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 fo und.It was not a manorial home in the ordinary sense， with fields， and pastures， and a gru mbling farmer， out of whom the owner had to squeeze an inco me for himself and his family by hook or by crook.It was more， far more； a country-house built for enjoyment p ure and simple， w ith n ot an acre of troublesome land attach ed to it bey ond what was required for residentia l purposes， and for a little fancy farm kept in hand by the owner， and tended by a bailiff.
The cr imson brick lodge cam e f irst in sigh t， up to its eav es in dens e evergreens.Tess thought this was th e mansion itself till， pass ing 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 r ecent erection—indeed almo st new—and of the sa me ric h red colour that for med suc h a contrast with the evergreens of the lodge.Far behind the corner of the house—which rose like a geran ium b loom against th e subdued co lours around—stretched th e soft azure landscape of The Chase—a truly venerable tract of forest land， one of th e f ew rem aining woodlands in Eng land of undoubted primaval date， wherein Druidical mistletoe was s till found on aged o aks， and where enormous yew-trees， not plan ted by the hand of m an， 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.
Everything on this snug property was bright， thriving， and well kept； acres of glass-hou ses stretched down the inclines to the co pses at their feet.Everything looked lik e money—like the last coin issued from the Mint.The stables， partly screened b y Austrian p ines and evergreen oaks， and f itted with every late a ppliance， were as dig nified as Chap els-of-Ease.On the ex tensive lawn stood an ornamental tent， its door being towards her.
Simple Tess Durbeyfield stood at gaze， in a half-alar med attitude， on the edge of the gravel sweep.Her feet had brought her onward to this point before she had quite realized where she was； and n ow all was contrary to her expectation.
“I thought we were an old family； but this is all n ew！”she said， in her artlessness.She wished that she had not fallen in so readily with her mother's plans for“claiming kin， ”and had endeavoured to gain assistance nearer home.
The d'Urbervilles—or Stoke-d'Urbervilles， as they at first c alled themselves—who owned all th is， were a somewhat unusual family to find in such an old-fashioned part of the cou ntry.Parson Tringham had spoken tru ly when he s aid that o ur shambling John Durbeyfield was the only really lineal representative of the o ld d'Urberville family existing in the county， or near it； he might have added， w hat he kn ew very well， that th e Stok e-d'Urbervilles were no more d'Urbervilles of the true tree than he was himself.Yet it must be admitted that this family formed a ve ry good stock whereon to regraft a name which sadly wanted such renovation.
When old Mr.Simon Stoke， latterly deceased， had made his fortune as an honest merchant（some said money-lender）in the North， he decided to settle as a county man in the South of England， out of hail of his business district； and in doing this he felt the necessity of r ecommencing with a n ame that would not too readily identify him with the smart tradesman of the past， and that would be less commonplace than the original bald stark words.Conning for an hour in the British Museum th e pages of works devoted to ex tinct， half-extinct， obscured， and ruined families apper taining to the quarter of England in which he proposed to settle， he considered that d'Urberville looked and sounded as well as any of the m：an d d'Urberville a ccordingly was annexed to h is o wn name for himself and his heirs eternally.Yet he was not an extravagant-minded man in th is， and in con structing his family tree on the new basis was duly reasonable in framing his intermarriages and aristocratic links， never inserting asingle title above a rank of strict moderation.
Of this work of imagin ation poor Tess and her parents were n aturally in ignorance—much to their d iscomfiture； indeed， the very p ossibility of suc h annexations was unkn own to them； who su pposed that， though to be wellfavoured might be the gift of fortune， a family name came by nature.
Tess still s tood hesitating like a bather about to make his plunge， hardly knowing whether to retreat or to persevere， when a figure came forth fro m the dark triangular door of the tent.It was that of a tall young man， smoking.
He had an almost swarthy com plexion， with full lips， bad ly moulded， though red and smooth， above which was a wellgroomed black moustache with curled points， though his age could not be more than three-or four-and-twenty.Despite the touches of barbarism in his contours， there was a singular force in the gentleman's face， and in his bold rolling eye.
