“Why should we put an end to all that’s sweet and lovely!” she deprecated.  “What must come will come.”  And, looking through the shutter-chink:  “All is trouble outside there; inside here content.”

He peeped out also.  It was quite true; within was affection, union, error forgiven:  outside was the inexorable.

“And—­and,” she said, pressing her cheek against his, “I fear that what you think of me now may not last.  I do not wish to outlive your present feeling for me.  I would rather not.  I would rather be dead and buried when the time comes for you to despise me, so that it may never be known to me that you despised me.”

“I cannot ever despise you.”

“I also hope that.  But considering what my life has been, I cannot see why any man should, sooner or later, be able to help despising me....  How wickedly mad I was!  Yet formerly I never could bear to hurt a fly or a worm, and the sight of a bird in a cage used often to make me cry.”

They remained yet another day.  In the night the dull sky cleared, and the result was that the old caretaker at the cottage awoke early.  The brilliant sunrise made her unusually brisk; she decided to open the contiguous mansion immediately, and to air it thoroughly on such a day.  Thus it occurred that, having arrived and opened the lower rooms before six o’clock, she ascended to the bedchambers, and was about to turn the handle of the one wherein they lay.  At that moment she fancied she could hear the breathing of persons within.  Her slippers and her antiquity had rendered her progress a noiseless one so far, and she made for instant retreat; then, deeming that her hearing might have deceived her, she turned anew to the door and softly tried the handle.  The lock was out of order, but a piece of furniture had been moved forward on the inside, which prevented her opening the door more than an inch or two.  A stream of morning light through the shutter-chink fell upon the faces of the pair, wrapped in profound slumber, Tess’s lips being parted like a half-opened flower near his cheek.  The caretaker was so struck with their innocent appearance, and with the elegance of Tess’s gown hanging across a chair, her silk stockings beside it, the pretty parasol, and the other habits in which she had arrived because she had none else, that her first indignation at the effrontery of tramps and vagabonds gave way to a momentary sentimentality over this genteel elopement, as it seemed.  She closed the door, and withdrew as softly as she had come, to go and consult with her neighbours on the odd discovery.

Not more than a minute had elapsed after her withdrawal when Tess woke, and then Clare.  Both had a sense that something had disturbed them, though they could not say what; and the uneasy feeling which it engendered grew stronger.  As soon as he was dressed he narrowly scanned the lawn through the two or three inches of shutter-chink.