Dairyman Crick withdrew, and Tess dropped behind. Mr Clare also

stepped out of line, and began privateering about for the weed. When

she found him near her, her very tension at what she had heard the

night before made her the first to speak. "Don't they look pretty?" she said. "Who?"

"Izzy Huett and Retty."

Tess had moodily decided that either of these maidens would make a

good farmer's wife, and that she ought to recommend them, and obscure

her own wretched charms.

"Pretty? Well, yes--they are pretty girls--fresh looking. I have

often thought so."

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"Though, poor dears, prettiness won't last long!"

"O no, unfortunately."

"They are excellent dairywomen."

"Yes: though not better than you."

"They skim better than I."

"Do they?"

Clare remained observing them--not without their observing him.

"She is colouring up," continued Tess heroically. "Who?"

"Retty Priddle."

"Oh! Why it that?"

"Because you are looking at her."

Self-sacrificing as her mood might be, Tess could not well go further

and cry, "Marry one of them, if you really do want a dairywoman and

not a lady; and don't think of marrying me!" She followed Dairyman

Crick, and had the mournful satisfaction of seeing that Clare

remained behind.

From this day she forced herself to take pains to avoid him--never

allowing herself, as formerly, to remain long in his company, even if

their juxtaposition were purely accidental. She gave the other three

every chance. Tess was woman enough to realize from their avowals to herself that

Angel Clare had the honour of all the dairymaids in his keeping, and

her perception of his care to avoid compromising the happiness of

either in the least degree bred a tender respect in Tess for what she

deemed, rightly or wrongly, the self-controlling sense of duty shown

by him, a quality which she had never expected to find in one of the

opposite sex, and in the absence of which more than one of the simple

hearts who were his house-mates might have gone weeping on her

pilgrimage. XXIII The hot weather of July had crept upon them unawares, and the

atmosphere of the flat vale hung heavy as an opiate over the

dairy-folk, the cows, and the trees. Hot steaming rains fell

frequently, making the grass where the cows fed yet more rank, and

hindering the late hay-making in the other meads.

It was Sunday morning; the milking was done; the outdoor milkers

had gone home. Tess and the other three were dressing themselves

rapidly, the whole bevy having agreed to go together to Mellstock

Church, which lay some three or four miles distant from the

dairy-house. She had now been two months at Talbothays, and this

was her first excursion.




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