The haggling business, which had mainly depended on the horse, became
disorganized forthwith.  Distress, if not penury, loomed in the
distance.  Durbeyfield was what was locally called a slack-twisted
fellow; he had good strength to work at times; but the times could
not be relied on to coincide with the hours of requirement; and,
having been unaccustomed to the regular toil of the day-labourer,
he was not particularly persistent when they did so coincide.

Tess, meanwhile, as the one who had dragged her parents into this
quagmire, was silently wondering what she could do to help them out
of it; and then her mother broached her scheme.

"We must take the ups wi' the downs, Tess," said she; "and never
could your high blood have been found out at a more called-for
moment.  You must try your friends.  Do ye know that there is a very
rich Mrs d'Urberville living on the outskirts o' The Chase, who must
be our relation?  You must go to her and claim kin, and ask for some
help in our trouble."

"I shouldn't care to do that," says Tess.  "If there is such a lady,
'twould be enough for us if she were friendly--not to expect her to
give us help."

"You could win her round to do anything, my dear.  Besides, perhaps
there's more in it than you know of. I've heard what I've heard,
good-now."

The oppressive sense of the harm she had done led Tess to be more
deferential than she might otherwise have been to the maternal
wish; but she could not understand why her mother should find such
satisfaction in contemplating an enterprise of, to her, such doubtful
profit.  Her mother might have made inquiries, and have discovered
that this Mrs d'Urberville was a lady of unequalled virtues and
charity.  But Tess's pride made the part of poor relation one of
particular distaste to her.

"I'd rather try to get work," she murmured.

"Durbeyfield, you can settle it," said his wife, turning to where he
sat in the background.  "If you say she ought to go, she will go."

"I don't like my children going and making themselves beholden to
strange kin," murmured he.  "I'm the head of the noblest branch o'
the family, and I ought to live up to it."

His reasons for staying away were worse to Tess than her own
objections to going.  "Well, as I killed the horse, mother," she said
mournfully, "I suppose I ought to do something.  I don't mind going
and seeing her, but you must leave it to me about asking for help.
And don't go thinking about her making a match for me--it is silly."

"Very well said, Tess!" observed her father sententiously.

"Who said I had such a thought?" asked Joan.

"I fancy it is in your mind, mother.  But I'll go."

Rising early next day she walked to the hill-town called Shaston,
and there took advantage of a van which twice in the week ran from
Shaston eastward to Chaseborough, passing near Trantridge, the parish
in which the vague and mysterious Mrs d'Urberville had her residence.

Tess Durbeyfield's route on this memorable morning lay amid the
north-eastern undulations of the Vale in which she had been born, and
in which her life had unfolded.  The Vale of Blackmoor was to her the
world, and its inhabitants the races thereof.  From the gates and
stiles of Marlott she had looked down its length in the wondering
days of infancy, and what had been mystery to her then was not
much less than mystery to her now.  She had seen daily from her
chamber-window towers, villages, faint white mansions; above all,
the town of Shaston standing majestically on its height; its windows
shining like lamps in the evening sun.  She had hardly ever visited
the place, only a small tract even of the Vale and its environs being
known to her by close inspection.  Much less had she been far outside
the valley.  Every contour of the surrounding hills was as personal
to her as that of her relatives' faces; but for what lay beyond, her
judgment was dependent on the teaching of the village school, where
she had held a leading place at the time of her leaving, a year or
two before this date.

In those early days she had been much loved by others of her own
sex and age, and had used to be seen about the village as one of
three--all nearly of the same year--walking home from school side
by side; Tess the middle one--in a pink print pinafore, of a finely
reticulated pattern, worn over a stuff frock that had lost its
original colour for a nondescript tertiary--marching on upon long
stalky legs, in tight stockings which had little ladder-like holes
at the knees, torn by kneeling in the roads and banks in search of
vegetable and mineral treasures; her then earth-coloured hair hanging
like pot-hooks; the arms of the two outside girls resting round the
waist of Tess; her arms on the shoulders of the two supporters.

As Tess grew older, and began to see how matters stood, she felt
quite a Malthusian towards her mother for thoughtlessly giving her so
many little sisters and brothers, when it was such a trouble to nurse
and provide for them.  Her mother's intelligence was that of a happy
child: Joan Durbeyfield was simply an additional one, and that not
the eldest, to her own long family of waiters on Providence.

However, Tess became humanely beneficent towards the small ones,
and to help them as much as possible she used, as soon as she left
school, to lend a hand at haymaking or harvesting on neighbouring
farms; or, by preference, at milking or butter-making processes,
which she had learnt when her father had owned cows; and being
deft-fingered it was a kind of work in which she excelled.

Every day seemed to throw upon her young shoulders more of the
family burdens, and that Tess should be the representative of the
Durbeyfields at the d'Urberville mansion came as a thing of course.
In this instance it must be admitted that the Durbeyfields were
putting their fairest side outward.

She alighted from the van at Trantridge Cross, and ascended on foot
a hill in the direction of the district known as The Chase, on the
borders of which, as she had been informed, Mrs d'Urberville's seat,
The Slopes, would be found.  It was not a manorial home in the
ordinary sense, with fields, and pastures, and a grumbling farmer,
out of whom the owner had to squeeze an income for himself and his
family by hook or by crook.  It was more, far more; a country-house
built for enjoyment pure and simple, with not an acre of troublesome
land attached to it beyond what was required for residential
purposes, and for a little fancy farm kept in hand by the owner, and
tended by a bailiff.

