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 fullness 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 dogcart, 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, stickup collar, and brown driving-gloves—in short, he was the handsome, horsey young
