"Oh--let me get my hat!"

At the moment of speaking her hat had blown off into the road, their

present speed on the upland being by no means slow. D'Urberville

pulled up, and said he would get it for her, but Tess was down on the

other side. She turned back and picked up the article.

"You look prettier with it off, upon my soul, if that's possible," he

said, contemplating her over the back of the vehicle. "Now then, up

again! What's the matter?" The hat was in place and tied, but Tess had not stepped forward. "No, sir," she said, revealing the red and ivory of her mouth as her

eye lit in defiant triumph; "not again, if I know it!"

"What--you won't get up beside me?"

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"No; I shall walk."

"'Tis five or six miles yet to Trantridge."

"I don't care if 'tis dozens. Besides, the cart is behind."

"You artful hussy! Now, tell me--didn't you make that hat blow off

on purpose? I'll swear you did!" Her strategic silence confirmed his suspicion.

Then d'Urberville cursed and swore at her, and called her everything

he could think of for the trick. Turning the horse suddenly he tried

to drive back upon her, and so hem her in between the gig and the

hedge. But he could not do this short of injuring her.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself for using such wicked words!"

cried Tess with spirit, from the top of the hedge into which she had

scrambled. "I don't like 'ee at all! I hate and detest you! I'll

go back to mother, I will!"

D'Urberville's bad temper cleared up at sight of hers; and he laughed

heartily. "Well, I like you all the better," he said. "Come, let there be

peace. I'll never do it any more against your will. My life upon

it now!" Still Tess could not be induced to remount. She did not, however,

object to his keeping his gig alongside her; and in this manner, at

a slow pace, they advanced towards the village of Trantridge. From

time to time d'Urberville exhibited a sort of fierce distress at

the sight of the tramping he had driven her to undertake by his

misdemeanour. She might in truth have safely trusted him now; but he

had forfeited her confidence for the time, and she kept on the ground

progressing thoughtfully, as if wondering whether it would be wiser

to return home. Her resolve, however, had been taken, and it seemed

vacillating even to childishness to abandon it now, unless for graver

reasons. How could she face her parents, get back her box, and

disconcert the whole scheme for the rehabilitation of her family on

such sentimental grounds?




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