`Perhaps it will be just the same to him if you don't? - Will it be just the same? Don't for God's sake speak as saint to sinner, but as you yourself to me myself - poor me!'
How the Vicar reconciled his answer with the strict notions he supposed himself to hold on these subjects it is beyond a layman's power to tell, though not to excuse.Somewhat moved, he said in this case also--`It will be just the same.'
So the baby was carried in a small deal box, under an ancient woman's shawl, to the churchyard that night, and buried by lantern-light, at the cost of a shilling and a pint of beer to the ***ton, in that shabby corner of God's allotment where He lets the nettles grow, and where all unbaptized infants, notorious drunkards, suicides, and others of the conjecturally damned are laid.In spite of the untoward surroundings, however, Tess bravely made a little cross of two laths and a piece of string, and having bound it with flowers, she stuck it up at the head of the grave one evening when she could enter the churchyard without being seen, putting at the foot also a bunch of the same flowers in a little jar of water to keep them alive.What matter was it that on the outside of the jar the eye of mere observation noted the words `Keelwell's Marmalade'? The eye of maternal affection did not see them in its vision of higher things.
Chapter 15 `By experience,' says Roger Ascham, `we find out a short way by a long wandering.' Not seldom that long wandering unfits us for further travel, and of what use is our experience to us then? Tess Durbeyfield's experience was of this incapacitating kind.At last she had learned what to do; but who would now accept her doing?
If before going to the d'Urbervilles' she had vigorously moved under the guidance of sundry gnomic texts and phrases known to her and to the world in general, no doubt she would never have been imposed on.But it had not been in Tess's power - nor is it in anybody's power - to feel the whole truth of golden opinions while it is possible to profit by them.
She - and how many more - might have ironically said to God with Saint Augustine: `Thou hast counselled a better course than Thou hast permitted.'
She remained in her father's house during the winter months, plucking fowls, or cramming turkeys and geese, or ****** clothes for her sisters and brothers out of some finery which d'Urberville had given her, and she had put by with contempt.Apply to him she would not.But she would often clasp her hands behind her head and muse when she was supposed to be working hard.
She philosophically noted dates as they came past in the revolution of the year; the disastrous night of her undoing at Trantridge with its dark background of The Chase; also the dates of the baby's birth and death;also her own birthday; and every other day individualized by incidents in which she had taken some share.She suddenly thought one afternoon, when looking in the glass at her fairness, that there was yet another date, of greater importance to her than those; that of her own death, when all these charms would have disappeared; a day which lay sly and unseen among all the other days of the year, giving no sign or sound when she annually passed over it; but not the less surely there.When was it? Why did she not feel the chill of each yearly encounter with such a cold relation?
She had Jeremy Taylor's thought that some time in the future those who had known her would say: `It is the - th, the day that poor Tess Durbeyfield died'; and there would be nothing singular to their minds in the statement.
Of that day, doomed to be her terminus in time through all the ages, she did not know the place in month, week, season, or year.
Almost at a leap Tess thus changed from ****** girl to complex woman.
Symbols of reflectiveness passed into her face, and a note of tragedy at times into her voice.Her eyes grew larger and more eloquent.She became what would have been called a fine creature; her aspect was fair and arresting;her soul that of a woman whom the turbulent experiences of the last year or two had quite failed to demoralize.But for the world's opinion those experiences would have been simply a liberal education.
She had held so aloof of late that her trouble, never generally known, was nearly forgotten in Marlott.But it became evident to her that she could never be really comfortable again in a place which had seen the collapse of her family's attempt to claim kin' - and, through her, even closer union - with the rich d'Urbervilles.At least she could not be comfortable there till long years should have obliterated her keen consciousness of it.Yet even now Tess felt the pulse of hopeful life still warm within her; she might be happy in some nook which had no memories.To escape the past and all that appertained thereto was to annihilate it, and to do that she would have to get away.
Was once lost always lost really true of chastity? she would ask herself.
She might prove it false if she could veil bygones.The recuperative power which pervaded organic nature was surely not denied to maidenhood alone.
She waited a long time without finding opportunity for a new departure.
A particularly fine spring came round, and the stir of germination was almost audible in the buds; it moved her, as it moved the wild animals, and made her passionate to go.At last, one day in early May, a letter reached her from a former friend of her mother's, to whom she had addressed inquiries long before - a person whom she had never seen - that a skilful milkmaid was required at a dairy-house many miles to the southward, and that the dairyman would be glad to have her for the summer months.
It was not quite so far off as could have been wished; but it was probably far enough, her radius of movement and repute having been so small.To persons of limited spheres, miles are as geographical degrees, parishes as counties, counties as provinces and kingdoms.
