الفصل الفصل 37 · Chapter XXXVII The Neighbour Again

. Chapter XXXVII The Neighbour Again

Midnight came and passed silently, for there was nothing to announce it

in the Valley of the Froom.

Not long after one o’clock there was a slight creak in the darkened

farmhouse once the mansion of the d’Urbervilles. Tess, who used the

upper chamber, heard it and awoke. It had come from the corner step of

the staircase, which, as usual, was loosely nailed. She saw the door of

her bedroom open, and the figure of her husband crossed the stream of

moonlight with a curiously careful tread. He was in his shirt and

trousers only, and her first flush of joy died when she perceived that

his eyes were fixed in an unnatural stare on vacancy. When he reached

the middle of the room he stood still and murmured in tones of

indescribable sadness—

“Dead! dead! dead!”

Under the influence of any strongly-disturbing force, Clare would

occasionally walk in his sleep, and even perform strange feats, such as

he had done on the night of their return from market just before their

marriage, when he re-enacted in his bedroom his combat with the man who

had insulted her. Tess saw that continued mental distress had wrought

him into that somnambulistic state now.

Her loyal confidence in him lay so deep down in her heart, that, awake

or asleep, he inspired her with no sort of personal fear. If he had

entered with a pistol in his hand he would scarcely have disturbed her

trust in his protectiveness.

Clare came close, and bent over her. “Dead, dead, dead!” he murmured.

After fixedly regarding her for some moments with the same gaze of

unmeasurable woe, he bent lower, enclosed her in his arms, and rolled

her in the sheet as in a shroud. Then lifting her from the bed with as

much respect as one would show to a dead body, he carried her across

the room, murmuring—

“My poor, poor Tess—my dearest, darling Tess! So sweet, so good, so

true!”

The words of endearment, withheld so severely in his waking hours, were

inexpressibly sweet to her forlorn and hungry heart. If it had been to

save her weary life she would not, by moving or struggling, have put an

end to the position she found herself in. Thus she lay in absolute

stillness, scarcely venturing to breathe, and, wondering what he was

going to do with her, suffered herself to be borne out upon the

landing.

“My wife—dead, dead!” he said.

He paused in his labours for a moment to lean with her against the

banister. Was he going to throw her down? Self-solicitude was near

extinction in her, and in the knowledge that he had planned to depart

on the morrow, possibly for always, she lay in his arms in this

precarious position with a sense rather of luxury than of terror. If

they could only fall together, and both be dashed to pieces, how fit,

how desirable.

However, he did not let her fall, but took advantage of the support of

the handrail to imprint a kiss upon her lips—lips in the day-time

scorned. Then he clasped her with a renewed firmness of hold, and

descended the staircase. The creak of the loose stair did not awaken

him, and they reached the ground-floor safely. Freeing one of his hands

from his grasp of her for a moment, he slid back the door-bar and

passed out, slightly striking his stockinged toe against the edge of

the door. But this he seemed not to mind, and, having room for

extension in the open air, he lifted her against his shoulder, so that

he could carry her with ease, the absence of clothes taking much from

his burden. Thus he bore her off the premises in the direction of the

river a few yards distant.

His ultimate intention, if he had any, she had not yet divined; and she

found herself conjecturing on the matter as a third person might have

done. So easefully had she delivered her whole being up to him that it

pleased her to think he was regarding her as his absolute possession,

to dispose of as he should choose. It was consoling, under the hovering

terror of to-morrow’s separation, to feel that he really recognized her

now as his wife Tess, and did not cast her off, even if in that

recognition he went so far as to arrogate to himself the right of

harming her.

Ah! now she knew what he was dreaming of—that Sunday morning when he

had borne her along through the water with the other dairymaids, who

had loved him nearly as much as she, if that were possible, which Tess

could hardly admit. Clare did not cross the bridge with her, but

proceeding several paces on the same side towards the adjoining mill,

at length stood still on the brink of the river.

Its waters, in creeping down these miles of meadowland, frequently

divided, serpentining in purposeless curves, looping themselves around

little islands that had no name, returning and re-embodying themselves

as a broad main stream further on. Opposite the spot to which he had

brought her was such a general confluence, and the river was

proportionately voluminous and deep. Across it was a narrow

foot-bridge; but now the autumn flood had washed the handrail away,

leaving the bare plank only, which, lying a few inches above the

speeding current, formed a giddy pathway for even steady heads; and

Tess had noticed from the window of the house in the day-time young men

walking across upon it as a feat in balancing. Her husband had possibly

observed the same performance; anyhow, he now mounted the plank, and,

sliding one foot forward, advanced along it.

Was he going to drown her? Probably he was. The spot was lonely, the

river deep and wide enough to make such a purpose easy of

accomplishment. He might drown her if he would; it would be better than

parting to-morrow to lead severed lives.

The swift stream raced and gyrated under them, tossing, distorting, and

splitting the moon’s reflected face. Spots of froth travelled past, and

intercepted weeds waved behind the piles. If they could both fall

together into the current now, their arms would be so tightly clasped

together that they could not be saved; they would go out of the world

almost painlessly, and there would be no more reproach to her, or to

him for marrying her. His last half-hour with her would have been a

loving one, while if they lived till he awoke, his day-time aversion

would return, and this hour would remain to be contemplated only as a

transient dream.

