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diff --git a/107-0.txt b/107-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d649795 --- /dev/null +++ b/107-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,16611 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 107 *** + +There are two editions of this ebook in the Project Gutenberg +collection. Various characteristics of each ebook are listed to aid in +selecting the preferred file. + +Click on any of the filenumbers below to quickly view each ebook. + +27 1874, First Edition; illustrated. + +107 1895, Second Edition, extensively revised by Thomas Hardy. + +[Illustration] + + + + +Far from the Madding Crowd + +by Thomas Hardy + + +Contents + + PREFACE + Chapter I. Description of Farmer Oak—An Incident + Chapter II. Night—The Flock—An Interior—Another Interior + Chapter III. A Girl on Horseback—Conversation + Chapter IV. Gabriel’s Resolve—The Visit—The Mistake + Chapter V. Departure of Bathsheba—A Pastoral Tragedy + Chapter VI. The Fair—The Journey—The Fire + Chapter VII. Recognition—A Timid Girl + Chapter VIII. The Malthouse—The Chat—News + Chapter IX. The Homestead—A Visitor—Half-Confidences + Chapter X. Mistress and Men + Chapter XI. Outside the Barracks—Snow—A Meeting + Chapter XII. Farmers—A Rule—An Exception + Chapter XIII. Sortes Sanctorum—The Valentine + Chapter XIV. Effect of the Letter—Sunrise + Chapter XV. A Morning Meeting—The Letter Again + Chapter XVI. All Saints’ and All Souls’ + Chapter XVII. In the Market-Place + Chapter XVIII. Boldwood in Meditation—Regret + Chapter XIX. The Sheep-Washing—The Offer + Chapter XX. Perplexity—Grinding the Shears—A Quarrel + Chapter XXI. Troubles in the Fold—A Message + Chapter XXII. The Great Barn and the Sheep-Shearers + Chapter XXIII. Eventide—A Second Declaration + Chapter XXIV. The Same Night—The Fir Plantation + Chapter XXV. The New Acquaintance Described + Chapter XXVI. Scene on the Verge of the Hay-Mead + Chapter XXVII. Hiving the Bees + Chapter XXVIII. The Hollow Amid the Ferns + Chapter XXIX. Particulars of a Twilight Walk + Chapter XXX. Hot Cheeks and Tearful Eyes + Chapter XXXI. Blame—Fury + Chapter XXXII. Night—Horses Tramping + Chapter XXXIII. In the Sun—A Harbinger + Chapter XXXIV. Home Again—A Trickster + Chapter XXXV. At an Upper Window + Chapter XXXVI. Wealth in Jeopardy—The Revel + Chapter XXXVII. The Storm—The Two Together + Chapter XXXVIII. Rain—One Solitary Meets Another + Chapter XXXIX. Coming Home—A Cry + Chapter XL. On Casterbridge Highway + Chapter XLI. Suspicion—Fanny Is Sent For + Chapter XLII. Joseph and His Burden—Buck’s Head + Chapter XLIII. Fanny’s Revenge + Chapter XLIV. Under a Tree—Reaction + Chapter XLV. Troy’s Romanticism + Chapter XLVI. The Gurgoyle: Its Doings + Chapter XLVII. Adventures by the Shore + Chapter XLVIII. Doubts Arise—Doubts Linger + Chapter XLIX. Oak’s Advancement—A Great Hope + Chapter L. The Sheep Fair—Troy Touches His Wife’s Hand + Chapter LI. Bathsheba Talks with Her Outrider + Chapter LII. Converging Courses + Chapter LIII. Concurritur—Horæ Momento + Chapter LIV. After the Shock + Chapter LV. The March Following—“Bathsheba Boldwood” + Chapter LVI. Beauty in Loneliness—After All + Chapter LVII. A Foggy Night and Morning—Conclusion + + Notes + + + + +PREFACE + + +In reprinting this story for a new edition I am reminded that it was in +the chapters of “Far from the Madding Crowd,” as they appeared month by +month in a popular magazine, that I first ventured to adopt the word +“Wessex” from the pages of early English history, and give it a +fictitious significance as the existing name of the district once +included in that extinct kingdom. The series of novels I projected +being mainly of the kind called local, they seemed to require a +territorial definition of some sort to lend unity to their scene. +Finding that the area of a single county did not afford a canvas large +enough for this purpose, and that there were objections to an invented +name, I disinterred the old one. The press and the public were kind +enough to welcome the fanciful plan, and willingly joined me in the +anachronism of imagining a Wessex population living under Queen +Victoria;—a modern Wessex of railways, the penny post, mowing and +reaping machines, union workhouses, lucifer matches, labourers who +could read and write, and National school children. But I believe I am +correct in stating that, until the existence of this contemporaneous +Wessex was announced in the present story, in 1874, it had never been +heard of, and that the expression, “a Wessex peasant,” or “a Wessex +custom,” would theretofore have been taken to refer to nothing later in +date than the Norman Conquest. + +I did not anticipate that this application of the word to a modern use +would extend outside the chapters of my own chronicles. But the name +was soon taken up elsewhere as a local designation. The first to do so +was the now defunct _Examiner_, which, in the impression bearing date +July 15, 1876, entitled one of its articles “The Wessex Labourer,” the +article turning out to be no dissertation on farming during the +Heptarchy, but on the modern peasant of the south-west counties, and +his presentation in these stories. + +Since then the appellation which I had thought to reserve to the +horizons and landscapes of a merely realistic dream-country, has become +more and more popular as a practical definition; and the dream-country +has, by degrees, solidified into a utilitarian region which people can +go to, take a house in, and write to the papers from. But I ask all +good and gentle readers to be so kind as to forget this, and to refuse +steadfastly to believe that there are any inhabitants of a Victorian +Wessex outside the pages of this and the companion volumes in which +they were first discovered. + +Moreover, the village called Weatherbury, wherein the scenes of the +present story of the series are for the most part laid, would perhaps +be hardly discernible by the explorer, without help, in any existing +place nowadays; though at the time, comparatively recent, at which the +tale was written, a sufficient reality to meet the descriptions, both +of backgrounds and personages, might have been traced easily enough. +The church remains, by great good fortune, unrestored and intact, and a +few of the old houses; but the ancient malt-house, which was formerly +so characteristic of the parish, has been pulled down these twenty +years; also most of the thatched and dormered cottages that were once +lifeholds. The game of prisoner’s base, which not so long ago seemed to +enjoy a perennial vitality in front of the worn-out stocks, may, so far +as I can say, be entirely unknown to the rising generation of +schoolboys there. The practice of divination by Bible and key, the +regarding of valentines as things of serious import, the +shearing-supper, and the harvest-home, have, too, nearly disappeared in +the wake of the old houses; and with them have gone, it is said, much +of that love of fuddling to which the village at one time was +notoriously prone. The change at the root of this has been the recent +supplanting of the class of stationary cottagers, who carried on the +local traditions and humours, by a population of more or less migratory +labourers, which has led to a break of continuity in local history, +more fatal than any other thing to the preservation of legend, +folk-lore, close inter-social relations, and eccentric individualities. +For these the indispensable conditions of existence are attachment to +the soil of one particular spot by generation after generation. + +T. H. + +February 1895 + + + + +CHAPTER I +Description of Farmer Oak—An Incident + + +When Farmer Oak smiled, the corners of his mouth spread till they were +within an unimportant distance of his ears, his eyes were reduced to +chinks, and diverging wrinkles appeared round them, extending upon his +countenance like the rays in a rudimentary sketch of the rising sun. + +His Christian name was Gabriel, and on working days he was a young man +of sound judgment, easy motions, proper dress, and general good +character. On Sundays he was a man of misty views, rather given to +postponing, and hampered by his best clothes and umbrella: upon the +whole, one who felt himself to occupy morally that vast middle space of +Laodicean neutrality which lay between the Communion people of the +parish and the drunken section,—that is, he went to church, but yawned +privately by the time the congregation reached the Nicene creed, and +thought of what there would be for dinner when he meant to be listening +to the sermon. Or, to state his character as it stood in the scale of +public opinion, when his friends and critics were in tantrums, he was +considered rather a bad man; when they were pleased, he was rather a +good man; when they were neither, he was a man whose moral colour was a +kind of pepper-and-salt mixture. + +Since he lived six times as many working-days as Sundays, Oak’s +appearance in his old clothes was most peculiarly his own—the mental +picture formed by his neighbours in imagining him being always dressed +in that way. He wore a low-crowned felt hat, spread out at the base by +tight jamming upon the head for security in high winds, and a coat like +Dr. Johnson’s; his lower extremities being encased in ordinary leather +leggings and boots emphatically large, affording to each foot a roomy +apartment so constructed that any wearer might stand in a river all day +long and know nothing of damp—their maker being a conscientious man who +endeavoured to compensate for any weakness in his cut by unstinted +dimension and solidity. + +Mr. Oak carried about him, by way of watch, what may be called a small +silver clock; in other words, it was a watch as to shape and intention, +and a small clock as to size. This instrument being several years older +than Oak’s grandfather, had the peculiarity of going either too fast or +not at all. The smaller of its hands, too, occasionally slipped round +on the pivot, and thus, though the minutes were told with precision, +nobody could be quite certain of the hour they belonged to. The +stopping peculiarity of his watch Oak remedied by thumps and shakes, +and he escaped any evil consequences from the other two defects by +constant comparisons with and observations of the sun and stars, and by +pressing his face close to the glass of his neighbours’ windows, till +he could discern the hour marked by the green-faced timekeepers within. +It may be mentioned that Oak’s fob being difficult of access, by reason +of its somewhat high situation in the waistband of his trousers (which +also lay at a remote height under his waistcoat), the watch was as a +necessity pulled out by throwing the body to one side, compressing the +mouth and face to a mere mass of ruddy flesh on account of the exertion +required, and drawing up the watch by its chain, like a bucket from a +well. + +But some thoughtful persons, who had seen him walking across one of his +fields on a certain December morning—sunny and exceedingly mild—might +have regarded Gabriel Oak in other aspects than these. In his face one +might notice that many of the hues and curves of youth had tarried on +to manhood: there even remained in his remoter crannies some relics of +the boy. His height and breadth would have been sufficient to make his +presence imposing, had they been exhibited with due consideration. But +there is a way some men have, rural and urban alike, for which the mind +is more responsible than flesh and sinew: it is a way of curtailing +their dimensions by their manner of showing them. And from a quiet +modesty that would have become a vestal, which seemed continually to +impress upon him that he had no great claim on the world’s room, Oak +walked unassumingly and with a faintly perceptible bend, yet distinct +from a bowing of the shoulders. This may be said to be a defect in an +individual if he depends for his valuation more upon his appearance +than upon his capacity to wear well, which Oak did not. + +He had just reached the time of life at which “young” is ceasing to be +the prefix of “man” in speaking of one. He was at the brightest period +of masculine growth, for his intellect and his emotions were clearly +separated: he had passed the time during which the influence of youth +indiscriminately mingles them in the character of impulse, and he had +not yet arrived at the stage wherein they become united again, in the +character of prejudice, by the influence of a wife and family. In +short, he was twenty-eight, and a bachelor. + +The field he was in this morning sloped to a ridge called Norcombe +Hill. Through a spur of this hill ran the highway between Emminster and +Chalk-Newton. Casually glancing over the hedge, Oak saw coming down the +incline before him an ornamental spring waggon, painted yellow and +gaily marked, drawn by two horses, a waggoner walking alongside bearing +a whip perpendicularly. The waggon was laden with household goods and +window plants, and on the apex of the whole sat a woman, young and +attractive. Gabriel had not beheld the sight for more than half a +minute, when the vehicle was brought to a standstill just beneath his +eyes. + +“The tailboard of the waggon is gone, Miss,” said the waggoner. + +“Then I heard it fall,” said the girl, in a soft, though not +particularly low voice. “I heard a noise I could not account for when +we were coming up the hill.” + +“I’ll run back.” + +“Do,” she answered. + +The sensible horses stood—perfectly still, and the waggoner’s steps +sank fainter and fainter in the distance. + +The girl on the summit of the load sat motionless, surrounded by tables +and chairs with their legs upwards, backed by an oak settle, and +ornamented in front by pots of geraniums, myrtles, and cactuses, +together with a caged canary—all probably from the windows of the house +just vacated. There was also a cat in a willow basket, from the +partly-opened lid of which she gazed with half-closed eyes, and +affectionately surveyed the small birds around. + +The handsome girl waited for some time idly in her place, and the only +sound heard in the stillness was the hopping of the canary up and down +the perches of its prison. Then she looked attentively downwards. It +was not at the bird, nor at the cat; it was at an oblong package tied +in paper, and lying between them. She turned her head to learn if the +waggoner were coming. He was not yet in sight; and her eyes crept back +to the package, her thoughts seeming to run upon what was inside it. At +length she drew the article into her lap, and untied the paper +covering; a small swing looking-glass was disclosed, in which she +proceeded to survey herself attentively. She parted her lips and +smiled. + +It was a fine morning, and the sun lighted up to a scarlet glow the +crimson jacket she wore, and painted a soft lustre upon her bright face +and dark hair. The myrtles, geraniums, and cactuses packed around her +were fresh and green, and at such a leafless season they invested the +whole concern of horses, waggon, furniture, and girl with a peculiar +vernal charm. What possessed her to indulge in such a performance in +the sight of the sparrows, blackbirds, and unperceived farmer who were +alone its spectators,—whether the smile began as a factitious one, to +test her capacity in that art,—nobody knows; it ended certainly in a +real smile. She blushed at herself, and seeing her reflection blush, +blushed the more. + +The change from the customary spot and necessary occasion of such an +act—from the dressing hour in a bedroom to a time of travelling out of +doors—lent to the idle deed a novelty it did not intrinsically possess. +The picture was a delicate one. Woman’s prescriptive infirmity had +stalked into the sunlight, which had clothed it in the freshness of an +originality. A cynical inference was irresistible by Gabriel Oak as he +regarded the scene, generous though he fain would have been. There was +no necessity whatever for her looking in the glass. She did not adjust +her hat, or pat her hair, or press a dimple into shape, or do one thing +to signify that any such intention had been her motive in taking up the +glass. She simply observed herself as a fair product of Nature in the +feminine kind, her thoughts seeming to glide into far-off though likely +dramas in which men would play a part—vistas of probable triumphs—the +smiles being of a phase suggesting that hearts were imagined as lost +and won. Still, this was but conjecture, and the whole series of +actions was so idly put forth as to make it rash to assert that +intention had any part in them at all. + +The waggoner’s steps were heard returning. She put the glass in the +paper, and the whole again into its place. + +When the waggon had passed on, Gabriel withdrew from his point of +espial, and descending into the road, followed the vehicle to the +turnpike-gate some way beyond the bottom of the hill, where the object +of his contemplation now halted for the payment of toll. About twenty +steps still remained between him and the gate, when he heard a dispute. +It was a difference concerning twopence between the persons with the +waggon and the man at the toll-bar. + +“Mis’ess’s niece is upon the top of the things, and she says that’s +enough that I’ve offered ye, you great miser, and she won’t pay any +more.” These were the waggoner’s words. + +“Very well; then mis’ess’s niece can’t pass,” said the turnpike-keeper, +closing the gate. + +Oak looked from one to the other of the disputants, and fell into a +reverie. There was something in the tone of twopence remarkably +insignificant. Threepence had a definite value as money—it was an +appreciable infringement on a day’s wages, and, as such, a higgling +matter; but twopence—“Here,” he said, stepping forward and handing +twopence to the gatekeeper; “let the young woman pass.” He looked up at +her then; she heard his words, and looked down. + +Gabriel’s features adhered throughout their form so exactly to the +middle line between the beauty of St. John and the ugliness of Judas +Iscariot, as represented in a window of the church he attended, that +not a single lineament could be selected and called worthy either of +distinction or notoriety. The red-jacketed and dark-haired maiden +seemed to think so too, for she carelessly glanced over him, and told +her man to drive on. She might have looked her thanks to Gabriel on a +minute scale, but she did not speak them; more probably she felt none, +for in gaining her a passage he had lost her her point, and we know how +women take a favour of that kind. + +The gatekeeper surveyed the retreating vehicle. “That’s a handsome +maid,” he said to Oak. + +“But she has her faults,” said Gabriel. + +“True, farmer.” + +“And the greatest of them is—well, what it is always.” + +“Beating people down? ay, ’tis so.” + +“O no.” + +“What, then?” + +Gabriel, perhaps a little piqued by the comely traveller’s +indifference, glanced back to where he had witnessed her performance +over the hedge, and said, “Vanity.” + + + + +CHAPTER II +NIGHT—THE FLOCK—AN INTERIOR—ANOTHER INTERIOR + + +It was nearly midnight on the eve of St. Thomas’s, the shortest day in +the year. A desolating wind wandered from the north over the hill +whereon Oak had watched the yellow waggon and its occupant in the +sunshine of a few days earlier. + +Norcombe Hill—not far from lonely Toller-Down—was one of the spots +which suggest to a passer-by that he is in the presence of a shape +approaching the indestructible as nearly as any to be found on earth. +It was a featureless convexity of chalk and soil—an ordinary specimen +of those smoothly-outlined protuberances of the globe which may remain +undisturbed on some great day of confusion, when far grander heights +and dizzy granite precipices topple down. + +The hill was covered on its northern side by an ancient and decaying +plantation of beeches, whose upper verge formed a line over the crest, +fringing its arched curve against the sky, like a mane. To-night these +trees sheltered the southern slope from the keenest blasts, which smote +the wood and floundered through it with a sound as of grumbling, or +gushed over its crowning boughs in a weakened moan. The dry leaves in +the ditch simmered and boiled in the same breezes, a tongue of air +occasionally ferreting out a few, and sending them spinning across the +grass. A group or two of the latest in date amongst the dead multitude +had remained till this very mid-winter time on the twigs which bore +them and in falling rattled against the trunks with smart taps. + +Between this half-wooded half-naked hill, and the vague still horizon +that its summit indistinctly commanded, was a mysterious sheet of +fathomless shade—the sounds from which suggested that what it concealed +bore some reduced resemblance to features here. The thin grasses, more +or less coating the hill, were touched by the wind in breezes of +differing powers, and almost of differing natures—one rubbing the +blades heavily, another raking them piercingly, another brushing them +like a soft broom. The instinctive act of humankind was to stand and +listen, and learn how the trees on the right and the trees on the left +wailed or chaunted to each other in the regular antiphonies of a +cathedral choir; how hedges and other shapes to leeward then caught the +note, lowering it to the tenderest sob; and how the hurrying gust then +plunged into the south, to be heard no more. + +The sky was clear—remarkably clear—and the twinkling of all the stars +seemed to be but throbs of one body, timed by a common pulse. The North +Star was directly in the wind’s eye, and since evening the Bear had +swung round it outwardly to the east, till he was now at a right angle +with the meridian. A difference of colour in the stars—oftener read of +than seen in England—was really perceptible here. The sovereign +brilliancy of Sirius pierced the eye with a steely glitter, the star +called Capella was yellow, Aldebaran and Betelgueux shone with a fiery +red. + +To persons standing alone on a hill during a clear midnight such as +this, the roll of the world eastward is almost a palpable movement. The +sensation may be caused by the panoramic glide of the stars past +earthly objects, which is perceptible in a few minutes of stillness, or +by the better outlook upon space that a hill affords, or by the wind, +or by the solitude; but whatever be its origin, the impression of +riding along is vivid and abiding. The poetry of motion is a phrase +much in use, and to enjoy the epic form of that gratification it is +necessary to stand on a hill at a small hour of the night, and, having +first expanded with a sense of difference from the mass of civilised +mankind, who are dreamwrapt and disregardful of all such proceedings at +this time, long and quietly watch your stately progress through the +stars. After such a nocturnal reconnoitre it is hard to get back to +earth, and to believe that the consciousness of such majestic speeding +is derived from a tiny human frame. + +Suddenly an unexpected series of sounds began to be heard in this place +up against the sky. They had a clearness which was to be found nowhere +in the wind, and a sequence which was to be found nowhere in nature. +They were the notes of Farmer Oak’s flute. + +The tune was not floating unhindered into the open air: it seemed +muffled in some way, and was altogether too curtailed in power to +spread high or wide. It came from the direction of a small dark object +under the plantation hedge—a shepherd’s hut—now presenting an outline +to which an uninitiated person might have been puzzled to attach either +meaning or use. + +The image as a whole was that of a small Noah’s Ark on a small Ararat, +allowing the traditionary outlines and general form of the Ark which +are followed by toy-makers—and by these means are established in men’s +imaginations among their firmest, because earliest impressions—to pass +as an approximate pattern. The hut stood on little wheels, which raised +its floor about a foot from the ground. Such shepherds’ huts are +dragged into the fields when the lambing season comes on, to shelter +the shepherd in his enforced nightly attendance. + +It was only latterly that people had begun to call Gabriel “Farmer” +Oak. During the twelvemonth preceding this time he had been enabled by +sustained efforts of industry and chronic good spirits to lease the +small sheep-farm of which Norcombe Hill was a portion, and stock it +with two hundred sheep. Previously he had been a bailiff for a short +time, and earlier still a shepherd only, having from his childhood +assisted his father in tending the flocks of large proprietors, till +old Gabriel sank to rest. + +This venture, unaided and alone, into the paths of farming as master +and not as man, with an advance of sheep not yet paid for, was a +critical juncture with Gabriel Oak, and he recognised his position +clearly. The first movement in his new progress was the lambing of his +ewes, and sheep having been his speciality from his youth, he wisely +refrained from deputing the task of tending them at this season to a +hireling or a novice. + +The wind continued to beat about the corners of the hut, but the +flute-playing ceased. A rectangular space of light appeared in the side +of the hut, and in the opening the outline of Farmer Oak’s figure. He +carried a lantern in his hand, and closing the door behind him, came +forward and busied himself about this nook of the field for nearly +twenty minutes, the lantern light appearing and disappearing here and +there, and brightening him or darkening him as he stood before or +behind it. + +Oak’s motions, though they had a quiet energy, were slow, and their +deliberateness accorded well with his occupation. Fitness being the +basis of beauty, nobody could have denied that his steady swings and +turns in and about the flock had elements of grace. Yet, although if +occasion demanded he could do or think a thing with as mercurial a dash +as can the men of towns who are more to the manner born, his special +power, morally, physically, and mentally, was static, owing little or +nothing to momentum as a rule. + +A close examination of the ground hereabout, even by the wan starlight +only, revealed how a portion of what would have been casually called a +wild slope had been appropriated by Farmer Oak for his great purpose +this winter. Detached hurdles thatched with straw were stuck into the +ground at various scattered points, amid and under which the whitish +forms of his meek ewes moved and rustled. The ring of the sheep-bell, +which had been silent during his absence, recommenced, in tones that +had more mellowness than clearness, owing to an increasing growth of +surrounding wool. This continued till Oak withdrew again from the +flock. He returned to the hut, bringing in his arms a new-born lamb, +consisting of four legs large enough for a full-grown sheep, united by +a seemingly inconsiderable membrane about half the substance of the +legs collectively, which constituted the animal’s entire body just at +present. + +The little speck of life he placed on a wisp of hay before the small +stove, where a can of milk was simmering. Oak extinguished the lantern +by blowing into it and then pinching the snuff, the cot being lighted +by a candle suspended by a twisted wire. A rather hard couch, formed of +a few corn sacks thrown carelessly down, covered half the floor of this +little habitation, and here the young man stretched himself along, +loosened his woollen cravat, and closed his eyes. In about the time a +person unaccustomed to bodily labour would have decided upon which side +to lie, Farmer Oak was asleep. + +The inside of the hut, as it now presented itself, was cosy and +alluring, and the scarlet handful of fire in addition to the candle, +reflecting its own genial colour upon whatever it could reach, flung +associations of enjoyment even over utensils and tools. In the corner +stood the sheep-crook, and along a shelf at one side were ranged +bottles and canisters of the simple preparations pertaining to ovine +surgery and physic; spirits of wine, turpentine, tar, magnesia, ginger, +and castor-oil being the chief. On a triangular shelf across the corner +stood bread, bacon, cheese, and a cup for ale or cider, which was +supplied from a flagon beneath. Beside the provisions lay the flute, +whose notes had lately been called forth by the lonely watcher to +beguile a tedious hour. The house was ventilated by two round holes, +like the lights of a ship’s cabin, with wood slides. + +The lamb, revived by the warmth, began to bleat, and the sound entered +Gabriel’s ears and brain with an instant meaning, as expected sounds +will. Passing from the profoundest sleep to the most alert wakefulness +with the same ease that had accompanied the reverse operation, he +looked at his watch, found that the hour-hand had shifted again, put on +his hat, took the lamb in his arms, and carried it into the darkness. +After placing the little creature with its mother, he stood and +carefully examined the sky, to ascertain the time of night from the +altitudes of the stars. + +The Dog-star and Aldebaran, pointing to the restless Pleiades, were +half-way up the Southern sky, and between them hung Orion, which +gorgeous constellation never burnt more vividly than now, as it soared +forth above the rim of the landscape. Castor and Pollux with their +quiet shine were almost on the meridian: the barren and gloomy Square +of Pegasus was creeping round to the north-west; far away through the +plantation Vega sparkled like a lamp suspended amid the leafless trees, +and Cassiopeia’s chair stood daintily poised on the uppermost boughs. + +“One o’clock,” said Gabriel. + +Being a man not without a frequent consciousness that there was some +charm in this life he led, he stood still after looking at the sky as a +useful instrument, and regarded it in an appreciative spirit, as a work +of art superlatively beautiful. For a moment he seemed impressed with +the speaking loneliness of the scene, or rather with the complete +abstraction from all its compass of the sights and sounds of man. Human +shapes, interferences, troubles, and joys were all as if they were not, +and there seemed to be on the shaded hemisphere of the globe no +sentient being save himself; he could fancy them all gone round to the +sunny side. + +Occupied thus, with eyes stretched afar, Oak gradually perceived that +what he had previously taken to be a star low down behind the outskirts +of the plantation was in reality no such thing. It was an artificial +light, almost close at hand. + +To find themselves utterly alone at night where company is desirable +and expected makes some people fearful; but a case more trying by far +to the nerves is to discover some mysterious companionship when +intuition, sensation, memory, analogy, testimony, probability, +induction—every kind of evidence in the logician’s list—have united to +persuade consciousness that it is quite in isolation. + +Farmer Oak went towards the plantation and pushed through its lower +boughs to the windy side. A dim mass under the slope reminded him that +a shed occupied a place here, the site being a cutting into the slope +of the hill, so that at its back part the roof was almost level with +the ground. In front it was formed of board nailed to posts and covered +with tar as a preservative. Through crevices in the roof and side +spread streaks and dots of light, a combination of which made the +radiance that had attracted him. Oak stepped up behind, where, leaning +down upon the roof and putting his eye close to a hole, he could see +into the interior clearly. + +The place contained two women and two cows. By the side of the latter a +steaming bran-mash stood in a bucket. One of the women was past middle +age. Her companion was apparently young and graceful; he could form no +decided opinion upon her looks, her position being almost beneath his +eye, so that he saw her in a bird’s-eye view, as Milton’s Satan first +saw Paradise. She wore no bonnet or hat, but had enveloped herself in a +large cloak, which was carelessly flung over her head as a covering. + +“There, now we’ll go home,” said the elder of the two, resting her +knuckles upon her hips, and looking at their goings-on as a whole. “I +do hope Daisy will fetch round again now. I have never been more +frightened in my life, but I don’t mind breaking my rest if she +recovers.” + +The young woman, whose eyelids were apparently inclined to fall +together on the smallest provocation of silence, yawned without parting +her lips to any inconvenient extent, whereupon Gabriel caught the +infection and slightly yawned in sympathy. + +“I wish we were rich enough to pay a man to do these things,” she said. + +“As we are not, we must do them ourselves,” said the other; “for you +must help me if you stay.” + +“Well, my hat is gone, however,” continued the younger. “It went over +the hedge, I think. The idea of such a slight wind catching it.” + +The cow standing erect was of the Devon breed, and was encased in a +tight warm hide of rich Indian red, as absolutely uniform from eyes to +tail as if the animal had been dipped in a dye of that colour, her long +back being mathematically level. The other was spotted, grey and white. +Beside her Oak now noticed a little calf about a day old, looking +idiotically at the two women, which showed that it had not long been +accustomed to the phenomenon of eyesight, and often turning to the +lantern, which it apparently mistook for the moon, inherited instinct +having as yet had little time for correction by experience. Between the +sheep and the cows Lucina had been busy on Norcombe Hill lately. + +“I think we had better send for some oatmeal,” said the elder woman; +“there’s no more bran.” + +“Yes, aunt; and I’ll ride over for it as soon as it is light.” + +“But there’s no side-saddle.” + +“I can ride on the other: trust me.” + +Oak, upon hearing these remarks, became more curious to observe her +features, but this prospect being denied him by the hooding effect of +the cloak, and by his aërial position, he felt himself drawing upon his +fancy for their details. In making even horizontal and clear +inspections we colour and mould according to the wants within us +whatever our eyes bring in. Had Gabriel been able from the first to get +a distinct view of her countenance, his estimate of it as very handsome +or slightly so would have been as his soul required a divinity at the +moment or was ready supplied with one. Having for some time known the +want of a satisfactory form to fill an increasing void within him, his +position moreover affording the widest scope for his fancy, he painted +her a beauty. + +By one of those whimsical coincidences in which Nature, like a busy +mother, seems to spare a moment from her unremitting labours to turn +and make her children smile, the girl now dropped the cloak, and forth +tumbled ropes of black hair over a red jacket. Oak knew her instantly +as the heroine of the yellow waggon, myrtles, and looking-glass: +prosily, as the woman who owed him twopence. + +They placed the calf beside its mother again, took up the lantern, and +went out, the light sinking down the hill till it was no more than a +nebula. Gabriel Oak returned to his flock. + + + + +CHAPTER III +A GIRL ON HORSEBACK—CONVERSATION + + +The sluggish day began to break. Even its position terrestrially is one +of the elements of a new interest, and for no particular reason save +that the incident of the night had occurred there Oak went again into +the plantation. Lingering and musing here, he heard the steps of a +horse at the foot of the hill, and soon there appeared in view an +auburn pony with a girl on its back, ascending by the path leading past +the cattle-shed. She was the young woman of the night before. Gabriel +instantly thought of the hat she had mentioned as having lost in the +wind; possibly she had come to look for it. He hastily scanned the +ditch and after walking about ten yards along it found the hat among +the leaves. Gabriel took it in his hand and returned to his hut. Here +he ensconced himself, and peeped through the loophole in the direction +of the rider’s approach. + +She came up and looked around—then on the other side of the hedge. +Gabriel was about to advance and restore the missing article when an +unexpected performance induced him to suspend the action for the +present. The path, after passing the cowshed, bisected the plantation. +It was not a bridle-path—merely a pedestrian’s track, and the boughs +spread horizontally at a height not greater than seven feet above the +ground, which made it impossible to ride erect beneath them. The girl, +who wore no riding-habit, looked around for a moment, as if to assure +herself that all humanity was out of view, then dexterously dropped +backwards flat upon the pony’s back, her head over its tail, her feet +against its shoulders, and her eyes to the sky. The rapidity of her +glide into this position was that of a kingfisher—its noiselessness +that of a hawk. Gabriel’s eyes had scarcely been able to follow her. +The tall lank pony seemed used to such doings, and ambled along +unconcerned. Thus she passed under the level