'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 from afar at isolated cottages and little
inns, and were inclined 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 down among the bushes within the gate, and Clare crept
towards the house. His absence lasted some considerable time, and
when he returned Tess was wildly anxious, not for herself, but for
him. He had found out from a boy that there was only an old woman in
charge 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 forward to the main front, whose
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 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
