It was, indeed, quite true that the household had not been shining examples either of temperance, soberness, or chastity.The father, and even the mother, had got drunk at times, the younger children seldom had gone to church, and the eldest daughter had made queer unions.By some means the village had to kept pure.So on this, the first Lady-Day on which the Durbeyfields were expellable, the house, being roomy, was required for a carter with a large family; and Widow Joan, her daughters Tess and 'Liza-Lu, the boy Abraham and the younger children, had to go elsewhere.
On the evening preceding their removal it was getting dark betimes by reason of a drizzling rain which blurred the sky.As it was the last night they would spend in the village which had been their home and birthplace, Mrs Durbeyfield, 'Liza-Lu, and Abraham had gone out to bid some friends good-bye, and Tess was keeping house till they should return.
She was kneeling in the window-bench, her face close to the casement, where an outer pane of rainwater was sliding down the inner pane of glass.
Her eyes rested on the web of a spider, probably starved long ago, which had been mistakenly placed in a corner where no flies ever came, and shivered in the slight draught through the casement.Tess was reflecting on the position of the household, in which she perceived her own evil influence.
Had she not come home her mother and the children might probably have been allowed to stay on as weekly tenants.But she had been observed almost immediately on her return by some people of scrupulous character and great influence: they had seen her idling in the churchyard, restoring as well as she could with a little trowel a baby's obliterated grave.By this means they had found that she was living here again; her mother was scolded for `harbouring' her; sharp retorts had ensued from Joan, who had independently offered to leave at once; she had been taken at her word; and here was the result.
`I ought never to have come home,' said Tess to herself, bitterly.
She was so intent upon these thoughts that she hardly at first took note of a man in a white mackintosh whom she saw riding down the street.
Possibly it was owing to her face being near to the pane that he saw her so quickly, and directed his horse so close to the cottage-front that his hoofs were almost upon the narrow border for plants growing under the wall.
It was not till he touched the window with his riding-crop that she observed him.The rain had nearly ceased, and she opened the casement in obedience to his gesture.
`Didn't you see me?' asked d'Urberville.
`I was not attending,' she said.`I heard you, I believe, though I fancied it was a carriage and horses.I was in a sort of dream.'
`Ah! you heard the d'Urberville Coach, perhaps.You know the legend, I suppose?'
`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, Isuppose.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 change - and then - we should be - my mother would be homeless again.'
`O no - no.I would guarantee you against such as that in writing necessary.
Think it over.'
Tess shook her head.But d'Urberville persisted; she had seldom seen him so determined; he would not take a negative.
`Please just tell your mother,' he said, in emphatic tones.`It is her business to judge - not yours.I shall get the house swept out and whitened to-morrow morning, and fires lit; and it will be dry by the evening, so that you can come straight there.Now mind, I shall expect you.'
