During the interval of the cottager's going and coming, she had said
to her husband-"I don't see how I can help being the cause of much misery to you all
your life. The river is down there. I can put an end to myself in
it. I am not afraid." "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.