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.
Pages:
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313