“Well， my Beauty， what can I do for you？”said he， coming forward.And perceiving that she s tood quite co nfounded：“Never mind me.I am Mr.d'Urberville.Have you come to see me or my mother？”
This e mbodiment of a d'Urberville a nd a na mesake differ ed even more from what Tess had expected than the house and grounds had differed.She had dreamed of an aged and dignified face， the sub limation of all the d'Urberville lineaments， furrowed with incarnate memories representing in hieroglyphic the centuries of her family's and England's history.But she scr ewed herself up to the work in hand， since she could not get out of it， and answered—
“I came to see your mother， sir.”
“I am afraid you cannot see her—she is an invalid， ”replied the presen t representative of the spurious house； for this was Mr.Alec， th e only son of the lately deceased gentleman.“Cannot I answer y our purpose？What is th e business you wish to see her about？”
“It isn't business—it is—I can hardly say what！”
“Pleasure？”
“Oh no.Why， sir， if I tell you， it will seem—”
Tess's sense of a certain ludicrousness in her errand was now so strong that， notwithstanding her awe of him， and her general discomfort at being here， her rosy lips curved tow ards a s mile， much to the attrac tion of the swarthyAlexander.
“It is so very foolish， ”she stammered； “I fear I can't tell you！”
“Never mind； I like foolish things.Try again， my dear， ”said he kindly.
“Mother asked me to come， ”Tess continued； “and， ind eed， I was in the mind to do so myself likewise.But I did not think it would be like this.I came， sir， to tell you that we are of the same family as you.”
“Ho！Poor relations？”
“Yes.”
“Stokes？”
“No； d'Urbervilles.”
“Ay， ay； I mean d'Urbervilles.”
“Our names are worn away to Durb eyfield； bu t we have sev eral proofs that we ar e d'Urbervilles.Antiqu arians hold we are， —and—and we have an old seal， marked with a ramping lion on a shield， and a castle over him.And we have a very old s ilver spoon， round in th e bowl like a little ladle， and marked with the same castle.But it is so worn that mother uses it to stir the pea-soup.”
“A castle argent is certainly my crest， ”sa id he blandly.“And my arms a lion rampant.”
“And so m other s aid we ought to make ours elves beknown to y ou—as we've lost our horse by a bad accident， and a re the old est branch o'the family.”
“Very kind of your mother， I'm sure.And I， for one， don't regret her step.”Alec looked at Tess as he spoke， in a way that made her blush a little.“And so， my pretty girl， you've come on a friendly visit to us， as relations？”
“I suppose I have， ”faltered Tess， looking uncomfortable again.
“Well—there's no harm in it.Where do you live？What are you？”
She gave him br ief p articulars； an d responding to further inquiries told him that she was intending to go back by the same carrier who had brought her.
“It is a long while before he returns past Trantridge Cross.Supposing we walk round the grounds to pass the time， my pretty Coz？”
Tess wished to abridge her visit as much as possible； bu t the young man was pressing， and she co nsented to accompany him.He cond ucted her about the lawns， and flower-beds， and conservatories； and thence to the fruit-gar denand greenhouses， where he asked her if she liked strawberries.
“Yes， ”said Tess， “when they come.”
“They are already here.”D'Urberville began gath ering specimens of th e fruit for her， handing them back to her as he stooped； and， presently， selecting a specially fine product of the“British Queen”variety， he stood up and held it by the stem to her mouth.
“No—no！”she said qu ickly， putting her fingers between his hand and her lips.“I would rather take it in my own hand.”
“Nonsense！”he insisted； and in a s light distress she parted her lips and took it in.
