Bab Bab 57 · Chapter LVII Chapter LVII

. Chapter LVII Chapter LVII

Meanwhile Angel Clare had walked automatically along the way by which

he had come, and, entering his hotel, sat down over the breakfast,

staring at nothingness. He went on eating and drinking unconsciously

till on a sudden he demanded his bill; having paid which, he took his

dressing-bag in his hand, the only luggage he had brought with him, and

went out.

At the moment of his departure a telegram was handed to him—a few words

from his mother, stating that they were glad to know his address, and

informing him that his brother Cuthbert had proposed to and been

accepted by Mercy Chant.

Clare crumpled up the paper and followed the route to the station;

reaching it, he found that there would be no train leaving for an hour

and more. He sat down to wait, and having waited a quarter of an hour

felt that he could wait there no longer. Broken in heart and numbed, he

had nothing to hurry for; but he wished to get out of a town which had

been the scene of such an experience, and turned to walk to the first

station onward, and let the train pick him up there.

The highway that he followed was open, and at a little distance dipped

into a valley, across which it could be seen running from edge to edge.

He had traversed the greater part of this depression, and was climbing

the western acclivity when, pausing for breath, he unconsciously looked

back. Why he did so he could not say, but something seemed to impel him

to the act. The tape-like surface of the road diminished in his rear as

far as he could see, and as he gazed a moving spot intruded on the

white vacuity of its perspective.

It was a human figure running. Clare waited, with a dim sense that

somebody was trying to overtake him.

The form descending the incline was a woman’s, yet so entirely was his

mind blinded to the idea of his wife’s following him that even when she

came nearer he did not recognize her under the totally changed attire

in which he now beheld her. It was not till she was quite close that he

could believe her to be Tess.

“I saw you—turn away from the station—just before I got there—and I

have been following you all this way!”

She was so pale, so breathless, so quivering in every muscle, that he

did not ask her a single question, but seizing her hand, and pulling it

within his arm, he led her along. To avoid meeting any possible

wayfarers he left the high road and took a footpath under some

fir-trees. When they were deep among the moaning boughs he stopped and

looked at her inquiringly.

“Angel,” she said, as if waiting for this, “do you know what I have

been running after you for? To tell you that I have killed him!” A

pitiful white smile lit her face as she spoke.

“What!” said he, thinking from the strangeness of her manner that she

was in some delirium.

“I have done it—I don’t know how,” she continued. “Still, I owed it to

you, and to myself, Angel. I feared long ago, when I struck him on the

mouth with my glove, that I might do it some day for the trap he set

for me in my simple youth, and his wrong to you through me. He has come

between us and ruined us, and now he can never do it any more. I never

loved him at all, Angel, as I loved you. You know it, don’t you? You

believe it? You didn’t come back to me, and I was obliged to go back to

him. Why did you go away—why did you—when I loved you so? I can’t think

why you did it. But I don’t blame you; only, Angel, will you forgive me

my sin against you, now I have killed him? I thought as I ran along

that you would be sure to forgive me now I have done that. It came to

me as a shining light that I should get you back that way. I could not

bear the loss of you any longer—you don’t know how entirely I was

unable to bear your not loving me! Say you do now, dear, dear husband;

say you do, now I have killed him!”

“I do love you, Tess—O, I do—it is all come back!” he said, tightening

his arms round her with fervid pressure. “But how do you mean—you have

killed him?”

“I mean that I have,” she murmured in a reverie.

“What, bodily? Is he dead?”

“Yes. He heard me crying about you, and he bitterly taunted me; and

called you by a foul name; and then I did it. My heart could not bear

it. He had nagged me about you before. And then I dressed myself and

came away to find you.”

By degrees he was inclined to believe that she had faintly attempted,

at least, what she said she had done; and his horror at her impulse was

mixed with amazement at the strength of her affection for himself, and

at the strangeness of its quality, which had apparently extinguished

her moral sense altogether. Unable to realize the gravity of her

conduct, she seemed at last content; and he looked at her as she lay

upon his shoulder, weeping with happiness, and wondered what obscure

strain in the d’Urberville blood had led to this aberration—if it were

an aberration. There momentarily flashed through his mind that the

family tradition of the coach and murder might have arisen because the

d’Urbervilles had been known to do these things. As well as his

confused and excited ideas could reason, he supposed that in the moment

of mad grief of which she spoke, her mind had lost its balance, and

plunged her into this abyss.

It was very terrible if true; if a temporary hallucination, sad. But,

anyhow, here was this deserted wife of his, this passionately-fond

woman, clinging to him without a suspicion that he would be anything to

her but a protector. He saw that for him to be otherwise was not, in

her mind, within the region of the possible. Tenderness was absolutely

dominant in Clare at last. He kissed her endlessly with his white lips,

and held her hand, and said—

“I will not desert you! I will protect you by every means in my power,

dearest love, whatever you may have done or not have done!”

They then walked on under the trees, Tess turning her head every now

and then to look at him. Worn and unhandsome as he had become, it was

plain that she did not discern the least fault in his appearance. To

her he was, as of old, all that was perfection, personally and

mentally. He was still her Antinous, her Apollo even; his sickly face

was beautiful as the morning to her affectionate regard on this day no

less than when she first beheld him; for was it not the face of the one

man on earth who had loved her purely, and who had believed in her as

pure!

With an instinct as to possibilities, he did not now, as he had

intended, make for the first station beyond the town, but plunged still

farther under the firs, which here abounded for miles. Each clasping

the other round the waist they promenaded over the dry bed of

fir-needles, thrown into a vague intoxicating atmosphere at the

consciousness of being together at last, with no living soul between

them; ignoring that there was a corpse. Thus they proceeded for several

miles till Tess, arousing herself, looked about her, and said, timidly—

“Are we going anywhere in particular?”

“I don’t know, dearest. Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, we might walk a few miles further, and when it is evening find

lodgings somewhere or other—in a lonely cottage, perhaps. Can you walk

well, Tessy?”

“O yes! I could walk for ever and ever with your arm round me!”

Upon the whole it seemed a good thing to do. Thereupon they quickened

their pace, avoiding high roads, and following obscure paths tending

more or less northward. But there was an unpractical vagueness in their

movements throughout the day; neither one of them seemed to consider

any question of effectual escape, disguise, or long concealment. Their

every idea was temporary and unforefending, like the plans of two

children.

At mid-day they drew near to a roadside inn, and Tess would have

entered it with him to get something to eat, but he persuaded her to

remain among the trees and bushes of this half-woodland, half-moorland

part of the country till he should come back. Her clothes were of

recent fashion; even the ivory-handled parasol that she carried was of

a shape unknown in the retired spot to which they had now wandered; and

the cut of such articles would have attracted attention in the settle

of a tavern. He soon returned, with food enough for half-a-dozen people

and two bottles of wine—enough to last them for a day or more, should

any emergency arise.

They sat down upon some dead boughs and shared their meal. Between one

and two o’clock they packed up the remainder and went on again.

“I feel strong enough to walk any distance,” said she.

“I think we may as well steer in a general way towards the interior of

the country, where we can hide for a time, and are less likely to be

looked for than anywhere near the coast,” Clare remarked. “Later on,

when they have forgotten us, we can make for some port.”

She made no reply to this beyond that of grasping him more tightly, and

straight inland they went. Though the season was an English May, the

weather was serenely bright, and during the afternoon it was quite

warm. 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 desirable Mansion to

be Let Furnished”; particulars following, with 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 accommodation.

“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 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.