The crimson brick lodge came first in sight, up to its eaves in dense
evergreens.  Tess thought this was the mansion itself till, passing
through the side wicket with some trepidation, and onward to a point
at which the drive took a turn, the house proper stood in full view.
It was of recent erection--indeed almost new--and of the same rich
red colour that formed such a contrast with the evergreens of the
lodge.  Far behind the corner of the house--which rose like a
geranium bloom against the subdued colours around--stretched the soft
azure landscape of The Chase--a truly venerable tract of forest land,
one of the few remaining woodlands in England of undoubted primaeval
date, wherein Druidical mistletoe was still found on aged oaks, and
where enormous yew-trees, not planted by the hand of man grew as
they had grown when they were pollarded for bows.  All this sylvan
antiquity, however, though visible from The Slopes, was outside the
immediate boundaries of the estate.

Everything on this snug property was bright, thriving, and well kept;
acres of glass-houses stretched down the inclines to the copses at
their feet.  Everything looked like money--like the last coin issued
from the Mint.  The stables, partly screened by Austrian pines
and evergreen oaks, and fitted with every late appliance, were
as dignified as Chapels-of-Ease.  On the extensive lawn stood an
ornamental tent, its door being towards her.

Simple Tess Durbeyfield stood at gaze, in a half-alarmed attitude,
on the edge of the gravel sweep.  Her feet had brought her onward to
this point before she had quite realized where she was; and now all
was contrary to her expectation.

"I thought we were an old family; but this is all new!" she said, in
her artlessness.  She wished that she had not fallen in so readily
with her mother's plans for "claiming kin," and had endeavoured to
gain assistance nearer home.

The d'Urbervilles--or Stoke-d'Urbervilles, as they at first called
themselves--who owned all this, were a somewhat unusual family to
find in such an old-fashioned part of the country.  Parson Tringham
had spoken truly when he said that our shambling John Durbeyfield was
the only really lineal representative of the old d'Urberville family
existing in the county, or near it; he might have added, what he knew
very well, that the Stoke-d'Urbervilles were no more d'Urbervilles of
the true tree then he was himself.  Yet it must be admitted that this
family formed a very good stock whereon to regraft a name which sadly
wanted such renovation.

When old Mr Simon Stoke, latterly deceased, had made his fortune as
an honest merchant (some said money-lender) in the North, he decided
to settle as a county man in the South of England, out of hail of
his business district; and in doing this he felt the necessity of
recommencing with a name that would not too readily identify him with
the smart tradesman of the past, and that would be less commonplace
than the original bald, stark words.  Conning for an hour in the
British Museum the pages of works devoted to extinct, half-extinct,
obscured, and ruined families appertaining to the quarter of England
in which he proposed to settle, he considered that _d'Urberville_
looked and sounded as well as any of them: and d'Urberville
accordingly was annexed to his own name for himself and his heirs
eternally.  Yet he was not an extravagant-minded man in this, and in
constructing his family tree on the new basis was duly reasonable in
framing his inter-marriages and aristocratic links, never inserting
a single title above a rank of strict moderation.

Of this work of imagination poor Tess and her parents were naturally
in ignorance--much to their discomfiture; indeed, the very
possibility of such annexations was unknown to them; who supposed
that, though to be well-favoured might be the gift of fortune, a
family name came by nature.

Tess still stood hesitating like a bather about to make his plunge,
hardly knowing whether to retreat or to persevere, when a figure came
forth from the dark triangular door of the tent.  It was that of a
tall young man, smoking.

He had an almost swarthy complexion, with full lips, badly moulded,
though red and smooth, above which was a well-groomed black moustache
with curled points, though his age could not be more than three- or
four-and-twenty.  Despite the touches of barbarism in his contours,
there was a singular force in the gentleman's face, and in his bold
rolling eye.

"Well, my Beauty, what can I do for you?" said he, coming forward.
And perceiving that she stood quite confounded: "Never mind me. I am
Mr d'Urberville.  Have you come to see me or my mother?"

This embodiment of a d'Urberville and a namesake differed even more
from what Tess had expected than the house and grounds had differed.
She had dreamed of an aged and dignified face, the sublimation of
all the d'Urberville lineaments, furrowed with incarnate memories
representing in hieroglyphic the centuries of her family's and
England's history.  But she screwed herself up to the work in hand,
since she could not get out of it, and answered--

"I came to see your mother, sir."

"I am afraid you cannot see her--she is an invalid," replied the
present representative of the spurious house; for this was Mr Alec,
the only son of the lately deceased gentleman.  "Cannot I answer your
purpose? What is the business you wish to see her about?"

"It isn't business--it is--I can hardly say what!"

"Pleasure?"

"Oh no.  Why, sir, if I tell you, it will seem--"

Tess's sense of a certain ludicrousness in her errand was now
so strong that, notwithstanding her awe of him, and her general
discomfort at being here, her rosy lips curved towards a smile,
much to the attraction of the swarthy Alexander.

"It is so very foolish," she stammered; "I fear can't tell you!"

"Never mind; I like foolish things.  Try again, my dear," said he
kindly.