boughs. + +The performer seemed quite at home anywhere between a horse’s head and +its tail, and the necessity for this abnormal attitude having ceased +with the passage of the plantation, she began to adopt another, even +more obviously convenient than the first. She had no side-saddle, and +it was very apparent that a firm seat upon the smooth leather beneath +her was unattainable sideways. Springing to her accustomed +perpendicular like a bowed sapling, and satisfying herself that nobody +was in sight, she seated herself in the manner demanded by the saddle, +though hardly expected of the woman, and trotted off in the direction +of Tewnell Mill. + +Oak was amused, perhaps a little astonished, and hanging up the hat in +his hut, went again among his ewes. An hour passed, the girl returned, +properly seated now, with a bag of bran in front of her. On nearing the +cattle-shed she was met by a boy bringing a milking-pail, who held the +reins of the pony whilst she slid off. The boy led away the horse, +leaving the pail with the young woman. + +Soon soft spirts alternating with loud spirts came in regular +succession from within the shed, the obvious sounds of a person milking +a cow. Gabriel took the lost hat in his hand, and waited beside the +path she would follow in leaving the hill. + +She came, the pail in one hand, hanging against her knee. The left arm +was extended as a balance, enough of it being shown bare to make Oak +wish that the event had happened in the summer, when the whole would +have been revealed. There was a bright air and manner about her now, by +which she seemed to imply that the desirability of her existence could +not be questioned; and this rather saucy assumption failed in being +offensive because a beholder felt it to be, upon the whole, true. Like +exceptional emphasis in the tone of a genius, that which would have +made mediocrity ridiculous was an addition to recognised power. It was +with some surprise that she saw Gabriel’s face rising like the moon +behind the hedge. + +The adjustment of the farmer’s hazy conceptions of her charms to the +portrait of herself she now presented him with was less a diminution +than a difference. The starting-point selected by the judgment was her +height. She seemed tall, but the pail was a small one, and the hedge +diminutive; hence, making allowance for error by comparison with these, +she could have been not above the height to be chosen by women as best. +All features of consequence were severe and regular. It may have been +observed by persons who go about the shires with eyes for beauty, that +in Englishwoman a classically-formed face is seldom found to be united +with a figure of the same pattern, the highly-finished features being +generally too large for the remainder of the frame; that a graceful and +proportionate figure of eight heads usually goes off into random facial +curves. Without throwing a Nymphean tissue over a milkmaid, let it be +said that here criticism checked itself as out of place, and looked at +her proportions with a long consciousness of pleasure. From the +contours of her figure in its upper part, she must have had a beautiful +neck and shoulders; but since her infancy nobody had ever seen them. +Had she been put into a low dress she would have run and thrust her +head into a bush. Yet she was not a shy girl by any means; it was +merely her instinct to draw the line dividing the seen from the unseen +higher than they do it in towns. + +That the girl’s thoughts hovered about her face and form as soon as she +caught Oak’s eyes conning the same page was natural, and almost +certain. The self-consciousness shown would have been vanity if a +little more pronounced, dignity if a little less. Rays of male vision +seem to have a tickling effect upon virgin faces in rural districts; +she brushed hers with her hand, as if Gabriel had been irritating its +pink surface by actual touch, and the free air of her previous +movements was reduced at the same time to a chastened phase of itself. +Yet it was the man who blushed, the maid not at all. + +“I found a hat,” said Oak. + +“It is mine,” said she, and, from a sense of proportion, kept down to a +small smile an inclination to laugh distinctly: “it flew away last +night.” + +“One o’clock this morning?” + +“Well—it was.” She was surprised. “How did you know?” she said. + +“I was here.” + +“You are Farmer Oak, are you not?” + +“That or thereabouts. I’m lately come to this place.” + +“A large farm?” she inquired, casting her eyes round, and swinging back +her hair, which was black in the shaded hollows of its mass; but it +being now an hour past sunrise the rays touched its prominent curves +with a colour of their own. + +“No; not large. About a hundred.” (In speaking of farms the word +“acres” is omitted by the natives, by analogy to such old expressions +as “a stag of ten.”) + +“I wanted my hat this morning,” she went on. “I had to ride to Tewnell +Mill.” + +“Yes you had.” + +“How do you know?” + +“I saw you.” + +“Where?” she inquired, a misgiving bringing every muscle of her +lineaments and frame to a standstill. + +“Here—going through the plantation, and all down the hill,” said Farmer +Oak, with an aspect excessively knowing with regard to some matter in +his mind, as he gazed at a remote point in the direction named, and +then turned back to meet his colloquist’s eyes. + +A perception caused him to withdraw his own eyes from hers as suddenly +as if he had been caught in a theft. Recollection of the strange antics +she had indulged in when passing through the trees was succeeded in the +girl by a nettled palpitation, and that by a hot face. It was a time to +see a woman redden who was not given to reddening as a rule; not a +point in the milkmaid but was of the deepest rose-colour. From the +Maiden’s Blush, through all varieties of the Provence down to the +Crimson Tuscany, the countenance of Oak’s acquaintance quickly +graduated; whereupon he, in considerateness, turned away his head. + +The sympathetic man still looked the other way, and wondered when she +would recover coolness sufficient to justify him in facing her again. +He heard what seemed to be the flitting of a dead leaf upon the breeze, +and looked. She had gone away. + +With an air between that of Tragedy and Comedy Gabriel returned to his +work. + +Five mornings and evenings passed. The young woman came regularly to +milk the healthy cow or to attend to the sick one, but never allowed +her vision to stray in the direction of Oak’s person. His want of tact +had deeply offended her—not by seeing what he could not help, but by +letting her know that he had seen it. For, as without law there is no +sin, without eyes there is no indecorum; and she appeared to feel that +Gabriel’s espial had made her an indecorous woman without her own +connivance. It was food for great regret with him; it was also a +_contretemps_ which touched into life a latent heat he had experienced +in that direction. + +The acquaintanceship might, however, have ended in a slow forgetting, +but for an incident which occurred at the end of the same week. One +afternoon it began to freeze, and the frost increased with evening, +which drew on like a stealthy tightening of bonds. It was a time when +in cottages the breath of the sleepers freezes to the sheets; when +round the drawing-room fire of a thick-walled mansion the sitters’ +backs are cold, even whilst their faces are all aglow. Many a small +bird went to bed supperless that night among the bare boughs. + +As the milking-hour drew near, Oak kept his usual watch upon the +cowshed. At last he felt cold, and shaking an extra quantity of bedding +round the yearling ewes he entered the hut and heaped more fuel upon +the stove. The wind came in at the bottom of the door, and to prevent +it Oak laid a sack there and wheeled the cot round a little more to the +south. Then the wind spouted in at a ventilating hole—of which there +was one on each side of the hut. + +Gabriel had always known that when the fire was lighted and the door +closed one of these must be kept open—that chosen being always on the +side away from the wind. Closing the slide to windward, he turned to +open the other; on second thoughts the farmer considered that he would +first sit down leaving both closed for a minute or two, till the +temperature of the hut was a little raised. He sat down. + +His head began to ache in an unwonted manner, and, fancying himself +weary by reason of the broken rests of the preceding nights, Oak +decided to get up, open the slide, and then allow himself to fall +asleep. He fell asleep, however, without having performed the necessary +preliminary. + +How long he remained unconscious Gabriel never knew. During the first +stages of his return to perception peculiar deeds seemed to be in +course of enactment. His dog was howling, his head was aching +fearfully—somebody was pulling him about, hands were loosening his +neckerchief. + +On opening his eyes he found that evening had sunk to dusk in a strange +manner of unexpectedness. The young girl with the remarkably pleasant +lips and white teeth was beside him. More than this—astonishingly +more—his head was upon her lap, his face and neck were disagreeably +wet, and her fingers were unbuttoning his collar. + +“Whatever is the matter?” said Oak, vacantly. + +She seemed to experience mirth, but of too insignificant a kind to +start enjoyment. + +“Nothing now,” she answered, “since you are not dead. It is a wonder +you were not suffocated in this hut of yours.” + +“Ah, the hut!” murmured Gabriel. “I gave ten pounds for that hut. But +I’ll sell it, and sit under thatched hurdles as they did in old times, +and curl up to sleep in a lock of straw! It played me nearly the same +trick the other day!” Gabriel, by way of emphasis, brought down his +fist upon the floor. + +“It was not exactly the fault of the hut,” she observed in a tone which +showed her to be that novelty among women—one who finished a thought +before beginning the sentence which was to convey it. “You should, I +think, have considered, and not have been so foolish as to leave the +slides closed.” + +“Yes I suppose I should,” said Oak, absently. He was endeavouring to +catch and appreciate the sensation of being thus with her, his head +upon her dress, before the event passed on into the heap of bygone +things. He wished she knew his impressions; but he would as soon have +thought of carrying an odour in a net as of attempting to convey the +intangibilities of his feeling in the coarse meshes of language. So he +remained silent. + +She made him sit up, and then Oak began wiping his face and shaking +himself like a Samson. “How can I thank ’ee?” he said at last, +gratefully, some of the natural rusty red having returned to his face. + +“Oh, never mind that,” said the girl, smiling, and allowing her smile +to hold good for Gabriel’s next remark, whatever that might prove to +be. + +“How did you find me?” + +“I heard your dog howling and scratching at the door of the hut when I +came to the milking (it was so lucky, Daisy’s milking is almost over +for the season, and I shall not come here after this week or the next). +The dog saw me, and jumped over to me, and laid hold of my skirt. I +came across and looked round the hut the very first thing to see if the +slides were closed. My uncle has a hut like this one, and I have heard +him tell his shepherd not to go to sleep without leaving a slide open. +I opened the door, and there you were like dead. I threw the milk over +you, as there was no water, forgetting it was warm, and no use.” + +“I wonder if I should have died?” Gabriel said, in a low voice, which +was rather meant to travel back to himself than to her. + +“Oh no!” the girl replied. She seemed to prefer a less tragic +probability; to have saved a man from death involved talk that should +harmonise with the dignity of such a deed—and she shunned it. + +“I believe you saved my life, Miss—I don’t know your name. I know your +aunt’s, but not yours.” + +“I would just as soon not tell it—rather not. There is no reason either +why I should, as you probably will never have much to do with me.” + +“Still, I should like to know.” + +“You can inquire at my aunt’s—she will tell you.” + +“My name is Gabriel Oak.” + +“And mine isn’t. You seem fond of yours in speaking it so decisively, +Gabriel Oak.” + +“You see, it is the only one I shall ever have, and I must make the +most of it.” + +“I always think mine sounds odd and disagreeable.” + +“I should think you might soon get a new one.” + +“Mercy!—how many opinions you keep about you concerning other people, +Gabriel Oak.” + +“Well, Miss—excuse the words—I thought you would like them. But I can’t +match you, I know, in mapping out my mind upon my tongue. I never was +very clever in my inside. But I thank you. Come, give me your hand.” + +She hesitated, somewhat disconcerted at Oak’s old-fashioned earnest +conclusion to a dialogue lightly carried on. “Very well,” she said, and +gave him her hand, compressing her lips to a demure impassivity. He +held it but an instant, and in his fear of being too demonstrative, +swerved to the opposite extreme, touching her fingers with the +lightness of a small-hearted person. + +“I am sorry,” he said the instant after. + +“What for?” + +“Letting your hand go so quick.” + +“You may have it again if you like; there it is.” She gave him her hand +again. + +Oak held it longer this time—indeed, curiously long. “How soft it +is—being winter time, too—not chapped or rough or anything!” he said. + +“There—that’s long enough,” said she, though without pulling it away. +“But I suppose you are thinking you would like to kiss it? You may if +you want to.” + +“I wasn’t thinking of any such thing,” said Gabriel, simply; “but I +will—” + +“That you won’t!” She snatched back her hand. + +Gabriel felt himself guilty of another want of tact. + +“Now find out my name,” she said, teasingly; and withdrew. + + + + +CHAPTER IV +GABRIEL’S RESOLVE—THE VISIT—THE MISTAKE + + +The only superiority in women that is tolerable to the rival sex is, as +a rule, that of the unconscious kind; but a superiority which +recognizes itself may sometimes please by suggesting possibilities of +capture to the subordinated man. + +This well-favoured and comely girl soon made appreciable inroads upon +the emotional constitution of young Farmer Oak. + +Love, being an extremely exacting usurer (a sense of exorbitant profit, +spiritually, by an exchange of hearts, being at the bottom of pure +passions, as that of exorbitant profit, bodily or materially, is at the +bottom of those of lower atmosphere), every morning Oak’s feelings were +as sensitive as the money-market in calculations upon his chances. His +dog waited for his meals in a way so like that in which Oak waited for +the girl’s presence, that the farmer was quite struck with the +resemblance, felt it lowering, and would not look at the dog. However, +he continued to watch through the hedge for her regular coming, and +thus his sentiments towards her were deepened without any corresponding +effect being produced upon herself. Oak had nothing finished and ready +to say as yet, and not being able to frame love phrases which end where +they begin; passionate tales— + + —Full of sound and fury, +—Signifying nothing— + + +he said no word at all. + +By making inquiries he found that the girl’s name was Bathsheba +Everdene, and that the cow would go dry in about seven days. He dreaded +the eighth day. + +At last the eighth day came. The cow had ceased to give milk for that +year, and Bathsheba Everdene came up the hill no more. Gabriel had +reached a pitch of existence he never could have anticipated a short +time before. He liked saying “Bathsheba” as a private enjoyment instead +of whistling; turned over his taste to black hair, though he had sworn +by brown ever since he was a boy, isolated himself till the space he +filled in the public eye was contemptibly small. Love is a possible +strength in an actual weakness. Marriage transforms a distraction into +a support, the power of which should be, and happily often is, in +direct proportion to the degree of imbecility it supplants. Oak began +now to see light in this direction, and said to himself, “I’ll make her +my wife, or upon my soul I shall be good for nothing!” + +All this while he was perplexing himself about an errand on which he +might consistently visit the cottage of Bathsheba’s aunt. + +He found his opportunity in the death of a ewe, mother of a living +lamb. On a day which had a summer face and a winter constitution—a fine +January morning, when there was just enough blue sky visible to make +cheerfully-disposed people wish for more, and an occasional gleam of +silvery sunshine, Oak put the lamb into a respectable Sunday basket, +and stalked across the fields to the house of Mrs. Hurst, the +aunt—George, the dog walking behind, with a countenance of great +concern at the serious turn pastoral affairs seemed to be taking. + +Gabriel had watched the blue wood-smoke curling from the chimney with +strange meditation. At evening he had fancifully traced it down the +chimney to the spot of its origin—seen the hearth and Bathsheba beside +it—beside it in her out-door dress; for the clothes she had worn on the +hill were by association equally with her person included in the +compass of his affection; they seemed at this early time of his love a +necessary ingredient of the sweet mixture called Bathsheba Everdene. + +He had made a toilet of a nicely-adjusted kind—of a nature between the +carefully neat and the carelessly ornate—of a degree between +fine-market-day and wet-Sunday selection. He thoroughly cleaned his +silver watch-chain with whiting, put new lacing straps to his boots, +looked to the brass eyelet-holes, went to the inmost heart of the +plantation for a new walking-stick, and trimmed it vigorously on his +way back; took a new handkerchief from the bottom of his clothes-box, +put on the light waistcoat patterned all over with sprigs of an elegant +flower uniting the beauties of both rose and lily without the defects +of either, and used all the hair-oil he possessed upon his usually dry, +sandy, and inextricably curly hair, till he had deepened it to a +splendidly novel colour, between that of guano and Roman cement, making +it stick to his head like mace round a nutmeg, or wet seaweed round a +boulder after the ebb. + +Nothing disturbed the stillness of the cottage save the chatter of a +knot of sparrows on the eaves; one might fancy scandal and rumour to be +no less the staple topic of these little coteries on roofs than of +those under them. It seemed that the omen was an unpropitious one, for, +as the rather untoward commencement of Oak’s overtures, just as he +arrived by the garden gate, he saw a cat inside, going into various +arched shapes and fiendish convulsions at the sight of his dog George. +The dog took no notice, for he had arrived at an age at which all +superfluous barking was cynically avoided as a waste of breath—in fact, +he never barked even at the sheep except to order, when it was done +with an absolutely neutral countenance, as a sort of +Commination-service, which, though offensive, had to be gone through +once now and then to frighten the flock for their own good. + +A voice came from behind some laurel-bushes into which the cat had run: + +“Poor dear! Did a nasty brute of a dog want to kill it;—did he, poor +dear!” + +“I beg your pardon,” said Oak to the voice, “but George was walking on +behind me with a temper as mild as milk.” + +Almost before he had ceased speaking, Oak was seized with a misgiving +as to whose ear was the recipient of his answer. Nobody appeared, and +he heard the person retreat among the bushes. + +Gabriel meditated, and so deeply that he brought small furrows into his +forehead by sheer force of reverie. Where the issue of an interview is +as likely to be a vast change for the worse as for the better, any +initial difference from expectation causes nipping sensations of +failure. Oak went up to the door a little abashed: his mental rehearsal +and the reality had had no common grounds of opening. + +Bathsheba’s aunt was indoors. “Will you tell Miss Everdene that +somebody would be glad to speak to her?” said Mr. Oak. (Calling one’s +self merely Somebody, without giving a name, is not to be taken as an +example of the ill-breeding of the rural world: it springs from a +refined modesty, of which townspeople, with their cards and +announcements, have no notion whatever.) + +Bathsheba was out. The voice had evidently been hers. + +“Will you come in, Mr. Oak?” + +“Oh, thank ’ee,” said Gabriel, following her to the fireplace. “I’ve +brought a lamb for Miss Everdene. I thought she might like one to rear; +girls do.” + +“She might,” said Mrs. Hurst, musingly; “though she’s only a visitor +here. If you will wait a minute, Bathsheba will be in.” + +“Yes, I will wait,” said Gabriel, sitting down. “The lamb isn’t really +the business I came about, Mrs. Hurst. In short, I was going to ask her +if she’d like to be married.” + +“And were you indeed?” + +“Yes. Because if she would, I should be very glad to marry her. D’ye +know if she’s got any other young man hanging about her at all?” + +“Let me think,” said Mrs. Hurst, poking the fire superfluously.... +“Yes—bless you, ever so many young men. You see, Farmer Oak, she’s so +good-looking, and an excellent scholar besides—she was going to be a +governess once, you know, only she was too wild. Not that her young men +ever come here—but, Lord, in the nature of women, she must have a +dozen!” + +“That’s unfortunate,” said Farmer Oak, contemplating a crack in the +stone floor with sorrow. “I’m only an every-day sort of man, and my +only chance was in being the first comer.... Well, there’s no use in my +waiting, for that was all I came about: so I’ll take myself off +home-along, Mrs. Hurst.” + +When Gabriel had gone about two hundred yards along the down, he heard +a “hoi-hoi!” uttered behind him, in a piping note of more treble +quality than that in which the exclamation usually embodies itself when +shouted across a field. He looked round, and saw a girl racing after +him, waving a white handkerchief. + +Oak stood still—and the runner drew nearer. It was Bathsheba Everdene. +Gabriel’s colour deepened: hers was already deep, not, as it appeared, +from emotion, but from running. + +“Farmer Oak—I—” she said, pausing for want of breath pulling up in +front of him with a slanted face and putting her hand to her side. + +“I have just called to see you,” said Gabriel, pending her further +speech. + +“Yes—I know that,” she said panting like a robin, her face red and +moist from her exertions, like a peony petal before the sun dries off +the dew. “I didn’t know you had come to ask to have me, or I should +have come in from the garden instantly. I ran after you to say—that my +aunt made a mistake in sending you away from courting me—” + +Gabriel expanded. “I’m sorry to have made you run so fast, my dear,” he +said, with a grateful sense of favours to come. “Wait a bit till you’ve +found your breath.” + +“—It was quite a mistake—aunt’s telling you I had a young man already,” +Bathsheba went on. “I haven’t a sweetheart at all—and I never had one, +and I thought that, as times go with women, it was _such_ a pity to +send you away thinking that I had several.” + +“Really and truly I am glad to hear that!” said Farmer Oak, smiling one +of his long special smiles, and blushing with gladness. He held out his +hand to take hers, which, when she had eased her side by pressing it +there, was prettily extended upon her bosom to still her loud-beating +heart. Directly he seized it she put it behind her, so that it slipped +through his fingers like an eel. + +“I have a nice snug little farm,” said Gabriel, with half a degree less +assurance than when he had seized her hand. + +“Yes; you have.” + +“A man has advanced me money to begin with, but still, it will soon be +paid off, and though I am only an every-day sort of man, I have got on +a little since I was a boy.” Gabriel uttered “a little” in a tone to +show her that it was the complacent form of “a great deal.” He +continued: “When we be married, I am quite sure I can work twice as +hard as I do now.” + +He went forward and stretched out his arm again. Bathsheba had +overtaken him at a point beside which stood a low stunted holly bush, +now laden with red berries. Seeing his advance take the form of an +attitude threatening a possible enclosure, if not compression, of her +person, she edged off round the bush. + +“Why, Farmer Oak,” she said, over the top, looking at him with rounded +eyes, “I never said I was going to marry you.” + +“Well—that _is_ a tale!” said Oak, with dismay. “To run after anybody +like this, and then say you don’t want him!” + +“What I meant to tell you was only this,” she said eagerly, and yet +half conscious of the absurdity of the position she had made for +herself—“that nobody has got me yet as a sweetheart, instead of my +having a dozen, as my aunt said; I _hate_ to be thought men’s property +in that way, though possibly I shall be had some day. Why, if I’d +wanted you I shouldn’t have run after you like this; ’twould have been +the _forwardest_ thing! But there was no harm in hurrying to correct a +piece of false news that had been told you.” + +“Oh, no—no harm at all.” But there is such a thing as being too +generous in expressing a judgment impulsively, and Oak added with a +more appreciative sense of all the circumstances—“Well, I am not quite +certain it was no harm.” + +“Indeed, I hadn’t time to think before starting whether I wanted to +marry or not, for you’d have been gone over the hill.” + +“Come,” said Gabriel, freshening again; “think a minute or two. I’ll +wait a while, Miss Everdene. Will you marry me? Do, Bathsheba. I love +you far more than common!” + +“I’ll try to think,” she observed, rather more timorously; “if I can +think out of doors; my mind spreads away so.” + +“But you can give a guess.” + +“Then give me time.” Bathsheba looked thoughtfully into the distance, +away from the direction in which Gabriel stood. + +“I can make you happy,” said he to the back of her head, across the +bush. “You shall have a piano in a year or two—farmers’ wives are +getting to have pianos now—and I’ll practise up the flute right well to +play with you in the evenings.” + +“Yes; I should like that.” + +“And have one of those little ten-pound gigs for market—and nice +flowers, and birds—cocks and hens I mean, because they be useful,” +continued Gabriel, feeling balanced between poetry and practicality. + +“I should like it very much.” + +“And a frame for cucumbers—like a gentleman and lady.” + +“Yes.” + +“And when the wedding was over, we’d have it put in the newspaper list +of marriages.” + +“Dearly I should like that!” + +“And the babies in the births—every man jack of ’em! And at home by the +fire, whenever you look up, there I shall be—and whenever I look up +there will be you.” + +“Wait, wait, and don’t be improper!” + +Her countenance fell, and she was silent awhile. He regarded the red +berries between them over and over again, to such an extent, that holly +seemed in his after life to be a cypher signifying a proposal of +marriage. Bathsheba decisively turned to him. + +“No; ’tis no use,” she said. “I don’t want to marry you.” + +“Try.” + +“I have tried hard all the time I’ve been thinking; for a marriage +would be very nice in one sense. People would talk about me, and think +I had won my battle, and I should feel triumphant, and all that. But a +husband—” + +“Well!” + +“Why, he’d always be there, as you say; whenever I looked up, there +he’d be.” + +“Of course he would—I, that is.” + +“Well, what I mean is that I shouldn’t mind being a bride at a wedding, +if I could be one without having a husband. But since a woman can’t +show off in that way by herself, I shan’t marry—at least yet.” + +“That’s a terrible wooden story!” + +At this criticism of her statement Bathsheba made an addition to her +dignity by a slight sweep away from him. + +“Upon my heart and soul, I don’t know what a maid can say stupider than +that,” said Oak. “But dearest,” he continued in a palliative voice, +“don’t be like it!” Oak sighed a deep honest sigh—none the less so in +that, being like the sigh of a pine plantation, it was rather +noticeable as a disturbance of the atmosphere. “Why won’t you have me?” +he appealed, creeping round the holly to reach her side. + +“I cannot,” she said, retreating. + +“But why?” he persisted, standing still at last in despair of ever +reaching her, and facing over the bush. + +“Because I don’t love you.” + +“Yes, but—” + +She contracted a yawn to an inoffensive smallness, so that it was +hardly ill-mannered at all. “I don’t love you,” she said. + +“But I love you—and, as for myself, I am content to be liked.” + +“Oh Mr. Oak—that’s very fine! You’d get to despise me.” + +“Never,” said Mr Oak, so earnestly that he seemed to be coming, by the +force of his words, straight through the bush and into her arms. “I +shall do one thing in this life—one thing certain—that is, love you, +and long for you, and _keep wanting you_ till I die.” His voice had a +genuine pathos now, and his large brown hands perceptibly trembled. + +“It seems dreadfully wrong not to have you when you feel so much!” she +said with a little distress, and looking hopelessly around for some +means of escape from her moral dilemma. “How I wish I hadn’t run after +you!” However she seemed to have a short cut for getting back to +cheerfulness, and set her face to signify archness. “It wouldn’t do, +Mr. Oak. I want somebody to tame me; I am too independent; and you +would never be able to, I know.” + +Oak cast his eyes down the field in a way implying that it was useless +to attempt argument. + +“Mr. Oak,” she said, with luminous distinctness and common sense, “you +are better off than I. I have hardly a penny in the world—I am staying +with my aunt for my bare sustenance. I am better educated than you—and +I don’t love you a bit: that’s my side of the case. Now yours: you are +a farmer just beginning; and you ought in common prudence, if you marry +at all (which you should certainly not think of doing at present), to +marry a woman with money, who would stock a larger farm for you than +you have now.” + +Gabriel looked at her with a little surprise and much admiration. + +“That’s the very thing I had been thinking myself!” he naïvely said. + +Farmer Oak had one-and-a-half Christian characteristics too many to +succeed with Bathsheba: his humility, and a superfluous moiety of +honesty. Bathsheba was decidedly disconcerted. + +“Well, then, why did you come and disturb me?” she said, almost +angrily, if not quite, an enlarging red spot rising in each cheek. + +“I can’t do what I think would be—would be—” + +“Right?” + +“No: wise.” + +“You have made an admission _now_, Mr. Oak,” she exclaimed, with even +more hauteur, and rocking her head disdainfully. “After that, do you +think I could marry you? Not if I know it.” + +He broke in passionately. “But don’t mistake me like that! Because I am +open enough to own what every man in my shoes would have thought of, +you make your colours come up your face, and get crabbed with me. That +about your not being good enough for me is nonsense. You speak like a +lady—all the parish notice it, and your uncle at Weatherbury is, I have +heerd, a large farmer—much larger than ever I shall be. May I call in +the evening, or will you walk along with me o’ Sundays? I don’t want +you to make-up your mind at once, if you’d rather not.” + +“No—no—I cannot. Don’t press me any more—don’t. I don’t love you—so +’twould be ridiculous,” she said, with a laugh. + +No man likes to see his emotions the sport of a merry-go-round of +skittishness. “Very well,” said Oak, firmly, with the bearing of one +who was going to give his days and nights to Ecclesiastes for ever. +“Then I’ll ask you no more.” + + + + +CHAPTER V +DEPARTURE OF BATHSHEBA—A PASTORAL TRAGEDY + + +The news which one day reached Gabriel, that Bathsheba Everdene had +left the neighbourhood, had an influence upon him which might have +surprised any who never suspected that the more emphatic the +renunciation the less absolute its character. + +It may have been observed that there is no regular path for getting out +of love as there is for getting in. Some people look upon marriage as a +short cut that way, but it has been known to fail. Separation, which +was the means that chance offered to Gabriel Oak by Bathsheba’s +disappearance, though effectual with people of certain humours, is apt +to idealize the removed object with others—notably those whose +affection, placid and regular as it may be, flows deep and long. Oak +belonged to the even-tempered order of humanity, and felt the secret +fusion of himself in Bathsheba to be burning with a finer flame now +that she was gone—that was all. + +His incipient friendship with her aunt had been nipped by the failure +of his suit, and all that Oak learnt of Bathsheba’s movements was done +indirectly. It appeared that she had gone to a place called +Weatherbury, more than twenty miles off, but in what capacity—whether +as a visitor, or permanently, he could not discover. + +Gabriel had two dogs. George, the elder, exhibited an ebony-tipped +nose, surrounded by a narrow margin of pink flesh, and a coat marked in +random splotches approximating in colour to white and slaty grey; but +the grey, after years of sun and rain, had been scorched and washed out +of the more prominent locks, leaving them of a reddish-brown, as if the +blue component of the grey had faded, like the indigo from the same +kind of colour in Turner’s pictures. In substance it had originally +been hair, but long contact with sheep seemed to be turning it by +degrees into wool of a poor quality and staple. + +This dog had originally belonged to a shepherd of inferior morals and +dreadful temper, and the result was that George knew the exact degrees +of condemnation signified by cursing and swearing of all descriptions +better than the wickedest old man in the neighbourhood. Long experience +had so precisely taught the animal the difference between such +exclamations as “Come in!” and “D–––– ye, come in!” that he knew to a +hair’s breadth the rate of trotting back from the ewes’ tails that each +call involved, if a staggerer with the sheep crook was to be escaped. +Though old, he was clever and trustworthy still. + +The young dog, George’s son, might possibly have been the image of his +mother, for there was not much resemblance between him and George. He +was learning the sheep-keeping business, so as to follow on at the +flock when the other should die, but had got no further than the +rudiments as yet—still finding an insuperable difficulty in +distinguishing between doing a thing well enough and doing it too well. +So earnest and yet so wrong-headed was this young dog (he had no name +in particular, and answered with perfect readiness to any pleasant +interjection), that if sent behind the flock to help them on, he did it +so thoroughly that he would have chased them across the whole county +with the greatest pleasure if not called off or reminded when to stop +by the example of old George. + +Thus much for the dogs. On the further side of Norcombe Hill was a +chalk-pit, from which chalk had been drawn for generations, and spread +over adjacent farms. Two hedges converged upon it in the form of a V, +but without quite meeting. The narrow opening left, which was +immediately over the brow of the pit, was protected by a rough railing. + +One night, when Farmer Oak had returned to his house, believing there +would be no further necessity for his attendance on the down, he called +as usual to the dogs, previously to shutting them up in the outhouse +till next morning. Only one responded—old George; the other could not +be found, either in the house, lane, or garden. Gabriel then remembered +that he had left the two dogs on the hill eating a dead lamb (a kind of +meat he usually kept from them, except when other food ran short), and +concluding that the young one had not finished his meal, he went +indoors to the luxury of a bed, which latterly he had only enjoyed on +Sundays. + +It was a still, moist night. Just before dawn he was assisted in waking +by the abnormal reverberation of familiar music. To the shepherd, the +note of the sheep-bell, like the ticking of the clock to other people, +is a chronic sound that only makes itself noticed by ceasing or +altering in some unusual manner from the well-known idle twinkle which +signifies to the accustomed ear, however distant, that all is well in +the fold. In the solemn calm of the awakening morn that note was heard +by Gabriel, beating with unusual violence and rapidity. This +exceptional ringing may be caused in two ways—by the rapid feeding of +the sheep bearing the bell, as when the flock breaks into new pasture, +which gives it an intermittent rapidity, or by the sheep starting off +in a run, when the sound has a regular palpitation. The experienced ear +of Oak knew the sound he now heard to be caused by the running of the +flock with great velocity. + +He jumped out of bed, dressed, tore down the lane