The impulse stirred in her, yet she dared not indulge it, to make a

movement that would have precipitated them both into the gulf. How she

valued her own life had been proved; but his—she had no right to tamper

with it. He reached the other side with her in safety.

Here they were within a plantation which formed the Abbey grounds, and

taking a new hold of her he went onward a few steps till they reached

the ruined choir of the Abbey-church. Against the north wall was the

empty stone coffin of an abbot, in which every tourist with a turn for

grim humour was accustomed to stretch himself. In this Clare carefully

laid Tess. Having kissed her lips a second time he breathed deeply, as

if a greatly desired end were attained. Clare then lay down on the

ground alongside, when he immediately fell into the deep dead slumber

of exhaustion, and remained motionless as a log. The spurt of mental

excitement which had produced the effort was now over.

Tess sat up in the coffin. The night, though dry and mild for the

season, was more than sufficiently cold to make it dangerous for him to

remain here long, in his half-clothed state. If he were left to himself

he would in all probability stay there till the morning, and be chilled

to certain death. She had heard of such deaths after sleep-walking. But

how could she dare to awaken him, and let him know what he had been

doing, when it would mortify him to discover his folly in respect of

her? Tess, however, stepping out of her stone confine, shook him

slightly, but was unable to arouse him without being violent. It was

indispensable to do something, for she was beginning to shiver, the

sheet being but a poor protection. Her excitement had in a measure kept

her warm during the few minutes’ adventure; but that beatific interval

was over.

It suddenly occurred to her to try persuasion; and accordingly she

whispered in his ear, with as much firmness and decision as she could

summon—

“Let us walk on, darling,” at the same time taking him suggestively by

the arm. To her relief, he unresistingly acquiesced; her words had

apparently thrown him back into his dream, which thenceforward seemed

to enter on a new phase, wherein he fancied she had risen as a spirit,

and was leading him to Heaven. Thus she conducted him by the arm to the

stone bridge in front of their residence, crossing which they stood at

the manor-house door. Tess’s feet were quite bare, and the stones hurt

her, and chilled her to the bone; but Clare was in his woollen

stockings and appeared to feel no discomfort.

There was no further difficulty. She induced him to lie down on his own

sofa bed, and covered him up warmly, lighting a temporary fire of wood,

to dry any dampness out of him. The noise of these attentions she

thought might awaken him, and secretly wished that they might. But the

exhaustion of his mind and body was such that he remained undisturbed.

As soon as they met the next morning Tess divined that Angel knew

little or nothing of how far she had been concerned in the night’s

excursion, though, as regarded himself, he may have been aware that he

had not lain still. In truth, he had awakened that morning from a sleep

deep as annihilation; and during those first few moments in which the

brain, like a Samson shaking himself, is trying its strength, he had

some dim notion of an unusual nocturnal proceeding. But the realities

of his situation soon displaced conjecture on the other subject.

He waited in expectancy to discern some mental pointing; he knew that

if any intention of his, concluded over-night, did not vanish in the

light of morning, it stood on a basis approximating to one of pure

reason, even if initiated by impulse of feeling; that it was so far,

therefore, to be trusted. He thus beheld in the pale morning light the

resolve to separate from her; not as a hot and indignant instinct, but

denuded of the passionateness which had made it scorch and burn;

standing in its bones; nothing but a skeleton, but none the less there.

Clare no longer hesitated.

At breakfast, and while they were packing the few remaining articles,

he showed his weariness from the night’s effort so unmistakeably that

Tess was on the point of revealing all that had happened; but the

reflection that it would anger him, grieve him, stultify him, to know

that he had instinctively manifested a fondness for her of which his

common-sense did not approve, that his inclination had compromised his

dignity when reason slept, again deterred her. It was too much like

laughing at a man when sober for his erratic deeds during intoxication.

It just crossed her mind, too, that he might have a faint recollection

of his tender vagary, and was disinclined to allude to it from a

conviction that she would take amatory advantage of the opportunity it

gave her of appealing to him anew not to go.

He had ordered by letter a vehicle from the nearest town, and soon

after breakfast it arrived. She saw in it the beginning of the end—the

temporary end, at least, for the revelation of his tenderness by the

incident of the night raised dreams of a possible future with him. The

luggage was put on the top, and the man drove them off, the miller and

the old waiting-woman expressing some surprise at their precipitate

departure, which Clare attributed to his discovery that the mill-work

was not of the modern kind which he wished to investigate, a statement

that was true so far as it went. Beyond this there was nothing in the

manner of their leaving to suggest a _fiasco_, or that they were not

going together to visit friends.

Their route lay near the dairy from which they had started with such

solemn joy in each other a few days back, and as Clare wished to wind

up his business with Mr Crick, Tess could hardly avoid paying Mrs Crick

a call at the same time, unless she would excite suspicion of their

unhappy state.

