She made no reply to th is beyond that of grasp ing him more tightly, and straight inland they went.Though the season was an English M ay the weather was serenely bright, and during the afternoon it w as quite war m.Through the latter miles of their walk their footpath had taken them into the depths of the New Forest, and towards evening, turning the corner of a lane, they perceived behind a brook and bridge a large board on which was painted in white letters, “This desir able Mans ion to be Let Furnished; ”particulars f ollowing, w ith directions to apply to some London agents.Passing through the gate they could see the house, an old brick building of regular design and large accommoda-tion.
“I know it, ”said Clare.“It is Bramshurst Court.You can see that it is shut up, and grass is growing on the drive.”
“Some of the windows are open, ”said Tess.
“Just to air the rooms, I suppose.”
“All these rooms empty, and we without a roof to our heads！”
“You are getting tired, my Tess！”he said.“We'll stop soon.”And kissing her sad mouth he again led her onwards.
He was growing weary likewise, for they had wandered a dozen or fifteen miles, and it became necessary to consider what they should do for rest.They looked fro m afar at iso lated co ttages and little inns, and were inclin ed to approach one of the latter, when their hearts failed them, and they sheered off.At length their gait dragged, and they stood still.
“Could we sleep under the trees?”she asked.
He thought the season insufficiently advanced.
“I have been thinking of that empty mansion we passed, ”he said.“Let us go back towards it again.”
They retraced their steps, but it was half an hour before they stood without the entrance-gate as earlier.He then requested her to stay where she was, whilst he went to see who was within.
She sat dow n among the bushes with in the gate, and Clare cr ept towards the house.His absence lasted so me considerable time, and when he return ed Tess was wildly anxious, not for herself, but fo r him.He had found out from aboy that there was only an old wo man in ch arge as caretaker, and she only came there on fine days, from the hamlet near, to open and shut the windows.She would come to shut them at sunset.“Now, we can get in through one of the lower windows, and rest there, ”said he.
Under his escort she went tardily f orward to the main fro nt, whos e shuttered windows, like sightless eyeballs, excluded the possibility of watchers.The door was reached a few steps further, and one of the windows beside it was open.Clare clambered in, and pulled Tess in after him.
Except th e hall the ro oms wer e all in darkn ess, and th ey ascended the staircase.Up here a lso the shutters we re tightly closed, th e ventilation being perfunctorily done, for this day at least, by opening the hallwindow in front and an upper window behind.Clare unlatched the door of a lar ge chamber, felt his way across it, and parted the shu tters to the width of two or three inches.A shaft of dazzling sunlight glanced into the room, revealing heavy, old-fashioned furniture, crimson d amask hangings, and an en ormous four-post beds tead, along the h ead of which were carv ed running f igures, appar ently Atalan ta's race.
“Rest at last?said he, setting down his bag and the parcel of viands.
They remained in great quietness till the caretaker should have come to shut the w indows：as a precaution, putting th emselves in to tal darkn ess by barring the s hutters as before, lest th e woman sho uld open the door of their chamber for any casual r eason.Between six and seven o'clock she came, but did not ap proach th e wing they were in.Th ey heard her clo se the wind ows, fasten them, lock the door, and go away.Then Clare again stole a chink of light from the window, and they shared another meal, till by-and-by they wer e enveloped in the shades of night which they had no candle to disperse.
58
The night was strangely solemn and still.I n th e s mall hours sh ewhispered to him the whole story of how he had walked in his sleep with her in his arms across the Froom stream, at the imminent risk of both their lives, and laid her down in the stone coffin at th e ruined abbey.He had n ever known of that till now.
“Why didn't you tell me to next day?”he said.“It might have prevented much misunderstanding and woe.”
“Don't think of what's past！”said she.“I am not going to think outside of now.Why should we！Who knows what tomorrow has in store?”
But it apparently had n o sorrow.T he morning was wet andfoggy, and Clare, righ tly infor med that the caretaker on ly opened the w indows on f ine days, ventured to creep out of their chamber, and explore the house, leaving Tess asleep.There was no food on the premises, but there was water, and he took advantage of the fog to emerge from the mansion, and fetch tea, bread, and butter from a shop in a little pla ce two miles beyond, as also a s mall tin kettle and s pirit-lamp, that they might g et fir e without s moke.His re-entry awoke her; and they breakfasted on what he had brought.
They were indisposed to stir ab road, and th e day passed, and the n ight following, and th e next, and next; till, al most without their being aware, five days had slipped by in absolute seclusion, not a sight or so und of a hu man being disturbing their peacefulness, such as it was.The changes of the weather were their only events, the birds of the New Forest their only company.By tacit consent they hardly once spoke of any incident of the past sub sequent to their wedding-day.The gloo my intervenin g tim e seemed to sink into chaos, o ver which the present and prior times closed as if it never had been.Whenever he suggested that th ey should leave their sh elter, and go f orwards to wards Southampton or London, she showed a strange unwillingness to move.