"Mother asked me to come," Tess continued; "and, indeed, I was in the
mind to do so myself likewise.  But I did not think it would be like
this.  I came, sir, to tell you that we are of the same family as
you."

"Ho!  Poor relations?"

"Yes."

"Stokes?"

"No; d'Urbervilles."

"Ay, ay; I mean d'Urbervilles."

"Our names are worn away to Durbeyfield; but we have several proofs
that we are d'Urbervilles.  Antiquarians hold we are,--and--and we
have an old seal, marked with a ramping lion on a shield, and a
castle over him.  And we have a very old silver spoon, round in the
bowl like a little ladle, and marked with the same castle.  But it
is so worn that mother uses it to stir the pea-soup."

"A castle argent is certainly my crest," said he blandly.  "And my
arms a lion rampant."

"And so mother said we ought to make ourselves beknown to you--as
we've lost our horse by a bad accident, and are the oldest branch o'
the family."

"Very kind of your mother, I'm sure.  And I, for one, don't regret
her step."  Alec looked at Tess as he spoke, in a way that made her
blush a little.  "And so, my pretty girl, you've come on a friendly
visit to us, as relations?"

"I suppose I have," faltered Tess, looking uncomfortable again.

"Well--there's no harm in it.  Where do you live?  What are you?"

She gave him brief particulars; and responding to further inquiries
told him that she was intending to go back by the same carrier who
had brought her.

"It is a long while before he returns past Trantridge Cross.
Supposing we walk round the grounds to pass the time, my pretty Coz?"

Tess wished to abridge her visit as much as possible; but the young
man was pressing, and she consented to accompany him.  He conducted
her about the lawns, and flower-beds, and conservatories; and thence
to the fruit-garden and greenhouses, where he asked her if she liked
strawberries.

"Yes," said Tess, "when they come."

"They are already here."  D'Urberville began gathering specimens
of the fruit for her, handing them back to her as he stooped; and,
presently, selecting a specially fine product of the "British Queen"
variety, he stood up and held it by the stem to her mouth.

"No--no!" she said quickly, putting her fingers between his hand and
her lips.  "I would rather take it in my own hand."

"Nonsense!" he insisted; and in a slight distress she parted her lips
and took it in.

They had spent some time wandering desultorily thus, Tess eating in
a half-pleased, half-reluctant state whatever d'Urberville offered
her.  When she could consume no more of the strawberries he filled
her little basket with them; and then the two passed round to the
rose-trees, whence he gathered blossoms and gave her to put in her
bosom. She obeyed like one in a dream, and when she could affix no
more he himself tucked a bud or two into her hat, and heaped her
basket with others in the prodigality of his bounty.  At last,
looking at his watch, he said, "Now, by the time you have had
something to eat, it will be time for you to leave, if you want to
catch the carrier to Shaston.  Come here, and I'll see what grub I
can find."

Stoke d'Urberville took her back to the lawn and into the tent, where
he left her, soon reappearing with a basket of light luncheon, which
he put before her himself.  It was evidently the gentleman's wish not
to be disturbed in this pleasant _tete-a-tete_ by the servantry.

"Do you mind my smoking?" he asked.

"Oh, not at all, sir."

He watched her pretty and unconscious munching through the skeins of
smoke that pervaded the tent, and Tess Durbeyfield did not divine,
as she innocently looked down at the roses in her bosom, that there
behind the blue narcotic haze was potentially the "tragic mischief"
of her drama--one who stood fair to be the blood-red ray in the
spectrum of her young life.  She had an attribute which amounted
to a disadvantage just now; and it was this that caused Alec
d'Urberville's eyes to rivet themselves upon her.  It was a
luxuriance of aspect, a fulness of growth, which made her appear more
of a woman than she really was.  She had inherited the feature from
her mother without the quality it denoted.  It had troubled her mind
occasionally, till her companions had said that it was a fault which
time would cure.

She soon had finished her lunch.  "Now I am going home, sir," she
said, rising.

"And what do they call you?" he asked, as he accompanied her along
the drive till they were out of sight of the house.

"Tess Durbeyfield, down at Marlott."

"And you say your people have lost their horse?"

"I--killed him!" she answered, her eyes filling with tears as she
gave particulars of Prince's death.  "And I don't know what to do
for father on account of it!"

"I must think if I cannot do something.  My mother must find a berth
for you.  But, Tess, no nonsense about 'd'Urberville';--'Durbeyfield'
only, you know--quite another name."

"I wish for no better, sir," said she with something of dignity.

For a moment--only for a moment--when they were in the turning of the
drive, between the tall rhododendrons and conifers, before the lodge
became visible, he inclined his face towards her as if--but, no: he
thought better of it, and let her go.

Thus the thing began.  Had she perceived this meeting's import she
might have asked why she was doomed to be seen and coveted that day
by the wrong man, and not by some other man, the right and desired
one in all respects--as nearly as humanity can supply the right
and desired; yet to him who amongst her acquaintance might have
approximated to this kind, she was but a transient impression, half
forgotten.

