Tess of the dUrbervilles

I saw her lie do'-own in yon'-der green gro'-ove;

Come, love!' and I'll tell' you where!'

The cradle-rocking and the song would cease simultaneously for a

moment, and an exclamation at highest vocal pitch would take the

place of the melody.

"God bless thy diment eyes! And thy waxen cheeks! And thy cherry

mouth! And thy Cubit's thighs! And every bit o' thy blessed body!"

After this invocation the rocking and the singing would recommence,

and the "Spotted Cow" proceed as before. So matters stood when Tess

opened the door and paused upon the mat within it, surveying the

scene. The interior, in spite of the melody, struck upon the girl's senses

with an unspeakable dreariness. From the holiday gaieties of the

field--the white gowns, the nosegays, the willow-wands, the whirling

movements on the green, the flash of gentle sentiment towards the

stranger--to the yellow melancholy of this one-candled spectacle,

what a step! Besides the jar of contrast there came to her a chill

self-reproach that she had not returned sooner, to help her mother

in these domesticities, instead of indulging herself out-of-doors.

There stood her mother amid the group of children, as Tess had left

her, hanging over the Monday washing-tub, which had now, as always,

lingered on to the end of the week. Out of that tub had come the day

before--Tess felt it with a dreadful sting of remorse--the very white

frock upon her back which she had so carelessly greened about the

skirt on the damping grass--which had been wrung up and ironed by her

mother's own hands.

As usual, Mrs Durbeyfield was balanced on one foot beside the tub,

the other being engaged in the aforesaid business of rocking her

youngest child. The cradle-rockers had done hard duty for so many

years, under the weight of so many children, on that flagstone floor,

that they were worn nearly flat, in consequence of which a huge jerk

accompanied each swing of the cot, flinging the baby from side to

side like a weaver's shuttle, as Mrs Durbeyfield, excited by her

song, trod the rocker with all the spring that was left in her after

a long day's seething in the suds.

Nick-knock, nick-knock, went the cradle; the candle-flame stretched

itself tall, and began jigging up and down; the water dribbled from

the matron's elbows, and the song galloped on to the end of the

verse, Mrs Durbeyfield regarding her daughter the while. Even now,

when burdened with a young family, Joan Durbeyfield was a passionate

lover of tune. No ditty floated into Blackmoor Vale from the outer

world but Tess's mother caught up its notation in a week.