“Now, you sit there,” he said. “The leaves have not got damp as yet. Just give an eye to the horse—it will be quite sufficient.”
He took a few steps away from her, but, returning, said, “By the by, Tess, your father has a new cob today. Somebody gave it to him.”
“Somebody? You!”
D’Urberville nodded.
“O how very good of you that is!” she exclaimed, with a painful sense of the awkwardness of having to thank him just then.
“And the children have some toys.”
“I didn’t know—you ever sent them anything!” she murmured, much moved. “I almost wish you had not—yes, I almost wish it!”
“Why, dear?”
“It—hampers me so.”
“Tessy—don’t you love me ever so little now?”
“I’m grateful,” she reluctantly admitted. “But I fear I do not—” The sudden vision of his passion for herself as a factor in this result so distressed her that, beginning with one slow tear, and then following with another, she wept outright.
“Don’t cry, dear, dear one! Now sit down here, and wait till I come.” She passively sat down amid the leaves he had heaped, and shivered slightly. “Are you cold?” he asked.
“Not very—a little.”
He touched her with his fingers, which sank into her as into down. “You have only that puffy muslin dress on—how’s that?”