They parted tenderly that night on the landing, and Clare ascended to his attic.  Tess sat up getting on with some little requisites, lest the few remaining days should not afford sufficient time.  While she sat she heard a noise in Angel’s room overhead, a sound of thumping and struggling.  Everybody else in the house was asleep, and in her anxiety lest Clare should be ill she ran up and knocked at his door, and asked him what was the matter.

“Oh, nothing, dear,” he said from within.  “I am so sorry I disturbed you!  But the reason is rather an amusing one:  I fell asleep and dreamt that I was fighting that fellow again who insulted you, and the noise you heard was my pummelling away with my fists at my portmanteau, which I pulled out to-day for packing.  I am occasionally liable to these freaks in my sleep.  Go to bed and think of it no more.”

This was the last drachm required to turn the scale of her indecision.  Declare the past to him by word of mouth she could not; but there was another way.  She sat down and wrote on the four pages of a note-sheet a succinct narrative of those events of three or four years ago, put it into an envelope, and directed it to Clare.  Then, lest the flesh should again be weak, she crept upstairs without any shoes and slipped the note under his door.

Her night was a broken one, as it well might be, and she listened for the first faint noise overhead.  It came, as usual; he descended, as usual.  She descended.  He met her at the bottom of the stairs and kissed her.  Surely it was as warmly as ever!

He looked a little disturbed and worn, she thought.  But he said not a word to her about her revelation, even when they were alone.  Could he have had it?  Unless he began the subject she felt that she could say nothing.  So the day passed, and it was evident that whatever he thought he meant to keep to himself.  Yet he was frank and affectionate as before.  Could it be that her doubts were childish? that he forgave her; that he loved her for what she was, just as she was, and smiled at her disquiet as at a foolish nightmare?  Had he really received her note?  She glanced into his room, and could see nothing of it.  It might be that he forgave her.  But even if he had not received it she had a sudden enthusiastic trust that he surely would forgive her.

Every morning and night he was the same, and thus New Year’s Eve broke—­the wedding day.

The lovers did not rise at milking-time, having through the whole of this last week of their sojourn at the dairy been accorded something of the position of guests, Tess being honoured with a room of her own.  When they arrived downstairs at breakfast-time they were surprised to see what effects had been produced in the large kitchen for their glory since they had last beheld it.  At some unnatural hour of the morning the dairyman had caused the yawning chimney-corner to be whitened, and the brick hearth reddened, and a blazing yellow damask blower to be hung across the arch in place of the old grimy blue cotton one with a black sprig pattern which had formerly done duty there.  This renovated aspect of what was the focus indeed of the room on a full winter morning threw a smiling demeanour over the whole apartment.