''O Aby, don't-don't talk of that any more!''
Left to his reflections Abraham soon grew drowsy. Tess was not skilful in the
management of a horse, but she thought that she could take upon herself the entire
conduct of the load for the present, and allow Abraham to go to sleep if he wished
to do so. She made him a sort of nest in front of the hives, in such a manner that
he could not fall, and, taking the reins into her own hands, jogged on as before.
Prince required but slight attention, lacking energy for superfluous movements
of any sort. With no longer a companion to distract her, Tess fell more deeply into
reverie than ever, her back leaning against the hives. The mute procession past
her shoulders of trees and hedges became attached to fantastic scenes outside reality,
and the occasional heave of the wind became the sigh of some immense sad soul, conterminous
with the universe in space, and with history in time.
Then, examining the mesh of events in her own life, she seemed to see the vanity
of her father's pride; the gentlemanly suitor awaiting herself in her mother's fancy;
to see him as a grimacing personage, laughing at her poverty, and her shrouded knightly
ancestry. Everything grew more and more extravagant, and she no longer knew how
time passed. A sudden jerk shook her in her seat, and Tess awoke from the sleep
into which she, too, had fallen.
They were a long way further on than when she had lost consciousness, and the
waggon had stopped. A hollow groan, unlike anything she had ever heard in her life,
came from the front, followed by a shout of ''Hoi there!''
The lantern hanging at her waggon had gone out, but another was shining in her
face-much brighter than her own had been. Something terrible had happened. The harness
was entangled with an object which blocked the way.
In consternation Tess jumped down, and discovered the dreadful truth. The groan
has proceeded from her father's poor horse Prince. The morning mail-cart, with its
two noiseless wheels, speeding along these lanes like an arrow, as it always did,
had driven into her slow and unlighted equipage. The pointed shaft of the cart had
entered the breast of the unhappy Prince like a sword, and from the wound his life's
blood was spouting in a stream, and falling with a hiss into the road.
In her despair Tess sprang forward and put her hand upon the hole, with the only
result that she became splashed from face to skirt with the crimson drops. Then
she stood helplessly looking on. Prince also stood firm and motionless as long as
he could; till he suddenly sank down in a heap.
By this time the mail-cart man had joined her, and began dragging and unharnessing
the hot form of Prince. But he was already dead, and, seeing that nothing more could
be done immediately, the mail-cart man returned to his own animal, which was uninjured.
''You was on the wrong side,'' he said. ''I am bound to go on with the mail-bags,
so that the best thing for you to do is bide here with your load. I'll send somebody
to help you as soon as I can. It is getting daylight, and you have nothing to fear.''
He mounted and sped on his way; while Tess stood and waited. The atmosphere turned
pale, the birds shook themselves in the hedges, arose, and twittered; the lane showed
all its white features, and Tess showed hers, still whiter. The huge pool of blood
in front of her was already assuming the iridescence of coagulation; and when the
sun rose a hundred prismatic hues were reflected from it. Prince lay alongside still
and stark; his eyes half open, the hole in his chest looking scarcely large enough
to have let out all that had animated him.
'''Tis all my doing-all mine!'' the girl cried, gazing at the spectacle. ''No
excuse for me-none. What will mother and father live on now? Aby, Aby!'' She shook
the child, who had slept soundly through the whole disaster. ''We can't go on with
our load-Prince is killed!''
When Abraham realized all, the furrows of fifty years were extemporized on his
''Why, I danced and laughed only yesterday!'' she went on to herself. ''To think
that I was such a fool!''
'''Tis because we be on a blighted star, and not a sound one, isn't it, Tess?''
murmured Abraham through his tears.
In silence they waited through an interval which seemed endless. At length a
sound, and an approaching object, proved to them that the driver of the mail-car
had been as good as his word. A farmer's man from near Stourcastle came up, leading
a strong cob. He was harnessed to the waggon of beehives in the place of Prince,
and the load taken on towards Casterbridge.
The evening of the same day saw the empty waggon reach again the spot of the
accident. Prince had lain there in the ditch since the morning; but the place of
the blood-pool was still visible in the middle of the road, though scratched and
scraped over by passing vehicles. All that was left of Prince was now hoisted into
the waggon he had formerly hauled, and with his hoofs in the air, and his shoes
shining in the setting sunlight, he retracted the eight or nine miles to Marlott.
Tess had gone back earlier. How to break the news was more than she could think.
It was a relief to her tongue to find from the faces of her parents that they already
knew of their loss, though this did not lessen the self-reproach which she continued
to heap upon herself for her negligence.
But the very shiftlessness of the household rendered the misfortune a less terrifying
one to them than it would have been to a thriving family, though in the present
case it meant ruin, and in the other it would only have meant inconvenience. In
the Durbeyfield countenances there was nothing of the red wrath that would have
burnt upon the girl from parents more ambitious for her welfare. Nobody blamed Tess
as she blamed herself.
When it was discovered that the knacker and tanner would give only a very few
shillings for Prince's carcase because of his decrepitude, Durbeyfield rose to the
''No,'' said he stoically, ''I won't sell his old body. When we d'Urbervilles
was knights in the land, we didn't sell our chargers for cat's meat. Let 'em keep
their shillings. He've served me well in his lifetime, and I won't part from him
He worked harder the next day in digging a grave for Prince in the garden than
he had worked for months to grow a crop for his family. When the hole was ready,
Durbeyfield and his wife tied a rope round the horse and dragged him up the path
towards it, the children following in funeral train. Abraham and 'Liza-Lu sobbed,
Hope and Modest discharged their griefs in loud blares which echoed from the walls;
and when Prince was tumbled in they gathered round the grave. The bread-winner had
been taken away from them; what would they do?
''Is he gone to heaven?'' asked Abraham, between the sobs.
Then Durbeyfield began to shovel in the earth, and the children cried anew. All
except Tess. Her face was dry and pale, as though she regarded herself in the light
of a murderess.
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
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 handing 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 thefamily 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.