On the morning appointed for her departure Tess was awake before dawn—at the marginal minute of the dark when the grove is still mute, save for one prophetic bird who sings with a clear-voiced conviction that he at least knows the correct time of day, the rest preserving silence as if equally convinced that he is mistaken. She remained upstairs packing till breakfast-time, and then came down in her ordinary weekday clothes, her Sunday apparel being carefully folded in her box.
Her mother expostulated. “You will never set out to see your folks without dressing up more the dand than that?”
“But I am going to work!” said Tess.
“Well, yes,” said Mrs. Durbeyfield; and in a private tone, “at first there mid be a little pretence o’t … But I think it will be wiser of ’ee to put your best side outward,” she added.
“Very well; I suppose you know best,” replied Tess with calm abandonment.
And to please her parent the girl put herself quite in Joan’s hands, saying serenely—“Do what you like with me, mother.”
Mrs. Durbeyfield was only too delighted at this tractability. First she fetched a great basin, and washed Tess’s hair with such thoroughness that when dried and brushed it looked twice as much as at other times. She tied it with a broader pink ribbon than usual. Then she put upon her the white frock that Tess had worn at the club-walking, the airy fullness of which, supplementing her enlarged coiffure, imparted to her developing figure an amplitude which belied her age, and might cause her to be estimated as a woman when she was not much more than a child.