Except the hall, the rooms were all in darkness, and
they ascended the staircase. Up here also the
shutters were tightly closed, the ventilation being
perfunctorily done, for this day at least, by opening
the hall-window in front and an upper window behind.
Clare unlatched the door of a large chamber, felt his
way across it, and parted the shutters to the width
of two or three inches. A shaft of dazzling sunlight
glanced into the room, revealing heavy, old-fashioned
furniture, crimson damask hangings, and an enormous
four-post bedstead, along the head of which were carved
running figures, apparently Atalanta’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 windows: as a precaution,
putting themselves in total darkness by barring the
shutters as before, lest the woman should open the
door of their chamber for any casual reason.
Between six and seven o’clock she came, but
did not approach the wing they were in. They
heard her close the windows, 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 were enveloped in the shades
of night which they had no candle to disperse.
The night was strangely solemn and still. In
the small hours she whispered 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 the ruined abbey. He had never known
of that till now.
“Why didn’t you tell me 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 to-morrow
has in store?”
But it apparently had no sorrow. The morning
was wet and foggy, and Clare, rightly informed that
the caretaker only opened the windows on fine 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
place two miles beyond, as also a small tin kettle
and spirit-lamp, that they might get fire without
smoke. His re-entry awoke her; and they breakfasted
on what he had brought.
They were indisposed to stir abroad, and the day passed,
and the night following, and the next, and next; till,
almost without their being aware, five days had slipped
by in absolute seclusion, not a sight or sound of
a human 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 subsequent to their wedding-day.
The gloomy intervening time seemed to sink into chaos,
over which the present and prior times closed as if
it never had been. Whenever he suggested that
they should leave their shelter, and go forwards towards
Southampton or London, she showed a strange unwillingness
to move.
