“Very well, then, I wi ll—on one co ndition.Having brought you here to this out-of-the-way place, I feel myself responsible for your safe-conduct home, whatever y ou may y ourself feel ab out lt.As to y our getting to Trantridge without assistance, it is q uite impossible; for, to tell the truth, dear, owing to this fog, wh ich so d isguises ev erything, I don't quite know where we ar e myself.Now, if you will promise to wait beside the horse while I walk through the bushes till I co me to some road or house, and ascer tain exactly our whereabouts, I'll deposit you here willingly.When I com e back I'll give you full directions, and if y ou insist upon walking you may; or y ou may ride—at your pleasure.”
She accepted these ter ms, and s lid off on th e near side, though not till he had stolen a cursory kiss.He sprang down on the other side.
“I suppose I must hold the horse?”said she.
“Oh no; it's not necessary, ”replied Alec, pattin g the pan ting creatur e.“He's had enough of it for to-night.”
He turned the horse's head into the bushes, hitched him on to a bough, and made a sort of couch or nest for her in the deep mass of dead leaves.
“Now, you sit there, ”he said.“The leaves have no t got damp as y et.Just give an eye to the horse—it will be quite sufficient.”
He took a few steps away from her, but, returning, said, “By the bye, Tess, your father has a new cob to-day.Somebody gave it to him.”
“Somebody?You！”
D'Urberville nodded.
“O how very good of y ou that is！”she exclaimed, with a painf ul sense of the awkwardness of having to thank him just then.
“And the children have some toys.”
“I didn't know—you ev er sen t them any thing！”she murmured, much moved.“I almost wish you had not—yes, I almost wish it！”
“Why, dear?”
“It—hampers me so.”
“Tessy—don't you love me ever so little now?”
“I'm gratefu l, ”she r eluctantly ad mitted.“But I fear I do n ot—”The sudden vision of his p assion for h erself as a factor in this result so dis tressed her that, beg inning with one slow tear, and then following with ano ther, she wept outright.
“Don't cry, dear, dear one！Now sit down here, an d wait till I come.”Sh e passively sat down am id the leaves he had heaped, and shivered slightly.“Are you cold?”he asked.
“Not very—a little.”
He touched her with h is fingers, which sank into her as into d own.“You have only that puffy muslin dress on—how's that?”
“It's my best su mmer one.'Twas very warm when I started, and I didn't know I was going to ride, and that it would be night.”
“Nights gro w chilly in September.Let me see.”He pulled off a light overcoat th at he h ad wo rn, and pu t it roun d her tenderly.“That's it—now you'll feel warmer, ”he continued.“Now, my pretty, rest there; I shall soon beback again.”
Having bu ttoned th e ov ercoat round her shou lders he p lunged in to t he webs of vapours which by this time formed veils between the trees.She could hear the rus tling of th e branches as he ascende d the adjo ining slope, till his movements were no louder than the hopping of a bird, and f inally died away.With the setting of the moon the pale light lessened, and Tess became invisible as she fell into reverie upon the leaves where he had left her.
In the meantime Alec d'Urberville had pushed on up the slope to clear his genuine doubt as to the quarter of The Chase they were in.He had, in f act, ridden quite at random for over an hour, taking any turning that came to hand in order to p rolong companionship with her, and giving far more attention to Tess's moonlit person than to any way side object.A little rest for th e jaded animal being desirable, h e did not has ten his sear ch for land marks.A clamber over th e h ill into th e ad joining vale brought h im to the f ence of a high way whose contours he recognized, which settled the question of their whereabouts.D'Urberville thereupon turned back; but by this time th e moon had quite gone down, and partly on account of the fog The Chase was wrapped in th ick darkness, although morning was no t far off.He was obliged to advance with outstretched hands to avoid contact with the boughs, and discovered that to hit the ex act spot fro m wh ich he had s tarted was at firs t en tirely bey ond him.Roaming up and down, round and round, he at length heard a slight movement of the horse close at hand; and the sleeve of h is overcoat unexpectedly caught his foot.
“Tess！”said d'Urberville.
There was no answer.The obscur ity was now so grea t that he could see absolutely nothing but a pale nebulousness at his feet, which represented the white muslin figure he had lef t upo n the dead leaves.Ev erything else w as blackness alike.D'Urberville stooped; and heard a gentle regular breathing.He knelt and be nt lower, till her breath warmed his face, an d in a m oment his cheek was in contact w ith h ers.Sh e was sleep ing soundly, and upon her eyelashes there lingered tears.
Darkness an d silence ru led everywhere around.Above th em rose the primeval yews and oaks of The Chase, in which were poised gentle roostin gbirds in their last nap; and about them stole the hopping rabbits and hares.But, might some say, where was Tess's guardian angel?where was the prov idence of her simple faith?Perhaps, like that other god of whom the ironical Tishbtte spoke, he was talk ing, or he was pursuing, or he was in a jou rney, or he was sleeping and not to be awaked.
Why it was that upon this beautiful feminine tissue, sensitive as gossamer, and pr actically blank as snow as y et, th ere should hav e b een tr aced such a coarse p attern as it w as doo med to r eceive; why so often the co arse appropriates the finer thus, the wrong man the woman, the wrong woman the man, many thousand y ears of analytical philosophy have f ailed to explain to our sense of order.One m ay, indeed, ad mit the possibility of a retrib ution lurking in the presen t catastrophe.Doubtless some of Tess d'Urberville's mailed ancestors rollicking home from a fray had dealt the same measure even more ruthlessly towards peasant girls of their time.But though to visit the sins of the fathers upon the children may be a morality good enough for divinities, it is scorned by average human nature; and it therefore does not mend the matter.
As Tess's own people d own in those retreats are nev er tired of say ing among each other in their fatalistic way：“It was to be.”There lay the pity of it.An imm easurable socia l chas m wa s to div ide our hero ine's personality thereafter from that previous self of hers who s tepped from her mother's door to try her fortune at Trantridge poultry-farm.