In the ill-judged execution of the well-judged plan of things the
call seldom produces the comer, the man to love rarely coincides with
the hour for loving.  Nature does not often say "See!" to her poor
creature at a time when seeing can lead to happy doing; or reply
"Here!" to a body's cry of "Where?" till the hide-and-seek has become
an irksome, outworn game.  We may wonder whether at the acme and
summit of the human progress these anachronisms will be corrected by
a finer intuition, a closer interaction of the social machinery than
that which now jolts us round and along; but such completeness is not
to be prophesied, or even conceived as possible.  Enough that in the
present case, as in millions, it was not the two halves of a perfect
whole that confronted each other at the perfect moment; a missing
counterpart wandered independently about the earth waiting in
crass obtuseness till the late time came.  Out of which maladroit
delay sprang anxieties, disappointments, shocks, catastrophes, and
passing-strange destinies.

When d'Urberville got back to the tent he sat down astride on a
chair, reflecting, with a pleased gleam in his face.  Then he broke
into a loud laugh.

"Well, I'm damned!  What a funny thing!  Ha-ha-ha!  And what a crumby
girl!"

Tess went down the hill to Trantridge Cross, and inattentively waited
to take her seat in the van returning from Chaseborough to Shaston.
She did not know what the other occupants said to her as she entered,
though she answered them; and when they had started anew she rode
along with an inward and not an outward eye.

One among her fellow-travellers addressed her more pointedly than
any had spoken before: "Why, you be quite a posy!  And such roses in
early June!"

Then she became aware of the spectacle she presented to their
surprised vision: roses at her breasts; roses in her hat; roses
and strawberries in her basket to the brim.  She blushed, and
said confusedly that the flowers had been given to her.  When the
passengers were not looking she stealthily removed the more prominent
blooms from her hat and placed them in the basket, where she covered
them with her handkerchief.  Then she fell to reflecting again, and
in looking downwards a thorn of the rose remaining in her breast
accidentally pricked her chin. Like all the cottagers in Blackmoor
Vale, Tess was steeped in fancies and prefigurative superstitions;
she thought this an ill omen--the first she had noticed that day.

The van travelled only so far as Shaston, and there were several
miles of pedestrian descent from that mountain-town into the vale to
Marlott.  Her mother had advised her to stay here for the night, at
the house of a cottage-woman they knew, if she should feel too tired
to come on; and this Tess did, not descending to her home till the
following afternoon.

When she entered the house she perceived in a moment from her
mother's triumphant manner that something had occurred in the
interim.

"Oh yes; I know all about it!  I told 'ee it would be all right, and
now 'tis proved!"

"Since I've been away?  What has?" said Tess rather wearily.

Her mother surveyed the girl up and down with arch approval, and went
on banteringly: "So you've brought 'em round!"

"How do you know, mother?"

"I've had a letter."

Tess then remembered that there would have been time for this.

"They say--Mrs d'Urberville says--that she wants you to look after a
little fowl-farm which is her hobby.  But this is only her artful way
of getting 'ee there without raising your hopes.  She's going to own
'ee as kin--that's the meaning o't."

"But I didn't see her."

"You zid somebody, I suppose?"

"I saw her son."

"And did he own 'ee?"

"Well--he called me Coz."

"An' I knew it!  Jacky--he called her Coz!" cried Joan to her
husband.  "Well, he spoke to his mother, of course, and she do want
'ee there."

"But I don't know that I am apt at tending fowls," said the dubious
Tess.

"Then I don't know who is apt.  You've be'n born in the business, and
brought up in it.  They that be born in a business always know more
about it than any 'prentice.  Besides, that's only just a show of
something for you to do, that you midn't feel beholden."

"I don't altogether think I ought to go," said Tess thoughtfully.
"Who wrote the letter?  Will you let me look at it?"

"Mrs d'Urberville wrote it.  Here it is."

The letter was in the third person, and briefly informed Mrs
Durbeyfield that her daughter's services would be useful to that lady
in the management of her poultry-farm, that a comfortable room would
be provided for her if she could come, and that the wages would be on
a liberal scale if they liked her.

"Oh--that's all!" said Tess.

"You couldn't expect her to throw her arms round 'ee, an' to kiss and
to coll 'ee all at once."

Tess looked out of the window.

"I would rather stay here with father and you," she said.

"But why?"

"I'd rather not tell you why, mother; indeed, I don't quite know
why."

A week afterwards she came in one evening from an unavailing search
for some light occupation in the immediate neighbourhood.  Her idea
had been to get together sufficient money during the summer to
purchase another horse.  Hardly had she crossed the threshold before
one of the children danced across the room, saying, "The gentleman's
been here!"

Her mother hastened to explain, smiles breaking from every inch of
her person.  Mrs d'Urberville's son had called on horseback, having
been riding by chance in the direction of Marlott.  He had wished
to know, finally, in the name of his mother, if Tess could really
come to manage the old lady's fowl-farm or not; the lad who had
hitherto superintended the birds having proved untrustworthy.  "Mr
d'Urberville says you must be a good girl if you are at all as you
appear; he knows you must be worth your weight in gold.  He is very
much interested in 'ee--truth to tell."

Tess seemed for the moment really pleased to hear that she had won
such high opinion from a stranger when, in her own esteem, she had
sunk so low.

"It is very good of him to think that," she murmured; "and if I was
quite sure how it would be living there, I would go any-when."

"He is a mighty handsome man!"

"I don't think so," said Tess coldly.

