Tess of the d'Urbervilles eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 439 pages of information about Tess of the d'Urbervilles.

“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!”

XXIX

“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?”

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Tess of the d'Urbervilles from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.