'No. My--somebody was going to tell it me once, but didn't.'
'If you are a genuine d'Urberville I ought not to tell you either,
I suppose. As for me, I'm a sham one, so it doesn't matter. It is
rather dismal. It is that this sound of a non-existent coach can
only be heard by one of d'Urberville blood, and it is held to be
of ill-omen to the one who hears it. It has to do with a murder,
committed by one of the family, centuries ago.'
'Now you have begun it, finish it.'
'Very well. One of the family is said to have abducted some
beautiful woman, who tried to escape from the coach in which he was
carrying her off, and in the struggle he killed her--or she killed
him--I forget which. Such is one version of the tale... I see that
your tubs and buckets are packed. Going away, aren't you?'
'Yes, to-morrow--Old Lady Day.'
'I heard you were, but could hardly believe it; it seems so sudden.
Why is it?'
'Father's was the last life on the property, and when that dropped we
had no further right to stay. Though we might, perhaps, have stayed
as weekly tenants--if it had not been for me.'
'What about you?'
'I am not a--proper woman.'
D'Urberville's face flushed.
'What a blasted shame! Miserable snobs! May their dirty souls
be burnt to cinders!' he exclaimed in tones of ironic resentment.
'That's why you are going, is it? Turned out?'
'We are not turned out exactly; but as they said we should have to go
soon, it was best to go now everybody was moving, because there are
better chances.'
'Where are you going to?'
'Kingsbere. We have taken rooms there. Mother is so foolish about
father's people that she will go there.'
'But your mother's family are not fit for lodgings, and in a little
hole of a town like that. Now why not come to my garden-house at
Trantridge? There are hardly any poultry now, since my mother's
death; but there's the house, as you know it, and the garden. It
can be whitewashed in a day, and your mother can live there quite
comfortably; and I will put the children to a good school. Really
I ought to do something for you!'
'But we have already taken the rooms at Kingsbere!' she declared.
'And we can wait there--'
'Wait--what for? For that nice husband, no doubt. Now look here,
Tess, I know what men are, and, bearing in mind the _grounds_ of
your separation, I am quite positive he will never make it up with
you. Now, though I have been your enemy, I am your friend, even
if you won't believe it. Come to this cottage of mine. We'll get
up a regular colony of fowls, and your mother can attend to them
excellently; and the children can go to school.'
Tess breathed more and more quickly, and at length she said--
'How do I know that you would do all this? Your views may