through a foggy dawn, +and ascended the hill. The forward ewes were kept apart from those +among which the fall of lambs would be later, there being two hundred +of the latter class in Gabriel’s flock. These two hundred seemed to +have absolutely vanished from the hill. There were the fifty with their +lambs, enclosed at the other end as he had left them, but the rest, +forming the bulk of the flock, were nowhere. Gabriel called at the top +of his voice the shepherd’s call: + +“Ovey, ovey, ovey!” + +Not a single bleat. He went to the hedge; a gap had been broken through +it, and in the gap were the footprints of the sheep. Rather surprised +to find them break fence at this season, yet putting it down instantly +to their great fondness for ivy in winter-time, of which a great deal +grew in the plantation, he followed through the hedge. They were not in +the plantation. He called again: the valleys and farthest hills +resounded as when the sailors invoked the lost Hylas on the Mysian +shore; but no sheep. He passed through the trees and along the ridge of +the hill. On the extreme summit, where the ends of the two converging +hedges of which we have spoken were stopped short by meeting the brow +of the chalk-pit, he saw the younger dog standing against the sky—dark +and motionless as Napoleon at St. Helena. + +A horrible conviction darted through Oak. With a sensation of bodily +faintness he advanced: at one point the rails were broken through, and +there he saw the footprints of his ewes. The dog came up, licked his +hand, and made signs implying that he expected some great reward for +signal services rendered. Oak looked over the precipice. The ewes lay +dead and dying at its foot—a heap of two hundred mangled carcasses, +representing in their condition just now at least two hundred more. + +Oak was an intensely humane man: indeed, his humanity often tore in +pieces any politic intentions of his which bordered on strategy, and +carried him on as by gravitation. A shadow in his life had always been +that his flock ended in mutton—that a day came and found every shepherd +an arrant traitor to his defenseless sheep. His first feeling now was +one of pity for the untimely fate of these gentle ewes and their unborn +lambs. + +It was a second to remember another phase of the matter. The sheep were +not insured. All the savings of a frugal life had been dispersed at a +blow; his hopes of being an independent farmer were laid low—possibly +for ever. Gabriel’s energies, patience, and industry had been so +severely taxed during the years of his life between eighteen and +eight-and-twenty, to reach his present stage of progress that no more +seemed to be left in him. He leant down upon a rail, and covered his +face with his hands. + +Stupors, however, do not last for ever, and Farmer Oak recovered from +his. It was as remarkable as it was characteristic that the one +sentence he uttered was in thankfulness:— + +“Thank God I am not married: what would _she_ have done in the poverty +now coming upon me!” + +Oak raised his head, and wondering what he could do, listlessly +surveyed the scene. By the outer margin of the Pit was an oval pond, +and over it hung the attenuated skeleton of a chrome-yellow moon which +had only a few days to last—the morning star dogging her on the left +hand. The pool glittered like a dead man’s eye, and as the world awoke +a breeze blew, shaking and elongating the reflection of the moon +without breaking it, and turning the image of the star to a phosphoric +streak upon the water. All this Oak saw and remembered. + +As far as could be learnt it appeared that the poor young dog, still +under the impression that since he was kept for running after sheep, +the more he ran after them the better, had at the end of his meal off +the dead lamb, which may have given him additional energy and spirits, +collected all the ewes into a corner, driven the timid creatures +through the hedge, across the upper field, and by main force of +worrying had given them momentum enough to break down a portion of the +rotten railing, and so hurled them over the edge. + +George’s son had done his work so thoroughly that he was considered too +good a workman to live, and was, in fact, taken and tragically shot at +twelve o’clock that same day—another instance of the untoward fate +which so often attends dogs and other philosophers who follow out a +train of reasoning to its logical conclusion, and attempt perfectly +consistent conduct in a world made up so largely of compromise. + +Gabriel’s farm had been stocked by a dealer—on the strength of Oak’s +promising look and character—who was receiving a percentage from the +farmer till such time as the advance should be cleared off. Oak found +that the value of stock, plant, and implements which were really his +own would be about sufficient to pay his debts, leaving himself a free +man with the clothes he stood up in, and nothing more. + + + + +CHAPTER VI +THE FAIR—THE JOURNEY—THE FIRE + + +Two months passed away. We are brought on to a day in February, on +which was held the yearly statute or hiring fair in the county-town of +Casterbridge. + +At one end of the street stood from two to three hundred blithe and +hearty labourers waiting upon Chance—all men of the stamp to whom +labour suggests nothing worse than a wrestle with gravitation, and +pleasure nothing better than a renunciation of the same. Among these, +carters and waggoners were distinguished by having a piece of whip-cord +twisted round their hats; thatchers wore a fragment of woven straw; +shepherds held their sheep-crooks in their hands; and thus the +situation required was known to the hirers at a glance. + +In the crowd was an athletic young fellow of somewhat superior +appearance to the rest—in fact, his superiority was marked enough to +lead several ruddy peasants standing by to speak to him inquiringly, as +to a farmer, and to use “Sir” as a finishing word. His answer always +was,— + +“I am looking for a place myself—a bailiff’s. Do ye know of anybody who +wants one?” + +Gabriel was paler now. His eyes were more meditative, and his +expression was more sad. He had passed through an ordeal of +wretchedness which had given him more than it had taken away. He had +sunk from his modest elevation as pastoral king into the very +slime-pits of Siddim; but there was left to him a dignified calm he had +never before known, and that indifference to fate which, though it +often makes a villain of a man, is the basis of his sublimity when it +does not. And thus the abasement had been exaltation, and the loss +gain. + +In the morning a regiment of cavalry had left the town, and a sergeant +and his party had been beating up for recruits through the four +streets. As the end of the day drew on, and he found himself not hired, +Gabriel almost wished that he had joined them, and gone off to serve +his country. Weary of standing in the market-place, and not much +minding the kind of work he turned his hand to, he decided to offer +himself in some other capacity than that of bailiff. + +All the farmers seemed to be wanting shepherds. Sheep-tending was +Gabriel’s speciality. Turning down an obscure street and entering an +obscurer lane, he went up to a smith’s shop. + +“How long would it take you to make a shepherd’s crook?” + +“Twenty minutes.” + +“How much?” + +“Two shillings.” + +He sat on a bench and the crook was made, a stem being given him into +the bargain. + +He then went to a ready-made clothes’ shop, the owner of which had a +large rural connection. As the crook had absorbed most of Gabriel’s +money, he attempted, and carried out, an exchange of his overcoat for a +shepherd’s regulation smock-frock. + +This transaction having been completed, he again hurried off to the +centre of the town, and stood on the kerb of the pavement, as a +shepherd, crook in hand. + +Now that Oak had turned himself into a shepherd, it seemed that +bailiffs were most in demand. However, two or three farmers noticed him +and drew near. Dialogues followed, more or less in the subjoined form:— + +“Where do you come from?” + +“Norcombe.” + +“That’s a long way. + +“Fifteen miles.” + +“Who’s farm were you upon last?” + +“My own.” + +This reply invariably operated like a rumour of cholera. The inquiring +farmer would edge away and shake his head dubiously. Gabriel, like his +dog, was too good to be trustworthy, and he never made advance beyond +this point. + +It is safer to accept any chance that offers itself, and extemporize a +procedure to fit it, than to get a good plan matured, and wait for a +chance of using it. Gabriel wished he had not nailed up his colours as +a shepherd, but had laid himself out for anything in the whole cycle of +labour that was required in the fair. It grew dusk. Some merry men were +whistling and singing by the corn-exchange. Gabriel’s hand, which had +lain for some time idle in his smock-frock pocket, touched his flute +which he carried there. Here was an opportunity for putting his dearly +bought wisdom into practice. + +He drew out his flute and began to play “Jockey to the Fair” in the +style of a man who had never known a moment’s sorrow. Oak could pipe +with Arcadian sweetness, and the sound of the well-known notes cheered +his own heart as well as those of the loungers. He played on with +spirit, and in half an hour had earned in pence what was a small +fortune to a destitute man. + +By making inquiries he learnt that there was another fair at Shottsford +the next day. + +“How far is Shottsford?” + +“Ten miles t’other side of Weatherbury.” + +Weatherbury! It was where Bathsheba had gone two months before. This +information was like coming from night into noon. + +“How far is it to Weatherbury?” + +“Five or six miles.” + +Bathsheba had probably left Weatherbury long before this time, but the +place had enough interest attaching to it to lead Oak to choose +Shottsford fair as his next field of inquiry, because it lay in the +Weatherbury quarter. Moreover, the Weatherbury folk were by no means +uninteresting intrinsically. If report spoke truly they were as hardy, +merry, thriving, wicked a set as any in the whole county. Oak resolved +to sleep at Weatherbury that night on his way to Shottsford, and struck +out at once into the high road which had been recommended as the direct +route to the village in question. + +The road stretched through water-meadows traversed by little brooks, +whose quivering surfaces were braided along their centres, and folded +into creases at the sides; or, where the flow was more rapid, the +stream was pied with spots of white froth, which rode on in undisturbed +serenity. On the higher levels the dead and dry carcasses of leaves +tapped the ground as they bowled along helter-skelter upon the +shoulders of the wind, and little birds in the hedges were rustling +their feathers and tucking themselves in comfortably for the night, +retaining their places if Oak kept moving, but flying away if he +stopped to look at them. He passed by Yalbury Wood where the game-birds +were rising to their roosts, and heard the crack-voiced cock-pheasants +“cu-uck, cuck,” and the wheezy whistle of the hens. + +By the time he had walked three or four miles every shape in the +landscape had assumed a uniform hue of blackness. He descended Yalbury +Hill and could just discern ahead of him a waggon, drawn up under a +great over-hanging tree by the roadside. + +On coming close, he found there were no horses attached to it, the spot +being apparently quite deserted. The waggon, from its position, seemed +to have been left there for the night, for beyond about half a truss of +hay which was heaped in the bottom, it was quite empty. Gabriel sat +down on the shafts of the vehicle and considered his position. He +calculated that he had walked a very fair proportion of the journey; +and having been on foot since daybreak, he felt tempted to lie down +upon the hay in the waggon instead of pushing on to the village of +Weatherbury, and having to pay for a lodging. + +Eating his last slices of bread and ham, and drinking from the bottle +of cider he had taken the precaution to bring with him, he got into the +lonely waggon. Here he spread half of the hay as a bed, and, as well as +he could in the darkness, pulled the other half over him by way of +bed-clothes, covering himself entirely, and feeling, physically, as +comfortable as ever he had been in his life. Inward melancholy it was +impossible for a man like Oak, introspective far beyond his neighbours, +to banish quite, whilst conning the present untoward page of his +history. So, thinking of his misfortunes, amorous and pastoral, he fell +asleep, shepherds enjoying, in common with sailors, the privilege of +being able to summon the god instead of having to wait for him. + +On somewhat suddenly awaking, after a sleep of whose length he had no +idea, Oak found that the waggon was in motion. He was being carried +along the road at a rate rather considerable for a vehicle without +springs, and under circumstances of physical uneasiness, his head being +dandled up and down on the bed of the waggon like a kettledrum-stick. +He then distinguished voices in conversation, coming from the forpart +of the waggon. His concern at this dilemma (which would have been +alarm, had he been a thriving man; but misfortune is a fine opiate to +personal terror) led him to peer cautiously from the hay, and the first +sight he beheld was the stars above him. Charles’s Wain was getting +towards a right angle with the Pole star, and Gabriel concluded that it +must be about nine o’clock—in other words, that he had slept two hours. +This small astronomical calculation was made without any positive +effort, and whilst he was stealthily turning to discover, if possible, +into whose hands he had fallen. + +Two figures were dimly visible in front, sitting with their legs +outside the waggon, one of whom was driving. Gabriel soon found that +this was the waggoner, and it appeared they had come from Casterbridge +fair, like himself. + +A conversation was in progress, which continued thus:— + +“Be as ’twill, she’s a fine handsome body as far’s looks be concerned. +But that’s only the skin of the woman, and these dandy cattle be as +proud as a lucifer in their insides.” + +“Ay—so ’a do seem, Billy Smallbury—so ’a do seem.” This utterance was +very shaky by nature, and more so by circumstance, the jolting of the +waggon not being without its effect upon the speaker’s larynx. It came +from the man who held the reins. + +“She’s a very vain feymell—so ’tis said here and there.” + +“Ah, now. If so be ’tis like that, I can’t look her in the face. Lord, +no: not I—heh-heh-heh! Such a shy man as I be!” + +“Yes—she’s very vain. ’Tis said that every night at going to bed she +looks in the glass to put on her night-cap properly.” + +“And not a married woman. Oh, the world!” + +“And ’a can play the peanner, so ’tis said. Can play so clever that ’a +can make a psalm tune sound as well as the merriest loose song a man +can wish for.” + +“D’ye tell o’t! A happy time for us, and I feel quite a new man! And +how do she pay?” + +“That I don’t know, Master Poorgrass.” + +On hearing these and other similar remarks, a wild thought flashed into +Gabriel’s mind that they might be speaking of Bathsheba. There were, +however, no grounds for retaining such a supposition, for the waggon, +though going in the direction of Weatherbury, might be going beyond it, +and the woman alluded to seemed to be the mistress of some estate. They +were now apparently close upon Weatherbury and not to alarm the +speakers unnecessarily, Gabriel slipped out of the waggon unseen. + +He turned to an opening in the hedge, which he found to be a gate, and +mounting thereon, he sat meditating whether to seek a cheap lodging in +the village, or to ensure a cheaper one by lying under some hay or +corn-stack. The crunching jangle of the waggon died upon his ear. He +was about to walk on, when he noticed on his left hand an unusual +light—appearing about half a mile distant. Oak watched it, and the glow +increased. Something was on fire. + +Gabriel again mounted the gate, and, leaping down on the other side +upon what he found to be ploughed soil, made across the field in the +exact direction of the fire. The blaze, enlarging in a double ratio by +his approach and its own increase, showed him as he drew nearer the +outlines of ricks beside it, lighted up to great distinctness. A +rick-yard was the source of the fire. His weary face now began to be +painted over with a rich orange glow, and the whole front of his +smock-frock and gaiters was covered with a dancing shadow pattern of +thorn-twigs—the light reaching him through a leafless intervening +hedge—and the metallic curve of his sheep-crook shone silver-bright in +the same abounding rays. He came up to the boundary fence, and stood to +regain breath. It seemed as if the spot was unoccupied by a living +soul. + +The fire was issuing from a long straw-stack, which was so far gone as +to preclude a possibility of saving it. A rick burns differently from a +house. As the wind blows the fire inwards, the portion in flames +completely disappears like melting sugar, and the outline is lost to +the eye. However, a hay or a wheat-rick, well put together, will resist +combustion for a length of time, if it begins on the outside. + +This before Gabriel’s eyes was a rick of straw, loosely put together, +and the flames darted into it with lightning swiftness. It glowed on +the windward side, rising and falling in intensity, like the coal of a +cigar. Then a superincumbent bundle rolled down, with a whisking noise; +flames elongated, and bent themselves about with a quiet roar, but no +crackle. Banks of smoke went off horizontally at the back like passing +clouds, and behind these burned hidden pyres, illuminating the +semi-transparent sheet of smoke to a lustrous yellow uniformity. +Individual straws in the foreground were consumed in a creeping +movement of ruddy heat, as if they were knots of red worms, and above +shone imaginary fiery faces, tongues hanging from lips, glaring eyes, +and other impish forms, from which at intervals sparks flew in clusters +like birds from a nest. + +Oak suddenly ceased from being a mere spectator by discovering the case +to be more serious than he had at first imagined. A scroll of smoke +blew aside and revealed to him a wheat-rick in startling juxtaposition +with the decaying one, and behind this a series of others, composing +the main corn produce of the farm; so that instead of the straw-stack +standing, as he had imagined comparatively isolated, there was a +regular connection between it and the remaining stacks of the group. + +Gabriel leapt over the hedge, and saw that he was not alone. The first +man he came to was running about in a great hurry, as if his thoughts +were several yards in advance of his body, which they could never drag +on fast enough. + +“O, man—fire, fire! A good master and a bad servant is fire, fire!—I +mane a bad servant and a good master. Oh, Mark Clark—come! And you, +Billy Smallbury—and you, Maryann Money—and you, Jan Coggan, and Matthew +there!” Other figures now appeared behind this shouting man and among +the smoke, and Gabriel found that, far from being alone he was in a +great company—whose shadows danced merrily up and down, timed by the +jigging of the flames, and not at all by their owners’ movements. The +assemblage—belonging to that class of society which casts its thoughts +into the form of feeling, and its feelings into the form of +commotion—set to work with a remarkable confusion of purpose. + +“Stop the draught under the wheat-rick!” cried Gabriel to those nearest +to him. The corn stood on stone staddles, and between these, tongues of +yellow hue from the burning straw licked and darted playfully. If the +fire once got _under_ this stack, all would be lost. + +“Get a tarpaulin—quick!” said Gabriel. + +A rick-cloth was brought, and they hung it like a curtain across the +channel. The flames immediately ceased to go under the bottom of the +corn-stack, and stood up vertical. + +“Stand here with a bucket of water and keep the cloth wet.” said +Gabriel again. + +The flames, now driven upwards, began to attack the angles of the huge +roof covering the wheat-stack. + +“A ladder,” cried Gabriel. + +“The ladder was against the straw-rick and is burnt to a cinder,” said +a spectre-like form in the smoke. + +Oak seized the cut ends of the sheaves, as if he were going to engage +in the operation of “reed-drawing,” and digging in his feet, and +occasionally sticking in the stem of his sheep-crook, he clambered up +the beetling face. He at once sat astride the very apex, and began with +his crook to beat off the fiery fragments which had lodged thereon, +shouting to the others to get him a bough and a ladder, and some water. + +Billy Smallbury—one of the men who had been on the waggon—by this time +had found a ladder, which Mark Clark ascended, holding on beside Oak +upon the thatch. The smoke at this corner was stifling, and Clark, a +nimble fellow, having been handed a bucket of water, bathed Oak’s face +and sprinkled him generally, whilst Gabriel, now with a long +beech-bough in one hand, in addition to his crook in the other, kept +sweeping the stack and dislodging all fiery particles. + +On the ground the groups of villagers were still occupied in doing all +they could to keep down the conflagration, which was not much. They +were all tinged orange, and backed up by shadows of varying pattern. +Round the corner of the largest stack, out of the direct rays of the +fire, stood a pony, bearing a young woman on its back. By her side was +another woman, on foot. These two seemed to keep at a distance from the +fire, that the horse might not become restive. + +“He’s a shepherd,” said the woman on foot. “Yes—he is. See how his +crook shines as he beats the rick with it. And his smock-frock is burnt +in two holes, I declare! A fine young shepherd he is too, ma’am.” + +“Whose shepherd is he?” said the equestrian in a clear voice. + +“Don’t know, ma’am.” + +“Don’t any of the others know?” + +“Nobody at all—I’ve asked ’em. Quite a stranger, they say.” + +The young woman on the pony rode out from the shade and looked +anxiously around. + +“Do you think the barn is safe?” she said. + +“D’ye think the barn is safe, Jan Coggan?” said the second woman, +passing on the question to the nearest man in that direction. + +“Safe now—leastwise I think so. If this rick had gone the barn would +have followed. ’Tis that bold shepherd up there that have done the most +good—he sitting on the top o’ rick, whizzing his great long arms about +like a windmill.” + +“He does work hard,” said the young woman on horseback, looking up at +Gabriel through her thick woollen veil. “I wish he was shepherd here. +Don’t any of you know his name.” + +“Never heard the man’s name in my life, or seed his form afore.” + +The fire began to get worsted, and Gabriel’s elevated position being no +longer required of him, he made as if to descend. + +“Maryann,” said the girl on horseback, “go to him as he comes down, and +say that the farmer wishes to thank him for the great service he has +done.” + +Maryann stalked off towards the rick and met Oak at the foot of the +ladder. She delivered her message. + +“Where is your master the farmer?” asked Gabriel, kindling with the +idea of getting employment that seemed to strike him now. + +“’Tisn’t a master; ’tis a mistress, shepherd.” + +“A woman farmer?” + +“Ay, ’a b’lieve, and a rich one too!” said a bystander. “Lately ’a came +here from a distance. Took on her uncle’s farm, who died suddenly. Used +to measure his money in half-pint cups. They say now that she’ve +business in every bank in Casterbridge, and thinks no more of playing +pitch-and-toss sovereign than you and I do pitch-halfpenny—not a bit in +the world, shepherd.” + +“That’s she, back there upon the pony,” said Maryann; “wi’ her face +a-covered up in that black cloth with holes in it.” + +Oak, his features smudged, grimy, and undiscoverable from the smoke and +heat, his smock-frock burnt into holes and dripping with water, the ash +stem of his sheep-crook charred six inches shorter, advanced with the +humility stern adversity had thrust upon him up to the slight female +form in the saddle. He lifted his hat with respect, and not without +gallantry: stepping close to her hanging feet he said in a hesitating +voice,— + +“Do you happen to want a shepherd, ma’am?” + +She lifted the wool veil tied round her face, and looked all +astonishment. Gabriel and his cold-hearted darling, Bathsheba Everdene, +were face to face. + +Bathsheba did not speak, and he mechanically repeated in an abashed and +sad voice,— + +“Do you want a shepherd, ma’am?” + + + + +CHAPTER VII +RECOGNITION—A TIMID GIRL + + +Bathsheba withdrew into the shade. She scarcely knew whether most to be +amused at the singularity of the meeting, or to be concerned at its +awkwardness. There was room for a little pity, also for a very little +exultation: the former at his position, the latter at her own. +Embarrassed she was not, and she remembered Gabriel’s declaration of +love to her at Norcombe only to think she had nearly forgotten it. + +“Yes,” she murmured, putting on an air of dignity, and turning again to +him with a little warmth of cheek; “I do want a shepherd. But—” + +“He’s the very man, ma’am,” said one of the villagers, quietly. + +Conviction breeds conviction. “Ay, that ’a is,” said a second, +decisively. + +“The man, truly!” said a third, with heartiness. + +“He’s all there!” said number four, fervidly. + +“Then will you tell him to speak to the bailiff?” said Bathsheba. + +All was practical again now. A summer eve and loneliness would have +been necessary to give the meeting its proper fulness of romance. + +The bailiff was pointed out to Gabriel, who, checking the palpitation +within his breast at discovering that this Ashtoreth of strange report +was only a modification of Venus the well-known and admired, retired +with him to talk over the necessary preliminaries of hiring. + +The fire before them wasted away. “Men,” said Bathsheba, “you shall +take a little refreshment after this extra work. Will you come to the +house?” + +“We could knock in a bit and a drop a good deal freer, Miss, if so be +ye’d send it to Warren’s Malthouse,” replied the spokesman. + +Bathsheba then rode off into the darkness, and the men straggled on to +the village in twos and threes—Oak and the bailiff being left by the +rick alone. + +“And now,” said the bailiff, finally, “all is settled, I think, about +your coming, and I am going home-along. Good-night to ye, shepherd.” + +“Can you get me a lodging?” inquired Gabriel. + +“That I can’t, indeed,” he said, moving past Oak as a Christian edges +past an offertory-plate when he does not mean to contribute. “If you +follow on the road till you come to Warren’s Malthouse, where they are +all gone to have their snap of victuals, I daresay some of ’em will +tell you of a place. Good-night to ye, shepherd.” + +The bailiff who showed this nervous dread of loving his neighbour as +himself, went up the hill, and Oak walked on to the village, still +astonished at the reencounter with Bathsheba, glad of his nearness to +her, and perplexed at the rapidity with which the unpractised girl of +Norcombe had developed into the supervising and cool woman here. But +some women only require an emergency to make them fit for one. + +Obliged, to some extent, to forgo dreaming in order to find the way, he +reached the churchyard, and passed round it under the wall where +several ancient trees grew. There was a wide margin of grass along +here, and Gabriel’s footsteps were deadened by its softness, even at +this indurating period of the year. When abreast of a trunk which +appeared to be the oldest of the old, he became aware that a figure was +standing behind it. Gabriel did not pause in his walk, and in another +moment he accidentally kicked a loose stone. The noise was enough to +disturb the motionless stranger, who started and assumed a careless +position. + +It was a slim girl, rather thinly clad. + +“Good-night to you,” said Gabriel, heartily. + +“Good-night,” said the girl to Gabriel. + +The voice was unexpectedly attractive; it was the low and dulcet note +suggestive of romance; common in descriptions, rare in experience. + +“I’ll thank you to tell me if I’m in the way for Warren’s Malthouse?” +Gabriel resumed, primarily to gain the information, indirectly to get +more of the music. + +“Quite right. It’s at the bottom of the hill. And do you know—” The +girl hesitated and then went on again. “Do you know how late they keep +open the Buck’s Head Inn?” She seemed to be won by Gabriel’s +heartiness, as Gabriel had been won by her modulations. + +“I don’t know where the Buck’s Head is, or anything about it. Do you +think of going there to-night?” + +“Yes—” The woman again paused. There was no necessity for any +continuance of speech, and the fact that she did add more seemed to +proceed from an unconscious desire to show unconcern by making a +remark, which is noticeable in the ingenuous when they are acting by +stealth. “You are not a Weatherbury man?” she said, timorously. + +“I am not. I am the new shepherd—just arrived.” + +“Only a shepherd—and you seem almost a farmer by your ways.” + +“Only a shepherd,” Gabriel repeated, in a dull cadence of finality. His +thoughts were directed to the past, his eyes to the feet of the girl; +and for the first time he saw lying there a bundle of some sort. She +may have perceived the direction of his face, for she said coaxingly,— + +“You won’t say anything in the parish about having seen me here, will +you—at least, not for a day or two?” + +“I won’t if you wish me not to,” said Oak. + +“Thank you, indeed,” the other replied. “I am rather poor, and I don’t +want people to know anything about me.” Then she was silent and +shivered. + +“You ought to have a cloak on such a cold night,” Gabriel observed. “I +would advise ’ee to get indoors.” + +“O no! Would you mind going on and leaving me? I thank you much for +what you have told me.” + +“I will go on,” he said; adding hesitatingly,—“Since you are not very +well off, perhaps you would accept this trifle from me. It is only a +shilling, but it is all I have to spare.” + +“Yes, I will take it,” said the stranger gratefully. + +She extended her hand; Gabriel his. In feeling for each other’s palm in +the gloom before the money could be passed, a minute incident occurred +which told much. Gabriel’s fingers alighted on the young woman’s wrist. +It was beating with a throb of tragic intensity. He had frequently felt +the same quick, hard beat in the femoral artery of his lambs when +overdriven. It suggested a consumption too great of a vitality which, +to judge from her figure and stature, was already too little. + +“What is the matter?” + +“Nothing.” + +“But there is?” + +“No, no, no! Let your having seen me be a secret!” + +“Very well; I will. Good-night, again.” + +“Good-night.” + +The young girl remained motionless by the tree, and Gabriel descended +into the village of Weatherbury, or Lower Longpuddle as it was +sometimes called. He fancied that he had felt himself in the penumbra +of a very deep sadness when touching that slight and fragile creature. +But wisdom lies in moderating mere impressions, and Gabriel endeavoured +to think little of this. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII +THE MALTHOUSE—THE CHAT—NEWS + + +Warren’s Malthouse was enclosed by an old wall inwrapped with ivy, and +though not much of the exterior was visible at this hour, the character +and purposes of the building were clearly enough shown by its outline +upon the sky. From the walls an overhanging thatched roof sloped up to +a point in the centre, upon which rose a small wooden lantern, fitted +with louvre-boards on all the four sides, and from these openings a +mist was dimly perceived to be escaping into the night air. There was +no window in front; but a square hole in the door was glazed with a +single pane, through which red, comfortable rays now stretched out upon +the ivied wall in front. Voices were to be heard inside. + +Oak’s hand skimmed the surface of the door with fingers extended to an +Elymas-the-Sorcerer pattern, till he found a leathern strap, which he +pulled. This lifted a wooden latch, and the door swung open. + +The room inside was lighted only by the ruddy glow from the kiln mouth, +which shone over the floor with the streaming horizontality of the +setting sun, and threw upwards the shadows of all facial irregularities +in those assembled around. The stone-flag floor was worn into a path +from the doorway to the kiln, and into undulations everywhere. A curved +settle of unplaned oak stretched along one side, and in a remote corner +was a small bed and bedstead, the owner and frequent occupier of which +was the maltster. + +This aged man was now sitting opposite the fire, his frosty white hair +and beard overgrowing his gnarled figure like the grey moss and lichen +upon a leafless apple-tree. He wore breeches and the laced-up shoes +called ankle-jacks; he kept his eyes fixed upon the fire. + +Gabriel’s nose was greeted by an atmosphere laden with the sweet smell +of new malt. The conversation (which seemed to have been concerning the +origin of the fire) immediately ceased, and every one ocularly +criticised him to the degree expressed by contracting the flesh of +their foreheads and looking at him with narrowed eyelids, as if he had +been a light too strong for their sight. Several exclaimed +meditatively, after this operation had been completed:— + +“Oh, ’tis the new shepherd, ’a b’lieve.” + +“We thought we heard a hand pawing about the door for the bobbin, but +weren’t sure ’twere not a dead leaf blowed across,” said another. “Come +in, shepherd; sure ye be welcome, though we don’t know yer name.” + +“Gabriel Oak, that’s my name, neighbours.” + +The ancient maltster sitting in the midst turned at this—his turning +being as the turning of a rusty crane. + +“That’s never Gable Oak’s grandson over at Norcombe—never!” he said, as +a formula expressive of surprise, which nobody was supposed for a +moment to take literally. + +“My father and my grandfather were old men of the name of Gabriel,” +said the shepherd, placidly. + +“Thought I knowed the man’s face as I seed him on the rick!—thought I +did! And where be ye trading o’t to now, shepherd?” + +“I’m thinking of biding here,” said Mr. Oak. + +“Knowed yer grandfather for years and years!” continued the maltster, +the words coming forth of their own accord as if the momentum +previously imparted had been sufficient. + +“Ah—and did you!” + +“Knowed yer grandmother.” + +“And her too!” + +“Likewise knowed yer father when he was a child. Why, my boy Jacob +there and your father were sworn brothers—that they were sure—weren’t +ye, Jacob?” + +“Ay, sure,” said his son, a young man about sixty-five, with a +semi-bald head and one tooth in the left centre of his upper jaw, which +made much of itself by standing prominent, like a milestone in a bank. +“But ’twas Joe had most to do with him. However, my son William must +have knowed the very man afore us—didn’t ye, Billy, afore ye left +Norcombe?” + +“No, ’twas Andrew,” said Jacob’s son Billy, a child of forty, or +thereabouts, who manifested the peculiarity of possessing a cheerful +soul in a gloomy body, and whose whiskers were assuming a chinchilla +shade here and there. + +“I can mind Andrew,” said Oak, “as being a man in the place when I was +quite a child.” + +“Ay—the other day I and my youngest daughter, Liddy, were over at my +grandson’s christening,” continued Billy. “We were talking about this +very family, and ’twas only last Purification Day in this very world, +when the use-money is gied away to the second-best poor folk, you know, +shepherd, and I can mind the day because they all had to traypse up to +the vestry—yes, this very man’s family.” + +“Come, shepherd, and drink. ’Tis gape and swaller with us—a drap of +sommit, but not of much account,” said the maltster, removing from the +fire his eyes, which were vermilion-red and bleared by gazing into it +for so many years. “Take up the God-forgive-me, Jacob. See if ’tis +warm, Jacob.” + +Jacob stooped to the God-forgive-me, which was a two-handled tall mug +standing in the ashes, cracked and charred with heat: it was rather +furred with extraneous matter about the outside, especially in the +crevices of the handles, the innermost curves of which may not have +seen daylight for several years by reason of this encrustation +thereon—formed of ashes accidentally wetted with cider and baked hard; +but to the mind of any sensible drinker the cup was no worse for that, +being incontestably clean on the inside and about the rim. It may be +observed that such a class of mug is called a God-forgive-me in +Weatherbury and its vicinity for uncertain reasons; probably because +its size makes any given toper feel ashamed of himself when he sees its +bottom in drinking it empty. + +Jacob, on receiving the order to see if the liquor was warm enough, +placidly dipped his forefinger into it by way of thermometer, and +having pronounced it nearly of the proper degree, raised the cup and +very civilly attempted to dust some of the ashes from the bottom with +the skirt of his smock-frock, because Shepherd Oak was a stranger. + +“A clane cup for the shepherd,” said the maltster commandingly. + +“No—not at all,” said Gabriel, in a reproving tone of considerateness. +“I never fuss about dirt in its pure state, and when I know what sort +it is.” Taking the mug he drank an inch or more from the depth of its +contents, and duly passed it to the next man. “I wouldn’t think of +giving such trouble to neighbours in washing up when there’s so much +work to be done in the world already,” continued Oak in a moister tone, +after recovering from the stoppage of breath which is occasioned by +pulls at large mugs. + +“A right sensible man,” said Jacob. + +“True, true; it can’t be gainsaid!” observed a brisk young man—Mark +Clark by name, a genial and pleasant gentleman, whom to meet anywhere +in your travels was to know, to know was to drink with, and to drink +with was, unfortunately, to pay for. + +“And here’s a mouthful of bread and bacon that mis’ess have sent, +shepherd. The cider will go down better with a bit of victuals. Don’t +ye chaw quite close, shepherd, for I let the bacon fall in the road +outside as I was bringing it along, and may be ’tis rather gritty. +There, ’tis clane dirt; and we all know what that is, as you say, and +you bain’t a particular man we see, shepherd.” + +“True, true—not at all,” said the friendly Oak. + +“Don’t let your teeth quite meet, and you won’t feel the sandiness at +all. Ah! ’tis wonderful what can be done by contrivance!” + +“My own mind exactly, neighbour.” + +“Ah, he’s his grandfer’s own grandson!