He listened.The wind, playing upon the edifice, produced a booming tune, like the note of some gigantic one-stringed harp.No other sound came from it, and lifting his hand and advancin g a step or two, Clare felt the vertical surface of the structure.It seemed to be of solid ston e, without joint or moulding.Carrying his fingers onw ard he found that what h e had co me in contact with was a colossal rectangular pillar; by stretching out his left hand he could feel a similar one adjoining.At an ind efinite height ov erhead so mething made the black sky blacker, which had the se mblance of a vast arch itrave uniting th e pillars horizontally.They carefully entered beneath and between; the surfaces echoed their soft rustle; but they seemed to be still out of doors.The place was roofless.Tess drew her breath fearfully, and Angel, perplexed, said—
“What can it be?”
Feeling sideway s they e ncountered a nother tower-like pillar, square and uncompromising as the first, beyond it an other and another.The place was all doors and pillars, some connected above by continuous architraves.
“A very Temple of the Winds, ”he said.
The nex t p illar was iso lated; oth ers co mposed a tr ilithon; others were prostrate, their flanks forming a causeway wide enough for a carriage; an d it was soon ob vious that they made up a forest of monoliths grouped upon the grassy expanse of the plain.The cou ple advanced further into this pavilion of the night till they stood in its midst.
“It is Stonehenge！”said Clare.
“The heathen temple, you mean?”
“Yes, Older than the centuries; older than the d'Urbervilles！Well, what shall we do, darling?We may find shelter further on.”
But Tess, really tired by this time, flung herself upon an ob long slab that lay close at hand, and was sheltered from the wind by a pillar.Owing to the action o f the sun during the pr eceding day th e stone was war m and d ry, in comforting contrast to the rough and chill grass around, which had damped her skirts and shoes.
“I don't want to go any further, Angel, ”she said stretching out her hand for his.“Can't we bide here?”
“I fear not.This spot is visible for miles by day, although it does not seem so now.”
“One of my mother's people was a shepherd hereabouts, now I think of it.And you used to say at Talbothays that I was a heathen.So now I am at home.”
He knelt down beside her outstretched form, and put his lips upon hers.
“Sleepy are you, dear?I think you are lying on an altar.”
“I like ve ry much to b e her e, ”she murmured.“It is so s olemn and lonely-after my great happiness—with nothing but the sky above my face.It seems as if there were no folk in the world but we two; and I wish there were not—except'Liza-Lu.”
Clare thought she might as well r est here till it should get a little lighter, and he flung his overcoat upon her, and sat down by her side.
“Angel, if a nything happens to me, will you watch over'Liza-Lu for my sake?”she asked, when they had listened a long time to th e wind am ong the pillars.
“I will.”
“She is so g ood and simple and pure.O, Angel—I wish you would marry her if you lose me, as you will do shortly.O, if you would！”
“If I lose you I lose all！And she is my sister-in-law.”
“That's not hing, dear est.People marry sister-laws continually abou t Marlott; and'Liza-Lu is so gentle and sweet, and she is growing so beautiful.O I could share you with her willingly when we are spirits！If you would train her and teach her, Angel, and bring her up for y our own self……She has all the best of me without the bad of me; and if she were to beco me yours it would almost seem as if death had not divided us……Well, I h ave said it.I won't mention it again.”
She ceased, and he fell into thought.In the far north-east sky he could see between the pillars a level streak of light.The uniform concavity of black cloud was lifting bodily like the lid of a pot, letting in at the earth's edge the coming day, against which the to wering monoliths and trilithons began to be blackly defined.
“Did they sacrifice to God here?”asked she.
“No, ”said he.
“Who to?”
“I believe to the sun.That lof ty stone set away by itself is in the direction of the sun, which will presently rise behind it.”
“This remin ds m e, d ear, ”she said.“Y ou rem ember y ou never would interfere with any belief of mine bef ore we were married?But I knew y our mind all the same, and I thought as y ou thought—not from any reasons of my own, but because y ou thought so.T ell me now, Angel, do y ou think we shall meet again after we are dead?I want to know.”
He kissed her to avoid a reply at such a time.
“O, Angel—I fear that means no！”said she, with a suppressed sob.“And I wanted so to see y ou again—so much, so m uch！What—not even y ou and I, Angel, who love each other so well?”
Like a greater than himself, to the critical question at the cri tical time he did not ans wer; and they were again silen t.In a minute or two her breathin g became more regular, her clasp of his hand relax ed, and she fell asleep.The band of silver paleness along the east horizon made even the distant parts of the Great Plain appear dark and near; and the whole enormous landscape bore th e impress of r eserve, taciturnity, and hesitation which is usual just before d ay.The e astward pillars and the ir architraves stoo d u p bla ckly ag ainst th e lig ht, and the great flameshaped Sun-stone bey ond them; and the S tone of Sacrif ice midway.Presently the night wind died out, and the quivering little pools in the cup-like hollows of the st ones lay still.At the same time something seemed to move on the verge of the dip eastwar d—a mere dot.It was th e head of a man approaching them from the hollow beyond the Sunstone.Clare wished they had gone onward, but in th e circu mstances decid ed to rem ain q uiet.The fig ure came straight towards the circle of pillars in which they were.