They had spent so me time wander ing desultor ily thus， Tess eating in a half-pleased， half-reluctant state whatever d'Urberville offered her.When she could consume no more of the strawberries he filled her little basket with them； and then the two passed round to the rose trees， whence he gathered blossoms and gave h er to put in her bosom.Sh e obeyed like one in a dream， and when she cou ld af fix no more he h imself tucked a bu d or two in to her hat， and heaped her basket with others in the prodigality of his b ounty.At last， looking at his watch， he said， “Now， by the time you have had something to eat， it will be time for you to leave， if you want to catch the carrier to Shaston.Come here， and I'll see what grub I can find.”
Stoke-d'Urberville took her back to the lawn and into the ten t， where h e left her， soon reappearing with a bas ket of light luncheon， wh ich he put b efore her himself.It was evid ently the gen tleman's wish not to b e disturbed in this pleasant tête-à-tête by the servantry.
“Do you mind my smoking？”he asked.
“Oh， not at all， sir.”
He watched her pretty and uncons cious munching through the skeins of smoke th at pervaded the ten t， and Tess Durbey field did n ot div ine， as she innocently looked down at the roses in her boso m， that there behind th e blue narcotic haze was poten tially the“tr agic mischief”of her dr ama—one who stood fair to be the blood-red ray in the spectrum of her young life.She had an attribute which amounted to a d isadvantage just now； and it was th is that caused Alec d'Urberville's ey es to rivet themselves upon her.I t was aluxuriance of aspect， a f ulness of gr owth， which made h er appear more of a woman th an she really was.She had inher ited the feature fr om her mother without the quality it d enoted.It had troubled her mind occasionally， till her companions had said that it was a fault which time would cure.
She soon had finished h er lunch.“Now I am going home， sir， ”she said， rising.
“And what do they call you？”he asked， as he accompanied her along the drive till they were out of sight of the house.
“Tess Durbeyfield， down at Marlott.”
“And you say your people have lost their horse？”
“I—killed h im！”sh e answered， h er eyes fil ling with tears a s she g ave particulars o f Prince's d eath.“And I don't know what to do for fath er on account of it！”
“I must think if I canno t do som ething.My mother must find a berth for you.But， Tess， no nons ense abou t‘d'Urberville'； —‘Durbeyfield'only， you know—quite another name.”
“I wish for no better， sir， ”said she with something of dignity.
For a moment—only for a moment—when they were in the turning of the drive， between the tall rhododendrons and conif ers， before the lodge became visible， he inclined his face towards her as if—but， no：he thou ght better of it， and let her go.
Thus the thing began.Had she perceived this meeting's import she might have asked why she was doomed to be seen and coveted that day by the wrong man， and not by some other man， the right and desired one in all respects—as nearly as hu manity can s upply the r ight and d esired； yet to him who amongst her acquaintance might have approximated to this kind， she was but a transient impression， half forgotten.
In the ill-judged execu tion of the well-judged plan of th ings the call seldom produces the comer， the man to love rarely coincides with the hour for loving.Nature does no t often say“See！”to her poor creature at a tim e when seeing can lead to happy doing； or reply“Here！”to a body's cry of“Where？”till the hide-and-seek has become an irksome， outworn game.We may wonder whether a t the ac me and summit of the hu man p rogress thes e anachr onismswill be corrected by a finer in tuition， a closer interaction of th e social machinery than that which now jolts us round and alo ng； but su chcompleteness is not to be prophesied， or even conceived as p ossible.Enough that in the present case， as in millions， it was not the two ha lves of a perf ect whole that confronted each other at the perf ect moment； a missing counterpart wandered independently about the earth waiting in crass obtuseness till the late time cam e.Out of which maladroit delay sprang anxieties， disappointments， shocks， catastrophes， and passing-strange destinies.
When d'Urberville go t b ack to the tent he sat d own astr ide on a cha ir reflecting， with a pleased gleam in his face.Then he broke into a loud laugh.
“Well， I'm damned！What a funny thing！Ha-ha-ha！And what a cru mby girl！”
6
Tess went down the hill to Trantridge Cross， and inattentively waitedto take her seat in the van returning from Chaseborough to Shaston.She did not know what other o ccupants said to h er as she en tered， thou gh she answered them； and w hen they had started anew she rode along with an inward and not an outward eye.
