“Say on Sunday?”
“Yes, on Sunday.”
At last she got away, and did not stop in her retreat
till she was in the thicket of pollard willows at
the lower side of the barton, where she could be quite
unseen. Here Tess flung herself down upon the
rustling undergrowth of spear-grass, as upon a bed,
and remained crouching in palpitating misery broken
by momentary shoots of joy, which her fears about
the ending could not altogether suppress.
In reality, she was drifting into acquiescence.
Every see-saw of her breath, every wave of her blood,
every pulse singing in her ears, was a voice that
joined with nature in revolt against her scrupulousness.
Reckless, inconsiderate acceptance of him; to close
with him at the altar, revealing nothing, and chancing
discovery; to snatch ripe pleasure before the iron
teeth of pain could have time to shut upon her:
that was what love counselled; and in almost a terror
of ecstasy Tess divined that, despite her many months
of lonely self-chastisement, wrestlings, communings,
schemes to lead a future of austere isolation, love’s
counsel would prevail.
The afternoon advanced, and still she remained among
the willows. She heard the rattle of taking down
the pails from the forked stands; the “waow-waow!”
which accompanied the getting together of the cows.
But she did not go to the milking. They would
see her agitation; and the dairyman, thinking the
cause to be love alone, would good-naturedly tease
her; and that harassment could not be borne.
Her lover must have guessed her overwrought state,
and invented some excuse for her non-appearance, for
no inquiries were made or calls given. At half-past
six the sun settled down upon the levels with the
aspect of a great forge in the heavens; and presently
a monstrous pumpkin-like moon arose on the other hand.
The pollard willows, tortured out of their natural
shape by incessant choppings, became spiny-haired
monsters as they stood up against it. She went
in and upstairs without a light.
It was now Wednesday. Thursday came, and Angel
looked thoughtfully at her from a distance, but intruded
in no way upon her. The indoor milkmaids, Marian
and the rest, seemed to guess that something definite
was afoot, for they did not force any remarks upon
her in the bedchamber. Friday passed; Saturday.
To-morrow was the day.
“I shall give way—I shall say yes—I
shall let myself marry him—I cannot help
it!” she jealously panted, with her hot face
to the pillow that night, on hearing one of the other
girls sigh his name in her sleep. “I can’t
bear to let anybody have him but me! Yet it is
a wrong to him, and may kill him when he knows!
O my heart—O—O—O!”
“Now, who mid ye think I’ve heard news
o’ this morning?” said Dairyman Crick,
as he sat down to breakfast next day, with a riddling
gaze round upon the munching men and maids. “Now,
just who mid ye think?”