He heard someth ing behind him, the brush of feet.T urning, he saw over the prostrate columns another figure; then before he was aware, another was at hand on the right, under a trilithon, and another on the left.The dawn shone full on the front of the man westward, and Clare could discern from this that he was tall, and walked as if trained.They all closed in with evident purpose.Her storythen was true！Springing to his feet, he looked around for a weapon, loose stone, means of escape, anything.By this time the nearest man was upon him.
“It is no use, sir, ”he said.“There are sixteen of us on the Plain, and the whole country is reared.”
“Let her f inish her sleep！”he implored in a whisper of th e men as th ey gathered round.
When th ey saw where s he lay, which they had not done till then, th ey showed no objection, and stood watching her, as still as the pillars around.He went to the stone and bent over her, holding one poor little hand; her breathing now was quick and s mall, like that of a lesser c reature tha n a woman.All waited in the growing light, their faces and hands as if they were silvered, the remainder of their figures dark, the stones glistening green-gray, the Plain still a mass of sh ade.Soon the light was strong, and a rays hone upon herunconscious form, peering under her eyelids and waking her.
“What is it, Angel?”she said, starting up.“Have they come for me?”
“Yes, dearest, ”he said.“They have come.”
“It is as it should be, ”she m urmured.“Angel, I am almost glad—yes, glad！This happiness could not have lasted.It was too much.I have had enough; and now I shall not live for you to despise me！”
She stood up, shook herself, and went forward, neither of the men having moved.
“I am ready, ”she said quietly.
59
The city of Wintoncester, that fine old city, aforetime cap ital ofWessex, lay midst its con vex and concave downlands in all the brightness andwarmth of a July m orning.The gab led brick, tile, and freestone houses had almost dried off for the season their integument of lichen, the streams in the meadows were low, and in the sloping High Street, from the West Gateway to the mediaeval cross, and from the mediaeval cross to the brid ge, that leisurely dusting and sweeping was in progress which usually ushers in an old-fashioned market-day.
From the western gate aforesaid the highway, as every Wintoncestrian knows, ascends a long and regular incline of the exact length of measured mile, leaving the houses gradually behind.Up this road from the precincts of the city two persons were walking rapidly, as if unconscious of th e try ing ascent—unconscious through pr eoccupation and not th rough buoy ancy.They had emerged upon this road through a nar row barred wicket in a high wall a little lower down.They seemed anxious to get out of the sight of the houses and of their kind, and this ro ad appear ed to of fer the q uickest means of doing so.Though they were y oung they walked with bowed heads, which gait of gr ief the sun's rays smiled on pitilessly.
One of the p air was Angel Clare, the other a tall budding creature—half girl, half woman—a spiritualized image of Tess, slighter than she, but with the same beautiful eyes—Clare's sister-in-law, 'Liza-Lu.Their pale faces seemed to have shr unk to half their natural size.They moved on h and in h and, and never spoke a word, the drooping of their heads being that of Giotto's“Two Apostles.”
When they had nearly reached the top of the great West Hill the clocks in the town struck eight.Each gave a start at the notes, and, walking onward yet a few steps, they reached the firs t milestone, sta nding white ly on the gr een margin of the grass, and backed by the down, which here was open to th e road.They entered upon th e turf, and, impelled by a f orce that seemed to overrule their will, suddenly stood still, turned, and waited in paralyzed suspense beside the stone.
The prospect from this summit was almost unlimited.In the valley beneath lay the c ity they had just left, its more prominent buildings showing as in an isometric drawing—among th em th e broad ca thedral towe r, with its Nor man windows and immense length of aisle and nave, the spires of St.Thomas's, thepinnacled tower of the College, and, more to the right, the tower and gables of the ancient hospice, where to this day the pilgrim may receive his dole of bread and ale.Behind the city swept the rotund upland of St.Catherine's Hill; further off, landscape beyond landscape, till the horizon was lost in the radiance of the sun hanging above it.
Against these far s tretches of coun try rose, in f ront of the other city edifices, a lar ge red-brick building, with level g ray roofs, and rows of short barred wind ows bespeaking cap tivity, the whole contr asting greatly by its formalism with the qu aint i rregularities of the Goth ic er ections.I t was somewhat disguised fro m the road in passing it by yews and ever green oaks, but it was visible eno ugh up here.Th e wicket fro m which the pair had lately emerged was in the wa ll of this stru cture.From the middle of the building an ugly flat-topped octagonal tower ascended against the east horizon, and viewed from this spot, on its shady side and against the light, it seemed the one blot on the city's beauty.Yet it was with this blot, and not with the beauty, that the two gazers were concerned.
Upon the cornice of th e tower a tall s taff was fixed.Their ey es were riveted on it.A few minutes after the hour had struck something moved slowly up the staff, and extended itself upon the breeze.It was a black flag.
“Justice”was done, and the President of the I mmortals, in Eschy lean phrase, had ended his sport with Tess.And the d'Urberville knights and dames slept on in their tombs unknowing.The two speechless gazers bent themselves down to the earth, as if in pray er, and remained thus a long time, absolutely motionless：the flag con tinued to wave silently.As soon as th ey had stren gth they arose, joined hands again, and went on.