One among her fellow-tr avellers addr essed her more pointedly than any had spoken before：“Why， you be quite a posy！And such roses in early June！”
Then she be came aware of the spec tacle she pres ented to their surprised vision：roses at her breast； roses in her hat； roses and strawberries in her basket to the brim.She blushed， and said co nfusedly that the flowers had been given to her.When the passengers were not looking she stealthily removed the more prominent b looms fro m her hat and placed them in the basket， wher e she covered them with her handkerchief.Then she f ell to reflecting again， and in looking dow nwards a th orn of the r ose rem aining in her breast acciden tally pricked her chin.Like all the cottagers in Blackmoor Vale， Tess was steeped in fancies and prefigurative superstitions； she thought this an ill omen—the first she had noticed that day.
The van travelled only so far as Shas ton， and there were sever al miles of pedestrian descent from that mountaintown into the vale to Marlott.Her mother had advised her to stay here for the night， at the house of a cottagewoman they knew， if she should feel too tired to come on， and this Tess did， not descending to her home till the following afternoon.
When she entered the house she perceived in a moment from her mother's triumphant manner that something had occurred in the interim.
“Oh yes； I know all about it！I to ld'ee it would be all right， and now'tis proved！”
“Since I've been away？What has？”said Tess rather wearily.
Her mother surveyed the girl up and down with arch approv al， and went on banteringly：“So you've brought'em round！”
“How do you know， mother？”
“I've had a letter.”
Tess then remembered that there would have been time for this.
“They say—Mrs， d'Urberville s ays—that she wants y ou to look af ter a little fowl-f arm which is her hobb y.But this is only he r artfu l wa y of getting'ee there withou t raising your hopes.She's going to own'ee as k in—that's the meaning o't.”
“But I didn't see her.”
“You zid somebody， I suppose？”
“I saw her son.”
“And did he own'ee？”
“Well—he called me Coz.”
“An'I knew it！Jacky—he called her Coz！”cried Joan to her husband.“Well， he spoke to his mother， of course； and she do want'ee there.”
“But I don't know that I am apt at tending fowls， ”said the dubious Tess.
“Then I don't know wh o is apt.You've be'n born in the b usiness， and brought up in it.Th ey that be born in a bus iness always know more about it than any'prentice.Besides， that's only just a show of something for you to do， that you midn't feel beholden.”
“I don't alto gether think I ought to go， ”said Tess thoughtfu lly.“Who wrote the letter？Will you let me look at it？”
“Mrs.d'Urberville wrote it.Here it is.”
The letter was in the third person， an d briefly informed Mrs.Durbey field that her daughter's services would be useful to that lady in the managemen t of her poultry-farm， th at a comfortable roo m would be provided for her if she could come， and that the wages would be on a liberal scale if they liked her.
“Oh—that's all！”said Tess.
“You couldn't expect her to throw her ar ms round'ee， an'to kiss and to coll'ee all at once.”
Tess looked out of the window.
“I would rather stay here with father and you， ”she said.
“But why？”
“I'd rather not tell you why， mother； indeed， I don't quite know why.”
A week afterwards she came in one evening from an unavailing search for some light occupation in the immed iate neighbourhood.Her idea had been to get tog ether suffici ent money durin g the su mmer to purch ase another h orse.Hardly had she crossed the thresho ld before one of the children danced across the room， saying， “The gentleman's been here！”
Her mother hastened to explain， smiles breaking from every inch of her person.Mrs.d'Urberville's son had called on horseback， having been riding by chance in the direction of Marlott.He had wished to know， finally， in the name of his mother， if Tess could really come to manage the old lady's fowl-farm or not； the lad who had hith erto superin tended the b irds having pr oved untrustworthy.“Mr.d'Urberville says you must be a good g irl if you are at all as you appear； he knows y ou must be worth your weight in gold.He is very much interested in'ee—truth to tell.”
