“Poor darlings—to suppose myself
the most miserable being on earth in the sight o’
such misery as yours!” she exclaimed, her tears
running down as she killed the birds tenderly.
“And not a twinge of bodily pain about me!
I be not mangled, and I be not bleeding, and I have
two hands to feed and clothe me.” She was
ashamed of herself for her gloom of the night, based
on nothing more tangible than a sense of condemnation
under an arbitrary law of society which had no foundation
in Nature.
It was now broad day, and she started again, emerging
cautiously upon the highway. But there was no
need for caution; not a soul was at hand, and Tess
went onward with fortitude, her recollection of the
birds’ silent endurance of their night of agony
impressing upon her the relativity of sorrows and
the tolerable nature of her own, if she could once
rise high enough to despise opinion. But that
she could not do so long as it was held by Clare.
She reached Chalk-Newton, and breakfasted at an inn,
where several young men were troublesomely complimentary
to her good looks. Somehow she felt hopeful,
for was it not possible that her husband also might
say these same things to her even yet? She was
bound to take care of herself on the chance of it,
and keep off these casual lovers. To this end
Tess resolved to run no further risks from her appearance.
As soon as she got out of the village she entered
a thicket and took from her basket one of the oldest
field-gowns, which she had never put on even at the
dairy—never since she had worked among
the stubble at Marlott. She also, by a felicitous
thought, took a handkerchief from her bundle and tied
it round her face under her bonnet, covering her chin
and half her cheeks and temples, as if she were suffering
from toothache. Then with her little scissors,
by the aid of a pocket looking-glass, she mercilessly
nipped her eyebrows off, and thus insured against
aggressive admiration, she went on her uneven way.
“What a mommet of a maid!” said the next
man who met her to a companion.
Tears came into her eyes for very pity of herself
as she heard him.
“But I don’t care!” she said.
“O no—I don’t care! I’ll
always be ugly now, because Angel is not here, and
I have nobody to take care of me. My husband
that was is gone away, and never will love me any
more; but I love him just the same, and hate all other
men, and like to make ’em think scornfully of
me!”
Thus Tess walks on; a figure which is part of the
landscape; a fieldwoman pure and simple, in winter
guise; a gray serge cape, a red woollen cravat, a
stuff skirt covered by a whitey-brown rough wrapper,
and buff-leather gloves. Every thread of that
old attire has become faded and thin under the stroke
of raindrops, the burn of sunbeams, and the stress
of winds. There is no sign of young passion
in her now—
