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.
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