Nobody ever was told
how Izz spent the dark hours that intervened between Angel Clare's
parting from her and her arrival home.
Clare, too, after bidding the girl farewell, was wrought to aching
thoughts and quivering lips. But his sorrow was not for Izz. That
evening he was within a feather-weight's turn of abandoning his road
to the nearest station, and driving across that elevated dorsal line
of South Wessex which divided him from his Tess's home. It was
neither a contempt for her nature, nor the probable state of her
heart, which deterred him.
No; it was a sense that, despite her love, as corroborated by Izz's
admission, the facts had not changed. If he was right at first,
he was right now. And the momentum of the course on which he
had embarked tended to keep him going in it, unless diverted by
a stronger, more sustained force than had played upon him this
afternoon. He could soon come back to her. He took the train that
night for London, and five days after shook hands in farewell of his
brothers at the port of embarkation.
XLI
From the foregoing events of the winter-time let us press on to
an October day, more than eight months subsequent to the parting
of Clare and Tess.
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