—his grandfer were just such a +nice unparticular man!” said the maltster. + +“Drink, Henry Fray—drink,” magnanimously said Jan Coggan, a person who +held Saint-Simonian notions of share and share alike where liquor was +concerned, as the vessel showed signs of approaching him in its gradual +revolution among them. + +Having at this moment reached the end of a wistful gaze into mid-air, +Henry did not refuse. He was a man of more than middle age, with +eyebrows high up in his forehead, who laid it down that the law of the +world was bad, with a long-suffering look through his listeners at the +world alluded to, as it presented itself to his imagination. He always +signed his name “Henery”—strenuously insisting upon that spelling, and +if any passing schoolmaster ventured to remark that the second “e” was +superfluous and old-fashioned, he received the reply that “H-e-n-e-r-y” +was the name he was christened and the name he would stick to—in the +tone of one to whom orthographical differences were matters which had a +great deal to do with personal character. + +Mr. Jan Coggan, who had passed the cup to Henery, was a crimson man +with a spacious countenance and private glimmer in his eye, whose name +had appeared on the marriage register of Weatherbury and neighbouring +parishes as best man and chief witness in countless unions of the +previous twenty years; he also very frequently filled the post of head +godfather in baptisms of the subtly-jovial kind. + +“Come, Mark Clark—come. Ther’s plenty more in the barrel,” said Jan. + +“Ay—that I will, ’tis my only doctor,” replied Mr. Clark, who, twenty +years younger than Jan Coggan, revolved in the same orbit. He secreted +mirth on all occasions for special discharge at popular parties. + +“Why, Joseph Poorgrass, ye han’t had a drop!” said Mr. Coggan to a +self-conscious man in the background, thrusting the cup towards him. + +“Such a modest man as he is!” said Jacob Smallbury. “Why, ye’ve hardly +had strength of eye enough to look in our young mis’ess’s face, so I +hear, Joseph?” + +All looked at Joseph Poorgrass with pitying reproach. + +“No—I’ve hardly looked at her at all,” simpered Joseph, reducing his +body smaller whilst talking, apparently from a meek sense of undue +prominence. “And when I seed her, ’twas nothing but blushes with me!” + +“Poor feller,” said Mr. Clark. + +“’Tis a curious nature for a man,” said Jan Coggan. + +“Yes,” continued Joseph Poorgrass—his shyness, which was so painful as +a defect, filling him with a mild complacency now that it was regarded +as an interesting study. “’Twere blush, blush, blush with me every +minute of the time, when she was speaking to me.” + +“I believe ye, Joseph Poorgrass, for we all know ye to be a very +bashful man.” + +“’Tis a’ awkward gift for a man, poor soul,” said the maltster. “And +how long have ye have suffered from it, Joseph?” + +“Oh, ever since I was a boy. Yes—mother was concerned to her heart +about it—yes. But ’twas all nought.” + +“Did ye ever go into the world to try and stop it, Joseph Poorgrass?” + +“Oh ay, tried all sorts o’ company. They took me to Greenhill Fair, and +into a great gay jerry-go-nimble show, where there were women-folk +riding round—standing upon horses, with hardly anything on but their +smocks; but it didn’t cure me a morsel. And then I was put errand-man +at the Women’s Skittle Alley at the back of the Tailor’s Arms in +Casterbridge. ’Twas a horrible sinful situation, and a very curious +place for a good man. I had to stand and look ba’dy people in the face +from morning till night; but ’twas no use—I was just as bad as ever +after all. Blushes hev been in the family for generations. There, ’tis +a happy providence that I be no worse.” + +“True,” said Jacob Smallbury, deepening his thoughts to a profounder +view of the subject. “’Tis a thought to look at, that ye might have +been worse; but even as you be, ’tis a very bad affliction for ’ee, +Joseph. For ye see, shepherd, though ’tis very well for a woman, dang +it all, ’tis awkward for a man like him, poor feller?” + +“’Tis—’tis,” said Gabriel, recovering from a meditation. “Yes, very +awkward for the man.” + +“Ay, and he’s very timid, too,” observed Jan Coggan. “Once he had been +working late at Yalbury Bottom, and had had a drap of drink, and lost +his way as he was coming home-along through Yalbury Wood, didn’t ye, +Master Poorgrass?” + +“No, no, no; not that story!” expostulated the modest man, forcing a +laugh to bury his concern. + +“—And so ’a lost himself quite,” continued Mr. Coggan, with an +impassive face, implying that a true narrative, like time and tide, +must run its course and would respect no man. “And as he was coming +along in the middle of the night, much afeared, and not able to find +his way out of the trees nohow, ’a cried out, ‘Man-a-lost! man-a-lost!’ +A owl in a tree happened to be crying ‘Whoo-whoo-whoo!’ as owls do, you +know, shepherd” (Gabriel nodded), “and Joseph, all in a tremble, said, +‘Joseph Poorgrass, of Weatherbury, sir!’” + +“No, no, now—that’s too much!” said the timid man, becoming a man of +brazen courage all of a sudden. “I didn’t say _sir_. I’ll take my oath +I didn’t say ‘Joseph Poorgrass o’ Weatherbury, sir.’ No, no; what’s +right is right, and I never said sir to the bird, knowing very well +that no man of a gentleman’s rank would be hollering there at that time +o’ night. ‘Joseph Poorgrass of Weatherbury,’—that’s every word I said, +and I shouldn’t ha’ said that if ’t hadn’t been for Keeper Day’s +metheglin.... There, ’twas a merciful thing it ended where it did.” + +The question of which was right being tacitly waived by the company, +Jan went on meditatively:— + +“And he’s the fearfullest man, bain’t ye, Joseph? Ay, another time ye +were lost by Lambing-Down Gate, weren’t ye, Joseph?” + +“I was,” replied Poorgrass, as if there were some conditions too +serious even for modesty to remember itself under, this being one. + +“Yes; that were the middle of the night, too. The gate would not open, +try how he would, and knowing there was the Devil’s hand in it, he +kneeled down.” + +“Ay,” said Joseph, acquiring confidence from the warmth of the fire, +the cider, and a perception of the narrative capabilities of the +experience alluded to. “My heart died within me, that time; but I +kneeled down and said the Lord’s Prayer, and then the Belief right +through, and then the Ten Commandments, in earnest prayer. But no, the +gate wouldn’t open; and then I went on with Dearly Beloved Brethren, +and, thinks I, this makes four, and ’tis all I know out of book, and if +this don’t do it nothing will, and I’m a lost man. Well, when I got to +Saying After Me, I rose from my knees and found the gate would +open—yes, neighbours, the gate opened the same as ever.” + +A meditation on the obvious inference was indulged in by all, and +during its continuance each directed his vision into the ashpit, which +glowed like a desert in the tropics under a vertical sun, shaping their +eyes long and liny, partly because of the light, partly from the depth +of the subject discussed. + +Gabriel broke the silence. “What sort of a place is this to live at, +and what sort of a mis’ess is she to work under?” Gabriel’s bosom +thrilled gently as he thus slipped under the notice of the assembly the +inner-most subject of his heart. + +“We d’ know little of her—nothing. She only showed herself a few days +ago. Her uncle was took bad, and the doctor was called with his +world-wide skill; but he couldn’t save the man. As I take it, she’s +going to keep on the farm. + +“That’s about the shape o’t, ’a b’lieve,” said Jan Coggan. “Ay, ’tis a +very good family. I’d as soon be under ’em as under one here and there. +Her uncle was a very fair sort of man. Did ye know en, shepherd—a +bachelor-man?” + +“Not at all.” + +“I used to go to his house a-courting my first wife, Charlotte, who was +his dairymaid. Well, a very good-hearted man were Farmer Everdene, and +I being a respectable young fellow was allowed to call and see her and +drink as much ale as I liked, but not to carry away any—outside my skin +I mane of course.” + +“Ay, ay, Jan Coggan; we know yer maning.” + +“And so you see ’twas beautiful ale, and I wished to value his kindness +as much as I could, and not to be so ill-mannered as to drink only a +thimbleful, which would have been insulting the man’s generosity—” + +“True, Master Coggan, ’twould so,” corroborated Mark Clark. + +“—And so I used to eat a lot of salt fish afore going, and then by the +time I got there I were as dry as a lime-basket—so thorough dry that +that ale would slip down—ah, ’twould slip down sweet! Happy times! +Heavenly times! Such lovely drunks as I used to have at that house! You +can mind, Jacob? You used to go wi’ me sometimes.” + +“I can—I can,” said Jacob. “That one, too, that we had at Buck’s Head +on a White Monday was a pretty tipple.” + +“’Twas. But for a wet of the better class, that brought you no nearer +to the horned man than you were afore you begun, there was none like +those in Farmer Everdene’s kitchen. Not a single damn allowed; no, not +a bare poor one, even at the most cheerful moment when all were +blindest, though the good old word of sin thrown in here and there at +such times is a great relief to a merry soul.” + +“True,” said the maltster. “Nater requires her swearing at the regular +times, or she’s not herself; and unholy exclamations is a necessity of +life.” + +“But Charlotte,” continued Coggan—“not a word of the sort would +Charlotte allow, nor the smallest item of taking in vain.... Ay, poor +Charlotte, I wonder if she had the good fortune to get into Heaven when +’a died! But ’a was never much in luck’s way, and perhaps ’a went +downwards after all, poor soul.” + +“And did any of you know Miss Everdene’s father and mother?” inquired +the shepherd, who found some difficulty in keeping the conversation in +the desired channel. + +“I knew them a little,” said Jacob Smallbury; “but they were townsfolk, +and didn’t live here. They’ve been dead for years. Father, what sort of +people were mis’ess’ father and mother?” + +“Well,” said the maltster, “he wasn’t much to look at; but she was a +lovely woman. He was fond enough of her as his sweetheart.” + +“Used to kiss her scores and long-hundreds o’ times, so ’twas said,” +observed Coggan. + +“He was very proud of her, too, when they were married, as I’ve been +told,” said the maltster. +“Ay,” said Coggan. “He admired her so much that he used to light the +candle three times a night to look at her.” + +“Boundless love; I shouldn’t have supposed it in the universe!” +murmured Joseph Poorgrass, who habitually spoke on a large scale in his +moral reflections. + +“Well, to be sure,” said Gabriel. + +“Oh, ’tis true enough. I knowed the man and woman both well. Levi +Everdene—that was the man’s name, sure. ‘Man,’ saith I in my hurry, but +he were of a higher circle of life than that—’a was a gentleman-tailor +really, worth scores of pounds. And he became a very celebrated +bankrupt two or three times.” + +“Oh, I thought he was quite a common man!” said Joseph. + +“Oh no, no! That man failed for heaps of money; hundreds in gold and +silver.” + +The maltster being rather short of breath, Mr. Coggan, after absently +scrutinising a coal which had fallen among the ashes, took up the +narrative, with a private twirl of his eye:— + +“Well, now, you’d hardly believe it, but that man—our Miss Everdene’s +father—was one of the ficklest husbands alive, after a while. +Understand? ’a didn’t want to be fickle, but he couldn’t help it. The +pore feller were faithful and true enough to her in his wish, but his +heart would rove, do what he would. He spoke to me in real tribulation +about it once. ‘Coggan,’ he said, ‘I could never wish for a handsomer +woman than I’ve got, but feeling she’s ticketed as my lawful wife, I +can’t help my wicked heart wandering, do what I will.’ But at last I +believe he cured it by making her take off her wedding-ring and calling +her by her maiden name as they sat together after the shop was shut, +and so ’a would get to fancy she was only his sweetheart, and not +married to him at all. And as soon as he could thoroughly fancy he was +doing wrong and committing the seventh, ’a got to like her as well as +ever, and they lived on a perfect picture of mutel love.” + +“Well, ’twas a most ungodly remedy,” murmured Joseph Poorgrass; “but we +ought to feel deep cheerfulness that a happy Providence kept it from +being any worse. You see, he might have gone the bad road and given his +eyes to unlawfulness entirely—yes, gross unlawfulness, so to say it.” + +“You see,” said Billy Smallbury, “The man’s will was to do right, sure +enough, but his heart didn’t chime in.” + +“He got so much better, that he was quite godly in his later years, +wasn’t he, Jan?” said Joseph Poorgrass. “He got himself confirmed over +again in a more serious way, and took to saying ‘Amen’ almost as loud +as the clerk, and he liked to copy comforting verses from the +tombstones. He used, too, to hold the money-plate at Let Your Light so +Shine, and stand godfather to poor little come-by-chance children; and +he kept a missionary box upon his table to nab folks unawares when they +called; yes, and he would box the charity-boys’ ears, if they laughed +in church, till they could hardly stand upright, and do other deeds of +piety natural to the saintly inclined.” + +“Ay, at that time he thought of nothing but high things,” added Billy +Smallbury. “One day Parson Thirdly met him and said, ‘Good-Morning, +Mister Everdene; ’tis a fine day!’ ‘Amen’ said Everdene, quite +absent-like, thinking only of religion when he seed a parson. Yes, he +was a very Christian man.” + +“Their daughter was not at all a pretty chiel at that time,” said +Henery Fray. “Never should have thought she’d have growed up such a +handsome body as she is.” + +“’Tis to be hoped her temper is as good as her face.” + +“Well, yes; but the baily will have most to do with the business and +ourselves. Ah!” Henery gazed into the ashpit, and smiled volumes of +ironical knowledge. + +“A queer Christian, like the Devil’s head in a cowl,[1] as the saying +is,” volunteered Mark Clark. + +“He is,” said Henery, implying that irony must cease at a certain +point. “Between we two, man and man, I believe that man would as soon +tell a lie Sundays as working-days—that I do so.” + +“Good faith, you do talk!” said Gabriel. + +“True enough,” said the man of bitter moods, looking round upon the +company with the antithetic laughter that comes from a keener +appreciation of the miseries of life than ordinary men are capable of. +“Ah, there’s people of one sort, and people of another, but that +man—bless your souls!” + +Gabriel thought fit to change the subject. “You must be a very aged +man, malter, to have sons growed mild and ancient,” he remarked. + +“Father’s so old that ’a can’t mind his age, can ye, father?” +interposed Jacob. “And he’s growed terrible crooked too, lately,” Jacob +continued, surveying his father’s figure, which was rather more bowed +than his own. “Really one may say that father there is three-double.” + +“Crooked folk will last a long while,” said the maltster, grimly, and +not in the best humour. + +“Shepherd would like to hear the pedigree of yer life, father—wouldn’t +ye, shepherd?” + +“Ay, that I should,” said Gabriel with the heartiness of a man who had +longed to hear it for several months. “What may your age be, malter?” + +The maltster cleared his throat in an exaggerated form for emphasis, +and elongating his gaze to the remotest point of the ashpit, said, in +the slow speech justifiable when the importance of a subject is so +generally felt that any mannerism must be tolerated in getting at it, +“Well, I don’t mind the year I were born in, but perhaps I can reckon +up the places I’ve lived at, and so get it that way. I bode at Upper +Longpuddle across there” (nodding to the north) “till I were eleven. I +bode seven at Kingsbere” (nodding to the east) “where I took to +malting. I went therefrom to Norcombe, and malted there two-and-twenty +years, and-two-and-twenty years I was there turnip-hoeing and +harvesting. Ah, I knowed that old place, Norcombe, years afore you were +thought of, Master Oak” (Oak smiled sincere belief in the fact). “Then +I malted at Durnover four year, and four year turnip-hoeing; and I was +fourteen times eleven months at Millpond St. Jude’s” (nodding +north-west-by-north). “Old Twills wouldn’t hire me for more than eleven +months at a time, to keep me from being chargeable to the parish if so +be I was disabled. Then I was three year at Mellstock, and I’ve been +here one-and-thirty year come Candlemas. How much is that?” + +“Hundred and seventeen,” chuckled another old gentleman, given to +mental arithmetic and little conversation, who had hitherto sat +unobserved in a corner. + +“Well, then, that’s my age,” said the maltster, emphatically. + +“O no, father!” said Jacob. “Your turnip-hoeing were in the summer and +your malting in the winter of the same years, and ye don’t ought to +count-both halves, father.” + +“Chok’ it all! I lived through the summers, didn’t I? That’s my +question. I suppose ye’ll say next I be no age at all to speak of?” + +“Sure we shan’t,” said Gabriel, soothingly. + +“Ye be a very old aged person, malter,” attested Jan Coggan, also +soothingly. “We all know that, and ye must have a wonderful talented +constitution to be able to live so long, mustn’t he, neighbours?” + +“True, true; ye must, malter, wonderful,” said the meeting unanimously. + +The maltster, being now pacified, was even generous enough to +voluntarily disparage in a slight degree the virtue of having lived a +great many years, by mentioning that the cup they were drinking out of +was three years older than he. + +While the cup was being examined, the end of Gabriel Oak’s flute became +visible over his smock-frock pocket, and Henery Fray exclaimed, +“Surely, shepherd, I seed you blowing into a great flute by now at +Casterbridge?” + +“You did,” said Gabriel, blushing faintly. “I’ve been in great trouble, +neighbours, and was driven to it. I used not to be so poor as I be +now.” + +“Never mind, heart!” said Mark Clark. “You should take it +careless-like, shepherd, and your time will come. But we could thank ye +for a tune, if ye bain’t too tired?” + +“Neither drum nor trumpet have I heard since Christmas,” said Jan +Coggan. “Come, raise a tune, Master Oak!” + +“Ay, that I will,” said Gabriel, pulling out his flute and putting it +together. “A poor tool, neighbours; but such as I can do ye shall have +and welcome.” + +Oak then struck up “Jockey to the Fair,” and played that sparkling +melody three times through, accenting the notes in the third round in a +most artistic and lively manner by bending his body in small jerks and +tapping with his foot to beat time. + +“He can blow the flute very well—that ’a can,” said a young married +man, who having no individuality worth mentioning was known as “Susan +Tall’s husband.” He continued, “I’d as lief as not be able to blow into +a flute as well as that.” + +“He’s a clever man, and ’tis a true comfort for us to have such a +shepherd,” murmured Joseph Poorgrass, in a soft cadence. “We ought to +feel full o’ thanksgiving that he’s not a player of ba’dy songs instead +of these merry tunes; for ’twould have been just as easy for God to +have made the shepherd a loose low man—a man of iniquity, so to speak +it—as what he is. Yes, for our wives’ and daughters’ sakes we should +feel real thanksgiving.” + +“True, true,—real thanksgiving!” dashed in Mark Clark conclusively, not +feeling it to be of any consequence to his opinion that he had only +heard about a word and three-quarters of what Joseph had said. + +“Yes,” added Joseph, beginning to feel like a man in the Bible; “for +evil do thrive so in these times that ye may be as much deceived in the +cleanest shaved and whitest shirted man as in the raggedest tramp upon +the turnpike, if I may term it so.” + +“Ay, I can mind yer face now, shepherd,” said Henery Fray, criticising +Gabriel with misty eyes as he entered upon his second tune. “Yes—now I +see ’ee blowing into the flute I know ’ee to be the same man I see play +at Casterbridge, for yer mouth were scrimped up and yer eyes a-staring +out like a strangled man’s—just as they be now.” + +“’Tis a pity that playing the flute should make a man look such a +scarecrow,” observed Mr. Mark Clark, with additional criticism of +Gabriel’s countenance, the latter person jerking out, with the ghastly +grimace required by the instrument, the chorus of “Dame Durden:”— + +’Twas Moll’ and Bet’, and Doll’ and Kate’, +And Dor’-othy Drag’-gle Tail’. + + +“I hope you don’t mind that young man’s bad manners in naming your +features?” whispered Joseph to Gabriel. + +“Not at all,” said Mr. Oak. + +“For by nature ye be a very handsome man, shepherd,” continued Joseph +Poorgrass, with winning sauvity. + +“Ay, that ye be, shepard,” said the company. + +“Thank you very much,” said Oak, in the modest tone good manners +demanded, thinking, however, that he would never let Bathsheba see him +playing the flute; in this resolve showing a discretion equal to that +related to its sagacious inventress, the divine Minerva herself. + +“Ah, when I and my wife were married at Norcombe Church,” said the old +maltster, not pleased at finding himself left out of the subject, “we +were called the handsomest couple in the neighbourhood—everybody said +so.” + +“Danged if ye bain’t altered now, malter,” said a voice with the vigour +natural to the enunciation of a remarkably evident truism. It came from +the old man in the background, whose offensiveness and spiteful ways +were barely atoned for by the occasional chuckle he contributed to +general laughs. + +“O no, no,” said Gabriel. + +“Don’t ye play no more shepherd” said Susan Tall’s husband, the young +married man who had spoken once before. “I must be moving and when +there’s tunes going on I seem as if hung in wires. If I thought after +I’d left that music was still playing, and I not there, I should be +quite melancholy-like.” + +“What’s yer hurry then, Laban?” inquired Coggan. “You used to bide as +late as the latest.” + +“Well, ye see, neighbours, I was lately married to a woman, and she’s +my vocation now, and so ye see—” The young man halted lamely. + +“New Lords new laws, as the saying is, I suppose,” remarked Coggan. + +“Ay, ’a b’lieve—ha, ha!” said Susan Tall’s husband, in a tone intended +to imply his habitual reception of jokes without minding them at all. +The young man then wished them good-night and withdrew. + +Henery Fray was the first to follow. Then Gabriel arose and went off +with Jan Coggan, who had offered him a lodging. A few minutes later, +when the remaining ones were on their legs and about to depart, Fray +came back again in a hurry. Flourishing his finger ominously he threw a +gaze teeming with tidings just where his eye alighted by accident, +which happened to be in Joseph Poorgrass’s face. + +“O—what’s the matter, what’s the matter, Henery?” said Joseph, starting +back. + +“What’s a-brewing, Henery?” asked Jacob and Mark Clark. + +“Baily Pennyways—Baily Pennyways—I said so; yes, I said so!” + +“What, found out stealing anything?” + +“Stealing it is. The news is, that after Miss Everdene got home she +went out again to see all was safe, as she usually do, and coming in +found Baily Pennyways creeping down the granary steps with half a +bushel of barley. She fleed at him like a cat—never such a tomboy as +she is—of course I speak with closed doors?” + +“You do—you do, Henery.” + +“She fleed at him, and, to cut a long story short, he owned to having +carried off five sack altogether, upon her promising not to persecute +him. Well, he’s turned out neck and crop, and my question is, who’s +going to be baily now?” + +The question was such a profound one that Henery was obliged to drink +there and then from the large cup till the bottom was distinctly +visible inside. Before he had replaced it on the table, in came the +young man, Susan Tall’s husband, in a still greater hurry. + +“Have ye heard the news that’s all over parish?” + +“About Baily Pennyways?” + +“But besides that?” + +“No—not a morsel of it!” they replied, looking into the very midst of +Laban Tall as if to meet his words half-way down his throat. + +“What a night of horrors!” murmured Joseph Poorgrass, waving his hands +spasmodically. “I’ve had the news-bell ringing in my left ear quite bad +enough for a murder, and I’ve seen a magpie all alone!” + +“Fanny Robin—Miss Everdene’s youngest servant—can’t be found. They’ve +been wanting to lock up the door these two hours, but she isn’t come +in. And they don’t know what to do about going to bed for fear of +locking her out. They wouldn’t be so concerned if she hadn’t been +noticed in such low spirits these last few days, and Maryann d’ think +the beginning of a crowner’s inquest has happened to the poor girl.” + +“Oh—’tis burned—’tis burned!” came from Joseph Poorgrass’s dry lips. + +“No—’tis drowned!” said Tall. + +“Or ’tis her father’s razor!” suggested Billy Smallbury, with a vivid +sense of detail. + +“Well—Miss Everdene wants to speak to one or two of us before we go to +bed. What with this trouble about the baily, and now about the girl, +mis’ess is almost wild.” + +They all hastened up the lane to the farmhouse, excepting the old +maltster, whom neither news, fire, rain, nor thunder could draw from +his hole. There, as the others’ footsteps died away he sat down again +and continued gazing as usual into the furnace with his red, bleared +eyes. + +From the bedroom window above their heads Bathsheba’s head and +shoulders, robed in mystic white, were dimly seen extended into the +air. + +“Are any of my men among you?” she said anxiously. + +“Yes, ma’am, several,” said Susan Tall’s husband. + +“To-morrow morning I wish two or three of you to make inquiries in the +villages round if they have seen such a person as Fanny Robin. Do it +quietly; there is no reason for alarm as yet. She must have left whilst +we were all at the fire.” + +“I beg yer pardon, but had she any young man courting her in the +parish, ma’am?” asked Jacob Smallbury. + +“I don’t know,” said Bathsheba. + +“I’ve never heard of any such thing, ma’am,” said two or three. + +“It is hardly likely, either,” continued Bathsheba. “For any lover of +hers might have come to the house if he had been a respectable lad. The +most mysterious matter connected with her absence—indeed, the only +thing which gives me serious alarm—is that she was seen to go out of +the house by Maryann with only her indoor working gown on—not even a +bonnet.” + +“And you mean, ma’am, excusing my words, that a young woman would +hardly go to see her young man without dressing up,” said Jacob, +turning his mental vision upon past experiences. “That’s true—she would +not, ma’am.” + +“She had, I think, a bundle, though I couldn’t see very well,” said a +female voice from another window, which seemed that of Maryann. “But +she had no young man about here. Hers lives in Casterbridge, and I +believe he’s a soldier.” + +“Do you know his name?” Bathsheba said. + +“No, mistress; she was very close about it.” + +“Perhaps I might be able to find out if I went to Casterbridge +barracks,” said William Smallbury. + +“Very well; if she doesn’t return to-morrow, mind you go there and try +to discover which man it is, and see him. I feel more responsible than +I should if she had had any friends or relations alive. I do hope she +has come to no harm through a man of that kind.... And then there’s +this disgraceful affair of the bailiff—but I can’t speak of him now.” + +Bathsheba had so many reasons for uneasiness that it seemed she did not +think it worth while to dwell upon any particular one. “Do as I told +you, then,” she said in conclusion, closing the casement. + +“Ay, ay, mistress; we will,” they replied, and moved away. + +That night at Coggan’s, Gabriel Oak, beneath the screen of closed +eyelids, was busy with fancies, and full of movement, like a river +flowing rapidly under its ice. Night had always been the time at which +he saw Bathsheba most vividly, and through the slow hours of shadow he +tenderly regarded her image now. It is rarely that the pleasures of the +imagination will compensate for the pain of sleeplessness, but they +possibly did with Oak to-night, for the delight of merely seeing her +effaced for the time his perception of the great difference between +seeing and possessing. + +He also thought of plans for fetching his few utensils and books from +Norcombe. _The Young Man’s Best Companion_, _The Farrier’s Sure Guide_, +_The Veterinary Surgeon_, _Paradise Lost_, _The Pilgrim’s Progress_, +_Robinson Crusoe_, Ash’s _Dictionary_, and Walkingame’s _Arithmetic_, +constituted his library; and though a limited series, it was one from +which he had acquired more sound information by diligent perusal than +many a man of opportunities has done from a furlong of laden shelves. + + + + +CHAPTER IX +THE HOMESTEAD—A VISITOR—HALF-CONFIDENCES + + +By daylight, the bower of Oak’s new-found mistress, Bathsheba Everdene, +presented itself as a hoary building, of the early stage of Classic +Renaissance as regards its architecture, and of a proportion which told +at a glance that, as is so frequently the case, it had once been the +memorial hall upon a small estate around it, now altogether effaced as +a distinct property, and merged in the vast tract of a non-resident +landlord, which comprised several such modest demesnes. + +Fluted pilasters, worked from the solid stone, decorated its front, and +above the roof the chimneys were panelled or columnar, some coped +gables with finials and like features still retaining traces of their +Gothic extraction. Soft brown mosses, like faded velveteen, formed +cushions upon the stone tiling, and tufts of the houseleek or sengreen +sprouted from the eaves of the low surrounding buildings. A gravel walk +leading from the door to the road in front was encrusted at the sides +with more moss—here it was a silver-green variety, the nut-brown of the +gravel being visible to the width of only a foot or two in the centre. +This circumstance, and the generally sleepy air of the whole prospect +here, together with the animated and contrasting state of the reverse +façade, suggested to the imagination that on the adaptation of the +building for farming purposes the vital principle of the house had +turned round inside its body to face the other way. Reversals of this +kind, strange deformities, tremendous paralyses, are often seen to be +inflicted by trade upon edifices—either individual or in the aggregate +as streets and towns—which were originally planned for pleasure alone. + +Lively voices were heard this morning in the upper rooms, the main +staircase to which was of hard oak, the balusters, heavy as bed-posts, +being turned and moulded in the quaint fashion of their century, the +handrail as stout as a parapet-top, and the stairs themselves +continually twisting round like a person trying to look over his +shoulder. Going up, the floors above were found to have a very +irregular surface, rising to ridges, sinking into valleys; and being +just then uncarpeted, the face of the boards was seen to be eaten into +innumerable vermiculations. Every window replied by a clang to the +opening and shutting of every door, a tremble followed every bustling +movement, and a creak accompanied a walker about the house, like a +spirit, wherever he went. + +In the room from which the conversation proceeded Bathsheba and her +servant-companion, Liddy Smallbury, were to be discovered sitting upon +the floor, and sorting a complication of papers, books, bottles, and +rubbish spread out thereon—remnants from the household stores of the +late occupier. Liddy, the maltster’s great-granddaughter, was about +Bathsheba’s equal in age, and her face was a prominent advertisement of +the light-hearted English country girl. The beauty her features might +have lacked in form was amply made up for by perfection of hue, which +at this winter-time was the softened ruddiness on a surface of high +rotundity that we meet with in a Terburg or a Gerard Douw; and, like +the presentations of those great colourists, it was a face which kept +well back from the boundary between comeliness and the ideal. Though +elastic in nature she was less daring than Bathsheba, and occasionally +showed some earnestness, which consisted half of genuine feeling, and +half of mannerliness superadded by way of duty. + +Through a partly-opened door the noise of a scrubbing-brush led up to +the charwoman, Maryann Money, a person who for a face had a circular +disc, furrowed less by age than by long gazes of perplexity at distant +objects. To think of her was to get good-humoured; to speak of her was +to raise the image of a dried Normandy pippin. + +“Stop your scrubbing a moment,” said Bathsheba through the door to her. +“I hear something.” + +Maryann suspended the brush. + +The tramp of a horse was apparent, approaching the front of the +building. The paces slackened, turned in at the wicket, and, what was +most unusual, came up the mossy path close to the door. The door was +tapped with the end of a crop or stick. + +“What impertinence!” said Liddy, in a low voice. “To ride up the +footpath like that! Why didn’t he stop at the gate? Lord! ’Tis a +gentleman! I see the top of his hat.” + +“Be quiet!” said Bathsheba. + +The further expression of Liddy’s concern was continued by aspect +instead of narrative. + +“Why doesn’t Mrs. Coggan go to the door?” Bathsheba continued. + +Rat-tat-tat-tat resounded more decisively from Bathsheba’s oak. + +“Maryann, you go!” said she, fluttering under the onset of a crowd of +romantic possibilities. + +“Oh ma’am—see, here’s a mess!” + +The argument was unanswerable after a glance at Maryann. + +“Liddy—you must,” said Bathsheba. + +Liddy held up her hands and arms, coated with dust from the rubbish +they were sorting, and looked imploringly at her mistress. + +“There—Mrs. Coggan is going!” said Bathsheba, exhaling her relief in +the form of a long breath which had lain in her bosom a minute or more. + +The door opened, and a deep voice said— + +“Is Miss Everdene at home?” + +“I’ll see, sir,” said Mrs. Coggan, and in a minute appeared in the +room. + +“Dear, what a thirtover place this world is!” continued Mrs. Coggan (a +wholesome-looking lady who had a voice for each class of remark +according to the emotion involved; who could toss a pancake or twirl a +mop with the accuracy of pure mathematics, and who at this moment +showed hands shaggy with fragments of dough and arms encrusted with +flour). “I am never up to my elbows, Miss, in making a pudding but one +of two things do happen—either my nose must needs begin tickling, and I +can’t live without scratching it, or somebody knocks at the door. +Here’s Mr. Boldwood wanting to see you, Miss Everdene.” + +A woman’s dress being a part of her countenance, and any disorder in +the one being of the same nature with a malformation or wound in the +other, Bathsheba said at once— + +“I can’t see him in this state. Whatever shall I do?” + +Not-at-homes were hardly naturalized in Weatherbury farmhouses, so +Liddy suggested—“Say you’re a fright with dust, and can’t come down.” + +“Yes—that sounds very well,” said Mrs. Coggan, critically. + +“Say I can’t see him—that will do.” + +Mrs. Coggan went downstairs, and returned the answer as requested, +adding, however, on her own responsibility, “Miss is dusting bottles, +sir, and is quite a object—that’s why ’tis.” + +“Oh, very well,” said the deep voice indifferently. “All I wanted to +ask was, if anything had been heard of Fanny Robin?” + +“Nothing, sir—but we may know to-night. William Smallbury is gone to +Casterbridge, where her young man lives, as is supposed, and the other +men be inquiring about everywhere.” + +The horse’s tramp then recommenced and retreated, and the door closed. + +“Who is Mr. Boldwood?” said Bathsheba. + +“A gentleman-farmer at Little Weatherbury.” + +“Married?” + +“No, miss.” + +“How old is he?” + +“Forty, I should say—very handsome—rather stern-looking—and rich.” + +“What a bother this dusting is! I am always in some unfortunate plight +or other,” Bathsheba said, complainingly. “Why should he inquire about +Fanny?” + +“Oh, because, as she had no friends in her childhood, he took her and +put her to school, and got her her place here under your uncle. He’s a +very kind man that way, but Lord—there!” + +“What?” + +“Never was such a hopeless man for a woman! He’s been courted by sixes +and sevens—all the girls, gentle and simple, for miles round, have +tried him. Jane Perkins worked at him for two months like a slave, and +the two Miss Taylors spent a year upon him, and he cost Farmer Ives’s +daughter nights of tears and twenty pounds’ worth of new clothes; but +Lord—the money might as well have been thrown out of the window.” + +A little boy came up at this moment and looked in upon them. This child +was one of the Coggans, who, with the Smallburys, were as common among +the families of this district as the Avons and Derwents among our +rivers. He always had a loosened tooth or a cut finger to show to +particular friends, which he did with an air of being thereby elevated +above the common herd of afflictionless humanity—to which exhibition +people were expected to say “Poor child!” with a dash of congratulation +as well as pity. + +“I’ve got a pen-nee!” said Master Coggan in a scanning measure. + +“Well—who gave it you, Teddy?” said Liddy. + +“Mis-terr Bold-wood! He gave it to me for opening the gate.” + +“What did he say?” + +“He said, ‘Where are you going, my little man?’ and I said, ‘To Miss +Everdene’s please,’ and he said, ‘She is a staid woman, isn’t she, my +little man?’ and I said, ‘Yes.’” + +“You naughty child! What did you say that for?” + +“’Cause he gave me the penny!” + +“What a pucker everything is in!” said Bathsheba, discontentedly when +the child had gone. “Get away, Maryann, or go on with your scrubbing, +or do something! You ought to be married by this time, and not here +troubling me!” + +“Ay, mistress—so I did. But what between the poor men I won’t have, and +the rich men who won’t have me, I stand as a pelican in the +wilderness!” + +“Did anybody ever want to marry you miss?” Liddy ventured to ask when +they were again alone. “Lots of ’em, I daresay?” + +Bathsheba paused, as if about to refuse a reply, but the temptation to +say yes, since it was really in her power was irresistible by aspiring +virginity, in spite of her spleen at having been published as old. + +“A man wanted to once,” she said, in a highly experienced tone, and the +image of Gabriel Oak, as the farmer, rose before her. + +“How nice it must seem!” said Liddy, with the fixed features of mental +realization. “And you wouldn’t have him?” + +“He wasn’t quite good enough for me.” + +“How sweet to be able to disdain, when most of us are glad to say, +‘Thank you!’ I seem I hear it. ‘No, sir—I’m your better.’ or ‘Kiss my +foot, sir; my face is for mouths of consequence.’ And did you love him, +miss?” + +“Oh, no. But I rather liked him.” + +“Do you now?” + +“Of course not—what footsteps are those I hear?” + +Liddy looked from a back window into the courtyard behind, which was +now getting low-toned and dim with the earliest films of night. A +crooked file of men was approaching the back door. The whole string of +trailing individuals advanced in the completest balance of intention, +like the remarkable creatures known as Chain Salpæ, which, distinctly +organized in other respects, have one will common to a whole family. +Some were, as usual, in snow-white smock-frocks of Russia duck, and +some in whitey-brown ones of drabbet—marked on the wrists, breasts, +backs, and sleeves with honeycomb-work. Two or three women in pattens +brought up the rear. + +“The Philistines be upon us,” said Liddy, making her nose white against +the glass. + +“Oh, very well. Maryann, go down and keep them in the kitchen till I am +dressed, and then show them in to me in the hall.” + + + + +CHAPTER X +MISTRESS AND MEN + + +Half-an-hour later Bathsheba, in finished dress, and followed by Liddy, +entered the upper end of the old hall to find that her men had all +deposited themselves on a long form and a settle at the lower +extremity. She sat down at a table and opened the time-book, pen in her +hand, with a canvas money-bag beside her. From this she poured a small +heap of coin. Liddy chose a position at her elbow and began to sew, +sometimes pausing and looking round, or, with the air of a privileged +person, taking up one of the half-sovereigns lying before her and +surveying it merely as a work of art, while strictly preventing her +countenance from expressing any wish to possess it as money. + +“Now before I begin, men,” said Bathsheba, “I have two matters to speak +of. The first is that the bailiff is dismissed for thieving, and that I +have formed a resolution to have no bailiff at all, but to manage +everything with my own head and hands.” + +The men breathed an audible breath of amazement. + +“The next matter is, have you heard anything of Fanny?” + +“Nothing, ma’am.” + +“Have you done anything?” + +“I met Farmer Boldwood,” said Jacob Smallbury, “and I went with him and +two of his men, and dragged Newmill Pond, but we found nothing.” + +“And the new shepherd have been to Buck’s Head, by Yalbury, thinking +she had gone there, but nobody had seed her,” said Laban Tall. + +“Hasn’t William Smallbury been to Casterbridge?” + +“Yes, ma’am, but he’s not yet come home. He promised to be back by +six.” + +“It wants a quarter to six at present,” said Bathsheba, looking at her +watch. “I daresay he’ll be in directly. Well, now then”—she looked into +the book—“Joseph Poorgrass, are you there?” + +“Yes, sir—ma’am I mane,” said the person addressed. “I be the personal +name of Poorgrass.” + +“And what are you?” + +“Nothing in my own eye. In the eye of other people—well, I don’t say +it; though public thought will out.” + +“What do you do on the farm?” + +“I do do carting things all the year, and in seed time I shoots the +rooks and sparrows, and helps at pig-killing, sir.” + +“How much to you?” + +“Please nine and ninepence and a good halfpenny where ’twas a bad one, +sir—ma’am I mane.” + +“Quite correct. Now here are ten shillings in addition as a small +present, as I am a new comer.” + +Bathsheba blushed slightly at the sense of being generous in public, +and Henery Fray, who had drawn up towards her chair, lifted his +eyebrows and fingers to express amazement on a small scale. + +“How much do I owe you—that man in the corner—what’s your name?” +continued Bathsheba. + +“Matthew Moon, ma’am,” said a singular framework of clothes with +nothing of any consequence inside them, which advanced with the toes in +no definite direction forwards, but turned in or out as they chanced to +swing. + +“Matthew Mark, did you say?—speak out—I shall not hurt you,” inquired +the young farmer, kindly. + +“Matthew Moon, mem,” said Henery Fray, correctingly, from behind her +chair, to which point he had edged himself. + +“Matthew Moon,” murmured Bathsheba, turning her bright eyes to the +book. “Ten and twopence halfpenny is the sum put down to you, I see?” + +“Yes, mis’ess,” said Matthew, as the rustle of wind among dead leaves. + +“Here it is, and ten shillings. Now the next—Andrew Randle, you are a +new man, I hear. How come you to leave your last farm?” + +“P-p-p-p-p-pl-pl-pl-pl-l-l-l-l-ease, ma’am, p-p-p-p-pl-pl- +pl-pl-please, ma’am-please’m-please’m—” + +“’A’s a stammering man, mem,” said Henery Fray in an undertone, “and +they turned him away because the only time he ever did speak plain he +said his soul was his own, and other iniquities, to the squire. ’A can +cuss, mem, as well as you or I, but ’a can’t speak a common speech to +save his life.” + +“Andrew Randle, here’s yours—finish thanking me in a day or two. +Temperance Miller—oh, here’s another, Soberness—both women I suppose?” + +“Yes’m. Here we be, ’a b’lieve,” was echoed in shrill unison. + +“What have you been doing?” + +“Tending thrashing-machine and wimbling haybonds, and saying ‘Hoosh!’ +to the cocks and hens when they go upon your seeds, and planting Early +Flourballs and Thompson’s Wonderfuls with a dibble.” + +“Yes—I see. Are they satisfactory women?” she inquired softly of Henery +Fray. + +“Oh mem—don’t ask me! Yielding women—as scarlet a pair as ever was!” +groaned Henery under his breath. + +“Sit down.” + +“Who, mem?” + +“Sit down.” + +Joseph Poorgrass, in the background twitched, and his lips became dry +with fear of some terrible consequences, as he saw Bathsheba summarily +speaking, and Henery slinking off to a corner. + +“Now the next. Laban Tall, you’ll stay on working for me?” + +“For you or anybody that pays me well, ma’am,” replied the young +married man. + +“True—the man must live!” said a woman in the back quarter, who had +just entered with clicking pattens. + +“What woman is that?” Bathsheba asked. + +“I be his lawful wife!” continued the voice with greater prominence of +manner and tone. This lady called herself five-and-twenty, looked +thirty, passed as thirty-five, and was forty. She was a woman who +never, like some newly married, showed conjugal tenderness in public, +perhaps because she had none to show. + +“Oh, you are,” said Bathsheba. “Well, Laban, will you stay on?” + +“Yes, he’ll stay, ma’am!” said again the shrill tongue of Laban’s +lawful wife. + +“Well, he can speak for himself, I suppose.” + +“Oh Lord, not he, ma’am! A simple tool. Well enough, but a poor +gawkhammer mortal,” the wife replied. + +“Heh-heh-heh!” laughed the married man with a hideous effort of +appreciation, for he was as irrepressibly good-humoured under ghastly +snubs as a parliamentary candidate on the hustings. + +The names remaining were called in the same manner. + +“Now I think I have done with you,” said Bathsheba, closing the book +and shaking back a stray twine of hair. “Has William Smallbury +returned?” + +“No, ma’am.” + +“The new shepherd will want a man under him,” suggested Henery Fray, +trying to make himself official again by a sideway approach towards her +chair. + +“Oh—he will. Who can he have?” + +“Young Cain Ball is a very good lad,” Henery said, “and Shepherd Oak +don’t mind his youth?” he added, turning with an apologetic smile to +the shepherd, who had just appeared on the scene, and was now leaning +against the doorpost with his arms folded. + +“No, I don’t mind that,” said Gabriel. + +“How did Cain come by such a name?” asked Bathsheba. + +“Oh you see, mem, his pore mother, not being a Scripture-read woman, +made a mistake at his christening, thinking ’twas Abel killed Cain, and +called en Cain, meaning Abel all the time. The parson put it right, but +’twas too late, for the name could never be got rid of in the parish. +’Tis very unfortunate for the boy.” + +“It is rather unfortunate.” + +“Yes. However, we soften it down as much as we can, and call him Cainy. +Ah, pore widow-woman! she cried her heart out about it almost. She was +brought up by a very heathen father and mother, who never sent her to +church or school, and it shows how the sins of the parents are visited +upon the children, mem.” + +Mr. Fray here drew up his features to the mild degree of melancholy +required when the persons involved in the given misfortune do not +belong to your own family. + +“Very well then, Cainey Ball to be under-shepherd. And you quite +understand your duties?—you I mean, Gabriel Oak?” + +“Quite well, I thank you, Miss Everdene,” said Shepherd Oak from the +doorpost. “If I don’t, I’ll inquire.” Gabriel was rather staggered by +the remarkable coolness of her manner. Certainly nobody without +previous information would have dreamt that Oak and the handsome woman +before whom he stood had ever been other than strangers. But perhaps +her air was the inevitable result of the social rise which had advanced +her from a cottage to a large house and fields. The case is not +unexampled in high places. When, in the writings of the later poets, +Jove and his family are found to have moved from their cramped quarters +on the peak of Olympus into the wide sky above it, their words show a +proportionate increase of arrogance and reserve. + +Footsteps were heard in the passage, combining in their character the +qualities both of weight and measure, rather at the expense of +velocity. + +(All.) “Here’s Billy Smallbury come from Casterbridge.” + +“And what’s the news?” said Bathsheba, as William, after marching to +the middle of the hall, took a handkerchief from his hat and wiped his +forehead from its centre to its remoter boundaries. + +“I should have been sooner, miss,” he said, “if it hadn’t been for the +weather.” He then stamped with each foot severely, and on looking down +his boots were perceived to be clogged with snow. + +“Come at last, is it?” said Henery. + +“Well, what about Fanny?” said Bathsheba. + +“Well, ma’am, in round numbers, she’s run away with the soldiers,” said +William. + +“No; not a steady girl like Fanny!” + +“I’ll tell ye all particulars. When I got to Casterbridge Barracks, +they said, ‘The Eleventh Dragoon-Guards be gone away, and new troops +have come.’ The Eleventh left last week for Melchester and onwards. The +Route came from Government like a thief in the night, as is his nature +to, and afore the Eleventh knew it almost, they were on the march. They +passed near here.” + +Gabriel had listened with interest. “I saw them go,” he said. + +“Yes,” continued William, “they pranced down the street playing ‘The +Girl I Left Behind Me,’ so ’tis said, in glorious notes of triumph. +Every looker-on’s inside shook with the blows of the great drum to his +deepest vitals, and there was not a dry eye throughout the town among +the public-house people and the nameless women!” + +“But they’re not gone to any war?” + +“No, ma’am; but they be gone to take the places of them who may, which +is very close connected. And so I said to myself, Fanny’s young man was +one of the regiment, and she’s gone after him. There, ma’am, that’s it +in black and white.” + +“Did you find out his name?” + +“No; nobody knew it. I believe he was higher in rank than a private.” + +Gabriel remained musing and said nothing, for he was in doubt. + +“Well, we are not likely to know more to-night, at any rate,” said +Bathsheba. “But one of you had better run across to Farmer Boldwood’s +and tell him that much.” + +She then rose; but before retiring, addressed a few words to them with +a pretty dignity, to which her mourning dress added a soberness that +was hardly to be found in the words themselves. + +“Now mind, you have a mistress instead of a master. I don’t yet know my +powers or my talents in farming; but I shall do my best, and if you +serve me well, so shall I serve you. Don’t any unfair ones among you +(if there are any such, but I hope not) suppose that because I’m a +woman I don’t understand the difference between bad goings-on and +good.” + +(All.) “No’m!” + +(Liddy.) “Excellent well said.” + +“I shall be up before you are awake; I shall be afield before you are +up; and I shall have breakfasted before you are afield. In short, I +shall astonish you all.” + +(All.) “Yes’m!” + +“And so good-night.” + +(All.) “Good-night, ma’am.” + +Then this small thesmothete stepped from the table, and surged out of +the hall, her black silk dress licking up a few straws and dragging +them along with a scratching noise upon the floor. Liddy, elevating her +feelings to the occasion from a sense of grandeur, floated off behind +Bathsheba with a milder dignity not entirely free from travesty, and +the door was closed. + + + + +CHAPTER XI +OUTSIDE THE BARRACKS—SNOW—A MEETING + + +For dreariness nothing could surpass a prospect in the outskirts of a +certain town and military station, many miles north of Weatherbury, at +a later hour on this same snowy evening—if that may be called a +prospect of which the chief constituent was darkness. + +It was a night when sorrow may come to the brightest without causing +any great sense of incongruity: when, with impressible persons, love +becomes solicitousness, hope sinks to misgiving, and faith to hope: +when the exercise of memory does not stir feelings of regret at +opportunities for ambition that have been passed by, and anticipation +does not prompt to enterprise. + +The scene was a public path, bordered on the left hand by a river, +behind which rose a high wall. On the right was a tract of land, partly +meadow and partly moor, reaching, at its remote verge, to a wide +undulating upland. + +The changes of the seasons are less obtrusive on spots of this kind +than amid woodland scenery. Still, to a close observer, they are just +as perceptible; the difference is that their media of manifestation are +less trite and familiar than such well-known ones as the bursting of +the buds or the fall of the leaf. Many are not so stealthy and gradual +as we may be apt to imagine in considering the general torpidity of a +moor or waste. Winter, in coming to the country hereabout, advanced in +well-marked stages, wherein might have been successively observed the +retreat of the snakes, the transformation of the ferns, the filling of +the pools, a rising of fogs, the embrowning by frost, the collapse of +the fungi, and an obliteration by snow. + +This climax of the series had been reached to-night on the aforesaid +moor, and for the first time in the season its irregularities were +forms without features; suggestive of anything, proclaiming nothing, +and without more character than that of being the limit of something +else—the lowest layer of a firmament of snow. From this chaotic skyful +of crowding flakes the mead and moor momentarily received additional +clothing, only to appear momentarily more naked thereby. The vast arch +of cloud above was strangely low, and formed as it were the roof of a +large dark cavern, gradually sinking in upon its floor; for the +instinctive thought was that the snow lining the heavens and that +encrusting the earth would soon unite into one mass without any +intervening stratum of air at all. + +We turn our attention to the left-hand characteristics; which were +flatness in respect of the river, verticality in respect of the wall +behind it, and darkness as to both. These features made up the mass. If +anything could be darker than the sky, it was the wall, and if any +thing could be gloomier than the wall it was the river beneath. The +indistinct summit of the façade was notched and pronged by chimneys +here and there, and upon its face were faintly signified the oblong +shapes of windows, though only in the upper part. Below, down to the +water’s edge, the flat was unbroken by hole or projection. + +An indescribable succession of dull blows, perplexing in their +regularity, sent their sound with difficulty through the fluffy +atmosphere. It was a neighbouring clock striking ten. The bell was in +the open air, and being overlaid with several inches of muffling snow, +had lost its voice for the time. + +About this hour the snow abated: ten flakes fell where twenty had +fallen, then one had the room of ten. Not long after a form moved by +the brink of the river. + +By its outline upon the colourless background, a close observer might +have seen that it was small. This was all that was positively +discoverable, though it seemed human. + +The shape went slowly along, but without much exertion, for the snow, +though sudden, was not as yet more than two inches deep. At this time +some words were spoken aloud:— + +“One. Two. Three. Four. Five.” + +Between each utterance the little shape advanced about half a dozen +yards. It was evident now that the windows high in the wall were being +counted. The word “Five” represented the fifth window from the end of +the wall. + +Here the spot stopped, and dwindled smaller. The figure was stooping. +Then a morsel of snow flew across the river towards the fifth window. +It smacked against the wall at a point several yards from its mark. The +throw was the idea of a man conjoined with the execution of a woman. No +man who had ever seen bird, rabbit, or squirrel in his childhood, could +possibly have thrown with such utter imbecility as was shown here. + +Another attempt, and another; till by degrees the wall must have become +pimpled with the adhering lumps of snow. At last one fragment struck +the fifth window. + +The river would have been seen by day to be of that deep smooth sort +which races middle and sides with the same gliding precision, any +irregularities of speed being immediately corrected by a small +whirlpool. Nothing was heard in reply to the signal but the gurgle and +cluck of one of these invisible wheels—together with a few small sounds +which a sad man would have called moans, and a happy man +laughter—caused by the flapping of the waters against trifling objects +in other parts of the stream. + +The window was struck again in the same manner. + +Then a noise was heard, apparently produced by the opening of the +window. This was followed by a voice from the same quarter. + +“Who’s there?” + +The tones were masculine, and not those of surprise. The high wall +being that of a barrack, and marriage being looked upon with disfavour +in the army, assignations and communications had probably been made +across the river before to-night. + +“Is it Sergeant Troy?” said the blurred spot in the snow, tremulously. + +This person was so much like a mere shade upon the earth, and the other +speaker so much a part of the building, that one would have said the +wall was holding a conversation with the snow. + +“Yes,” came suspiciously from the shadow. “What girl are you?” + +“Oh, Frank—don’t you know me?” said the spot. “Your wife, Fanny Robin.” + +“Fanny!” said the wall, in utter astonishment. + +“Yes,” said the girl, with a half-suppressed gasp of emotion. + +There was something in the woman’s tone which is not that of the wife, +and there was a manner in the man which is rarely a husband’s. The +dialogue went on: + +“How did you come here?” + +“I asked which was your window. Forgive me!” + +“I did not expect you to-night. Indeed, I did not think you would come +at all. It was a wonder you found me here. I am orderly to-morrow.” + +“You said I was to come.” + +“Well—I said that you might.” + +“Yes, I mean that I might. You are glad to see me, Frank?” + +“Oh yes—of course.” + +“Can you—come to me!” + +“My dear Fan, no! The bugle has sounded, the barrack gates are closed, +and I have no leave. We are all of us as good as in the county gaol +till to-morrow morning.” + +“Then I shan’t see you till then!” The words were in a faltering tone +of disappointment. + +“How did you get here from Weatherbury?” + +“I walked—some part of the way—the rest by the carriers.” + +“I am surprised.” + +“Yes—so am I. And Frank, when will it be?” + +“What?” + +“That you promised.” + +“I don’t quite recollect.” + +“O you do! Don’t speak like that. It weighs me to the earth. It makes +me say what ought to be said first by you.” + +“Never mind—say it.” + +“O, must I?—it is, when shall we be married, Frank?” + +“Oh, I see. Well—you have to get proper clothes.” + +“I have money. Will it be by banns or license?” + +“Banns, I should think.” + +“And we live in two parishes.” + +“Do we? What then?” + +“My lodgings are in St. Mary’s, and this is not. So they will have to +be published in both.” + +“Is that the law?” + +“Yes. O Frank—you think me forward, I am afraid! Don’t, dear Frank—will +you—for I love you so. And you said lots of times you would marry me, +and—and—I—I—I—” + +“Don’t cry, now! It is foolish. If I said so, of course I will.” + +“And shall I put up the banns in my parish, and will you in yours?” + +“Yes” + +“To-morrow?” + +“Not to-morrow. We’ll settle in a few days.” + +“You have the permission of the officers?” + +“No, not yet.” + +“O—how is it? You said you almost had before you left Casterbridge.” + +“The fact is, I forgot to ask. Your coming like this is so sudden and +unexpected.” + +“Yes—yes—it is. It was wrong of me to worry you. I’ll go away now. Will +you come and see me to-morrow, at Mrs. Twills’s, in North Street? I +don’t like to come to the Barracks. There are bad women about, and they +think me one.” + +“Quite, so. I’ll come to you, my dear. Good-night.” + +“Good-night, Frank—good-night!” + +And the noise was again heard of a window closing. The little spot +moved away. When she passed the corner a subdued exclamation was heard +inside the wall. + +“Ho—ho—Sergeant—ho—ho!” An expostulation followed, but it was +indistinct; and it became lost amid a low peal of laughter, which was +hardly distinguishable from the gurgle of the tiny whirlpools outside. + + + + +CHAPTER XII +FARMERS—A RULE—AN EXCEPTION + + +The first public evidence of Bathsheba’s decision to be a farmer in her +own person and by proxy no more was her appearance the following +market-day in the cornmarket at Casterbridge. + +The low though extensive hall, supported by beams and pillars, and +latterly dignified by the name of Corn Exchange, was thronged with hot +men who talked among each other in twos and threes, the speaker of the +minute looking sideways into his auditor’s face and concentrating his +argument by a contraction of one eyelid during delivery. The greater +number carried in their hands ground-ash saplings, using them partly as +walking-sticks and partly for poking up pigs, sheep, neighbours with +their backs turned, and restful things in general, which seemed to +require such treatment in the course of their peregrinations. During +conversations each subjected his sapling to great varieties of +usage—bending it round his back, forming an arch of it between his two +hands, overweighting it on the ground till it reached nearly a +semicircle; or perhaps it was hastily tucked under the arm whilst the +sample-bag was pulled forth and a handful of corn poured into the palm, +which, after criticism, was flung upon the floor, an issue of events +perfectly well known to half-a-dozen acute town-bred fowls which had as +usual crept into the building unobserved, and waited the fulfilment of +their anticipations with a high-stretched neck and oblique eye. + +Among these heavy yeomen a feminine figure glided, the single one of +her sex that the room contained. She was prettily and even daintily +dressed. She moved between them as a chaise between carts, was heard +after them as a romance after sermons, was felt among them like a +breeze among furnaces. It had required a little determination—far more +than she had at first imagined—to take up a position here, for at her +first entry the lumbering dialogues had ceased, nearly every face had +been turned towards her, and those that were already turned rigidly +fixed there. + +Two or three only of the farmers were personally known to Bathsheba, +and to these she had made her way. But if she was to be the practical +woman she had intended to show herself, business must be carried on, +introductions or none, and she ultimately acquired confidence enough to +speak and reply boldly to men merely known to her by hearsay. Bathsheba +too had her sample-bags, and by degrees adopted the professional pour +into the hand—holding up the grains in her narrow palm for inspection, +in perfect Casterbridge manner. + +Something in the exact arch of her upper unbroken row of teeth, and in +the keenly pointed corners of her red mouth when, with parted lips, she +somewhat defiantly turned up her face to argue a point with a tall man, +suggested that there was potentiality enough in that lithe slip of +humanity for alarming exploits of sex, and daring enough to carry them +out. But her eyes had a softness—invariably a softness—which, had they +not been dark, would have seemed mistiness; as they were, it lowered an +expression that might have been piercing to simple clearness. + +Strange to say of a woman in full bloom and vigor, she always allowed +her interlocutors to finish their statements before rejoining with +hers. In arguing on prices, she held to her own firmly, as was natural +in a dealer, and reduced theirs persistently, as was inevitable in a +woman. But there was an elasticity in her firmness which removed it +from obstinacy, as there was a _naïveté_ in her cheapening which saved +it from meanness. + +Those of the farmers with whom she had no dealings (by far the greater +part) were continually asking each other, “Who is she?” The reply would +be— + +“Farmer Everdene’s niece; took on Weatherbury Upper Farm; turned away +the baily, and swears she’ll do everything herself.” + +The other man would then shake his head. + +“Yes, ’tis a pity she’s so headstrong,” the first would say. “But we +ought to be proud of her here—she lightens up the old place. ’Tis such +a shapely maid, however, that she’ll soon get picked up.” + +It would be ungallant to suggest that the novelty of her engagement in +such an occupation had almost as much to do with the magnetism as had +the beauty of her face and movements. However, the interest was +general, and this Saturday’s _début_ in the forum, whatever it may have +been to Bathsheba as the buying and selling farmer, was unquestionably +a triumph to her as the maiden. Indeed, the sensation was so pronounced +that her instinct on two or three occasions was merely to walk as a +queen among these gods of the fallow, like a little sister of a little +Jove, and to neglect closing prices altogether. + +The numerous evidences of her power to attract were only thrown into +greater relief by a marked exception. Women seem to have eyes in their +ribbons for such matters as these. Bathsheba, without looking within a +right angle of him, was conscious of a black sheep among the flock. + +It perplexed her first. If there had been a respectable minority on +either side, the case would have been most natural. If nobody had +regarded her, she would have taken the matter indifferently—such cases +had occurred. If everybody, this man included, she would have taken it +as a matter of course—people had done so before. But the smallness of +the exception made the mystery. + +She soon knew thus much of the recusant’s appearance. He was a +gentlemanly man, with full and distinctly outlined Roman features, the +prominences of which glowed in the sun with a bronze-like richness of +tone. He was erect in attitude, and quiet in demeanour. One +characteristic pre-eminently marked him—dignity. + +Apparently he had some time ago reached that entrance to middle age at +which a man’s aspect naturally ceases to alter for the term of a dozen +years or so; and, artificially, a woman’s does likewise. Thirty-five +and fifty were his limits of variation—he might have been either, or +anywhere between the two. + +It may be said that married men of forty are usually ready and generous +enough to fling passing glances at any specimen of moderate beauty they +may discern by the way. Probably, as with persons playing whist for +love, the consciousness of a certain immunity under any circumstances +from that worst possible ultimate, the having to pay, makes them unduly +speculative. Bathsheba was convinced that this unmoved person was not a +married man. + +When marketing was over, she rushed off to Liddy, who was waiting for +her beside the yellow gig in which they had driven to town. The horse +was put in, and on they trotted—Bathsheba’s sugar, tea, and drapery +parcels being packed behind, and expressing in some indescribable +manner, by their colour, shape, and general lineaments, that they were +that young lady-farmer’s property, and the grocer’s and draper’s no +more. + +“I’ve been through it, Liddy, and it is over. I shan’t mind it again, +for they will all have grown accustomed to seeing me there; but this +morning it was as bad as being married—eyes everywhere!” + +“I knowed it would be,” Liddy said. “Men be such a terrible class of +society to look at a body.” + +“But there was one man who had more sense than to waste his time upon +me.” The information was put in this form that Liddy might not for a +moment suppose her mistress was at all piqued. “A very good-looking +man,” she continued, “upright; about forty, I should think. Do you know +at all who he could be?” + +Liddy couldn’t think. + +“Can’t you guess at all?” said Bathsheba with some disappointment. + +“I haven’t a notion; besides, ’tis no difference, since he took less +notice of you than any of the rest. Now, if he’d taken more, it would +have mattered a great deal.” + +Bathsheba was suffering from the reverse feeling just then, and they +bowled along in silence. A low carriage, bowling along still more +rapidly behind a horse of unimpeachable breed, overtook and passed +them. + +“Why, there he is!” she said. + +Liddy looked. “That! That’s Farmer Boldwood—of course ’tis—the man you +couldn’t see the other day when he called.” + +“Oh, Farmer Boldwood,” murmured Bathsheba, and looked at him as he +outstripped them. The farmer had never turned his head once, but with +eyes fixed on the most advanced point along the road, passed as +unconsciously and abstractedly as if Bathsheba and her charms were thin +air. + +“He’s an interesting man—don’t you think so?” she remarked. + +“O yes, very. Everybody owns it,” replied Liddy. + +“I wonder why he is so wrapt up and indifferent, and seemingly so far +away from all he sees around him.” + +“It is said—but not known for certain—that he met with some bitter +disappointment when he was a young man and merry. A woman jilted him, +they say.” + +“People always say that—and we know very well women scarcely ever jilt +men; ’tis the men who jilt us. I expect it is simply his nature to be +so reserved.” + +“Simply his nature—I expect so, miss—nothing else in the world.” + +“Still, ’tis more romantic to think he has been served cruelly, poor +thing’! Perhaps, after all, he has!” + +“Depend upon it he has. Oh yes, miss, he has! I feel he must have.” + +“However, we are very apt to think extremes of people. I shouldn’t +wonder after all if it wasn’t a little of both—just between the +two—rather cruelly used and rather reserved.” + +“Oh dear no, miss—I can’t think it between the two!” + +“That’s most likely.” + +“Well, yes, so it is. I am convinced it is most likely. You may take my +word, miss, that that’s what’s the matter with him.” + + + + +CHAPTER XIII +SORTES SANCTORUM—THE VALENTINE + + +It was Sunday afternoon in the farmhouse, on the thirteenth of +February. Dinner being over, Bathsheba, for want of a better companion, +had asked Liddy to come and sit with her. The mouldy pile was dreary in +winter-time before the candles were lighted and the shutters closed; +the atmosphere of the place seemed as old as the walls; every nook +behind the furniture had a temperature of its own, for the fire was not +kindled in this part of the house early in the day; and Bathsheba’s new +piano, which was an old one in other annals, looked particularly +sloping and out of level on the warped floor before night threw a shade +over its less prominent angles and hid the unpleasantness. Liddy, like +a little brook, though shallow, was always rippling; her presence had +not so much weight as to task thought, and yet enough to exercise it. + +On the table lay an old quarto Bible, bound in leather. Liddy looking +at it said,— + +“Did you ever find out, miss, who you are going to marry by means of +the Bible and key?” + +“Don’t be so foolish, Liddy. As if such things could be.” + +“Well, there’s a good deal in it, all the same.” + +“Nonsense, child.” + +“And it makes your heart beat fearful. Some believe in it; some don’t; +I do.” + +“Very well, let’s try it,” said Bathsheba, bounding from her seat with +that total disregard of consistency which can be indulged in towards a +dependent, and entering into the spirit of divination at once. “Go and +get the front door key.” + +Liddy fetched it. “I wish it wasn’t Sunday,” she said, on returning. +“Perhaps ’tis wrong.” + +“What’s right week days is right Sundays,” replied her mistress in a +tone which was a proof in itself. + +The book was opened—the leaves, drab with age, being quite worn away at +much-read verses by the forefingers of unpractised readers in former +days, where they were moved along under the line as an aid to the +vision. The special verse in the Book of Ruth was sought out by +Bathsheba, and the sublime words met her eye. They slightly thrilled +and abashed her. It was Wisdom in the abstract facing Folly in the +concrete. Folly in the concrete blushed, persisted in her intention, +and placed the key on the book. A rusty patch immediately upon the +verse, caused by previous pressure of an iron substance thereon, told +that this was not the first time the old volume had been used for the +purpose. + +“Now keep steady, and be silent,” said Bathsheba. + +The verse was repeated; the book turned round; Bathsheba blushed +guiltily. + +“Who did you try?” said Liddy curiously. + +“I shall not tell you.” + +“Did you notice Mr. Boldwood’s doings in church this morning, miss?” +Liddy continued, adumbrating by the remark the track her thoughts had +taken. + +“No, indeed,” said Bathsheba, with serene indifference. + +“His pew is exactly opposite yours, miss.” + +“I know it.” + +“And you did not see his goings on!” + +“Certainly I did not, I tell you.” + +Liddy assumed a smaller physiognomy, and shut her lips decisively. + +This move was unexpected, and proportionately disconcerting. “What did +he do?” Bathsheba said perforce. + +“Didn’t turn his head to look at you once all the service.” + +“Why should he?” again demanded her mistress, wearing a nettled look. +“I didn’t ask him to.” + +“Oh no. But everybody else was noticing you; and it was odd he didn’t. +There, ’tis like him. Rich and gentlemanly, what does he care?” + +Bathsheba dropped into a silence intended to express that she had +opinions on the matter too abstruse for Liddy’s comprehension, rather +than that she had nothing to say. + +“Dear me—I had nearly forgotten the valentine I bought yesterday,” she +exclaimed at length. + +“Valentine! who for, miss?” said Liddy. “Farmer Boldwood?” + +It was the single name among all possible wrong ones that just at this +moment seemed to Bathsheba more pertinent than the right. + +“Well, no. It is only for little Teddy Coggan. I have promised him +something, and this will be a pretty surprise for him. Liddy, you may +as well bring me my desk and I’ll direct it at once.” + +Bathsheba took from her desk a gorgeously illuminated and embossed +design in post-octavo, which had been bought on the previous market-day +at the chief stationer’s in Casterbridge. In the centre was a small +oval enclosure; this was left blank, that the sender might insert +tender words more appropriate to the special occasion than any +generalities by a printer could possibly be. + +“Here’s a place for writing,” said Bathsheba. “What shall I put?” + +“Something of this sort, I should think,” returned Liddy promptly:— + +“The rose is red, +The violet blue, +Carnation’s sweet, +And so are you.” + + +“Yes, that shall be it. It just suits itself to a chubby-faced child +like him,” said Bathsheba. She inserted the words in a small though +legible handwriting; enclosed the sheet in an envelope, and dipped her +pen for the direction. + +“What fun it would be to send it to the stupid old Boldwood, and how he +would wonder!” said the irrepressible Liddy, lifting her eyebrows, and +indulging in an awful mirth on the verge of fear as she thought of the +moral and social magnitude of the man contemplated. + +Bathsheba paused to regard the idea at full length. Boldwood’s had +begun to be a troublesome image—a species of Daniel in her kingdom who +persisted in kneeling eastward when reason and common sense said that +he might just as well follow suit with the rest, and afford her the +official glance of admiration which cost nothing at all. She was far +from being seriously concerned about his nonconformity. Still, it was +faintly depressing that the most dignified and valuable man in the +parish should withhold his eyes, and that a girl like Liddy should talk +about it. So Liddy’s idea was at first rather harassing than piquant. + +“No, I won’t do that. He wouldn’t see any humour in it.” + +“He’d worry to death,” said the persistent Liddy. + +“Really, I don’t care particularly to send it to Teddy,” remarked her +mistress. “He’s rather a naughty child sometimes.” + +“Yes—that he is.” + +“Let’s toss as men do,” said Bathsheba, idly. “Now then, head, +Boldwood; tail, Teddy. No, we won’t toss money on a Sunday, that would +be tempting the devil indeed.” + +“Toss this hymn-book; there can’t be no sinfulness in that, miss.” + +“Very well. Open, Boldwood—shut, Teddy. No; it’s more likely to fall +open. Open, Teddy—shut, Boldwood.” + +The book went fluttering in the air and came down shut. + +Bathsheba, a small yawn upon her mouth, took the pen, and with off-hand +serenity directed the missive to Boldwood. + +“Now light a candle, Liddy. Which seal shall we use? Here’s a unicorn’s +head—there’s nothing in that. What’s this?