Tess seemed for the moment really pleased to hear that she had won such high opinion from a stranger when， in her own esteem， she had sunk so low.
“It is v ery good of him to th ink that， ”she murmured； “and if I was quite sure how it would be living there， I would go any-when.”
“He is a mighty handsome man！”
“I don't think so， ”said Tess coldly.
“Well there's y our chan ce， whe ther or no； and I'm sure h e wears a beautiful diamond ring！”
“Yes， ”said little Abraham， brightly， from the windowbench； “and I seed it！and it did twinkle when he put his hand up to his mistarshers.Mother， why did our grand relation keep on putting his hand up to his mistarshers？”
“Hark at that child！”cried Mrs.Durbeyfield， with parenthetic admiration.
“Perhaps to show his diam ond ring， ”murmured Sir John， dreamily， fromhis chair.
“I'll think it over， ”said Tess， leaving the room.
“Well， she's made a con quest o'the younger branch of us， straigh t off， ”continued the matron to her husband， “and she's a fool if she don't follow it up.”
“I don't quite like my children going away from home， ”said the haggler.“As the head of the family， the rest ought to come to me.”
“But do let h er go， Jacky， ”coaxed his poor witless wife.“He's struck wi'her—you can see that.He called her Coz！He'll marry her， most likely， and make a lady of her； and then she'll be what her forefathers was.”
John Durbey field had m ore conceit than en ergy or health， and th is supposition was pleasant to him.
“Well， perhaps， that's what young Mr.d'Urberville means， ”he ad mitted； “and sure en ough he mid have serio us thoughts about improving his blood by linking on to the old line.Tess， the little rogue！And have she really paid'em a visit to such an end as this？”
Meanwhile Tess was walking thoughtfully among the gooseberrybushes in the gerden， and over Prince's grave.When she came in her mother pursued her advantage.
“Well， what be you going to do？”she asked.
“I wish I had seen Mrs.d'Urberville， ”said Tess.
“I think you mid as well settle it.Then you'll see her soon enough.”
Her father coughed in his chair.
“I don't know what to say！”answered the gir l restlessly.“It is for y ou to decide.I killed the old horse， and I suppose I ought to do something to get ye a new one.But—but—I don't quite like Mr.d'Urberville being there！”
The children， who had made use of this idea of Tess being taken up by their wealthy kinsfolk（which they imagined the other family to be）as a species of dolorifuge after the death of the horse， began to cry at Tess's reluctance， and teased and reproached her for hesitating.
“Tess won't go—o—o and be made a la—a—dy o f！—no， she say s she wo-o-on't！”they wailed， with square mouths.“And we shan't have a nice new horse， and lots o'golden money to buy fairlings！And Tess won't look pretty in her best cloze no mo—o—ore！”
Her mother chimed in to the sa me tune：a cer tain way she had of m aking her labours in th e house seem h eavier than th ey were by prolonging th emindefinitely， also weigh ed in the ar gument.Her father a lone preserved an attitude of neutrality.
“I will go， ”said Tess at last.
Her m other could not r epress her co nsciousness of the nuptial Vision conjured up by the girl's consent.
“That's right！For such a pretty maid as'tis， this is a fine chance！”
Tess smiled crossly.
“I hope it is a chance for earning money.It is no other kind of chance.You had better say nothing of that silly sort about parish.”
Mrs.Durbeytield did n ot promise.She was not quite sure that s he did not feel proud enough， after the visitor's remarks， to say a good deal.
Thus it was arranged； and the young girl wrote， agreeing to be ready to set out on any day on which she might be required.She was duly informed that Mrs.d'Urberville was g lad of her de cision， and that a spring-cart should be sent to meet her and her luggage at the top of the Vale on the day after the morrow， when she m ust hold herself prepared to start.Mrs.d'Urberville's handwriting seemed rather masculine.
“A cart？”murmured Joan Durbey field doubtingly.“It might have been a carriage for her own kin！”
