did not rise he sat down with her in the firelight, the candles on
the supper-table being too thin and glimmering to interfere with its
glow.
'I am so sorry you should have heard this sad story about the girls,'
he said. 'Still, don't let it depress you. Retty was naturally
morbid, you know.'
'Without the least cause,' said Tess. 'While they who have cause to
be, hide it, and pretend they are not.'
This incident had turned the scale for her. They were simple and
innocent girls on whom the unhappiness of unrequited love had fallen;
they had deserved better at the hands of Fate. She had deserved
worse--yet she was the chosen one. It was wicked of her to take all
without paying. She would pay to the uttermost farthing; she would
tell, there and then. This final determination she came to when she
looked into the fire, he holding her hand.
A steady glare from the now flameless embers painted the sides
and back of the fireplace with its colour, and the well-polished
andirons, and the old brass tongs that would not meet. The underside
of the mantel-shelf was flushed with the high-coloured light, and
the legs of the table nearest the fire. Tess's face and neck
reflected the same warmth, which each gem turned into an Aldebaran
or a Sirius--a constellation of white, red, and green flashes, that
interchanged their hues with her every pulsation.
'Do you remember what we said to each other this morning about
telling our faults?' he asked abruptly, finding that she still
remained immovable. 'We spoke lightly perhaps, and you may well
have done so. But for me it was no light promise. I want to make
a confession to you, Love.'
This, from him, so unexpectedly apposite, had the effect upon her of
a Providential interposition.
'You have to confess something?' she said quickly, and even with
gladness and relief.
'You did not expect it? Ah--you thought too highly of me. Now
listen. Put your head there, because I want you to forgive me, and
not to be indignant with me for not telling you before, as perhaps
I ought to have done.'
How strange it was! He seemed to be her double. She did not speak,
and Clare went on--
'I did not mention it because I was afraid of endangering my chance
of you, darling, the great prize of my life--my Fellowship I call
you. My brother's Fellowship was won at his college, mine at
Talbothays Dairy. Well, I would not risk it. I was going to tell
you a month ago--at the time you agreed to be mine, but I could not;
I thought it might frighten you away from me. I put it off; then I
thought I would tell you yesterday, to give you a chance at least of
escaping me. But I did not. And I did not this morning, when you
proposed our confessing our faults on the landing--the sinner that I
was! But I must, now I see you sitting there so solemnly. I wonder
if you will forgive me?'
