might have been the
result if she had been free to accept the offer just made her of
being the monied Alec's wife. It would have lifted her completely
out of subjection, not only to her present oppressive employer, but
to a whole world who seemed to despise her. "But no, no!" she said
breathlessly; "I could not have married him now! He is so unpleasant
to me."

That very night she began an appealing letter to Clare, concealing
from him her hardships, and assuring him of her undying affection.
Any one who had been in a position to read between the lines would
have seen that at the back of her great love was some monstrous
fear--almost a desperation--as to some secret contingencies which
were not disclosed. But again she did not finish her effusion; he
had asked Izz to go with him, and perhaps he did not care for her at
all. She put the letter in her box, and wondered if it would ever
reach Angel's hands.

After this her daily tasks were gone through heavily enough, and
brought on the day which was of great import to agriculturists--the
day of the Candlemas Fair. It was at this fair that new engagements
were entered into for the twelve months following the ensuing
Lady-Day, and those of the farming population who thought of changing
their places duly attended at the county-town where the fair was
held. Nearly all the labourers on Flintcomb-Ash farm intended
flight, and early in the morning there was a general exodus in the
direction of the town, which lay at a distance of from ten to a dozen
miles over hilly country. Though Tess also meant to leave at the
quarter-day, she was one of the few who did not go to the fair,
having a vaguely-shaped hope that something would happen to render
another outdoor engagement unnecessary.

It was a peaceful February day, of wonderful softness for the time,
and one would almost have thought that winter was over. She had
hardly finished her dinner when d'Urberville's figure darkened the
window of the cottage wherein she was a lodger, which she had all to
herself to-day.

Tess jumped up, but her visitor had knocked at the door, and she
could hardly in reason run away. D'Urberville's knock, his walk up
to the door, had some indescribable quality of difference from his
air when she last saw him. They seemed to be acts of which the doer
was ashamed. She thought that she would not open the door; but, as
there was no sense in that either, she arose, and having lifted the
latc