"Well, there's your chance, whether or no; and I'm sure he wears a
beautiful diamond ring!"

"Yes," said little Abraham, brightly, from the window-bench; "and
I seed 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 Durbeyfield'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.

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 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 to 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
spring-cart sent by the Stoke-d'Urbervilles, and her box had already
been wheeled ahead towards this summit by a lad with trucks, to be in
readiness.

Seeing their mother put on her bonnet, the younger children clamoured
to go with her.

"I do want to walk a little-ways wi' Sissy, now she's going to marry
our gentleman-cousin, and wear fine cloze!"

"Now," said Tess, flushing and turning quickly, "I'll hear no more o'
that!  Mother, how could you ever put such stuff into their heads?"

"Going to work, my dears, for our rich relation, and help get enough
money for a new horse," said Mrs Durbeyfield pacifically.

"Goodbye, father," said Tess, with a lumpy throat.

"Goodbye, my maid," said Sir John, raising his head from his breast
as he suspended his nap, induced by a slight excess this morning in
honour of the occasion.  "Well, I hope my young friend will like such
a comely sample of his own blood.  And tell'n, Tess, that being sunk,
quite, from our former grandeur, I'll sell him the title--yes, sell
it--and at no onreasonable figure."

"Not for less than a thousand pound!" cried Lady Durbeyfield.

"Tell'n--I'll take a thousand pound.  Well, I'll take less, when
I come to think o't.  He'll adorn it better than a poor lammicken
feller like myself can.  Tell'n he shall hae it for a hundred.  But
I won't stand upon trifles--tell'n he shall hae it for fifty--for
twenty pound!  Yes, twenty pound--that's the lowest.  Dammy, family
honour is family honour, and I won't take a penny less!"

Tess's eyes were too full and her voice too choked to utter the
sentiments that were in her.  She turned quickly, and went out.

So the girls and their mother all walked together, a child on each
side of Tess, holding her hand and looking at her meditatively from
time to time, as at one who was about to do great things; her mother
just behind with the smallest; the group forming a picture of honest
beauty flanked by innocence, and backed by simple-souled vanity.
They followed the way till they reached the beginning of the ascent,
on the crest of which the vehicle from Trantridge was to receive her,
this limit having been fixed to save the horse the labour of the last
slope.  Far away behind the first hills the cliff-like dwellings
of Shaston broke the line of the ridge. Nobody was visible in the
elevated road which skirted the ascent save the lad whom they had
sent on before them, sitting on the handle of the barrow that
contained all Tess's worldly possessions.

"Bide here a bit, and the cart will soon come, no doubt," said Mrs
Durbeyfield.  "Yes, I see it yonder!"

It had come--appearing suddenly from behind the forehead of the
nearest upland, and stopping beside the boy with the barrow.  Her
mother and the children thereupon decided to go no farther, and
bidding them a hasty goodbye, Tess bent her steps up the hill.

They saw her white shape draw near to the spring-cart, on which her
box was already placed.  But before she had quite reached it another
vehicle shot out from a clump of trees on the summit, came round the
bend of the road there, passed the luggage-cart, and halted beside
Tess, who looked up as if in great surprise.

Her mother perceived, for the first time, that the second vehicle was
not a humble conveyance like the first, but a spick-and-span gig or
dog-cart, highly varnished and equipped.  The driver was a young man
of three- or four-and-twenty, with a cigar between his teeth; wearing
a dandy cap, drab jacket, breeches of the same hue, white neckcloth,
stick-up collar, and brown driving-gloves--in short, he was the
handsome, horsey young buck who had visited Joan a week or two before
to get her answer about Tess.

Mrs Durbeyfield clapped her hands like a child.  Then she looked
down, then stared again.  Could she be deceived as to the meaning of
this?

"Is dat the gentleman-kinsman who'll make Sissy a lady?" asked the
youngest child.

Meanwhile the muslined form of Tess could be seen standing still,
undecided, beside this turn-out, whose owner was talking to her.
Her seeming indecision was, in fact, more than indecision: it was
misgiving.  She would have preferred the humble cart.  The young
man dismounted, and appeared to urge her to ascend.  She turned her
face down the hill to her relatives, and regarded the little group.
Something seemed to quicken her to a determination; possibly the
thought that she had killed Prince.  She suddenly stepped up; he
mounted beside her, and immediately whipped on the horse.  In a
moment they had passed the slow cart with the box, and disappeared
behind the shoulder of the hill.

Directly Tess was out of sight, and the interest of the matter as a
drama was at an end, the little ones' eyes filled with tears.  The
youngest child said, "I wish poor, poor Tess wasn't gone away to be a
lady!" and, lowering the corners of his lips, burst out crying.  The
new point of view was infectious, and the next child did likewise,
and then the next, till the whole three of them wailed loud.

There were tears also in Joan Durbeyfield's eyes as she turned to
go home.  But by the time she had got back to the village she was
passively trusting to the favour of accident.  However, in bed that
night she sighed, and her husband asked her what was the matter.

"Oh, I don't know exactly," she said.  "I was thinking that perhaps
it would ha' been better if Tess had not gone."

"Oughtn't ye to have thought of that before?"

"Well, 'tis a chance for the maid--Still, if 'twere the doing again,
I wouldn't let her go till I had found out whether the gentleman
is really a good-hearted young man and choice over her as his
kinswoman."

