry them home for some poor person.”

Cuthbert Clare, who had been the one to find them, picked them up for

her with the crook of his stick; and Tess’s boots were appropriated.

She, who had heard this, walked past under the screen of her woollen

veil till, presently looking back, she perceived that the church party

had left the gate with her boots and retreated down the hill.

Thereupon our heroine resumed her walk. Tears, blinding tears, were

running down her face. She knew that it was all sentiment, all baseless

impressibility, which had caused her to read the scene as her own

condemnation; nevertheless she could not get over it; she could not

contravene in her own defenceless person all those untoward omens. It

was impossible to think of returning to the Vicarage. Angel’s wife felt

almost as if she had been hounded up that hill like a scorned thing by

those—to her—superfine clerics. Innocently as the slight had been

inflicted, it was somewhat unfortunate that she had encountered the

sons and not the father, who, despite his narrowness, was far less

starched and ironed than they, and had to the full the gift of charity.

As she again thought of her dusty boots she almost pitied those

habiliments for the quizzing to which they had been subjected, and felt

how hopeless life was for their owner.

“Ah!” she said, still sighing in pity of herself, “_they_ didn’t know

that I wore those over the roughest part of the road to save these

pretty ones _he_ bought for me—no—they did not know it! And they didn’t

think that _he_ chose the colour o’ my pretty frock—no—how could they?

If they had known perhaps they would not have cared, for they don’t

care much for him, poor thing!”

Then she grieved for the beloved man whose conventional standard of

judgement had caused her all these latter sorrows; and she went her way

without knowing that the greatest misfortune of her life was this

feminine loss of courage at the last and critical moment through her

estimating her father-in-law by his sons. Her present condition was

precisely one which would have enlisted the sympathies of old Mr and

Mrs Clare. Their hearts went out of them at a bound towards extreme

cases, when the subtle mental troubles of the less desperate among

mankind failed to win their interest or regard. In jumping at Publicans

and Sinners they would forget that a word might be said for the worries

of Scribes and Pharisees; and this defect or limitation might have

recommended their own daughter-in-law to them at this moment as a

fairly choice sort of lost person for their love.

Thereupon she began to plod back along the road by which she had come

not altogether full of hope, but full of a conviction that a crisis in

her life was approaching. No crisis, apparently, had supervened; and

there was nothing left for her to do but to continue upon that

starve-acre farm till she could again summon courage to face the

Vicarage. She did, indeed, take sufficient interest in herself to throw

up her veil on this return journey, as if to let the world see that she

could at least exhibit a face such as Mercy Chant could not show. But

it was done with a sorry shake of the head. “It is nothing—it is

nothing!” she said. “Nobody loves it; nobody sees it. Who cares about

the looks of a castaway like me!”

Her journey back was rather a meander than a march. It had no

sprightliness, no purpose; only a tendency. Along the tedious length of

Benvill Lane she began to grow tired, and she leant upon gates and

paused by milestones.

She did not enter any house till, at the seventh or eighth mile, she

descended the steep long hill below which lay the village or townlet of

Evershead, where in the morning she had breakfasted with such

contrasting expectations. The cottage by the church, in which she again

sat down, was almost the first at that end of the village, and while

the woman fetched her some milk from the pantry, Tess, looking down the

street, perceived that the place seemed quite deserted.

“The people are gone to afternoon service, I suppose?” she said.

“No, my dear,” said the old woman. “’Tis too soon for that; the bells

hain’t strook out yet. They be all gone to hear the preaching in yonder

barn. A ranter preaches there between the services—an excellent, fiery,

Christian man, they say. But, Lord, I don’t go to hear’n! What comes in

the regular way over the pulpit is hot enough for I.”

Tess soon went onward into the village, her footsteps echoing against

the houses as though it were a place of the dead. Nearing the central

part, her echoes were intruded on by other sounds; and seeing the barn

not far off the road, she guessed these to be the utterances of the

preacher.

His voice became so distinct in the still clear air that she could soon

catch his sentences, though she was on the closed side of the barn. The

sermon, as might be expected, was of the extremest antinomian type; on

justification by faith, as expounded in the theology of St Paul. This

fixed idea of the rhapsodist was delivered with animated enthusiasm, in

a manner entirely declamatory, for he had plainly no skill as a

dialectician. Although Tess had not heard the beginning of the address,

she learnt what the text had been from its constant iteration—

“O foolish Galatians, who hath bewitched you, that ye should not

obey the truth, before whose eyes Jesus Christ hath been evidently

set forth, crucified among you?”

Tess was all the more interested, as she stood listening behind, in

finding that the preacher’s doctrine was a vehement form of the view of

Angel’s father, and her interest intensified when the speaker began to

detail his own spiritual experiences of how he had come by those views.

He had, he said, been the greatest of sinners. He had scoffed; he had

wantonly associated with the reckless and the lewd. But a day of

awakening had come, and, in a human sense, it had been brought about

mainly by the influence of a certain clergyman, whom he had at first

grossly insulted; but whose parting words had sunk into his heart, and

had remained there, till by the grace of Heaven they had worked this

change in him, and made him what they saw him.

But more startling to Tess than the doctrine had been the voice, which,

impossible as it seemed, was precisely that of Alec d’Urberville. Her

face fixed in painful suspense, she came round to the front of the

barn, and passed before it. The low winter sun beamed directly upon the

great double-doored entrance on this side; one of the doors being open,

so that the rays stretched far in over the threshing-floor to the

preacher and his audience, all snugly sheltered from the northern

breeze. The listeners were entirely villagers, among them being the man

whom she had seen carrying the red paint-pot on a former memorable

occasion. But her attention was given to the central figure, who stood

upon some sacks of corn, facing the people and the door. The three

o’clock sun shone full upon him, and the strange enervating conviction

that her seducer confronted her, which had been gaining ground in Tess

ever since she had heard his words distinctly, was at last established

as a fact indeed.

End of Phase the Fifth

Phase the Sixth:

The Convert