The contrast well marked the difference between being fetched by a
thriving farmer and conveying oneself whither no hirer waited one's
coming. The distance was great--too great for a day's journey--and it was
with the utmost difficulty that the horses performed it. Though they
had started so early, it was quite late in the afternoon when they
turned the flank of an eminence which formed part of the upland
called Greenhill. While the horses stood to stale and breathe
themselves Tess looked around. Under the hill, and just ahead of
them, was the half-dead townlet of their pilgrimage, Kingsbere,
where lay those ancestors of whom her father had spoken and sung to
painfulness: Kingsbere, the spot of all spots in the world which
could be considered the d'Urbervilles' home, since they had resided
there for full five hundred years.
A man could be seen advancing from the outskirts towards them, and
when he beheld the nature of their waggon-load he quickened his
steps. "You be the woman they call Mrs Durbeyfield, I reckon?" he said to
Tess's mother, who had descended to walk the remainder of the way.
She nodded. "Though widow of the late Sir John d'Urberville, poor
nobleman, if I cared for my rights; and returning to the domain of
his forefathers." "Oh? Well, I know nothing about that; but if you be Mrs Durbeyfield,
I am sent to tell 'ee that the rooms you wanted be let. We didn't
know that you was coming till we got your letter this morning--when
'twas too late. But no doubt you can get other lodgings somewhere."
The man had noticed the face of Tess, which had become ash-pale at
his intelligence. Her mother looked hopelessly at fault. "What
shall we do now, Tess?" she said bitterly. "Here's a welcome to
your ancestors' lands! However, let's try further."
They moved on into the town, and tried with all their might, Tess
remaining with the waggon to take care of the children whilst her
mother and 'Liza-Lu made inquiries. At the last return of Joan to
the vehicle, an hour later, when her search for accommodation had
still been fruitless, the driver of the waggon said the goods must be
unloaded, as the horses were half-dead, and he was bound to return
part of the way at least that night.
"Very well--unload it here," said Joan recklessly. "I'll get shelter
somewhere." The waggon had drawn up under the churchyard wall, in a spot screened
from view, and the driver, nothing loth, soon hauled down the poor
heap of household goods. This done, she paid him, reducing herself
to almost her last shilling thereby, and he moved off and left them,
only too glad to get out of further dealings with such a family. It
was a dry night, and he guessed that they would come to no harm.