"Yes, you ought, perhaps, to ha' done that," snored Sir John.

Joan Durbeyfield always managed to find consolation somewhere: "Well,
as one of the genuine stock, she ought to make her way with 'en, if
she plays her trump card aright.  And if he don't marry her afore he
will after.  For that he's all afire wi' love for her any eye can
see."

"What's her trump card?  Her d'Urberville blood, you mean?"

"No, stupid; her face--as 'twas mine."

Having mounted beside her, Alec d'Urberville drove rapidly along
the crest of the first hill, chatting compliments to Tess as they
went, the cart with her box being left far behind.  Rising still, an
immense landscape stretched around them on every side; behind, the
green valley of her birth, before, a gray country of which she knew
nothing except from her first brief visit to Trantridge.  Thus they
reached the verge of an incline down which the road stretched in a
long straight descent of nearly a mile.

Ever since the accident with her father's horse Tess Durbeyfield,
courageous as she naturally was, had been exceedingly timid on
wheels; the least irregularity of motion startled her.  She began to
get uneasy at a certain recklessness in her conductor's driving.

"You will go down slow, sir, I suppose?" she said with attempted
unconcern.

D'Urberville looked round upon her, nipped his cigar with the tips of
his large white centre-teeth, and allowed his lips to smile slowly of
themselves.

"Why, Tess," he answered, after another whiff or two, "it isn't a
brave bouncing girl like you who asks that?  Why, I always go down at
full gallop.  There's nothing like it for raising your spirits."

"But perhaps you need not now?"

"Ah," he said, shaking his head, "there are two to be reckoned with.
It is not me alone.  Tib has to be considered, and she has a very
queer temper."

"Who?"

"Why, this mare.  I fancy she looked round at me in a very grim way
just then.  Didn't you notice it?"

"Don't try to frighten me, sir," said Tess stiffly.

"Well, I don't.  If any living man can manage this horse I can: I
won't say any living man can do it--but if such has the power, I am
he."

"Why do you have such a horse?"

"Ah, well may you ask it!  It was my fate, I suppose. Tib has killed
one chap; and just after I bought her she nearly killed me.  And
then, take my word for it, I nearly killed her.  But she's touchy
still, very touchy; and one's life is hardly safe behind her
sometimes."

They were just beginning to descend; and it was evident that the
horse, whether of her own will or of his (the latter being the more
likely), knew so well the reckless performance expected of her that
she hardly required a hint from behind.

Down, down, they sped, the wheels humming like a top, the dog-cart
rocking right and left, its axis acquiring a slightly oblique set
in relation to the line of progress; the figure of the horse rising
and falling in undulations before them.  Sometimes a wheel was off
the ground, it seemed, for many yards; sometimes a stone was sent
spinning over the hedge, and flinty sparks from the horse's hoofs
outshone the daylight.  The aspect of the straight road enlarged with
their advance, the two banks dividing like a splitting stick; one
rushing past at each shoulder.

The wind blew through Tess's white muslin to her very skin, and her
washed hair flew out behind.  She was determined to show no open
fear, but she clutched d'Urberville's rein-arm.

"Don't touch my arm!  We shall be thrown out if you do!  Hold on
round my waist!"

She grasped his waist, and so they reached the bottom.

"Safe, thank God, in spite of your fooling!" said she, her face on
fire.

"Tess--fie! that's temper!" said d'Urberville.

"'Tis truth."

"Well, you need not let go your hold of me so thanklessly the moment
you feel yourself our of danger."

She had not considered what she had been doing; whether he were man
or woman, stick or stone, in her involuntary hold on him.  Recovering
her reserve, she sat without replying, and thus they reached the
summit of another declivity.

"Now then, again!" said d'Urberville.

"No, no!" said Tess.  "Show more sense, do, please."

"But when people find themselves on one of the highest points in the
county, they must get down again," he retorted.

He loosened rein, and away they went a second time.  D'Urberville
turned his face to her as they rocked, and said, in playful raillery:
"Now then, put your arms round my waist again, as you did before, my
Beauty."

"Never!" said Tess independently, holding on as well as she could
without touching him.

"Let me put one little kiss on those holmberry lips, Tess, or even on
that warmed cheek, and I'll stop--on my honour, I will!"

Tess, surprised beyond measure, slid farther back still on her seat,
at which he urged the horse anew, and rocked her the more.

"Will nothing else do?" she cried at length, in desperation, her
large eyes staring at him like those of a wild animal.  This dressing
her up so prettily by her mother had apparently been to lamentable
purpose.

"Nothing, dear Tess," he replied.

"Oh, I don't know--very well; I don't mind!" she panted miserably.

He drew rein, and as they slowed he was on the point of imprinting
the desired salute, when, as if hardly yet aware of her own modesty,
she dodged aside.  His arms being occupied with the reins there was
left him no power to prevent her manoeuvre.

"Now, damn it--I'll break both our necks!" swore her capriciously
passionate companion.  "So you can go from your word like that, you
young witch, can you?"

"Very well," said Tess, "I'll not move since you be so determined!
But I--thought you would be kind to me, and protect me, as my
kinsman!"

"Kinsman be hanged!  Now!"

