She felt the petite mort at this unexpectedly gruesome information, and left the solitary man behind her.  It was dusk when she drew near to Flintcomb-Ash, and in the lane at the entrance to the hamlet she approached a girl and her lover without their observing her.  They were talking no secrets, and the clear unconcerned voice of the young woman, in response to the warmer accents of the man, spread into the chilly air as the one soothing thing within the dusky horizon, full of a stagnant obscurity upon which nothing else intruded.  For a moment the voices cheered the heart of Tess, till she reasoned that this interview had its origin, on one side or the other, in the same attraction which had been the prelude to her own tribulation.  When she came close, the girl turned serenely and recognized her, the young man walking off in embarrassment.  The woman was Izz Huett, whose interest in Tess’s excursion immediately superseded her own proceedings.  Tess did not explain very clearly its results, and Izz, who was a girl of tact, began to speak of her own little affair, a phase of which Tess had just witnessed.

“He is Amby Seedling, the chap who used to sometimes come and help at Talbothays,” she explained indifferently.  “He actually inquired and found out that I had come here, and has followed me.  He says he’s been in love wi’ me these two years.  But I’ve hardly answered him.”

XLVI

Several days had passed since her futile journey, and Tess was afield.  The dry winter wind still blew, but a screen of thatched hurdles erected in the eye of the blast kept its force away from her.  On the sheltered side was a turnip-slicing machine, whose bright blue hue of new paint seemed almost vocal in the otherwise subdued scene.  Opposite its front was a long mound or “grave”, in which the roots had been preserved since early winter.  Tess was standing at the uncovered end, chopping off with a bill-hook the fibres and earth from each root, and throwing it after the operation into the slicer.  A man was turning the handle of the machine, and from its trough came the newly-cut swedes, the fresh smell of whose yellow chips was accompanied by the sounds of the snuffling wind, the smart swish of the slicing-blades, and the choppings of the hook in Tess’s leather-gloved hand.

The wide acreage of blank agricultural brownness, apparent where the swedes had been pulled, was beginning to be striped in wales of darker brown, gradually broadening to ribands.  Along the edge of each of these something crept upon ten legs, moving without haste and without rest up and down the whole length of the field; it was two horses and a man, the plough going between them, turning up the cleared ground for a spring sowing.