“Yes; and we’ll all claim kin!” said Abraham brightly from under the bedstead. “And we’ll all go and see her when Tess has gone to live with her; and we’ll ride in her coach and wear black clothes!”
“How do you come here, child? What nonsense be ye talking! Go away, and play on the stairs till father and mother be ready! … Well, Tess ought to go to this other member of our family. She’d be sure to win the lady—Tess would; and likely enough ’twould lead to some noble gentleman marrying her. In short, I know it.”
“How?”
“I tried her fate in the Fortune-Teller, and it brought out that very thing! … You should ha’ seen how pretty she looked today; her skin is as sumple as a duchess’s.”
“What says the maid herself to going?”
“I’ve not asked her. She don’t know there is any such lady-relation yet. But it would certainly put her in the way of a grand marriage, and she won’t say nay to going.”
“Tess is queer.”
“But she’s tractable at bottom. Leave her to me.”
Though this conversation had been private, sufficient of its import reached the understandings of those around to suggest to them that the Durbeyfields had weightier concerns to talk of now than common folks had, and that Tess, their pretty eldest daughter, had fine prospects in store.
“Tess is a fine figure o’ fun, as I said to myself today when I zeed her vamping round parish with the rest,” observed one of the elderly boozers in an undertone. “But Joan Durbeyfield must mind that she don’t get green malt in floor.” It was a local phrase which had a peculiar meaning, and there was no reply.
The conversation became inclusive, and presently other footsteps were heard crossing the room below.
“—Being a few private friends asked in tonight to keep up club-walking at my own expense.” The landlady had rapidly reused the formula she kept on hand for intruders before she recognized that the newcomer was Tess.
Even to her mother’s gaze the girl’s young features looked sadly out of place amid the alcoholic vapours which floated here as no unsuitable medium for wrinkled middle-age; and hardly was a reproachful flash from Tess’s dark eyes needed to make her father and mother rise from their seats, hastily finish their ale, and descend the stairs behind her, Mrs. Rolliver’s caution following their footsteps.
“No noise, please, if ye’ll be so good, my dears; or I mid lose my licends, and be summons’d, and I don’t know what all! ’Night t’ye!”
They went home together, Tess holding one arm of her father, and Mrs. Durbeyfield the other. He had, in truth, drunk very little—not a fourth of the quantity which a systematic tippler could carry to church on a Sunday afternoon without a hitch in his eastings or genuflections; but the weakness of Sir John’s constitution made mountains of his petty sins in this kind. On reaching the fresh air he was sufficiently unsteady to incline the row of three at one moment as if they were marching to London, and at another as if they were marching to Bath—which produced a comical effect, frequent enough in families on nocturnal homegoings; and, like most comical effects, not quite so comic after all. The two women valiantly disguised these forced excursions and countermarches as well as they could from Durbeyfield, their cause, and from Abraham, and from themselves; and so they approached by degrees their own door, the head of the family bursting suddenly into his former refrain as he drew near, as if to fortify his soul at sight of the smallness of his present residence—
“I’ve got a fam—ily vault at Kingsbere!”
“Hush—don’t be so silly, Jacky,” said his wife. “Yours is not the only family that was of ’count in wold days. Look at the Anktells, and Horseys, and the Tringhams themselves—gone to seed a’most as much as you—though you was bigger folks than they, that’s true. Thank God, I was never of no family, and have nothing to be ashamed of in that way!”
“Don’t you be so sure o’ that. From you nater ’tis my belief you’ve disgraced yourselves more than any o’ us, and was kings and queens outright at one time.”
Tess turned the subject by saying what was far more prominent in her own mind at the moment than thoughts of her ancestry—“I am afraid father won’t be able to take the journey with the beehives tomorrow so early.”
“I? I shall be all right in an hour or two,” said Durbeyfield.
It was eleven o’clock before the family were all in bed, and two o’clock next morning was the latest hour for starting with the beehives if they were to be delivered to the retailers in Casterbridge before the Saturday market began, the way thither lying by bad roads over a distance of between twenty and thirty miles, and the horse and wagon being of the slowest. At half-past one Mrs. Durbeyfield came into the large bedroom where Tess and all her little brothers and sisters slept.
“The poor man can’t go,” she said to her eldest daughter, whose great eyes had opened the moment her mother’s hand touched the door.
Tess sat up in bed, lost in a vague interspace between a dream and this information.
“But somebody must go,” she replied. “It is late for the hives already. Swarming will soon be over for the year; and it we put off taking ’em till next week’s market the call for ’em will be past, and they’ll be thrown on our hands.”
Mrs. Durbeyfield looked unequal to the emergency. “Some young feller, perhaps, would go? One of them who were so much after dancing with ’ee yesterday,” she presently suggested.
“O no—I wouldn’t have it for the world!” declared Tess proudly. “And letting everybody know the reason—such a thing to be ashamed of! I think I could go if Abraham could go with me to kip me company.”
Her mother at length agreed to this arrangement. Little Abraham was aroused from his deep sleep in a corner of