"But I don't want anybody to kiss me, sir!" she implored, a big
tear beginning to roll down her face, and the corners of her mouth
trembling in her attempts not to cry.  "And I wouldn't ha' come if
I had known!"

He was inexorable, and she sat still, and d'Urberville gave her the
kiss of mastery.  No sooner had he done so than she flushed with
shame, took out her handkerchief, and wiped the spot on her cheek
that had been touched by his lips.  His ardour was nettled at the
sight, for the act on her part had been unconsciously done.

"You are mighty sensitive for a cottage girl!" said the young man.

Tess made no reply to this remark, of which, indeed, she did not
quite comprehend the drift, unheeding the snub she had administered
by her instinctive rub upon her cheek.  She had, in fact, undone the
kiss, as far as such a thing was physically possible.  With a dim
sense that he was vexed she looked steadily ahead as they trotted on
near Melbury Down and Wingreen, till she saw, to her consternation,
that there was yet another descent to be undergone.

"You shall be made sorry for that!" he resumed, his injured tone
still remaining, as he flourished the whip anew.  "Unless, that is,
you agree willingly to let me do it again, and no handkerchief."

She sighed. "Very well, sir!" she said.  "Oh--let me get my hat!"

At the moment of speaking her hat had blown off into the road, their
present speed on the upland being by no means slow.  D'Urberville
pulled up, and said he would get it for her, but Tess was down on the
other side.

She turned back and picked up the article.

"You look prettier with it off, upon my soul, if that's possible," he
said, contemplating her over the back of the vehicle.  "Now then, up
again!  What's the matter?"

The hat was in place and tied, but Tess had not stepped forward.

"No, sir," she said, revealing the red and ivory of her mouth as her
eye lit in defiant triumph; "not again, if I know it!"

"What--you won't get up beside me?"

"No; I shall walk."

"'Tis five or six miles yet to Trantridge."

"I don't care if 'tis dozens.  Besides, the cart is behind."

"You artful hussy!  Now, tell me--didn't you make that hat blow off
on purpose?  I'll swear you did!"

Her strategic silence confirmed his suspicion.

Then d'Urberville cursed and swore at her, and called her everything
he could think of for the trick.  Turning the horse suddenly he tried
to drive back upon her, and so hem her in between the gig and the
hedge.  But he could not do this short of injuring her.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself for using such wicked words!"
cried Tess with spirit, from the top of the hedge into which she had
scrambled.  "I don't like 'ee at all!  I hate and detest you!  I'll
go back to mother, I will!"

D'Urberville's bad temper cleared up at sight of hers; and he laughed
heartily.

"Well, I like you all the better," he said.  "Come, let there be
peace.  I'll never do it any more against your will.  My life upon
it now!"

Still Tess could not be induced to remount.  She did not, however,
object to his keeping his gig alongside her; and in this manner, at
a slow pace, they advanced towards the village of Trantridge.  From
time to time d'Urberville exhibited a sort of fierce distress at
the sight of the tramping he had driven her to undertake by his
misdemeanour.  She might in truth have safely trusted him now; but he
had forfeited her confidence for the time, and she kept on the ground
progressing thoughtfully, as if wondering whether it would be wiser
to return home.  Her resolve, however, had been taken, and it seemed
vacillating even to childishness to abandon it now, unless for graver
reasons.  How could she face her parents, get back her box, and
disconcert the whole scheme for the rehabilitation of her family on
such sentimental grounds?

A few minutes later the chimneys of The Slopes appeared in view, and
in a snug nook to the right the poultry-farm and cottage of Tess'
destination.

Joan Durbeyfield hatches the plan to send Tess off to wealthy relations to "claim kin." Tess wants no part of the plan, and John Durbeyfield also expresses his doubts about the plan. Feeling a sense of guilt about the death of the family horse, Prince, Tess agrees to visit the Stoke-d'Urbervilles. Tess takes a van, or common carrier of the time, to visit. She notices that the home called The Slopes is not old and established as she had expected. Instead, the house is a recently built. Tess meets Alec d'Urberville, the young son of Mrs. d'Urberville. Alec is immediately taken by the young, beautiful maid, and he agrees to find a place for her at The Slopes. A few days later, a new horse is sent to the Durbeyfields along with an invitation for Tess to assume a post as caretaker for a flock of Mrs. d'Urbervilles chickens. Tess' departure is a great sorrow for her family, but she agrees to go to Trantridge to help boost her family's fortunes. Upon her return to The Slopes, Alec takes Tess on a wild carriage ride in order to scare her and prove himself master over her. She does not give into his demands and walks the greater portion of the distance to her new home.

