"To tell the truth, my Tess, I don't like you to be left anywhere
away from my protection and sympathy." The reason was a good one, so far as it went.
His influence over her
had been so marked that she had caught his manner and habits, his
speech and phrases, his likings and his aversions. And to leave her
in farmland would be to let her slip back again out of accord with
him. He wished to have her under his charge for another reason.
His parents had naturally desired to see her once at least before he
carried her off to a distant settlement, English or colonial; and
as no opinion of theirs was to be allowed to change his intention,
he judged that a couple of months' life with him in lodgings
whilst seeking for an advantageous opening would be of some social
assistance to her at what she might feel to be a trying ordeal--her
presentation to his mother at the Vicarage.
Next, he wished to see a little of the working of a flour-mill,
having an idea that he might combine the use of one with
corn-growing. The proprietor of a large old water-mill at
Wellbridge--once the mill of an Abbey--had offered him the inspection
of his time-honoured mode of procedure, and a hand in the operations
for a few days, whenever he should choose to come. Clare paid a
visit to the place, some few miles distant, one day at this time,
to inquire particulars, and returned to Talbothays in the evening.
She found him determined to spend a short time at the Wellbridge
flour-mills. And what had determined him? Less the opportunity of an
insight into grinding and bolting than the casual fact that lodgings
were to be obtained in that very farmhouse which, before its
mutilation, had been the mansion of a branch of the d'Urberville
family. This was always how Clare settled practical questions; by
a sentiment which had nothing to do with them. They decided to go
immediately after the wedding, and remain for a fortnight, instead
of journeying to towns and inns. "Then we will start off to examine some farms on the other side of
London that I have heard of," he said, "and by March or April we will
pay a visit to my father and mother."
Questions of procedure such as these arose and passed, and the day,
the incredible day, on which she was to become his, loomed large in
the near future. The thirty-first of December, New Year's Eve, was
the date. His wife, she said to herself. Could it ever be? Their
two selves together, nothing to divide them, every incident shared
by them; why not? And yet why? One Sunday morning Izz Huett returned from church, and spoke
privately to Tess. "You was not called home this morning."