"Yes," said Tess. They crept along towards a point in the expanse of shade just at hand
at which a feeble light was beginning to assert its presence, a spot
where, by day, a fitful white streak of steam at intervals upon the
dark green background denoted intermittent moments of contact between
their secluded world and modern life. Modern life stretched out its
steam feeler to this point three or four times a day, touched the
native existences, and quickly withdrew its feeler again, as if what
it touched had been uncongenial.
They reached the feeble light, which came from the smoky lamp of a
little railway station; a poor enough terrestrial star, yet in one
sense of more importance to Talbothays Dairy and mankind than the
celestial ones to which it stood in such humiliating contrast. The
cans of new milk were unladen in the rain, Tess getting a little
shelter from a neighbouring holly tree.
Then there was the hissing of a train, which drew up almost silently
upon the wet rails, and the milk was rapidly swung can by can into
the truck. The light of the engine flashed for a second upon Tess
Durbeyfield's figure, motionless under the great holly tree. No
object could have looked more foreign to the gleaming cranks and
wheels than this unsophisticated girl, with the round bare arms, the
rainy face and hair, the suspended attitude of a friendly leopard at
pause, the print gown of no date or fashion, and the cotton bonnet
drooping on her brow. She mounted again beside her lover, with a mute obedience
characteristic of impassioned natures at times, and when they had
wrapped themselves up over head and ears in the sailcloth again, they
plunged back into the now thick night. Tess was so receptive that
the few minutes of contact with the whirl of material progress
lingered in her thought. "Londoners will drink it at their breakfasts to-morrow, won't they?"
she asked. "Strange people that we have never seen."
"Yes--I suppose they will. Though not as we send it. When its
strength has been lowered, so that it may not get up into their
heads."
"Noble men and noble women, ambassadors and centurions, ladies and
tradeswomen, and babies who have never seen a cow."
"Well, yes; perhaps; particularly centurions."
"Who don't know anything of us, and where it comes from; or think how
we two drove miles across the moor to-night in the rain that it might
reach 'em in time?"
"We did not drive entirely on account of these precious Londoners; we
drove a little on our own--on account of that anxious matter which
you will, I am sure, set at rest, dear Tess. Now, permit me to put
it in this way. You belong to me already, you know; your heart, I
mean. Does it not?"