—two doves—no. It ought to be +something extraordinary, ought it not, Liddy? Here’s one with a motto—I +remember it is some funny one, but I can’t read it. We’ll try this, and +if it doesn’t do we’ll have another.” + +A large red seal was duly affixed. Bathsheba looked closely at the hot +wax to discover the words. + +“Capital!” she exclaimed, throwing down the letter frolicsomely. +“’Twould upset the solemnity of a parson and clerke too.” + +Liddy looked at the words of the seal, and read— + +“MARRY ME.” + + +The same evening the letter was sent, and was duly sorted in +Casterbridge post-office that night, to be returned to Weatherbury +again in the morning. + +So very idly and unreflectingly was this deed done. Of love as a +spectacle Bathsheba had a fair knowledge; but of love subjectively she +knew nothing. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV +EFFECT OF THE LETTER—SUNRISE + + +At dusk, on the evening of St. Valentine’s Day, Boldwood sat down to +supper as usual, by a beaming fire of aged logs. Upon the mantel-shelf +before him was a time-piece, surmounted by a spread eagle, and upon the +eagle’s wings was the letter Bathsheba had sent. Here the bachelor’s +gaze was continually fastening itself, till the large red seal became +as a blot of blood on the retina of his eye; and as he ate and drank he +still read in fancy the words thereon, although they were too remote +for his sight— + +“MARRY ME.” + + +The pert injunction was like those crystal substances which, colourless +themselves, assume the tone of objects about them. Here, in the quiet +of Boldwood’s parlour, where everything that was not grave was +extraneous, and where the atmosphere was that of a Puritan Sunday +lasting all the week, the letter and its dictum changed their tenor +from the thoughtlessness of their origin to a deep solemnity, imbibed +from their accessories now. + +Since the receipt of the missive in the morning, Boldwood had felt the +symmetry of his existence to be slowly getting distorted in the +direction of an ideal passion. The disturbance was as the first +floating weed to Columbus—the contemptibly little suggesting +possibilities of the infinitely great. + +The letter must have had an origin and a motive. That the latter was of +the smallest magnitude compatible with its existence at all, Boldwood, +of course, did not know. And such an explanation did not strike him as +a possibility even. It is foreign to a mystified condition of mind to +realize of the mystifier that the processes of approving a course +suggested by circumstance, and of striking out a course from inner +impulse, would look the same in the result. The vast difference between +starting a train of events, and directing into a particular groove a +series already started, is rarely apparent to the person confounded by +the issue. + +When Boldwood went to bed he placed the valentine in the corner of the +looking-glass. He was conscious of its presence, even when his back was +turned upon it. It was the first time in Boldwood’s life that such an +event had occurred. The same fascination that caused him to think it an +act which had a deliberate motive prevented him from regarding it as an +impertinence. He looked again at the direction. The mysterious +influences of night invested the writing with the presence of the +unknown writer. Somebody’s—some _woman’s_—hand had travelled softly +over the paper bearing his name; her unrevealed eyes had watched every +curve as she formed it; her brain had seen him in imagination the +while. Why should she have imagined him? Her mouth—were the lips red or +pale, plump or creased?—had curved itself to a certain expression as +the pen went on—the corners had moved with all their natural +tremulousness: what had been the expression? + +The vision of the woman writing, as a supplement to the words written, +had no individuality. She was a misty shape, and well she might be, +considering that her original was at that moment sound asleep and +oblivious of all love and letter-writing under the sky. Whenever +Boldwood dozed she took a form, and comparatively ceased to be a +vision: when he awoke there was the letter justifying the dream. + +The moon shone to-night, and its light was not of a customary kind. His +window admitted only a reflection of its rays, and the pale sheen had +that reversed direction which snow gives, coming upward and lighting up +his ceiling in an unnatural way, casting shadows in strange places, and +putting lights where shadows had used to be. + +The substance of the epistle had occupied him but little in comparison +with the fact of its arrival. He suddenly wondered if anything more +might be found in the envelope than what he had withdrawn. He jumped +out of bed in the weird light, took the letter, pulled out the flimsy +sheet, shook the envelope—searched it. Nothing more was there. Boldwood +looked, as he had a hundred times the preceding day, at the insistent +red seal: “Marry me,” he said aloud. + +The solemn and reserved yeoman again closed the letter, and stuck it in +the frame of the glass. In doing so he caught sight of his reflected +features, wan in expression, and insubstantial in form. He saw how +closely compressed was his mouth, and that his eyes were wide-spread +and vacant. Feeling uneasy and dissatisfied with himself for this +nervous excitability, he returned to bed. + +Then the dawn drew on. The full power of the clear heaven was not equal +to that of a cloudy sky at noon, when Boldwood arose and dressed +himself. He descended the stairs and went out towards the gate of a +field to the east, leaning over which he paused and looked around. + +It was one of the usual slow sunrises of this time of the year, and the +sky, pure violet in the zenith, was leaden to the northward, and murky +to the east, where, over the snowy down or ewe-lease on Weatherbury +Upper Farm, and apparently resting upon the ridge, the only half of the +sun yet visible burnt rayless, like a red and flameless fire shining +over a white hearthstone. The whole effect resembled a sunset as +childhood resembles age. + +In other directions, the fields and sky were so much of one colour by +the snow, that it was difficult in a hasty glance to tell whereabouts +the horizon occurred; and in general there was here, too, that +before-mentioned preternatural inversion of light and shade which +attends the prospect when the garish brightness commonly in the sky is +found on the earth, and the shades of earth are in the sky. Over the +west hung the wasting moon, now dull and greenish-yellow, like +tarnished brass. + +Boldwood was listlessly noting how the frost had hardened and glazed +the surface of the snow, till it shone in the red eastern light with +the polish of marble; how, in some portions of the slope, withered +grass-bents, encased in icicles, bristled through the smooth wan +coverlet in the twisted and curved shapes of old Venetian glass; and +how the footprints of a few birds, which had hopped over the snow +whilst it lay in the state of a soft fleece, were now frozen to a short +permanency. A half-muffled noise of light wheels interrupted him. +Boldwood turned back into the road. It was the mail-cart—a crazy, +two-wheeled vehicle, hardly heavy enough to resist a puff of wind. The +driver held out a letter. Boldwood seized it and opened it, expecting +another anonymous one—so greatly are people’s ideas of probability a +mere sense that precedent will repeat itself. + +“I don’t think it is for you, sir,” said the man, when he saw +Boldwood’s action. “Though there is no name, I think it is for your +shepherd.” + +Boldwood looked then at the address— + +To the New Shepherd, +Weatherbury Farm, +Near Casterbridge + + +“Oh—what a mistake!—it is not mine. Nor is it for my shepherd. It is +for Miss Everdene’s. You had better take it on to him—Gabriel Oak—and +say I opened it in mistake.” + +At this moment, on the ridge, up against the blazing sky, a figure was +visible, like the black snuff in the midst of a candle-flame. Then it +moved and began to bustle about vigorously from place to place, +carrying square skeleton masses, which were riddled by the same rays. A +small figure on all fours followed behind. The tall form was that of +Gabriel Oak; the small one that of George; the articles in course of +transit were hurdles. + +“Wait,” said Boldwood. “That’s the man on the hill. I’ll take the +letter to him myself.” + +To Boldwood it was now no longer merely a letter to another man. It was +an opportunity. Exhibiting a face pregnant with intention, he entered +the snowy field. + +Gabriel, at that minute, descended the hill towards the right. The glow +stretched down in this direction now, and touched the distant roof of +Warren’s Malthouse—whither the shepherd was apparently bent: Boldwood +followed at a distance. + + + + +CHAPTER XV +A MORNING MEETING—THE LETTER AGAIN + + +The scarlet and orange light outside the malthouse did not penetrate to +its interior, which was, as usual, lighted by a rival glow of similar +hue, radiating from the hearth. + +The maltster, after having lain down in his clothes for a few hours, +was now sitting beside a three-legged table, breakfasting off bread and +bacon. This was eaten on the plateless system, which is performed by +placing a slice of bread upon the table, the meat flat upon the bread, +a mustard plaster upon the meat, and a pinch of salt upon the whole, +then cutting them vertically downwards with a large pocket-knife till +wood is reached, when the severed lump is impaled on the knife, +elevated, and sent the proper way of food. + +The maltster’s lack of teeth appeared not to sensibly diminish his +powers as a mill. He had been without them for so many years that +toothlessness was felt less to be a defect than hard gums an +acquisition. Indeed, he seemed to approach the grave as a hyperbolic +curve approaches a straight line—less directly as he got nearer, till +it was doubtful if he would ever reach it at all. + +In the ashpit was a heap of potatoes roasting, and a boiling pipkin of +charred bread, called “coffee”, for the benefit of whomsoever should +call, for Warren’s was a sort of clubhouse, used as an alternative to +the inn. + +“I say, says I, we get a fine day, and then down comes a snapper at +night,” was a remark now suddenly heard spreading into the malthouse +from the door, which had been opened the previous moment. The form of +Henery Fray advanced to the fire, stamping the snow from his boots when +about half-way there. The speech and entry had not seemed to be at all +an abrupt beginning to the maltster, introductory matter being often +omitted in this neighbourhood, both from word and deed, and the +maltster having the same latitude allowed him, did not hurry to reply. +He picked up a fragment of cheese, by pecking upon it with his knife, +as a butcher picks up skewers. + +Henery appeared in a drab kerseymere great-coat, buttoned over his +smock-frock, the white skirts of the latter being visible to the +distance of about a foot below the coat-tails, which, when you got used +to the style of dress, looked natural enough, and even ornamental—it +certainly was comfortable. + +Matthew Moon, Joseph Poorgrass, and other carters and waggoners +followed at his heels, with great lanterns dangling from their hands, +which showed that they had just come from the cart-horse stables, where +they had been busily engaged since four o’clock that morning. + +“And how is she getting on without a baily?” the maltster inquired. +Henery shook his head, and smiled one of the bitter smiles, dragging +all the flesh of his forehead into a corrugated heap in the centre. + +“She’ll rue it—surely, surely!” he said. “Benjy Pennyways were not a +true man or an honest baily—as big a betrayer as Judas Iscariot +himself. But to think she can carr’ on alone!” He allowed his head to +swing laterally three or four times in silence. “Never in all my +creeping up—never!” + +This was recognized by all as the conclusion of some gloomy speech +which had been expressed in thought alone during the shake of the head; +Henery meanwhile retained several marks of despair upon his face, to +imply that they would be required for use again directly he should go +on speaking. + +“All will be ruined, and ourselves too, or there’s no meat in +gentlemen’s houses!” said Mark Clark. + +“A headstrong maid, that’s what she is—and won’t listen to no advice at +all. Pride and vanity have ruined many a cobbler’s dog. Dear, dear, +when I think o’ it, I sorrows like a man in travel!” + +“True, Henery, you do, I’ve heard ye,” said Joseph Poorgrass in a voice +of thorough attestation, and with a wire-drawn smile of misery. + +“’Twould do a martel man no harm to have what’s under her bonnet,” said +Billy Smallbury, who had just entered, bearing his one tooth before +him. “She can spaik real language, and must have some sense somewhere. +Do ye foller me?” + +“I do, I do; but no baily—I deserved that place,” wailed Henery, +signifying wasted genius by gazing blankly at visions of a high destiny +apparently visible to him on Billy Smallbury’s smock-frock. “There, +’twas to be, I suppose. Your lot is your lot, and Scripture is nothing; +for if you do good you don’t get rewarded according to your works, but +be cheated in some mean way out of your recompense.” + +“No, no; I don’t agree with’ee there,” said Mark Clark. “God’s a +perfect gentleman in that respect.” + +“Good works good pay, so to speak it,” attested Joseph Poorgrass. + +A short pause ensued, and as a sort of _entr’acte_ Henery turned and +blew out the lanterns, which the increase of daylight rendered no +longer necessary even in the malthouse, with its one pane of glass. + +“I wonder what a farmer-woman can want with a harpsichord, dulcimer, +pianner, or whatever ’tis they d’call it?” said the maltster. “Liddy +saith she’ve a new one.” + +“Got a pianner?” + +“Ay. Seems her old uncle’s things were not good enough for her. She’ve +bought all but everything new. There’s heavy chairs for the stout, weak +and wiry ones for the slender; great watches, getting on to the size of +clocks, to stand upon the chimbley-piece.” + +“Pictures, for the most part wonderful frames.” + +“And long horse-hair settles for the drunk, with horse-hair pillows at +each end,” said Mr. Clark. “Likewise looking-glasses for the pretty, +and lying books for the wicked.” + +A firm loud tread was now heard stamping outside; the door was opened +about six inches, and somebody on the other side exclaimed— + +“Neighbours, have ye got room for a few new-born lambs?” + +“Ay, sure, shepherd,” said the conclave. + +The door was flung back till it kicked the wall and trembled from top +to bottom with the blow. Mr. Oak appeared in the entry with a steaming +face, hay-bands wound about his ankles to keep out the snow, a leather +strap round his waist outside the smock-frock, and looking altogether +an epitome of the world’s health and vigour. Four lambs hung in various +embarrassing attitudes over his shoulders, and the dog George, whom +Gabriel had contrived to fetch from Norcombe, stalked solemnly behind. + +“Well, Shepherd Oak, and how’s lambing this year, if I mid say it?” +inquired Joseph Poorgrass. + +“Terrible trying,” said Oak. “I’ve been wet through twice a-day, either +in snow or rain, this last fortnight. Cainy and I haven’t tined our +eyes to-night.” + +“A good few twins, too, I hear?” + +“Too many by half. Yes; ’tis a very queer lambing this year. We shan’t +have done by Lady Day.” + +“And last year ’twer all over by Sexajessamine Sunday,” Joseph +remarked. + +“Bring on the rest Cain,” said Gabriel, “and then run back to the ewes. +I’ll follow you soon.” + +Cainy Ball—a cheery-faced young lad, with a small circular orifice by +way of mouth, advanced and deposited two others, and retired as he was +bidden. Oak lowered the lambs from their unnatural elevation, wrapped +them in hay, and placed them round the fire. + +“We’ve no lambing-hut here, as I used to have at Norcombe,” said +Gabriel, “and ’tis such a plague to bring the weakly ones to a house. +If ’twasn’t for your place here, malter, I don’t know what I should do +i’ this keen weather. And how is it with you to-day, malter?” + +“Oh, neither sick nor sorry, shepherd; but no younger.” + +“Ay—I understand.” + +“Sit down, Shepherd Oak,” continued the ancient man of malt. “And how +was the old place at Norcombe, when ye went for your dog? I should like +to see the old familiar spot; but faith, I shouldn’t know a soul there +now.” + +“I suppose you wouldn’t. ’Tis altered very much.” + +“Is it true that Dicky Hill’s wooden cider-house is pulled down?” + +“Oh yes—years ago, and Dicky’s cottage just above it.” + +“Well, to be sure!” + +“Yes; and Tompkins’s old apple-tree is rooted that used to bear two +hogsheads of cider; and no help from other trees.” + +“Rooted?—you don’t say it! Ah! stirring times we live in—stirring +times.” + +“And you can mind the old well that used to be in the middle of the +place? That’s turned into a solid iron pump with a large stone trough, +and all complete.” + +“Dear, dear—how the face of nations alter, and what we live to see +nowadays! Yes—and ’tis the same here. They’ve been talking but now of +the mis’ess’s strange doings.” + +“What have you been saying about her?” inquired Oak, sharply turning to +the rest, and getting very warm. + +“These middle-aged men have been pulling her over the coals for pride +and vanity,” said Mark Clark; “but I say, let her have rope enough. +Bless her pretty face—shouldn’t I like to do so—upon her cherry lips!” +The gallant Mark Clark here made a peculiar and well known sound with +his own. + +“Mark,” said Gabriel, sternly, “now you mind this! none of that +dalliance-talk—that smack-and-coddle style of yours—about Miss +Everdene. I don’t allow it. Do you hear?” + +“With all my heart, as I’ve got no chance,” replied Mr. Clark, +cordially. + +“I suppose you’ve been speaking against her?” said Oak, turning to +Joseph Poorgrass with a very grim look. + +“No, no—not a word I—’tis a real joyful thing that she’s no worse, +that’s what I say,” said Joseph, trembling and blushing with terror. +“Matthew just said—” + +“Matthew Moon, what have you been saying?” asked Oak. + +“I? Why ye know I wouldn’t harm a worm—no, not one underground worm?” +said Matthew Moon, looking very uneasy. + +“Well, somebody has—and look here, neighbours,” Gabriel, though one of +the quietest and most gentle men on earth, rose to the occasion, with +martial promptness and vigour. “That’s my fist.” Here he placed his +fist, rather smaller in size than a common loaf, in the mathematical +centre of the maltster’s little table, and with it gave a bump or two +thereon, as if to ensure that their eyes all thoroughly took in the +idea of fistiness before he went further. “Now—the first man in the +parish that I hear prophesying bad of our mistress, why” (here the fist +was raised and let fall as Thor might have done with his hammer in +assaying it)—“he’ll smell and taste that—or I’m a Dutchman.” + +All earnestly expressed by their features that their minds did not +wander to Holland for a moment on account of this statement, but were +deploring the difference which gave rise to the figure; and Mark Clark +cried “Hear, hear; just what I should ha’ said.” The dog George looked +up at the same time after the shepherd’s menace, and though he +understood English but imperfectly, began to growl. + +“Now, don’t ye take on so, shepherd, and sit down!” said Henery, with a +deprecating peacefulness equal to anything of the kind in Christianity. + +“We hear that ye be a extraordinary good and clever man, shepherd,” +said Joseph Poorgrass with considerable anxiety from behind the +maltster’s bedstead, whither he had retired for safety. “’Tis a great +thing to be clever, I’m sure,” he added, making movements associated +with states of mind rather than body; “we wish we were, don’t we, +neighbours?” + +“Ay, that we do, sure,” said Matthew Moon, with a small anxious laugh +towards Oak, to show how very friendly disposed he was likewise. + +“Who’s been telling you I’m clever?” said Oak. + +“’Tis blowed about from pillar to post quite common,” said Matthew. “We +hear that ye can tell the time as well by the stars as we can by the +sun and moon, shepherd.” + +“Yes, I can do a little that way,” said Gabriel, as a man of medium +sentiments on the subject. + +“And that ye can make sun-dials, and prent folks’ names upon their +waggons almost like copper-plate, with beautiful flourishes, and great +long tails. A excellent fine thing for ye to be such a clever man, +shepherd. Joseph Poorgrass used to prent to Farmer James Everdene’s +waggons before you came, and ’a could never mind which way to turn the +J’s and E’s—could ye, Joseph?” Joseph shook his head to express how +absolute was the fact that he couldn’t. “And so you used to do ’em the +wrong way, like this, didn’t ye, Joseph?” Matthew marked on the dusty +floor with his whip-handle + +[Illustration: The word J A M E S appears here with the “J”, “E”, and +“S” printed backwards] + +“And how Farmer James would cuss, and call thee a fool, wouldn’t he, +Joseph, when ’a seed his name looking so inside-out-like?” continued +Matthew Moon with feeling. + +“Ay—’a would,” said Joseph, meekly. “But, you see, I wasn’t so much to +blame, for them J’s and E’s be such trying sons o’ witches for the +memory to mind whether they face backward or forward; and I always had +such a forgetful memory, too.” + +“’Tis a very bad affliction for ye, being such a man of calamities in +other ways.” + +“Well, ’tis; but a happy Providence ordered that it should be no worse, +and I feel my thanks. As to shepherd, there, I’m sure mis’ess ought to +have made ye her baily—such a fitting man for’t as you be.” + +“I don’t mind owning that I expected it,” said Oak, frankly. “Indeed, I +hoped for the place. At the same time, Miss Everdene has a right to be +her own baily if she choose—and to keep me down to be a common shepherd +only.” Oak drew a slow breath, looked sadly into the bright ashpit, and +seemed lost in thoughts not of the most hopeful hue. + +The genial warmth of the fire now began to stimulate the nearly +lifeless lambs to bleat and move their limbs briskly upon the hay, and +to recognize for the first time the fact that they were born. Their +noise increased to a chorus of baas, upon which Oak pulled the milk-can +from before the fire, and taking a small tea-pot from the pocket of his +smock-frock, filled it with milk, and taught those of the helpless +creatures which were not to be restored to their dams how to drink from +the spout—a trick they acquired with astonishing aptitude. + +“And she don’t even let ye have the skins of the dead lambs, I hear?” +resumed Joseph Poorgrass, his eyes lingering on the operations of Oak +with the necessary melancholy. + +“I don’t have them,” said Gabriel. + +“Ye be very badly used, shepherd,” hazarded Joseph again, in the hope +of getting Oak as an ally in lamentation after all. “I think she’s took +against ye—that I do.” + +“Oh no—not at all,” replied Gabriel, hastily, and a sigh escaped him, +which the deprivation of lamb skins could hardly have caused. + +Before any further remark had been added a shade darkened the door, and +Boldwood entered the malthouse, bestowing upon each a nod of a quality +between friendliness and condescension. + +“Ah! Oak, I thought you were here,” he said. “I met the mail-cart ten +minutes ago, and a letter was put into my hand, which I opened without +reading the address. I believe it is yours. You must excuse the +accident please.” + +“Oh yes—not a bit of difference, Mr. Boldwood—not a bit,” said Gabriel, +readily. He had not a correspondent on earth, nor was there a possible +letter coming to him whose contents the whole parish would not have +been welcome to peruse. + +Oak stepped aside, and read the following in an unknown hand:— + +DEAR FRIEND,—I do not know your name, but I think these few lines will +reach you, which I wrote to thank you for your kindness to me the night +I left Weatherbury in a reckless way. I also return the money I owe +you, which you will excuse my not keeping as a gift. All has ended +well, and I am happy to say I am going to be married to the young man +who has courted me for some time—Sergeant Troy, of the 11th Dragoon +Guards, now quartered in this town. He would, I know, object to my +having received anything except as a loan, being a man of great +respectability and high honour—indeed, a nobleman by blood. + I should be much obliged to you if you would keep the contents of + this letter a secret for the present, dear friend. We mean to + surprise Weatherbury by coming there soon as husband and wife, + though I blush to state it to one nearly a stranger. The sergeant + grew up in Weatherbury. Thanking you again for your kindness, + + +I am, your sincere well-wisher, +FANNY ROBIN. + + +“Have you read it, Mr. Boldwood?” said Gabriel; “if not, you had better +do so. I know you are interested in Fanny Robin.” + +Boldwood read the letter and looked grieved. + +“Fanny—poor Fanny! the end she is so confident of has not yet come, she +should remember—and may never come. I see she gives no address.” + +“What sort of a man is this Sergeant Troy?” said Gabriel. + +“H’m—I’m afraid not one to build much hope upon in such a case as +this,” the farmer murmured, “though he’s a clever fellow, and up to +everything. A slight romance attaches to him, too. His mother was a +French governess, and it seems that a secret attachment existed between +her and the late Lord Severn. She was married to a poor medical man, +and soon after an infant was born; and while money was forthcoming all +went on well. Unfortunately for her boy, his best friends died; and he +got then a situation as second clerk at a lawyer’s in Casterbridge. He +stayed there for some time, and might have worked himself into a +dignified position of some sort had he not indulged in the wild freak +of enlisting. I have much doubt if ever little Fanny will surprise us +in the way she mentions—very much doubt. A silly girl!—silly girl!” + +The door was hurriedly burst open again, and in came running Cainy Ball +out of breath, his mouth red and open, like the bell of a penny +trumpet, from which he coughed with noisy vigour and great distension +of face. + +“Now, Cain Ball,” said Oak, sternly, “why will you run so fast and lose +your breath so? I’m always telling you of it.” + +“Oh—I—a puff of mee breath—went—the—wrong way, please, Mister Oak, and +made me cough—hok—hok!” + +“Well—what have you come for?” + +“I’ve run to tell ye,” said the junior shepherd, supporting his +exhausted youthful frame against the doorpost, “that you must come +directly. Two more ewes have twinned—that’s what’s the matter, Shepherd +Oak.” + +“Oh, that’s it,” said Oak, jumping up, and dimissing for the present +his thoughts on poor Fanny. “You are a good boy to run and tell me, +Cain, and you shall smell a large plum pudding some day as a treat. +But, before we go, Cainy, bring the tarpot, and we’ll mark this lot and +have done with ’em.” + +Oak took from his illimitable pockets a marking iron, dipped it into +the pot, and imprinted on the buttocks of the infant sheep the initials +of her he delighted to muse on—“B. E.,” which signified to all the +region round that henceforth the lambs belonged to Farmer Bathsheba +Everdene, and to no one else. + +“Now, Cainy, shoulder your two, and off. Good morning, Mr. Boldwood.” +The shepherd lifted the sixteen large legs and four small bodies he had +himself brought, and vanished with them in the direction of the lambing +field hard by—their frames being now in a sleek and hopeful state, +pleasantly contrasting with their death’s-door plight of half an hour +before. + +Boldwood followed him a little way up the field, hesitated, and turned +back. He followed him again with a last resolve, annihilating return. +On approaching the nook in which the fold was constructed, the farmer +drew out his pocket-book, unfastened it, and allowed it to lie open on +his hand. A letter was revealed—Bathsheba’s. + +“I was going to ask you, Oak,” he said, with unreal carelessness, “if +you know whose writing this is?” + +Oak glanced into the book, and replied instantly, with a flushed face, +“Miss Everdene’s.” + +Oak had coloured simply at the consciousness of sounding her name. He +now felt a strangely distressing qualm from a new thought. The letter +could of course be no other than anonymous, or the inquiry would not +have been necessary. + +Boldwood mistook his confusion: sensitive persons are always ready with +their “Is it I?” in preference to objective reasoning. + +“The question was perfectly fair,” he returned—and there was something +incongruous in the serious earnestness with which he applied himself to +an argument on a valentine. “You know it is always expected that privy +inquiries will be made: that’s where the—fun lies.” If the word “fun” +had been “torture,” it could not have been uttered with a more +constrained and restless countenance than was Boldwood’s then. + +Soon parting from Gabriel, the lonely and reserved man returned to his +house to breakfast—feeling twinges of shame and regret at having so far +exposed his mood by those fevered questions to a stranger. He again +placed the letter on the mantelpiece, and sat down to think of the +circumstances attending it by the light of Gabriel’s information. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI +ALL SAINTS’ AND ALL SOULS’ + + +On a week-day morning a small congregation, consisting mainly of women +and girls, rose from its knees in the mouldy nave of a church called +All Saints’, in the distant barrack-town before-mentioned, at the end +of a service without a sermon. They were about to disperse, when a +smart footstep, entering the porch and coming up the central passage, +arrested their attention. The step echoed with a ring unusual in a +church; it was the clink of spurs. Everybody looked. A young cavalry +soldier in a red uniform, with the three chevrons of a sergeant upon +his sleeve, strode up the aisle, with an embarrassment which was only +the more marked by the intense vigour of his step, and by the +determination upon his face to show none. A slight flush had mounted +his cheek by the time he had run the gauntlet between these women; but, +passing on through the chancel arch, he never paused till he came close +to the altar railing. Here for a moment he stood alone. + +The officiating curate, who had not yet doffed his surplice, perceived +the new-comer, and followed him to the communion-space. He whispered to +the soldier, and then beckoned to the clerk, who in his turn whispered +to an elderly woman, apparently his wife, and they also went up the +chancel steps. + +“’Tis a wedding!” murmured some of the women, brightening. “Let’s +wait!” + +The majority again sat down. + +There was a creaking of machinery behind, and some of the young ones +turned their heads. From the interior face of the west wall of the +tower projected a little canopy with a quarter-jack and small bell +beneath it, the automaton being driven by the same clock machinery that +struck the large bell in the tower. Between the tower and the church +was a close screen, the door of which was kept shut during services, +hiding this grotesque clockwork from sight. At present, however, the +door was open, and the egress of the jack, the blows on the bell, and +the mannikin’s retreat into the nook again, were visible to many, and +audible throughout the church. + +The jack had struck half-past eleven. + +“Where’s the woman?” whispered some of the spectators. + +The young sergeant stood still with the abnormal rigidity of the old +pillars around. He faced the south-east, and was as silent as he was +still. + +The silence grew to be a noticeable thing as the minutes went on, and +nobody else appeared, and not a soul moved. The rattle of the +quarter-jack again from its niche, its blows for three-quarters, its +fussy retreat, were almost painfully abrupt, and caused many of the +congregation to start palpably. + +“I wonder where the woman is!” a voice whispered again. + +There began now that slight shifting of feet, that artificial coughing +among several, which betrays a nervous suspense. At length there was a +titter. But the soldier never moved. There he stood, his face to the +south-east, upright as a column, his cap in his hand. + +The clock ticked on. The women threw off their nervousness, and titters +and giggling became more frequent. Then came a dead silence. Every one +was waiting for the end. Some persons may have noticed how +extraordinarily the striking of quarters seems to quicken the flight of +time. It was hardly credible that the jack had not got wrong with the +minutes when the rattle began again, the puppet emerged, and the four +quarters were struck fitfully as before. One could almost be positive +that there was a malicious leer upon the hideous creature’s face, and a +mischievous delight in its twitchings. Then followed the dull and +remote resonance of the twelve heavy strokes in the tower above. The +women were impressed, and there was no giggle this time. + +The clergyman glided into the vestry, and the clerk vanished. The +sergeant had not yet turned; every woman in the church was waiting to +see his face, and he appeared to know it. At last he did turn, and +stalked resolutely down the nave, braving them all, with a compressed +lip. Two bowed and toothless old almsmen then looked at each other and +chuckled, innocently enough; but the sound had a strange weird effect +in that place. + +Opposite to the church was a paved square, around which several +overhanging wood buildings of old time cast a picturesque shade. The +young man on leaving the door went to cross the square, when, in the +middle, he met a little woman. The expression of her face, which had +been one of intense anxiety, sank at the sight of his nearly to terror. + +“Well?” he said, in a suppressed passion, fixedly looking at her. + +“Oh, Frank—I made a mistake!