Joan Durbeyfield is the instigator of the plan to send her eldest daughter to another family. Joan takes advantage of Tess, because she is Tess' mother, and of her husband, John, because he is easily manipulated, a drunk and a fool. Joan, like a hopeless romantic, intends for Tess to be married into the d'Urberville clan. She shows her blissful ignorance when she hatches the plan to send Tess away: "e must take the ups wi' the downs, Tess, and never could your high blood have been found out at a more called-for moment." Tess, however, wants no part of Joan Durbeyfield's plan saying, "I'd rather try to get work." However, she is convinced by Joan and by her guilt for the death of the family horse, Prince. After being talked into the proposition, Tess remarks, "Well, as I killed the horse, mother. I suppose I ought to do something." Thus Tess' fate is sealed. What Tess and her family do not know is that the Stoke-d'Urbervilles are not relatives at all. Simon Stoke had made a small fortune as a merchant in North England and assumed the name d'Urberville and attached it to his own as a way to demonstrate his close relationship to the people of South England and to give the impression of an old, established aristocratic family. Eventually, the name Stoke was dropped, leaving only the name d'Urberville. Tess and her family never learn this fact, partially because they are rather uneducated and partially because they rely on what others tell them of their family history and do not research this history for themselves. In Chapter 6, when Tess is nearing the end of a successful trip to the d'Urbervilles, Hardy notes, "Thus the thing began." It should be noted that Hardy gives subtle hints that a "play" has commenced. This technique dates back to the ancient Greek period when plays  were written about the sport that the Greek gods took with mortal men. Sometimes it was said that the Greek gods enjoyed using mankind as toys or for sport. Hardy knows this and uses this device as a springboard for his own work, making Tess an unwitting -- and unwilling -- participant. When Tess is called upon to return to The Slopes, she does so out of a sense of duty: "I hope it is a chance for earning money. It is no other kind of chance." Joan floats the possibility that Tess could take advantage of the situation and become a married, proper lady. Later Tess remarks, "Very well; I suppose you know best. Do what you like with me mother." Joan has set up her daughter much like the Greek gods of old set up the human players in their little "dramas." Later, when Tess leaves home to work at The Slopes, Joan insists that Tess spruce herself for the occasion. Joan has Tess put on her finest dress, ribbons in her hair and stockings. Here Hardy comments that Tess' mother is "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." Joan has indeed created an image of Tess as a woman-child. For Tess, this is a dangerous situation. John Durbeyfield is oblivious to the situation into which his daughter has been sent. His redeeming quality is that he is reluctant to send Tess away; nevertheless, he later gives in. He objects several times to the proposal but warms to the idea once his wife applies her charms. He even agrees, in a rambling mumbled monologue that he will "sell him  the title -- yes sell it -- and at no onreasonable figure." John begins at PS1,000 for the title and ends up at PS20 for a title, the most money John had seen in a while. Because of his simplemindedness, his grand history can be bought for a very small sum of money and his daughter given away for a song. When Tess is about to leave, John asks Joan "What's her trump card? Her d'Urberville blood, you mean?" Joan answers rather sarcastically, "No, stupid; her face -- as @'twas mine." This comparison is telling: Joan Durbeyfield's "trump card" had been her face -- that is, her beauty -- but it did not stand her in good stead. Instead of winning  a respectable, responsible husband or having a life that beautiful people may seem to be heir to, she is instead married to a drunk who, despite his good intentions, cannot provide for his family, and she lives a life of hardship and uncertainty. Nevertheless, in her naivete , she believes that Tess' beauty will win them all a measure of security and happiness -- if Tess marries, as her mother wants her to, into a family of wealth and position, a marriage that can only happen, Joan thinks, by Tess' association with the d'Urbervilles. This link between the mother's fortunes and Tess' foreshadows later events. Unfortunately, for Tess, the outcome will be even more dire. We clearly recognize the dangerous position Tess is in when she encounters someone like Alec d'Urberville, a man who will take full advantage of his position as the son of a wealthy family and his position of authority in the d'Urberville household to put Tess into a compromising position. Her beauty attracts him, but in her innocence and naivete, she cannot see the danger clearly or combat Alec successfully. Tess does her best to fight Alec's unwelcome advances, but he thinks she is headstrong and a force to be reckoned with. Even though Tess spurns his advances, Alec is determined to have her or have his way with her on his own terms, "Let me put one little kiss on those holmberry lips, Tess, or even on that warmed cheek, and I'll stop -- on my honour, I will!" Tess' desires are to be ignored. Alec is "god-like" in how he wields his power over the servants in his home. To Alec, Tess is another conquest to be mastered, like an unbroken horse. Hardy uses third person narrative throughout the novel. This narrative point of view allows the writer to inject his thoughts into the narrative or to provide editorial comment on the evolution of the plot, scene, or character. Third person narrative is a common technique used by authors when they want to communicate personally with the reader. In this section, for example, Hardy uses it as he discusses Tess' mother, Joan, and her simplemindedness: "Being mentally older than her mother  did not regard Mrs. Durbeyfield'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." This wry comment does two things. First it speaks to the universal  hope of mothers -- that their daughters make good matches . Second, it highlights the irony of Joan's plans for Tess: Her desire for Tess to make a good match leads to Tess' ruin. Glossary penury lack of money, property, or necessities; extreme poverty; destitution. quagmire a difficult or inextricable position; here, referring to the difficulties caused by the loss of Prince, the Durbeyfield horse. deferential very respectful. van common carrier, usually a cart pulled by horses, which travels from town to town. Malthusian of Malthus and his theory that the world population tends to increase faster than the food supply with inevitable disastrous results unless natural restrictions, such as war, famine, and disease, reduce the population or the increase is checked by moral restraint. Druidical mistletoe to the Druids, mistletoe was sacred. pollarded for bows had their boughs severed to make bows. Chapels-of-Ease chapels for parishioners who lived far from the church. crumby an attractive girl. mistarshers  mustache. dand  a bit more. dolorifuge  painful, full or sorrow. Holmberry a holly bush.