The lane was long and unvaried, and, owing to the rapid shortening of the days, dusk came upon her before she was aware.  She had reached the top of a hill down which the lane stretched its serpentine length in glimpses, when she heard footsteps behind her back, and in a few moments she was overtaken by a man.  He stepped up alongside Tess and said—­

“Good night, my pretty maid”:  to which she civilly replied.

The light still remaining in the sky lit up her face, though the landscape was nearly dark.  The man turned and stared hard at her.

“Why, surely, it is the young wench who was at Trantridge awhile—­ young Squire d’Urberville’s friend?  I was there at that time, though I don’t live there now.”

She recognized in him the well-to-do boor whom Angel had knocked down at the inn for addressing her coarsely.  A spasm of anguish shot through her, and she returned him no answer.

“Be honest enough to own it, and that what I said in the town was true, though your fancy-man was so up about it—­hey, my sly one?  You ought to beg my pardon for that blow of his, considering.”

Still no answer came from Tess.  There seemed only one escape for her hunted soul.  She suddenly took to her heels with the speed of the wind, and, without looking behind her, ran along the road till she came to a gate which opened directly into a plantation.  Into this she plunged, and did not pause till she was deep enough in its shade to be safe against any possibility of discovery.

Under foot the leaves were dry, and the foliage of some holly bushes which grew among the deciduous trees was dense enough to keep off draughts.  She scraped together the dead leaves till she had formed them into a large heap, making a sort of nest in the middle.  Into this Tess crept.

Such sleep as she got was naturally fitful; she fancied she heard strange noises, but persuaded herself that they were caused by the breeze.  She thought of her husband in some vague warm clime on the other side of the globe, while she was here in the cold.  Was there another such a wretched being as she in the world?  Tess asked herself; and, thinking of her wasted life, said, “All is vanity.”  She repeated the words mechanically, till she reflected that this was a most inadequate thought for modern days.  Solomon had thought as far as that more than two thousand years ago; she herself, though not in the van of thinkers, had got much further.  If all were only vanity, who would mind it?  All was, alas, worse than vanity—­injustice, punishment, exaction, death.  The wife of Angel Clare put her hand to her brow, and felt its curve, and the edges of her eye-sockets perceptible under the soft skin, and thought as she did so that a time would come when that bone would be bare.  “I wish it were now,” she said.