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.
LVIII
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.
'Why should we put an end to all that's sweet and lovely!' she
deprecated. 'What must come will come.' And, looking through the
shutter-chink: 'All is trouble outside there; inside here content.'
He peeped out also. It was quite true; within was affection, 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 considering what my life has been, I cannot
