By the midnight lamps he went up and down the winding way of this new

world in an old one, and could discern between the trees and against

the stars the lofty roofs, chimneys, gazebos, and towers of the

numerous fanciful residences of which the place was composed. It

was a city of detached mansions; a Mediterranean lounging-place on

the English Channel; and as seen now by night it seemed even more

imposing than it was. The sea was near at hand, but not intrusive; it murmured, and he

thought it was the pines; the pines murmured in precisely the same

tones, and he thought they were the sea.

Where could Tess possibly be, a cottage-girl, his young wife, amidst

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all this wealth and fashion? The more he pondered, the more was he

puzzled. Were there any cows to milk here? There certainly were

no fields to till. She was most probably engaged to do something in

one of these large houses; and he sauntered along, looking at the

chamber-windows and their lights going out one by one, and wondered

which of them might be hers.

Conjecture was useless, and just after twelve o'clock he entered

and went to bed. Before putting out his light he re-read Tess's

impassioned letter. Sleep, however, he could not--so near her, yet

so far from her--and he continually lifted the window-blind and

regarded the backs of the opposite houses, and wondered behind which

of the sashes she reposed at that moment.

He might almost as well have sat up all night. In the morning he

arose at seven, and shortly after went out, taking the direction of

the chief post-office. At the door he met an intelligent postman

coming out with letters for the morning delivery.

"Do you know the address of a Mrs Clare?" asked Angel. The postman

shook his head. Then, remembering that she would have been likely to continue the use

of her maiden name, Clare said-"Of a Miss Durbeyfield?" "Durbeyfield?" This also was strange to the postman addressed. "There's visitors coming and going every day, as you know, sir," he

said; "and without the name of the house 'tis impossible to find

'em." One of his comrades hastening out at that moment, the name was

repeated to him. "I know no name of Durbeyfield; but there is the name of d'Urberville

at The Herons," said the second. "That's it!" cried Clare, pleased to think that she had reverted to

the real pronunciation. "What place is The Herons?"

"A stylish lodging-house. 'Tis all lodging-houses here, bless 'ee."




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