She impulsively whispered to him—
“Will you kiss ’em all, once, poor things,
for the first and last time?”
Clare had not the least objection to such a farewell
formality—which was all that it was to
him—and as he passed them he kissed them
in succession where they stood, saying “Goodbye”
to each as he did so. When they reached the door
Tess femininely glanced back to discern the effect
of that kiss of charity; there was no triumph in her
glance, as there might have been. If there had
it would have disappeared when she saw how moved the
girls all were. The kiss had obviously done
harm by awakening feelings they were trying to subdue.
Of all this Clare was unconscious. Passing on
to the wicket-gate he shook hands with the dairyman
and his wife, and expressed his last thanks to them
for their attentions; after which there was a moment
of silence before they had moved off. It was
interrupted by the crowing of a cock. The white
one with the rose comb had come and settled on the
palings in front of the house, within a few yards of
them, and his notes thrilled their ears through, dwindling
away like echoes down a valley of rocks.
“Oh?” said Mrs Crick. “An
afternoon crow!”
Two men were standing by the yard gate, holding it
open.
“That’s bad,” one murmured to the
other, not thinking that the words could be heard
by the group at the door-wicket.
The cock crew again—straight towards Clare.
“Well!” said the dairyman.
“I don’t like to hear him!” said
Tess to her husband. “Tell the man to
drive on. Goodbye, goodbye!”
The cock crew again.
“Hoosh! Just you be off, sir, or I’ll
twist your neck!” said the dairyman with some
irritation, turning to the bird and driving him away.
And to his wife as they went indoors: “Now,
to think o’ that just to-day! I’ve
not heard his crow of an afternoon all the year afore.”
“It only means a change in the weather,”
said she; “not what you think: ’tis
impossible!”
They drove by the level road along the valley to a
distance of a few miles, and, reaching Wellbridge,
turned away from the village to the left, and over
the great Elizabethan bridge which gives the place
half its name. Immediately behind it stood the
house wherein they had engaged lodgings, whose exterior
features are so well known to all travellers through
the Froom Valley; once portion of a fine manorial
residence, and the property and seat of a d’Urberville,
but since its partial demolition a farmhouse.
“Welcome to one of your ancestral mansions!”
said Clare as he handed her down. But he regretted
the pleasantry; it was too near a satire.
On entering they found that, though they had only
engaged a couple of rooms, the farmer had taken advantage
of their proposed presence during the coming days
to pay a New Year’s visit to some friends, leaving
a woman from a neighbouring cottage to minister to
their few wants. The absoluteness of possession
pleased them, and they realized it as the first moment
of their experience under their own exclusive roof-tree.