“Why should we put an end to all that's sweet and lovely！”she deprecated.“What must come will co me.”And, looking through the shutter-chink：“All is trouble outside there; inside here content.”
He peeped o ut also.I t was quite true; within was af fection, union, error forgiven：outside was the inexorable.
“And—and, ”she said, pressing her cheek against his; “I fear that what you think of me now may not last.I do not wish to outlive your present feeling for me.I would rather not.I would rather be dead and buried when the time comes for you to despise me, so that it may never be known to me that you despised me.”
“I cannot ever despise you.”
“I also hope that.But co nsidering what my life has been I cannot see whyany man should, sooner or later, be able to help d espising me How……wickedly mad I was！Yet formerly I never could bear to h urt a f ly or a wor m, and the sight of a bird in a cage used often to make me cry.”
They remained yet another day.In th e night the dull sky cleared, and the result was that the old caretaker at the cottage awoke early.The brilliant sunrise made her u nusually brisk; she decided to op en the con tiguous mans ion immediately, and to air it thoroughly on such a day.Thus it occurred that, having arrived and opened the lower rooms before six o'clock, she ascended to the bedchambers, and was about to turn the handle of the one wherein they lay.At that moment she fancied she could hear the breathing of persons within.Her slippers and her antiquity had rendered her progress a noiseless one so far, and she made fo r i nstant re treat; th en, d eeming th at he r he aring might have deceived her, she turned anew to the door and softly tried the handle.The lock was out of order, but a piece of furniture had been moved forward on the inside, which prevented her opening the doo r more than an inch or two.A stream of morning light through the shutter-chink fell upon the faces of the pair, wrapped in profound slumber, Tess's lips being parted like a half-opened flower near his cheek.The caretaker was so struck with their innocent appearance, and with the elegance of Tess's gown hanging across a chair, her silk stockings beside it, the pretty parasol, and the other habits in which she had arrived because she had none else, that her f irst indignation at the effrontery of tram ps and vagabo nds gave way to a momentary sentim entality over th is genteel elopem ent, as it seemed.She closed the door, and withdrew as softly as she had come, to go and consult with her neighbours on the odd discovery.
Not more than a minute had elapsed after her withdrawal when Tess woke, and then Clare.Both had a sense that something had disturbed them, though they could not say wha t; and the u neasy feelin g which it engendered g rew stronger.As soon as he was dressed h e narrowly scanned the lawn through the two or three inches of shutterchink.
“I think we will leave at once, ”said he.“It is a fine day.And I cannot help fancying somebody is about the hou se.At any rate, the woman will be sur e to come today.”
She passively assented, and putting the room in order they took up the fewarticles that belonged to them, and departed noiselessly.When they had got into the Forest she turned to take a last look at the house.
“Ah, happy house—good-bye！”she said, “My life can only be a qu estion of a few weeks.Why should we not have stayed there?”
“Don't say it, Tess！We shall soon g et out of this district altogether.We'll continue our course as we've begun it, and keep straigh t north.Nobody will think of looking for us there.We shall be looked for at the Wessex ports if we are sought at all.When we are in the north we will get to a port and away.”
Having thus persuaded her the plan w as pursued, and they kept a bee lin e northward.Their long repose at the manor-house lent them walking power now; and towards mid-day they found that they were approaching the steepled city of Melchester, which lay directly in their way.He decided to rest her in a clump of trees during the afternoo n, and push onward under cover of darkness.At dusk Clare purch ased food as usual, and their nigh t march began, th e bo undary between Upper and Mid-Wessex being crossed about eight o'clock.
To walk across country without much regard to roads was not new to Tess, and she sho wed her old agility in the perfo rmance.The in tercepting c ity, ancient Melchester, th ey were obliged to pass through in order to tak e advantage of the town bridge for crossing a large river that obstructed them.It was about midnight when they went along th e deserted str eets, lighted fitfully by the few lam ps, keeping off the pavem ent th at it migh t not echo th eir footsteps.T he graceful pile of ca thedral arch itecture rose dimly on their left hand, bu t it was los t u pon th em n ow.Once o ut of town they followed th e turnpike-road, which after a few miles plunged across an open plain.
Though the sky was dense with cloud a diffused light from some fragment of a moon had hitherto helped them a little.But the moon had now sunk, the clouds seemed to settle alm ost on their heads, and the nigh t grew as dark as a cave.However, th ey fo und their way along, keeping as much on the tur f as possible that their tread might not resound, which it was easy to do, there being no hedge or fence of any kind.All around was open loneliness and b lack solitude, over which a stiff breeze blew.
They had proceeded thus gropingly two or three miles further when on a sudden Clare became con scious of some vast erection close in his front, risingsheer from the grass.They had almost struck themselves against it.
“What monstrous place is this?”said Angel.
“It hums, ”said she.“Hearken！”