“Tess!  Say it is not true!  No, it is not true!”

“It is true.”

“Every word?”

“Every word.”

He looked at her imploringly, as if he would willingly have taken a lie from her lips, knowing it to be one, and have made of it, by some sort of sophistry, a valid denial.  However, she only repeated—­

“It is true.”

“Is he living?” Angel then asked.

“The baby died.”

“But the man?”

“He is alive.”

A last despair passed over Clare’s face.

“Is he in England?”

“Yes.”

He took a few vague steps.

“My position—­is this,” he said abruptly.  “I thought—­any man would have thought—­that by giving up all ambition to win a wife with social standing, with fortune, with knowledge of the world, I should secure rustic innocence as surely as I should secure pink cheeks; but—­However, I am no man to reproach you, and I will not.”

Tess felt his position so entirely that the remainder had not been needed.  Therein lay just the distress of it; she saw that he had lost all round.

“Angel—­I should not have let it go on to marriage with you if I had not known that, after all, there was a last way out of it for you; though I hoped you would never—­”

Her voice grew husky.

“A last way?”

“I mean, to get rid of me.  You CAN get rid of me.”

“How?”

“By divorcing me.”

“Good heavens—­how can you be so simple!  How can I divorce you?”

“Can’t you—­now I have told you?  I thought my confession would give you grounds for that.”

“O Tess—­you are too, too—­childish—­unformed—­crude, I suppose!  I don’t know what you are.  You don’t understand the law—­you don’t understand!”

“What—­you cannot?”

“Indeed I cannot.”

A quick shame mixed with the misery upon his listener’s face.

“I thought—­I thought,” she whispered.  “O, now I see how wicked I seem to you!  Believe me—­believe me, on my soul, I never thought but that you could!  I hoped you would not; yet I believed, without a doubt, that you could cast me off if you were determined, and didn’t love me at—­at—­all!”

“You were mistaken,” he said.

“O, then I ought to have done it, to have done it last night!  But I hadn’t the courage.  That’s just like me!”

“The courage to do what?”

As she did not answer he took her by the hand.

“What were you thinking of doing?” he inquired.

“Of putting an end to myself.”

“When?”

She writhed under this inquisitorial manner of his.  “Last night,” she answered.

“Where?”

“Under your mistletoe.”

“My good—!  How?” he asked sternly.

“I’ll tell you, if you won’t be angry with me!” she said, shrinking. 
“It was with the cord of my box.  But I could not—­do the last thing! 
I was afraid that it might cause a scandal to your name.”