To make the call as unobtrusive as possible, they left the carriage by

the wicket leading down from the high road to the dairy-house, and

descended the track on foot, side by side. The withy-bed had been cut,

and they could see over the stumps the spot to which Clare had followed

her when he pressed her to be his wife; to the left the enclosure in

which she had been fascinated by his harp; and far away behind the

cow-stalls the mead which had been the scene of their first embrace.

The gold of the summer picture was now gray, the colours mean, the rich

soil mud, and the river cold.

Over the barton-gate the dairyman saw them, and came forward, throwing

into his face the kind of jocularity deemed appropriate in Talbothays

and its vicinity on the re-appearance of the newly-married. Then Mrs

Crick emerged from the house, and several others of their old

acquaintance, though Marian and Retty did not seem to be there.

Tess valiantly bore their sly attacks and friendly humours, which

affected her far otherwise than they supposed. In the tacit agreement

of husband and wife to keep their estrangement a secret they behaved as

would have been ordinary. And then, although she would rather there had

been no word spoken on the subject, Tess had to hear in detail the

story of Marian and Retty. The later had gone home to her father’s, and

Marian had left to look for employment elsewhere. They feared she would

come to no good.

To dissipate the sadness of this recital Tess went and bade all her

favourite cows goodbye, touching each of them with her hand, and as she

and Clare stood side by side at leaving, as if united body and soul,

there would have been something peculiarly sorry in their aspect to one

who should have seen it truly; two limbs of one life, as they outwardly

were, his arm touching hers, her skirts touching him, facing one way,

as against all the dairy facing the other, speaking in their adieux as

“we”, and yet sundered like the poles. Perhaps something unusually

stiff and embarrassed in their attitude, some awkwardness in acting up

to their profession of unity, different from the natural shyness of

young couples, may have been apparent, for when they were gone Mrs

Crick said to her husband—

“How onnatural the brightness of her eyes did seem, and how they stood

like waxen images and talked as if they were in a dream! Didn’t it

strike ’ee that ’twas so? Tess had always sommat strange in her, and

she’s not now quite like the proud young bride of a well-be-doing man.”

They re-entered the vehicle, and were driven along the roads towards

Weatherbury and Stagfoot Lane, till they reached the Lane inn, where

Clare dismissed the fly and man. They rested here a while, and entering

the Vale were next driven onward towards her home by a stranger who did

not know their relations. At a midway point, when Nuttlebury had been

passed, and where there were cross-roads, Clare stopped the conveyance

and said to Tess that if she meant to return to her mother’s house it

was here that he would leave her. As they could not talk with freedom

in the driver’s presence he asked her to accompany him for a few steps

on foot along one of the branch roads; she assented, and directing the

man to wait a few minutes they strolled away.

“Now, let us understand each other,” he said gently. “There is no anger

between us, though there is that which I cannot endure at present. I

will try to bring myself to endure it. I will let you know where I go

to as soon as I know myself. And if I can bring myself to bear it—if it

is desirable, possible—I will come to you. But until I come to you it

will be better that you should not try to come to me.”

The severity of the decree seemed deadly to Tess; she saw his view of

her clearly enough; he could regard her in no other light than that of

one who had practised gross deceit upon him. Yet could a woman who had

done even what she had done deserve all this? But she could contest the

point with him no further. She simply repeated after him his own words.

“Until you come to me I must not try to come to you?”

“Just so.”

“May I write to you?”

“O yes—if you are ill, or want anything at all. I hope that will not be

the case; so that it may happen that I write first to you.”

“I agree to the conditions, Angel; because you know best what my

punishment ought to be; only—only—don’t make it more than I can bear!”

That was all she said on the matter. If Tess had been artful, had she

made a scene, fainted, wept hysterically, in that lonely lane,

notwithstanding the fury of fastidiousness with which he was possessed,

he would probably not have withstood her. But her mood of

long-suffering made his way easy for him, and she herself was his best

advocate. Pride, too, entered into her submission—which perhaps was a

symptom of that reckless acquiescence in chance too apparent in the

whole d’Urberville family—and the many effective chords which she could

have stirred by an appeal were left untouched.

The remainder of their discourse was on practical matters only. He now

handed her a packet containing a fairly good sum of money, which he had

obtained from his bankers for the purpose. The brilliants, the interest

in which seemed to be Tess’s for her life only (if he understood the

wording of the will), he advised her to let him send to a bank for

safety; and to this she readily agreed.

These things arranged, he walked with Tess back to the carriage, and

handed her in. The coachman was paid and told where to drive her.

Taking next his own bag and umbrella—the sole articles he had brought

with him hitherwards—he bade her goodbye; and they parted there and

then.

The fly moved creepingly up a hill, and Clare watched it go with an

unpremeditated hope that Tess would look out of the window for one

moment. But that she never thought of doing, would not have ventured to

do, lying in a half-dead faint inside. Thus he beheld her recede, and

in the anguish of his heart quoted a line from a poet, with peculiar

emendations of his own—

God’s _not_ in his heaven: All’s _wrong_ with the world!

When Tess had passed over the crest of the hill he turned to go his own

way, and hardly knew that he loved her still.