“I don’t wish to add murder to my other follies,” he said.

“I will leave something to show that I did it myself—­on account of my shame.  They will not blame you then.”

“Don’t speak so absurdly—­I wish not to hear it.  It is nonsense to have such thoughts in this kind of case, which is rather one for satirical laughter than for tragedy.  You don’t in the least understand the quality of the mishap.  It would be viewed in the light of a joke by nine-tenths of the world if it were known.  Please oblige me by returning to the house, and going to bed.”

“I will,” said she dutifully.

They had rambled round by a road which led to the well-known ruins of the Cistercian abbey behind the mill, the latter having, in centuries past, been attached to the monastic establishment.  The mill still worked on, food being a perennial necessity; the abbey had perished, creeds being transient.  One continually sees the ministration of the temporary outlasting the ministration of the eternal.  Their walk having been circuitous, they were still not far from the house, and in obeying his direction she only had to reach the large stone bridge across the main river and follow the road for a few yards.  When she got back, everything remained as she had left it, the fire being still burning.  She did not stay downstairs for more than a minute, but proceeded to her chamber, whither the luggage had been taken.  Here she sat down on the edge of the bed, looking blankly around, and presently began to undress.  In removing the light towards the bedstead its rays fell upon the tester of white dimity; something was hanging beneath it, and she lifted the candle to see what it was.  A bough of mistletoe.  Angel had put it there; she knew that in an instant.  This was the explanation of that mysterious parcel which it had been so difficult to pack and bring; whose contents he would not explain to her, saying that time would soon show her the purpose thereof.  In his zest and his gaiety he had hung it there.  How foolish and inopportune that mistletoe looked now.

Having nothing more to fear, having scarce anything to hope, for that he would relent there seemed no promise whatever, she lay down dully.  When sorrow ceases to be speculative, sleep sees her opportunity.  Among so many happier moods which forbid repose this was a mood which welcomed it, and in a few minutes the lonely Tess forgot existence, surrounded by the aromatic stillness of the chamber that had once, possibly, been the bride-chamber of her own ancestry.

Later on that night Clare also retraced his steps to the house.  Entering softly to the sitting-room he obtained a light, and with the manner of one who had considered his course he spread his rugs upon the old horse-hair sofa which stood there, and roughly shaped it to a sleeping-couch.  Before lying down he crept shoeless upstairs, and listened at the door of her apartment.  Her measured breathing told that she was sleeping profoundly.