LITMIR.BIZ

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it! and it did twinkle when he put his hand up to his mistarshers. Mother, why did our grand relation keep on putting his hand up to his mistarshers?’

      ‘Hark at that child!’ cried Mrs. Durbeyfield, with parenthetic admiration.

      ‘Perhaps to show his diamond ring,’ murmured Sir John, dreamily, from his chair.

      ‘I’ll think it over,’ said Tess, leaving the room.

      ‘Well, she’s made a conquest o’ the younger branch of us, straight off,’ continued the matron to her husband, ‘and she’s a fool if she don’t follow it up.’

      ‘I don’t quite like my children going away from home,’ said the haggler. ‘As the head of the family, the rest ought to come to me.’

      ‘But do let her go, Jacky,’ coaxed his poor witless wife. ‘He’s struck wi’ her—you can see that. He called her Coz! He’ll marry her, most likely, and make a lady of her; and then she’ll be what her forefathers was.’

      John Durbeyfield had more conceit than energy or health, and this supposition was pleasant to him.

      ‘Well, perhaps, that’s what young Mr. d’Urberville means,’ he admitted; ‘and sure enough he mid have serious thoughts about improving his blood by linking on to the old line. Tess, the little rogue! And have she really paid ’em a visit to such an end as this?’

      Meanwhile Tess was walking thoughtfully among the gooseberry-bushes in the garden, and over Prince’s grave. When she came in her mother pursued her advantage.

      ‘Well, what be you going to do?’ she asked.

      ‘I wish I had seen Mrs. d’Urberville,’ said Tess.

      ‘I think you mid as well settle it. Then you’ll see her soon enough.’

      Her father coughed in his chair.

      ‘I don’t know what to say!’ answered the girl restlessly. ‘It is for you to decide. I killed the old horse, and I suppose I ought to do something to get ye a new one. But—but—I don’t quite like Mr. d’Urberville being there!’

      The children, who had made use of this idea of Tess being taken up by their wealthy kinsfolk (which they imagined the other family to be) as a species of dolorifuge after the death of the horse, began to cry at Tess’s reluctance, and teased and reproached her for hesitating.

      ‘Tess won’t go—o—o and be made a la—a—dy of!—no, she says she wo—o—on’t!’ they wailed, with square mouths. ‘And we shan’t have a nice new horse, and lots o’ golden money to buy fairlings! And Tess won’t look pretty in her best cloze no mo—o—ore!’

      Her mother chimed in to the same tune: a certain way she had of making her labours in the house seem heavier than they were by prolonging them indefinitely, also weighed in the argument. Her father alone preserved an attitude of neutrality.

      ‘I will go,’ said Tess at last.

      Her mother could not repress her consciousness of the nuptial Vision conjured up by the girl’s consent.

      ‘That’s right! For such a pretty maid as ’tis, this is a fine chance!’

      Tess smiled crossly.

      ‘I hope it is a chance for earning money. It is no other kind of chance. You had better say nothing of that silly sort about parish.’

      Mrs. Durbeyfield did not promise. She was not quite sure that she did not feel proud enough, after the visitor’s remarks, to say a good deal.

      Thus it was arranged; and the young girl wrote, agreeing to be ready to set out on any day on which she might be required. She was duly informed that Mrs. d’Urberville was glad of her decision, and that a spring-cart should be sent to meet her and her luggage at the top of the Vale on the day after the morrow, when she must hold herself prepared to start. Mrs. d’Urberville’s handwriting seemed rather masculine.

      ‘A cart?’ murmured Joan Durbeyfield doubtingly. ‘It might have been a carriage for her own kin!’

      Having at last taken her course Tess was less restless and abstracted, going about her business with some self-assurance in the thought of acquiring another horse for her father by an occupation which would not be onerous. She had hoped to be a teacher at the school, but the fates seemed to decide otherwise. Being mentally older than her mother she did not regard Mrs. Durbey-field’s matrimonial hopes for her in a serious aspect for a moment. The light-minded woman had been discovering good matches for her daughter almost from the year of her birth.

       CHAPTER 7

      On the morning appointed for her departure Tess was awake before dawn—at the marginal minute of the dark when the grove is still mute, save for one prophetic bird who sings with a clear-voiced conviction that he at least knows the correct time of day, the rest preserving silence as if equally convinced that he is mistaken. She remained upstairs packing till breakfast-time, and then came down in her ordinary week-day clothes, her Sunday apparel being carefully folded in her box.

      Her mother expostulated. ‘You will never set out to see your folks without dressing up more the dand than that?’

      ‘But I am going to work!’ said Tess.

      ‘Well, yes,’ said Mrs. Durbeyfield; and in a private tone, ‘at first there mid be a little pretence o’t…But I think it will be wiser of ’ee to put your best side outward,’ she added.

      ‘Very well; I suppose you know best,’ replied Tess with calm abandonment.

      And to please her parent the girl put herself quite in Joan’s hands, saying serenely—‘Do what you like with me, mother.’

      Mrs. Durbeyfield was only too delighted at this tractability. First she fetched a great basin, and washed Tess’s hair with such thoroughness that when dried and brushed it looked twice as much as at other times. She tied it with a broader pink ribbon than usual. Then she put upon her the white frock that Tess had worn at the club-walking, the airy fulness of which, supplementing her enlarged coiffure, imparted to her developing figure an amplitude which belied her age, and might cause her to be estimated as a woman when she was not much more than a child.

      ‘I declare there’s a hole in my stocking-heel!’ said Tess.

      ‘Never mind holes in your stockings—they don’t speak! When I was a maid, so long as I had a pretty bonnet the devil might ha’ found me in heels.’

      Her mother’s pride in the girl’s appearance led her to step back, like a painter from his easel, and survey her work as a whole.

      ‘You must zee yourself!’ she cried. ‘It is much better than you was t’other day.’

      As the looking-glass was only large enough to reflect a very small portion of Tess’s person at one time, Mrs. Durbeyfield hung a black cloak outside the casement, and so made a large reflector of the panes, as it is the wont of bedecking cottagers to do. After this she went downstairs to her husband, who was sitting in the lower room.

      ‘I’ll tell ’ee what ’tis, Durbeyfield,’ said she exultingly; ‘he’ll never have the heart not to love her. But whatever you do, don’t zay too much to Tess of his fancy for her, and this chance she has got. She is such an odd maid that it mid zet her against him, or against going there, even now. If all goes well, I shall certainly be for making some return to that pa’son at Stagfoot Lane for telling us—dear, good man!’

      However, as the moment for the girl’s setting out drew nigh, when the first excitement of the dressing had passed off, a slight misgiving found place in Joan Durbeyfield’s mind. It prompted the matron to say that she would walk a little way—as far as the point where the acclivity from the valley began its first steep ascent to the outer world. At the top Tess was going to be met with the

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