"I have said I will not take anything more from you, and I will
not--I cannot! I SHOULD be your creature to go on doing that, and
I won't!"
"One would think you were a princess from your manner, in addition
to a true and original d'Urberville--ha! ha! Well, Tess, dear, I
can say no more. I suppose I am a bad fellow--a damn bad fellow.
I was born bad, and I have lived bad, and I shall die bad in all
probability. But, upon my lost soul, I won't be bad towards you
again, Tess. And if certain circumstances should arise--you
understand--in which you are in the least need, the least difficulty,
send me one line, and you shall have by return whatever you require.
I may not be at Trantridge--I am going to London for a time--I can't
stand the old woman. But all letters will be forwarded."
She said that she did not wish him to drive her further, and they
stopped just under the clump of trees. D'Urberville alighted, and
lifted her down bodily in his arms, afterwards placing her articles
on the ground beside her. She bowed to him slightly, her eye just
lingering in his; and then she turned to take the parcels for
departure.
Alec d'Urberville removed his cigar, bent towards her, and said-
"You are not going to turn away like that, dear! Come!"
"If you wish," she answered indifferently. "See how you've mastered
me!"
She thereupon turned round and lifted her face to his, and remained
like a marble term while he imprinted a kiss upon her cheek--half
perfunctorily, half as if zest had not yet quite died out. Her eyes
vaguely rested upon the remotest trees in the lane while the kiss was
given, as though she were nearly unconscious of what he did.
"Now the other side, for old acquaintance' sake."
She turned her head in the same passive way, as one might turn at the
request of a sketcher or hairdresser, and he kissed the other side,
his lips touching cheeks that were damp and smoothly chill as the
skin of the mushrooms in the fields around.
"You don't give me your mouth and kiss me back. You never willingly
do that--you'll never love me, I fear."
"I have said so, often. It is true. I have never really and truly
loved you, and I think I never can." She added mournfully, "Perhaps,
of all things, a lie on this thing would do the most good to me now;
but I have honour enough left, little as 'tis, not to tell that lie.
If I did love you, I may have the best o' causes for letting you know
it. But I don't." He emitted a laboured breath, as if the scene were getting rather
oppressive to his heart, or to his conscience, or to his gentility.