—I thought that church with the spire was +All Saints’, and I was at the door at half-past eleven to a minute as +you said. I waited till a quarter to twelve, and found then that I was +in All Souls’. But I wasn’t much frightened, for I thought it could be +to-morrow as well.” + +“You fool, for so fooling me! But say no more.” + +“Shall it be to-morrow, Frank?” she asked blankly. + +“To-morrow!” and he gave vent to a hoarse laugh. “I don’t go through +that experience again for some time, I warrant you!” + +“But after all,” she expostulated in a trembling voice, “the mistake +was not such a terrible thing! Now, dear Frank, when shall it be?” + +“Ah, when? God knows!” he said, with a light irony, and turning from +her walked rapidly away. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII +IN THE MARKET-PLACE + + +On Saturday Boldwood was in Casterbridge market house as usual, when +the disturber of his dreams entered and became visible to him. Adam had +awakened from his deep sleep, and behold! there was Eve. The farmer +took courage, and for the first time really looked at her. + +Material causes and emotional effects are not to be arranged in regular +equation. The result from capital employed in the production of any +movement of a mental nature is sometimes as tremendous as the cause +itself is absurdly minute. When women are in a freakish mood, their +usual intuition, either from carelessness or inherent defect, seemingly +fails to teach them this, and hence it was that Bathsheba was fated to +be astonished to-day. + +Boldwood looked at her—not slily, critically, or understandingly, but +blankly at gaze, in the way a reaper looks up at a passing train—as +something foreign to his element, and but dimly understood. To Boldwood +women had been remote phenomena rather than necessary +complements—comets of such uncertain aspect, movement, and permanence, +that whether their orbits were as geometrical, unchangeable, and as +subject to laws as his own, or as absolutely erratic as they +superficially appeared, he had not deemed it his duty to consider. + +He saw her black hair, her correct facial curves and profile, and the +roundness of her chin and throat. He saw then the side of her eyelids, +eyes, and lashes, and the shape of her ear. Next he noticed her figure, +her skirt, and the very soles of her shoes. + +Boldwood thought her beautiful, but wondered whether he was right in +his thought, for it seemed impossible that this romance in the flesh, +if so sweet as he imagined, could have been going on long without +creating a commotion of delight among men, and provoking more inquiry +than Bathsheba had done, even though that was not a little. To the best +of his judgement neither nature nor art could improve this perfect one +of an imperfect many. His heart began to move within him. Boldwood, it +must be remembered, though forty years of age, had never before +inspected a woman with the very centre and force of his glance; they +had struck upon all his senses at wide angles. + +Was she really beautiful? He could not assure himself that his opinion +was true even now. He furtively said to a neighbour, “Is Miss Everdene +considered handsome?” + +“Oh yes; she was a good deal noticed the first time she came, if you +remember. A very handsome girl indeed.” + +A man is never more credulous than in receiving favourable opinions on +the beauty of a woman he is half, or quite, in love with; a mere +child’s word on the point has the weight of an R.A.’s. Boldwood was +satisfied now. + +And this charming woman had in effect said to him, “Marry me.” Why +should she have done that strange thing? Boldwood’s blindness to the +difference between approving of what circumstances suggest, and +originating what they do not suggest, was well matched by Bathsheba’s +insensibility to the possibly great issues of little beginnings. + +She was at this moment coolly dealing with a dashing young farmer, +adding up accounts with him as indifferently as if his face had been +the pages of a ledger. It was evident that such a nature as his had no +attraction for a woman of Bathsheba’s taste. But Boldwood grew hot down +to his hands with an incipient jealousy; he trod for the first time the +threshold of “the injured lover’s hell.” His first impulse was to go +and thrust himself between them. This could be done, but only in one +way—by asking to see a sample of her corn. Boldwood renounced the idea. +He could not make the request; it was debasing loveliness to ask it to +buy and sell, and jarred with his conceptions of her. + +All this time Bathsheba was conscious of having broken into that +dignified stronghold at last. His eyes, she knew, were following her +everywhere. This was a triumph; and had it come naturally, such a +triumph would have been the sweeter to her for this piquing delay. But +it had been brought about by misdirected ingenuity, and she valued it +only as she valued an artificial flower or a wax fruit. + +Being a woman with some good sense in reasoning on subjects wherein her +heart was not involved, Bathsheba genuinely repented that a freak which +had owed its existence as much to Liddy as to herself, should ever have +been undertaken, to disturb the placidity of a man she respected too +highly to deliberately tease. + +She that day nearly formed the intention of begging his pardon on the +very next occasion of their meeting. The worst features of this +arrangement were that, if he thought she ridiculed him, an apology +would increase the offence by being disbelieved; and if he thought she +wanted him to woo her, it would read like additional evidence of her +forwardness. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII +Boldwood in Meditation—Regret + + +Boldwood was tenant of what was called Little Weatherbury Farm, and his +person was the nearest approach to aristocracy that this remoter +quarter of the parish could boast of. Genteel strangers, whose god was +their town, who might happen to be compelled to linger about this nook +for a day, heard the sound of light wheels, and prayed to see good +society, to the degree of a solitary lord, or squire at the very least, +but it was only Mr. Boldwood going out for the day. They heard the +sound of wheels yet once more, and were re-animated to expectancy: it +was only Mr. Boldwood coming home again. + +His house stood recessed from the road, and the stables, which are to a +farm what a fireplace is to a room, were behind, their lower portions +being lost amid bushes of laurel. Inside the blue door, open half-way +down, were to be seen at this time the backs and tails of half-a-dozen +warm and contented horses standing in their stalls; and as thus viewed, +they presented alternations of roan and bay, in shapes like a Moorish +arch, the tail being a streak down the midst of each. Over these, and +lost to the eye gazing in from the outer light, the mouths of the same +animals could be heard busily sustaining the above-named warmth and +plumpness by quantities of oats and hay. The restless and shadowy +figure of a colt wandered about a loose-box at the end, whilst the +steady grind of all the eaters was occasionally diversified by the +rattle of a rope or the stamp of a foot. + +Pacing up and down at the heels of the animals was Farmer Boldwood +himself. This place was his almonry and cloister in one: here, after +looking to the feeding of his four-footed dependants, the celibate +would walk and meditate of an evening till the moon’s rays streamed in +through the cobwebbed windows, or total darkness enveloped the scene. + +His square-framed perpendicularity showed more fully now than in the +crowd and bustle of the market-house. In this meditative walk his foot +met the floor with heel and toe simultaneously, and his fine +reddish-fleshed face was bent downwards just enough to render obscure +the still mouth and the well-rounded though rather prominent and broad +chin. A few clear and thread-like horizontal lines were the only +interruption to the otherwise smooth surface of his large forehead. + +The phases of Boldwood’s life were ordinary enough, but his was not an +ordinary nature. That stillness, which struck casual observers more +than anything else in his character and habit, and seemed so precisely +like the rest of inanition, may have been the perfect balance of +enormous antagonistic forces—positives and negatives in fine +adjustment. His equilibrium disturbed, he was in extremity at once. If +an emotion possessed him at all, it ruled him; a feeling not mastering +him was entirely latent. Stagnant or rapid, it was never slow. He was +always hit mortally, or he was missed. + +He had no light and careless touches in his constitution, either for +good or for evil. Stern in the outlines of action, mild in the details, +he was serious throughout all. He saw no absurd sides to the follies of +life, and thus, though not quite companionable in the eyes of merry men +and scoffers, and those to whom all things show life as a jest, he was +not intolerable to the earnest and those acquainted with grief. Being a +man who read all the dramas of life seriously, if he failed to please +when they were comedies, there was no frivolous treatment to reproach +him for when they chanced to end tragically. + +Bathsheba was far from dreaming that the dark and silent shape upon +which she had so carelessly thrown a seed was a hotbed of tropic +intensity. Had she known Boldwood’s moods, her blame would have been +fearful, and the stain upon her heart ineradicable. Moreover, had she +known her present power for good or evil over this man, she would have +trembled at her responsibility. Luckily for her present, unluckily for +her future tranquillity, her understanding had not yet told her what +Boldwood was. Nobody knew entirely; for though it was possible to form +guesses concerning his wild capabilities from old floodmarks faintly +visible, he had never been seen at the high tides which caused them. + +Farmer Boldwood came to the stable-door and looked forth across the +level fields. Beyond the first enclosure was a hedge, and on the other +side of this a meadow belonging to Bathsheba’s farm. + +It was now early spring—the time of going to grass with the sheep, when +they have the first feed of the meadows, before these are laid up for +mowing. The wind, which had been blowing east for several weeks, had +veered to the southward, and the middle of spring had come +abruptly—almost without a beginning. It was that period in the vernal +quarter when we may suppose the Dryads to be waking for the season. The +vegetable world begins to move and swell and the saps to rise, till in +the completest silence of lone gardens and trackless plantations, where +everything seems helpless and still after the bond and slavery of +frost, there are bustlings, strainings, united thrusts, and +pulls-all-together, in comparison with which the powerful tugs of +cranes and pulleys in a noisy city are but pigmy efforts. + +Boldwood, looking into the distant meadows, saw there three figures. +They were those of Miss Everdene, Shepherd Oak, and Cainy Ball. + +When Bathsheba’s figure shone upon the farmer’s eyes it lighted him up +as the moon lights up a great tower. A man’s body is as the shell, or +the tablet, of his soul, as he is reserved or ingenuous, overflowing or +self-contained. There was a change in Boldwood’s exterior from its +former impassibleness; and his face showed that he was now living +outside his defences for the first time, and with a fearful sense of +exposure. It is the usual experience of strong natures when they love. + +At last he arrived at a conclusion. It was to go across and inquire +boldly of her. + +The insulation of his heart by reserve during these many years, without +a channel of any kind for disposable emotion, had worked its effect. It +has been observed more than once that the causes of love are chiefly +subjective, and Boldwood was a living testimony to the truth of the +proposition. No mother existed to absorb his devotion, no sister for +his tenderness, no idle ties for sense. He became surcharged with the +compound, which was genuine lover’s love. + +He approached the gate of the meadow. Beyond it the ground was +melodious with ripples, and the sky with larks; the low bleating of the +flock mingling with both. Mistress and man were engaged in the +operation of making a lamb “take,” which is performed whenever an ewe +has lost her own offspring, one of the twins of another ewe being given +her as a substitute. Gabriel had skinned the dead lamb, and was tying +the skin over the body of the live lamb, in the customary manner, +whilst Bathsheba was holding open a little pen of four hurdles, into +which the mother and foisted lamb were driven, where they would remain +till the old sheep conceived an affection for the young one. + +Bathsheba looked up at the completion of the manœuvre and saw the +farmer by the gate, where he was overhung by a willow tree in full +bloom. Gabriel, to whom her face was as the uncertain glory of an April +day, was ever regardful of its faintest changes, and instantly +discerned thereon the mark of some influence from without, in the form +of a keenly self-conscious reddening. He also turned and beheld +Boldwood. + +At once connecting these signs with the letter Boldwood had shown him, +Gabriel suspected her of some coquettish procedure begun by that means, +and carried on since, he knew not how. + +Farmer Boldwood had read the pantomime denoting that they were aware of +his presence, and the perception was as too much light turned upon his +new sensibility. He was still in the road, and by moving on he hoped +that neither would recognize that he had originally intended to enter +the field. He passed by with an utter and overwhelming sensation of +ignorance, shyness, and doubt. Perhaps in her manner there were signs +that she wished to see him—perhaps not—he could not read a woman. The +cabala of this erotic philosophy seemed to consist of the subtlest +meanings expressed in misleading ways. Every turn, look, word, and +accent contained a mystery quite distinct from its obvious import, and +not one had ever been pondered by him until now. + +As for Bathsheba, she was not deceived into the belief that Farmer +Boldwood had walked by on business or in idleness. She collected the +probabilities of the case, and concluded that she was herself +responsible for Boldwood’s appearance there. It troubled her much to +see what a great flame a little wildfire was likely to kindle. +Bathsheba was no schemer for marriage, nor was she deliberately a +trifler with the affections of men, and a censor’s experience on seeing +an actual flirt after observing her would have been a feeling of +surprise that Bathsheba could be so different from such a one, and yet +so like what a flirt is supposed to be. + +She resolved never again, by look or by sign, to interrupt the steady +flow of this man’s life. But a resolution to avoid an evil is seldom +framed till the evil is so far advanced as to make avoidance +impossible. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX +THE SHEEP-WASHING—THE OFFER + + +Boldwood did eventually call upon her. She was not at home. “Of course +not,” he murmured. In contemplating Bathsheba as a woman, he had +forgotten the accidents of her position as an agriculturist—that being +as much of a farmer, and as extensive a farmer, as himself, her +probable whereabouts was out-of-doors at this time of the year. This, +and the other oversights Boldwood was guilty of, were natural to the +mood, and still more natural to the circumstances. The great aids to +idealization in love were present here: occasional observation of her +from a distance, and the absence of social intercourse with her—visual +familiarity, oral strangeness. The smaller human elements were kept out +of sight; the pettinesses that enter so largely into all earthly living +and doing were disguised by the accident of lover and loved-one not +being on visiting terms; and there was hardly awakened a thought in +Boldwood that sorry household realities appertained to her, or that +she, like all others, had moments of commonplace, when to be least +plainly seen was to be most prettily remembered. Thus a mild sort of +apotheosis took place in his fancy, whilst she still lived and breathed +within his own horizon, a troubled creature like himself. + +It was the end of May when the farmer determined to be no longer +repulsed by trivialities or distracted by suspense. He had by this time +grown used to being in love; the passion now startled him less even +when it tortured him more, and he felt himself adequate to the +situation. On inquiring for her at her house they had told him she was +at the sheep-washing, and he went off to seek her there. + +The sheep-washing pool was a perfectly circular basin of brickwork in +the meadows, full of the clearest water. To birds on the wing its +glassy surface, reflecting the light sky, must have been visible for +miles around as a glistening Cyclops’ eye in a green face. The grass +about the margin at this season was a sight to remember long—in a minor +sort of way. Its activity in sucking the moisture from the rich damp +sod was almost a process observable by the eye. The outskirts of this +level water-meadow were diversified by rounded and hollow pastures, +where just now every flower that was not a buttercup was a daisy. The +river slid along noiselessly as a shade, the swelling reeds and sedge +forming a flexible palisade upon its moist brink. To the north of the +mead were trees, the leaves of which were new, soft, and moist, not yet +having stiffened and darkened under summer sun and drought, their +colour being yellow beside a green—green beside a yellow. From the +recesses of this knot of foliage the loud notes of three cuckoos were +resounding through the still air. + +Boldwood went meditating down the slopes with his eyes on his boots, +which the yellow pollen from the buttercups had bronzed in artistic +gradations. A tributary of the main stream flowed through the basin of +the pool by an inlet and outlet at opposite points of its diameter. +Shepherd Oak, Jan Coggan, Moon, Poorgrass, Cain Ball, and several +others were assembled here, all dripping wet to the very roots of their +hair, and Bathsheba was standing by in a new riding-habit—the most +elegant she had ever worn—the reins of her horse being looped over her +arm. Flagons of cider were rolling about upon the green. The meek sheep +were pushed into the pool by Coggan and Matthew Moon, who stood by the +lower hatch, immersed to their waists; then Gabriel, who stood on the +brink, thrust them under as they swam along, with an instrument like a +crutch, formed for the purpose, and also for assisting the exhausted +animals when the wool became saturated and they began to sink. They +were let out against the stream, and through the upper opening, all +impurities flowing away below. Cainy Ball and Joseph, who performed +this latter operation, were if possible wetter than the rest; they +resembled dolphins under a fountain, every protuberance and angle of +their clothes dribbling forth a small rill. + +Boldwood came close and bade her good morning, with such constraint +that she could not but think he had stepped across to the washing for +its own sake, hoping not to find her there; more, she fancied his brow +severe and his eye slighting. Bathsheba immediately contrived to +withdraw, and glided along by the river till she was a stone’s throw +off. She heard footsteps brushing the grass, and had a consciousness +that love was encircling her like a perfume. Instead of turning or +waiting, Bathsheba went further among the high sedges, but Boldwood +seemed determined, and pressed on till they were completely past the +bend of the river. Here, without being seen, they could hear the +splashing and shouts of the washers above. + +“Miss Everdene!” said the farmer. + +She trembled, turned, and said “Good morning.” His tone was so utterly +removed from all she had expected as a beginning. It was lowness and +quiet accentuated: an emphasis of deep meanings, their form, at the +same time, being scarcely expressed. Silence has sometimes a remarkable +power of showing itself as the disembodied soul of feeling wandering +without its carcase, and it is then more impressive than speech. In the +same way, to say a little is often to tell more than to say a great +deal. Boldwood told everything in that word. + +As the consciousness expands on learning that what was fancied to be +the rumble of wheels is the reverberation of thunder, so did +Bathsheba’s at her intuitive conviction. + +“I feel—almost too much—to think,” he said, with a solemn simplicity. +“I have come to speak to you without preface. My life is not my own +since I have beheld you clearly, Miss Everdene—I come to make you an +offer of marriage.” + +Bathsheba tried to preserve an absolutely neutral countenance, and all +the motion she made was that of closing lips which had previously been +a little parted. + +“I am now forty-one years old,” he went on. “I may have been called a +confirmed bachelor, and I was a confirmed bachelor. I had never any +views of myself as a husband in my earlier days, nor have I made any +calculation on the subject since I have been older. But we all change, +and my change, in this matter, came with seeing you. I have felt +lately, more and more, that my present way of living is bad in every +respect. Beyond all things, I want you as my wife.” + +“I feel, Mr. Boldwood, that though I respect you much, I do not +feel—what would justify me to—in accepting your offer,” she stammered. + +This giving back of dignity for dignity seemed to open the sluices of +feeling that Boldwood had as yet kept closed. + +“My life is a burden without you,” he exclaimed, in a low voice. “I +want you—I want you to let me say I love you again and again!” + +Bathsheba answered nothing, and the horse upon her arm seemed so +impressed that instead of cropping the herbage she looked up. + +“I think and hope you care enough for me to listen to what I have to +tell!” + +Bathsheba’s momentary impulse at hearing this was to ask why he thought +that, till she remembered that, far from being a conceited assumption +on Boldwood’s part, it was but the natural conclusion of serious +reflection based on deceptive premises of her own offering. + +“I wish I could say courteous flatteries to you,” the farmer continued +in an easier tone, “and put my rugged feeling into a graceful shape: +but I have neither power nor patience to learn such things. I want you +for my wife—so wildly that no other feeling can abide in me; but I +should not have spoken out had I not been led to hope.” + +“The valentine again! O that valentine!” she said to herself, but not a +word to him. + +“If you can love me say so, Miss Everdene. If not—don’t say no!” + +“Mr. Boldwood, it is painful to have to say I am surprised, so that I +don’t know how to answer you with propriety and respect—but am only +just able to speak out my feeling—I mean my meaning; that I am afraid I +can’t marry you, much as I respect you. You are too dignified for me to +suit you, sir.” + +“But, Miss Everdene!” + +“I—I didn’t—I know I ought never to have dreamt of sending that +valentine—forgive me, sir—it was a wanton thing which no woman with any +self-respect should have done. If you will only pardon my +thoughtlessness, I promise never to—” + +“No, no, no. Don’t say thoughtlessness! Make me think it was something +more—that it was a sort of prophetic instinct—the beginning of a +feeling that you would like me. You torture me to say it was done in +thoughtlessness—I never thought of it in that light, and I can’t endure +it. Ah! I wish I knew how to win you! but that I can’t do—I can only +ask if I have already got you. If I have not, and it is not true that +you have come unwittingly to me as I have to you, I can say no more.” + +“I have not fallen in love with you, Mr. Boldwood—certainly I must say +that.” She allowed a very small smile to creep for the first time over +her serious face in saying this, and the white row of upper teeth, and +keenly-cut lips already noticed, suggested an idea of heartlessness, +which was immediately contradicted by the pleasant eyes. + +“But you will just think—in kindness and condescension think—if you +cannot bear with me as a husband! I fear I am too old for you, but +believe me I will take more care of you than would many a man of your +own age. I will protect and cherish you with all my strength—I will +indeed! You shall have no cares—be worried by no household affairs, and +live quite at ease, Miss Everdene. The dairy superintendence shall be +done by a man—I can afford it well—you shall never have so much as to +look out of doors at haymaking time, or to think of weather in the +harvest. I rather cling to the chaise, because it is the same my poor +father and mother drove, but if you don’t like it I will sell it, and +you shall have a pony-carriage of your own. I cannot say how far above +every other idea and object on earth you seem to me—nobody knows—God +only knows—how much you are to me!” + +Bathsheba’s heart was young, and it swelled with sympathy for the +deep-natured man who spoke so simply. + +“Don’t say it! don’t! I cannot bear you to feel so much, and me to feel +nothing. And I am afraid they will notice us, Mr. Boldwood. Will you +let the matter rest now? I cannot think collectedly. I did not know you +were going to say this to me. Oh, I am wicked to have made you suffer +so!” She was frightened as well as agitated at his vehemence. + +“Say then, that you don’t absolutely refuse. Do not quite refuse?” + +“I can do nothing. I cannot answer.” + +“I may speak to you again on the subject?” + +“Yes.” + +“I may think of you?” + +“Yes, I suppose you may think of me.” + +“And hope to obtain you?” + +“No—do not hope! Let us go on.” + +“I will call upon you again to-morrow.” + +“No—please not. Give me time.” + +“Yes—I will give you any time,” he said earnestly and gratefully. “I am +happier now.” + +“No—I beg you! Don’t be happier if happiness only comes from my +agreeing. Be neutral, Mr. Boldwood! I must think.” + +“I will wait,” he said. + +And then she turned away. Boldwood dropped his gaze to the ground, and +stood long like a man who did not know where he was. Realities then +returned upon him like the pain of a wound received in an excitement +which eclipses it, and he, too, then went on. + + + + +CHAPTER XX +PERPLEXITY—GRINDING THE SHEARS—A QUARREL + + +“He is so disinterested and kind to offer me all that I can desire,” +Bathsheba mused. + +Yet Farmer Boldwood, whether by nature kind or the reverse to kind, did +not exercise kindness here. The rarest offerings of the purest loves +are but a self-indulgence, and no generosity at all. + +Bathsheba, not being the least in love with him, was eventually able to +look calmly at his offer. It was one which many women of her own +station in the neighbourhood, and not a few of higher rank, would have +been wild to accept and proud to publish. In every point of view, +ranging from politic to passionate, it was desirable that she, a lonely +girl, should marry, and marry this earnest, well-to-do, and respected +man. He was close to her doors: his standing was sufficient: his +qualities were even supererogatory. Had she felt, which she did not, +any wish whatever for the married state in the abstract, she could not +reasonably have rejected him, being a woman who frequently appealed to +her understanding for deliverance from her whims. Boldwood as a means +to marriage was unexceptionable: she esteemed and liked him, yet she +did not want him. It appears that ordinary men take wives because +possession is not possible without marriage, and that ordinary women +accept husbands because marriage is not possible without possession; +with totally differing aims the method is the same on both sides. But +the understood incentive on the woman’s part was wanting here. Besides, +Bathsheba’s position as absolute mistress of a farm and house was a +novel one, and the novelty had not yet begun to wear off. + +But a disquiet filled her which was somewhat to her credit, for it +would have affected few. Beyond the mentioned reasons with which she +combated her objections, she had a strong feeling that, having been the +one who began the game, she ought in honesty to accept the +consequences. Still the reluctance remained. She said in the same +breath that it would be ungenerous not to marry Boldwood, and that she +couldn’t do it to save her life. + +Bathsheba’s was an impulsive nature under a deliberative aspect. An +Elizabeth in brain and a Mary Stuart in spirit, she often performed +actions of the greatest temerity with a manner of extreme discretion. +Many of her thoughts were perfect syllogisms; unluckily they always +remained thoughts. Only a few were irrational assumptions; but, +unfortunately, they were the ones which most frequently grew into +deeds. + +The next day to that of the declaration she found Gabriel Oak at the +bottom of her garden, grinding his shears for the sheep-shearing. All +the surrounding cottages were more or less scenes of the same +operation; the scurr of whetting spread into the sky from all parts of +the village as from an armoury previous to a campaign. Peace and war +kiss each other at their hours of preparation—sickles, scythes, shears, +and pruning-hooks, ranking with swords, bayonets, and lances, in their +common necessity for point and edge. + +Cainy Ball turned the handle of Gabriel’s grindstone, his head +performing a melancholy see-saw up and down with each turn of the +wheel. Oak stood somewhat as Eros is represented when in the act of +sharpening his arrows: his figure slightly bent, the weight of his body +thrown over on the shears, and his head balanced side-ways, with a +critical compression of the lips and contraction of the eyelids to +crown the attitude. + +His mistress came up and looked upon them in silence for a minute or +two; then she said— + +“Cain, go to the lower mead and catch the bay mare. I’ll turn the winch +of the grindstone. I want to speak to you, Gabriel.” + +Cain departed, and Bathsheba took the handle. Gabriel had glanced up in +intense surprise, quelled its expression, and looked down again. +Bathsheba turned the winch, and Gabriel applied the shears. + +The peculiar motion involved in turning a wheel has a wonderful +tendency to benumb the mind. It is a sort of attenuated variety of +Ixion’s punishment, and contributes a dismal chapter to the history of +gaols. The brain gets muddled, the head grows heavy, and the body’s +centre of gravity seems to settle by degrees in a leaden lump somewhere +between the eyebrows and the crown. Bathsheba felt the unpleasant +symptoms after two or three dozen turns. + +“Will you turn, Gabriel, and let me hold the shears?” she said. “My +head is in a whirl, and I can’t talk.” + +Gabriel turned. Bathsheba then began, with some awkwardness, allowing +her thoughts to stray occasionally from her story to attend to the +shears, which required a little nicety in sharpening. + +“I wanted to ask you if the men made any observations on my going +behind the sedge with Mr. Boldwood yesterday?” + +“Yes, they did,” said Gabriel. “You don’t hold the shears right, miss—I +knew you wouldn’t know the way—hold like this.” + +He relinquished the winch, and inclosing her two hands completely in +his own (taking each as we sometimes slap a child’s hand in teaching +him to write), grasped the shears with her. “Incline the edge so,” he +said. + +Hands and shears were inclined to suit the words, and held thus for a +peculiarly long time by the instructor as he spoke. + +“That will do,” exclaimed Bathsheba. “Loose my hands. I won’t have them +held! Turn the winch.” + +Gabriel freed her hands quietly, retired to his handle, and the +grinding went on. + +“Did the men think it odd?” she said again. + +“Odd was not the idea, miss.” + +“What did they say?” + +“That Farmer Boldwood’s name and your own were likely to be flung over +pulpit together before the year was out.” + +“I thought so by the look of them! Why, there’s nothing in it. A more +foolish remark was never made, and I want you to contradict it: that’s +what I came for.” + +Gabriel looked incredulous and sad, but between his moments of +incredulity, relieved. + +“They must have heard our conversation,” she continued. + +“Well, then, Bathsheba!” said Oak, stopping the handle, and gazing into +her face with astonishment. + +“Miss Everdene, you mean,” she said, with dignity. + +“I mean this, that if Mr. Boldwood really spoke of marriage, I bain’t +going to tell a story and say he didn’t to please you. I have already +tried to please you too much for my own good!” + +Bathsheba regarded him with round-eyed perplexity. She did not know +whether to pity him for disappointed love of her, or to be angry with +him for having got over it—his tone being ambiguous. + +“I said I wanted you just to mention that it was not true I was going +to be married to him,” she murmured, with a slight decline in her +assurance. + +“I can say that to them if you wish, Miss Everdene. And I could +likewise give an opinion to ’ee on what you have done.” + +“I daresay. But I don’t want your opinion.” + +“I suppose not,” said Gabriel bitterly, and going on with his turning, +his words rising and falling in a regular swell and cadence as he +stooped or rose with the winch, which directed them, according to his +position, perpendicularly into the earth, or horizontally along the +garden, his eyes being fixed on a leaf upon the ground. + +With Bathsheba a hastened act was a rash act; but, as does not always +happen, time gained was prudence insured. It must be added, however, +that time was very seldom gained. At this period the single opinion in +the parish on herself and her doings that she valued as sounder than +her own was Gabriel Oak’s. And the outspoken honesty of his character +was such that on any subject, even that of her love for, or marriage +with, another man, the same disinterestedness of opinion might be +calculated on, and be had for the asking. Thoroughly convinced of the +impossibility of his own suit, a high resolve constrained him not to +injure that of another. This is a lover’s most stoical virtue, as the +lack of it is a lover’s most venial sin. Knowing he would reply truly +she asked the question, painful as she must have known the subject +would be. Such is the selfishness of some charming women. Perhaps it +was some excuse for her thus torturing honesty to her own advantage, +that she had absolutely no other sound judgment within easy reach. + +“Well, what is your opinion of my conduct,” she said, quietly. + +“That it is unworthy of any thoughtful, and meek, and comely woman.” + +In an instant Bathsheba’s face coloured with the angry crimson of a +Danby sunset. But she forbore to utter this feeling, and the reticence +of her tongue only made the loquacity of her face the more noticeable. + +The next thing Gabriel did was to make a mistake. + +“Perhaps you don’t like the rudeness of my reprimanding you, for I know +it is rudeness; but I thought it would do good.” + +She instantly replied sarcastically— + +“On the contrary, my opinion of you is so low, that I see in your abuse +the praise of discerning people!” + +“I am glad you don’t mind it, for I said it honestly and with every +serious meaning.” + +“I see. But, unfortunately, when you try not to speak in jest you are +amusing—just as when you wish to avoid seriousness you sometimes say a +sensible word.” + +It was a hard hit, but Bathsheba had unmistakably lost her temper, and +on that account Gabriel had never in his life kept his own better. He +said nothing. She then broke out— + +“I may ask, I suppose, where in particular my unworthiness lies? In my +not marrying you, perhaps!” + +“Not by any means,” said Gabriel quietly. “I have long given up +thinking of that matter.” + +“Or wishing it, I suppose,” she said; and it was apparent that she +expected an unhesitating denial of this supposition. + +Whatever Gabriel felt, he coolly echoed her words— + +“Or wishing it either.” + +A woman may be treated with a bitterness which is sweet to her, and +with a rudeness which is not offensive. Bathsheba would have submitted +to an indignant chastisement for her levity had Gabriel protested that +he was loving her at the same time; the impetuosity of passion +unrequited is bearable, even if it stings and anathematizes—there is a +triumph in the humiliation, and a tenderness in the strife. This was +what she had been expecting, and what she had not got. To be lectured +because the lecturer saw her in the cold morning light of +open-shuttered disillusion was exasperating. He had not finished, +either. He continued in a more agitated voice:— + +“My opinion is (since you ask it) that you are greatly to blame for +playing pranks upon a man like Mr. Boldwood, merely as a pastime. +Leading on a man you don’t care for is not a praiseworthy action. And +even, Miss Everdene, if you seriously inclined towards him, you might +have let him find it out in some way of true loving-kindness, and not +by sending him a valentine’s letter.” + +Bathsheba laid down the shears. + +“I cannot allow any man to—to criticise my private conduct!” she +exclaimed. “Nor will I for a minute. So you’ll please leave the farm at +the end of the week!” + +It may have been a peculiarity—at any rate it was a fact—that when +Bathsheba was swayed by an emotion of an earthly sort her lower lip +trembled: when by a refined emotion, her upper or heavenward one. Her +nether lip quivered now. + +“Very well, so I will,” said Gabriel calmly. He had been held to her by +a beautiful thread which it pained him to spoil by breaking, rather +than by a chain he could not break. “I should be even better pleased to +go at once,” he added. + +“Go at once then, in Heaven’s name!” said she, her eyes flashing at +his, though never meeting them. “Don’t let me see your face any more.” + +“Very well, Miss Everdene—so it shall be.” + +And he took his shears and went away from her in placid dignity, as +Moses left the presence of Pharaoh. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI +TROUBLES IN THE FOLD—A MESSAGE + + +Gabriel Oak had ceased to feed the Weatherbury flock for about +four-and-twenty hours, when on Sunday afternoon the elderly gentlemen +Joseph Poorgrass, Matthew Moon, Fray, and half-a-dozen others, came +running up to the house of the mistress of the Upper Farm. + +“Whatever _is_ the matter, men?” she said, meeting them at the door +just as she was coming out on her way to church, and ceasing in a +moment from the close compression of her two red lips, with which she +had accompanied the exertion of pulling on a tight glove. + +“Sixty!” said Joseph Poorgrass. + +“Seventy!” said Moon. + +“Fifty-nine!” said Susan Tall’s husband. + +“—Sheep have broke fence,” said Fray. + +“—And got into a field of young clover,” said Tall. + +“—Young clover!” said Moon. + +“—Clover!” said Joseph Poorgrass. + +“And they be getting blasted,” said Henery Fray. + +“That they be,” said Joseph. + +“And will all die as dead as nits, if they bain’t got out and cured!” +said Tall. + +Joseph’s countenance was drawn into lines and puckers by his concern. +Fray’s forehead was wrinkled both perpendicularly and crosswise, after +the pattern of a portcullis, expressive of a double despair. Laban +Tall’s lips were thin, and his face was rigid. Matthew’s jaws sank, and +his eyes turned whichever way the strongest muscle happened to pull +them. + +“Yes,” said Joseph, “and I was sitting at home, looking for Ephesians, +and says I to myself, ‘’Tis nothing but Corinthians and Thessalonians +in this danged Testament,’ when who should come in but Henery there: +‘Joseph,’ he said, ‘the sheep have blasted theirselves—’” + +With Bathsheba it was a moment when thought was speech and speech +exclamation. Moreover, she had hardly recovered her equanimity since +the disturbance which she had suffered from Oak’s remarks. + +“That’s enough—that’s enough!—oh, you fools!” she cried, throwing the +parasol and Prayer-book into the passage, and running out of doors in +the direction signified. “To come to me, and not go and get them out +directly! Oh, the stupid numskulls!” + +Her eyes were at their darkest and brightest now. Bathsheba’s beauty +belonging rather to the demonian than to the angelic school, she never +looked so well as when she was angry—and particularly when the effect +was heightened by a rather dashing velvet dress, carefully put on +before a glass. + +All the ancient men ran in a jumbled throng after her to the +clover-field, Joseph sinking down in the midst when about half-way, +like an individual withering in a world which was more and more +insupportable. Having once received the stimulus that her presence +always gave them they went round among the sheep with a will. The +majority of the afflicted animals were lying down, and could not be +stirred. These were bodily lifted out, and the others driven into the +adjoining field. Here, after the lapse of a few minutes, several more +fell down, and lay helpless and livid as the rest. + +Bathsheba, with a sad, bursting heart, looked at these primest +specimens of her prime flock as they rolled there— + +Swoln with wind and the rank mist they drew. + + +Many of them foamed at the mouth, their breathing being quick and +short, whilst the bodies of all were fearfully distended. + +“Oh, what can I do, what can I do!” said Bathsheba, helplessly. “Sheep +are such unfortunate animals!—there’s always something happening to +them! I never knew a flock pass a year without getting into some scrape +or other.” + +“There’s only one way of saving them,” said Tall. + +“What way? Tell me quick!” + +“They must be pierced in the side with a thing made on purpose.” + +“Can you do it? Can I?” + +“No, ma’am. We can’t, nor you neither. It must be done in a particular +spot. If ye go to the right or left but an inch you stab the ewe and +kill her. Not even a shepherd can do it, as a rule.” + +“Then they must die,” she said, in a resigned tone. + +“Only one man in the neighbourhood knows the way,” said Joseph, now +just come up. “He could cure ’em all if he were here.” + +“Who is he? Let’s get him!” + +“Shepherd Oak,” said Matthew. “Ah, he’s a clever man in talents!” + +“Ah, that he is so!” said Joseph Poorgrass. + +“True—he’s the man,” said Laban Tall. + +“How dare you name that man in my presence!” she said excitedly. “I +told you never to allude to him, nor shall you if you stay with me. +Ah!” she added, brightening, “Farmer Boldwood knows!” + +“O no, ma’am” said Matthew. “Two of his store ewes got into some +vetches t’other day, and were just like these. He sent a man on +horseback here post-haste for Gable, and Gable went and saved ’em. +Farmer Boldwood hev got the thing they do it with. ’Tis a holler pipe, +with a sharp pricker inside. Isn’t it, Joseph?” + +“Ay—a holler pipe,” echoed Joseph. “That’s what ’tis.” + +“Ay, sure—that’s the machine,” chimed in Henery Fray, reflectively, +with an Oriental indifference to the flight of time. + +“Well,” burst out Bathsheba, “don’t stand there with your ‘ayes’ and +your ‘sures’ talking at me! Get somebody to cure the sheep instantly!” + +All then stalked off in consternation, to get somebody as directed, +without any idea of who it was to be. In a minute they had vanished +through the gate, and she stood alone with the dying flock. + +“Never will I send for him—never!” she said firmly. + +One of the ewes here contracted its muscles horribly, extended itself, +and jumped high into the air. The leap was an astonishing one. The ewe +fell heavily, and lay still. + +Bathsheba went up to it. The sheep was dead. + +“Oh, what shall I do—what shall I do!” she again exclaimed, wringing +her hands. “I won’t send for him. No, I won’t!” + +The most vigorous expression of a resolution does not always coincide +with the greatest vigour of the resolution itself. It is often flung +out as a sort of prop to support a decaying conviction which, whilst +strong, required no enunciation to prove it so. The “No, I won’t” of +Bathsheba meant virtually, “I think I must.” + +She followed her assistants through the gate, and lifted her hand to +one of them. Laban answered to her signal. + +“Where is Oak staying?” + +“Across the valley at Nest Cottage!” + +“Jump on the bay mare, and ride across, and say he must return +instantly—that I say so.” + +Tall scrambled off to the field, and in two minutes was on Poll, the +bay, bare-backed, and with only a halter by way of rein. He diminished +down the hill. + +Bathsheba watched. So did all the rest. Tall cantered along the +bridle-path through Sixteen Acres, Sheeplands, Middle Field, The Flats, +Cappel’s Piece, shrank almost to a point, crossed the bridge, and +ascended from the valley through Springmead and Whitepits on the other +side. The cottage to which Gabriel had retired before taking his final +departure from the locality was visible as a white spot on the opposite +hill, backed by blue firs. Bathsheba walked up and down. The men +entered the field and endeavoured to ease the anguish of the dumb +creatures by rubbing them. Nothing availed. + +Bathsheba continued walking. The horse was seen descending the hill, +and the wearisome series had to be repeated in reverse order: +Whitepits, Springmead, Cappel’s Piece, The Flats, Middle Field, +Sheeplands, Sixteen Acres. She hoped Tall had had presence of mind +enough to give the mare up to Gabriel, and return himself on foot. The +rider neared them. It was Tall. + +“Oh, what folly!” said Bathsheba. + +Gabriel was not visible anywhere. + +“Perhaps he is already gone!” she said. + +Tall came into the inclosure, and leapt off, his face tragic as +Morton’s after the battle of Shrewsbury. + +“Well?” said Bathsheba, unwilling to believe that her verbal +_lettre-de-cachet_ could possibly have miscarried. + +“He says _beggars mustn’t be choosers_,” replied Laban. + +“What!” said the young farmer, opening her eyes and drawing in her +breath for an outburst. Joseph Poorgrass retired a few steps behind a +hurdle. + +“He says he shall not come onless you request en to come civilly and in +a proper manner, as becomes any ’ooman begging a favour.” + +“Oh, oh, that’s his answer! Where does he get his airs? Who am I, then, +to be treated like that? Shall I beg to a man who has begged to me?” + +Another of the flock sprang into the air, and fell dead. + +The men looked grave, as if they suppressed opinion. + +Bathsheba turned aside, her eyes full of tears. The strait she was in +through pride and shrewishness could not be disguised longer: she burst +out crying bitterly; they all saw it; and she attempted no further +concealment. + +“I wouldn’t cry about it, miss,” said William Smallbury, +compassionately. “Why not ask him softer like? I’m sure he’d come then. +Gable is a true man in that way.” + +Bathsheba checked her grief and wiped her eyes. “Oh, it is a wicked +cruelty to me—it is—it is!” she murmured. “And he drives me to do what +I wouldn’t; yes, he does!—Tall, come indoors.” + +After this collapse, not very dignified for the head of an +establishment, she went into the house, Tall at her heels. Here she sat +down and hastily scribbled a note between the small convulsive sobs of +convalescence which follow a fit of crying as a ground-swell follows a +storm. The note was none the less polite for being written in a hurry. +She held it at a distance, was about to fold it, then added these words +at the bottom:— + +“_Do not desert me, Gabriel!_” + + +She looked a little redder in refolding it, and closed her lips, as if +thereby to suspend till too late the action of conscience in examining +whether such strategy were justifiable. The note was despatched as the +message had been, and Bathsheba waited indoors for the result. + +It was an anxious quarter of an hour that intervened between the +messenger’s departure and the sound of the horse’s tramp again outside. +She could not watch this time, but, leaning over the old bureau at +which she had written the letter, closed her eyes, as if to keep out +both hope and fear. + +The case, however, was a promising one. Gabriel was not angry: he was +simply neutral, although her first command had been so haughty. Such +imperiousness would have damned a little less beauty; and on the other +hand, such beauty would have redeemed a little less imperiousness. + +She went out when the horse was heard, and looked up. A mounted figure +passed between her and the sky, and drew on towards the field of sheep, +the rider turning his face in receding. Gabriel looked at her. It was a +moment when a woman’s eyes and tongue tell distinctly opposite tales. +Bathsheba looked full of gratitude, and she said:— + +“Oh, Gabriel, how could you serve me so unkindly!” + +Such a tenderly-shaped reproach for his previous delay was the one +speech in the language that he could pardon for not being commendation +of his readiness now. + +Gabriel murmured a confused reply, and hastened on. She knew from the +look which sentence in her note had brought him. Bathsheba followed to +the field. + +Gabriel was already among the turgid, prostrate forms. He had flung off +his coat, rolled up his shirt-sleeves, and taken from his pocket the +instrument of salvation. It was a small tube or trochar, with a lance +passing down the inside; and Gabriel began to use it with a dexterity +that would have graced a hospital surgeon. Passing his hand over the +sheep’s left flank, and selecting the proper point, he punctured the +skin and rumen with the lance as it stood in the tube; then he suddenly +withdrew the lance, retaining the tube in its place. A current of air +rushed up the tube, forcible enough to have extinguished a candle held +at the orifice. + +It has been said that mere ease after torment is delight for a time; +and the countenances of these poor creatures expressed it now. +Forty-nine operations were successfully performed. Owing to the great +hurry necessitated by the far-gone state of some of the flock, Gabriel +missed his aim in one case, and in one only—striking wide of the mark, +and inflicting a mortal blow at once upon the suffering ewe. Four had +died; three recovered without an operation. The total number of sheep +which had thus strayed and injured themselves so dangerously was +fifty-seven. + +When the love-led man had ceased from his labours, Bathsheba came and +looked him in the face. + +“Gabriel, will you stay on with me?” she said, smiling winningly, and +not troubling to bring her lips quite together again at the end, +because there was going to be another smile soon. + +“I will,” said Gabriel. + +And she smiled on him again. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII +THE GREAT BARN AND THE SHEEP-SHEARERS + + +Men thin away to insignificance and oblivion quite as often by not +making the most of good spirits when they have them as by lacking good +spirits when they are indispensable. Gabriel lately, for the first time +since his prostration by misfortune, had been independent in thought +and vigorous in action to a marked extent—conditions which, powerless +without an opportunity as an opportunity without them is barren, would +have given him a sure lift upwards when the favourable conjunction +should have occurred. But this incurable loitering beside Bathsheba +Everdene stole his time ruinously. The spring tides were going by +without floating him off, and the neap might soon come which could not. + +It was the first day of June, and the sheep-shearing season culminated, +the landscape, even to the leanest pasture, being all health and +colour. Every green was young, every pore was open, and every stalk was +swollen with racing currents of juice. God was palpably present in the +country, and the devil had gone with the world to town. Flossy catkins +of the later kinds, fern-sprouts like bishops’ croziers, the +square-headed moschatel, the odd cuckoo-pint,—like an apoplectic saint +in a niche of malachite,—snow-white ladies’-smocks, the toothwort, +approximating to human flesh, the enchanter’s night-shade, and the +black-petaled doleful-bells, were among the quainter objects of the +vegetable world in and about Weatherbury at this teeming time; and of +the animal, the metamorphosed figures of Mr. Jan Coggan, the +master-shearer; the second and third shearers, who travelled in the +exercise of their calling, and do not require definition by name; +Henery Fray the fourth shearer, Susan Tall’s husband the fifth, Joseph +Poorgrass the sixth, young Cain Ball as assistant-shearer, and Gabriel +Oak as general supervisor. None of these were clothed to any extent +worth mentioning, each appearing to have hit in the matter of raiment +the decent mean between a high and low caste Hindoo. An angularity of +lineament, and a fixity of facial machinery in general, proclaimed that +serious work was the order of the day. + +They sheared in the great barn, called for the nonce the Shearing-barn, +which on ground-plan resembled a church with transepts. It not only +emulated the form of the neighbouring church of the parish, but vied +with it in antiquity. Whether the barn had ever formed one of a group +of conventual buildings nobody seemed to be aware; no trace of such +surroundings remained. The vast porches at the sides, lofty enough to +admit a waggon laden to its highest with corn in the sheaf, were +spanned by heavy-pointed arches of stone, broadly and boldly cut, whose +very simplicity was the origin of a grandeur not apparent in erections +where more ornament has been attempted. The dusky, filmed, chestnut +roof, braced and tied in by huge collars, curves, and diagonals, was +far nobler in design, because more wealthy in material, than +nine-tenths of those in our modern churches. Along each side wall was a +range of striding buttresses, throwing deep shadows on the spaces +between them, which were perforated by lancet openings, combining in +their proportions the precise requirements both of beauty and +ventilation. + +One could say about this barn, what could hardly be said of either the +church or the castle, akin to it in age and style, that the purpose +which had dictated its original erection was the same with that to +which it was still applied. Unlike and superior to either of those two +typical remnants of mediævalism, the old barn embodied practices which +had suffered no mutilation at the hands of time. Here at least the +spirit of the ancient builders was at one with the spirit of the modern +beholder. Standing before this abraded pile, the eye regarded its +present usage, the mind dwelt upon its past history, with a satisfied +sense of functional continuity throughout—a feeling almost of +gratitude, and quite of pride, at the permanence of the idea which had +heaped it up. The fact that four centuries had neither proved it to be +founded on a mistake, inspired any hatred of its purpose, nor given +rise to any reaction that had battered it down, invested this simple +grey effort of old minds with a repose, if not a grandeur, which a too +curious reflection was apt to disturb in its ecclesiastical and +military compeers. For once mediævalism and modernism had a common +stand-point. The lanceolate windows, the time-eaten archstones and +chamfers, the orientation of the axis, the misty chestnut work of the +rafters, referred to no exploded fortifying art or worn-out religious +creed. The defence and salvation of the body by daily bread is still a +study, a religion, and a desire. + +To-day the large side doors were thrown open towards the sun to admit a +bountiful light to the immediate spot of the shearers’ operations, +which was the wood threshing-floor in the centre, formed of thick oak, +black with age and polished by the beating of flails for many +generations, till it had grown as slippery and as rich in hue as the +state-room floors of an Elizabethan mansion. Here the shearers knelt, +the sun slanting in upon their bleached shirts, tanned arms, and the +polished shears they flourished, causing these to bristle with a +thousand rays strong enough to blind a weak-eyed man. Beneath them a +captive sheep lay panting, quickening its pants as misgiving merged in +terror, till it quivered like the hot landscape outside. + +This picture of to-day in its frame of four hundred years ago did not +produce that marked contrast between ancient and modern which is +implied by the contrast of date. In comparison with cities, Weatherbury +was immutable. The citizen’s _Then_ is the rustic’s _Now_. In London, +twenty or thirty-years ago are old times; in Paris ten years, or five; +in Weatherbury three or four score years were included in the mere +present, and nothing less than a century set a mark on its face or +tone. Five decades hardly modified the cut of a gaiter, the embroidery +of a smock-frock, by the breadth of a hair. Ten generations failed to +alter the turn of a single phrase. In these Wessex nooks the busy +outsider’s ancient times are only old; his old times are still new; his +present is futurity. + +So the barn was natural to the shearers, and the shearers were in +harmony with the barn. + +The spacious ends of the building, answering ecclesiastically to nave +and chancel extremities, were fenced off with hurdles, the sheep being +all collected in a crowd within these two enclosures; and in one angle +a catching-pen was formed, in which three or four sheep were +continuously kept ready for the shearers to seize without loss of time. +In the background, mellowed by tawny shade, were the three women, +Maryann Money, and Temperance and Soberness Miller, gathering up the +fleeces and twisting ropes of wool with a wimble for tying them round. +They were indifferently well assisted by the old maltster, who, when +the malting season from October to April had passed, made himself +useful upon any of the bordering farmsteads. + +Behind all was Bathsheba, carefully watching the men to see that there +was no cutting or wounding through carelessness, and that the animals +were shorn close. Gabriel, who flitted and hovered under her bright +eyes like a moth, did not shear continuously, half his time being spent +in attending to the others and selecting the sheep for them. At the +present moment he was engaged in handing round a mug of mild liquor, +supplied from a barrel in the corner, and cut pieces of bread and +cheese. + +Bathsheba, after throwing a glance here, a caution there, and lecturing +one of the younger operators who had allowed his last finished sheep to +go off among the flock without re-stamping it with her initials, came +again to Gabriel, as he put down the luncheon to drag a frightened ewe +to his shear-station, flinging it over upon its back with a dexterous +twist of the arm. He lopped off the tresses about its head, and opened +up the neck and collar, his mistress quietly looking on. + +“She blushes at the insult,” murmured Bathsheba, watching the pink +flush which arose and overspread the neck and shoulders of the ewe +where they were left bare by the clicking shears—a flush which was +enviable, for its delicacy, by many queens of coteries, and would have +been creditable, for its promptness, to any woman in the world. + +Poor Gabriel’s soul was fed with a luxury of content by having her over +him, her eyes critically regarding his skilful shears, which apparently +were going to gather up a piece of the flesh at every close, and yet +never did so. Like Guildenstern, Oak was happy in that he was not over +happy. He had no wish to converse with her: that his bright lady and +himself formed one group, exclusively their own, and containing no +others in the world, was enough. + +So the chatter was all on her side. There is a loquacity that tells +nothing, which was Bathsheba’s; and there is a silence which says much: +that was Gabriel’s. Full of this dim and temperate bliss, he went on to +fling the ewe over upon her other side, covering her head with his +knee, gradually running the shears line after line round her dewlap; +thence about her flank and back, and finishing over the tail. + +“Well done, and done quickly!” said Bathsheba, looking at her watch as +the last snip resounded. + +“How long, miss?” said Gabriel, wiping his brow. + +“Three-and-twenty minutes and a half since you took the first lock from +its forehead. It is the first time that I have ever seen one done in +less than half an hour.” + +The clean, sleek creature arose from its fleece—how perfectly like +Aphrodite rising from the foam should have been seen to be +realized—looking startled and shy at the loss of its garment, which lay +on the floor in one soft cloud, united throughout, the portion visible +being the inner surface only, which, never before exposed, was white as +snow, and without flaw or blemish of the minutest kind. + +“Cain Ball!” + +“Yes, Mister Oak; here I be!” + +Cainy now runs forward with the tar-pot. “B. E.” is newly stamped upon +the shorn skin, and away the simple dam leaps, panting, over the board +into the shirtless flock outside. Then up comes Maryann; throws the +loose locks into the middle of the fleece, rolls it up, and carries it +into the background as three-and-a-half pounds of unadulterated warmth +for the winter enjoyment of persons unknown and far away, who will, +however, never experience the superlative comfort derivable from the +wool as it here exists, new and pure—before the unctuousness of its +nature whilst in a living state has dried, stiffened, and been washed +out—rendering it just now as superior to anything _woollen_ as cream is +superior to milk-and-water. + +But heartless circumstance could not leave entire Gabriel’s happiness +of this morning. The rams, old ewes, and two-shear ewes had duly +undergone their stripping, and the men were proceeding with the +shearlings and hogs, when Oak’s belief that she was going to stand +pleasantly by and time him through another performance was painfully +interrupted by Farmer Boldwood’s appearance in the extremest corner of +the barn. Nobody seemed to have perceived his entry, but there he +certainly was. Boldwood always carried with him a social atmosphere of +his own, which everybody felt who came near him; and the talk, which +Bathsheba’s presence had somewhat suppressed, was now totally +suspended. + +He crossed over towards Bathsheba, who turned to greet him with a +carriage of perfect ease. He spoke to her in low tones, and she +instinctively modulated her own to the same pitch, and her voice +ultimately even caught the inflection of his. She was far from having a +wish to appear mysteriously connected with him; but woman at the +impressionable age gravitates to the larger body not only in her choice +of words, which is apparent every day, but even in her shades of tone +and humour, when the influence is great. + +What they conversed about was not audible to Gabriel, who was too +independent to get near, though too concerned to disregard. The issue +of their dialogue was the taking of her hand by the courteous farmer to +help her over the spreading-board into the bright June sunlight +outside. Standing beside the sheep already shorn, they went on talking +again. Concerning the flock? Apparently not. Gabriel theorized, not +without truth, that in quiet discussion of any matter within reach of +the speakers’ eyes, these are usually fixed upon it. Bathsheba demurely +regarded a contemptible straw lying upon the ground, in a way which +suggested less ovine criticism than womanly embarrassment. She became +more or less red in the cheek, the blood wavering in uncertain flux and +reflux over the sensitive space between ebb and flood. Gabriel sheared +on, constrained and sad. + +She left Boldwood’s side, and he walked up and down alone for nearly a +quarter of an hour. Then she reappeared in her new riding-habit of +myrtle green, which fitted her to the waist as a rind fits its fruit; +and young Bob Coggan led on her mare, Boldwood fetching his own horse +from the tree under which it had been tied. + +Oak’s eyes could not forsake them; and in endeavouring to continue his +shearing at the same time that he watched Boldwood’s manner, he snipped +the sheep in the groin. The animal plunged; Bathsheba instantly gazed +towards it, and saw the blood. + +“Oh, Gabriel!” she exclaimed, with severe remonstrance, “you who are so +strict with the other men—see what you are doing yourself!” + +To an outsider there was not much to complain of in this remark; but to +Oak, who knew Bathsheba to be well aware that she herself was the cause +of the poor ewe’s wound, because she had wounded the ewe’s shearer in a +still more vital part, it had a sting which the abiding sense of his +inferiority to both herself and Boldwood was not calculated to heal. +But a manly resolve to recognize boldly that he had no longer a lover’s +interest in her, helped him occasionally to conceal a feeling. + +“Bottle!” he shouted, in an unmoved voice of routine. Cainy Ball ran +up, the wound was anointed, and the shearing continued. + +Boldwood gently tossed Bathsheba into the saddle, and before they +turned away she again spoke out to Oak with the same dominative and +tantalizing graciousness. + +“I am going now to see Mr. Boldwood’s Leicesters. Take my place in the +barn, Gabriel, and keep the men carefully to their work.” + +The horses’ heads were put about, and they trotted away. + +Boldwood’s deep attachment was a matter of great interest among all +around him; but, after having been pointed out for so many years as the +perfect exemplar of thriving bachelorship, his lapse was an anticlimax +somewhat resembling that of St. John Long’s death by consumption in the +midst of his proofs that it was not a fatal disease. + +“That means matrimony,” said Temperance Miller, following them out of +sight with her eyes. + +“I reckon that’s the size o’t,” said Coggan, working along without +looking up. + +“Well, better wed over the mixen than over the moor,” said Laban Tall, +turning his sheep. + +Henery Fray spoke, exhibiting miserable eyes at the same time: “I don’t +see why a maid should take a husband when she’s bold enough to fight +her own battles, and don’t want a home; for ’tis keeping another woman +out. But let it be, for ’tis a pity he and she should trouble two +houses.” + +As usual with decided characters, Bathsheba invariably provoked the +criticism of individuals like Henery Fray. Her emblazoned fault was to +be too pronounced in her objections, and not sufficiently overt in her +likings. We learn that it is not the rays which bodies absorb, but +those which they reject, that give them the colours they are known by; +and in the same way people are specialized by their dislikes and +antagonisms, whilst their goodwill is looked upon as no attribute at +all. + +Henery continued in a more complaisant mood: “I once hinted my mind to +her on a few things, as nearly as a battered frame dared to do so to +such a froward piece. You all know, neighbours, what a man I be, and +how I come down with my powerful words when my pride is boiling wi’ +scarn?” + +“We do, we do, Henery.” + +“So I said, ‘Mistress Everdene, there’s places empty, and there’s +gifted men willing; but the spite’—no, not the spite—I didn’t say +spite—‘but the villainy of the contrarikind,’ I said (meaning +womankind), ‘keeps ’em out.’ That wasn’t too strong for her, say?” + +“Passably well put.” + +“Yes; and I would have said it, had death and salvation overtook me for +it. Such is my spirit when I have a mind.” + +“A true man, and proud as a lucifer.” + +“You see the artfulness? Why, ’twas about being baily really; but I +didn’t put it so plain that she could understand my meaning, so I could +lay it on all the stronger. That was my depth!... However, let her +marry an she will. Perhaps ’tis high time. I believe Farmer Boldwood +kissed her behind the spear-bed at the sheep-washing t’other day—that I +do.” + +“What a lie!” said Gabriel. + +“Ah, neighbour Oak—how’st know?” said, Henery, mildly. + +“Because she told me all that passed,” said Oak, with a pharisaical +sense that he was not as other shearers in this matter. + +“Ye have a right to believe it,” said Henery, with dudgeon; “a very +true right. But I mid see a little distance into things! To be +long-headed enough for a baily’s place is a poor mere trifle—yet a +trifle more than nothing. However, I look round upon life quite cool. +Do you heed me, neighbours? My words, though made as simple as I can, +mid be rather deep for some heads.” + +“O yes, Henery, we quite heed ye.” + +“A strange old piece, goodmen—whirled about from here to yonder, as if +I were nothing! A little warped, too. But I have my depths; ha, and +even my great depths! I might gird at a certain shepherd, brain to +brain. But no—O no!” + +“A strange old piece, ye say!” interposed the maltster, in a querulous +voice. “At the same time ye be no old man worth naming—no old man at +all. Yer teeth bain’t half gone yet; and what’s a old man’s standing if +so be his teeth bain’t gone? Weren’t I stale in wedlock afore ye were +out of arms? ’Tis a poor thing to be sixty, when there’s people far +past four-score—a boast weak as water.” + +It was the unvarying custom in Weatherbury to sink minor differences +when the maltster had to be pacified. + +“Weak as water! yes,” said Jan Coggan. “Malter, we feel ye to be a +wonderful veteran man, and nobody can gainsay it.” + +“Nobody,” said Joseph Poorgrass. “Ye be a very rare old spectacle, +malter, and we all admire ye for that gift.” + +“Ay, and as a young man, when my senses were in prosperity, I was +likewise liked by a good-few who knowed me,” said the maltster. + +“’Ithout doubt you was—’ithout doubt.” + +The bent and hoary man was satisfied, and so apparently was Henery +Fray. That matters should continue pleasant Maryann spoke, who, what +with her brown complexion, and the working wrapper of rusty linsey, had +at present the mellow hue of an old sketch in oils—notably some of +Nicholas Poussin’s:— + +“Do anybody know of a crooked man, or a lame, or any second-hand fellow +at all that would do for poor me?” said Maryann. “A perfect one I don’t +expect to get at my time of life. If I could hear of such a thing +’twould do me more good than toast and ale.” + +Coggan furnished a suitable reply. Oak went on with his shearing, and +said not another word. Pestilent moods had come, and teased away his +quiet. Bathsheba had shown indications of anointing him above his +fellows by installing him as the bailiff that the farm imperatively +required. He did not covet the post relatively to the farm: in relation +to herself, as beloved by him and unmarried to another, he had coveted +it. His readings of her seemed now to be vapoury and indistinct. His +lecture to her was, he thought, one of the absurdest mistakes. Far from +coquetting with Boldwood, she had trifled with himself in thus feigning +that she had trifled with another. He was inwardly convinced that, in +accordance with the anticipations of his easy-going and worse-educated +comrades, that day would see Boldwood the accepted husband of Miss +Everdene. Gabriel at this time of his life had out-grown the +instinctive dislike which every Christian boy has for reading the +Bible, perusing it now quite frequently, and he inwardly said, “‘I find +more bitter than death the woman whose heart is snares and nets!’” This +was mere exclamation—the froth of the storm. He adored Bathsheba just +the same. + +“We workfolk shall have some lordly junketing to-night,” said Cainy +Ball, casting forth his thoughts in a new direction. “This morning I +see ’em making the great puddens in the milking-pails—lumps of fat as +big as yer thumb, Mister Oak! I’ve never seed such splendid large knobs +of fat before in the days of my life—they never used to be bigger then +a horse-bean. And there was a great black crock upon the brandish with +his legs a-sticking out, but I don’t know what was in within.” + +“And there’s two bushels of biffins for apple-pies,” said Maryann. + +“Well, I hope to do my duty by it all,” said Joseph Poorgrass, in a +pleasant, masticating manner of anticipation. “Yes; victuals and drink +is a cheerful thing, and gives nerves to the nerveless, if the form of +words may be used. ’Tis the gospel of the body, without which we +perish, so to speak it.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII +EVENTIDE—A SECOND DECLARATION + + +For the shearing-supper a long table was placed on the grass-plot +beside the house, the end of the table being thrust over the sill of +the wide parlour window and a foot or two into the room. Miss Everdene +sat inside the window, facing down the table. She was thus at the head +without mingling with the men. + +This evening Bathsheba was unusually excited, her red cheeks and lips +contrasting lustrously with the mazy skeins of her shadowy hair. She +seemed to expect assistance, and the seat at the bottom of the table +was at her request left vacant until after they had begun the meal. She +then asked Gabriel to take the place and the duties appertaining to +that end, which he did with great readiness. + +At this moment Mr. Boldwood came in at the gate, and crossed the green +to Bathsheba at the window. He apologized for his lateness: his arrival +was evidently by arrangement. + +“Gabriel,” said she, “will you move again, please, and let Mr. Boldwood +come there?” + +Oak moved in silence back to his original seat. + +The gentleman-farmer was dressed in cheerful style, in a new coat and +white waistcoat, quite contrasting with his usual sober suits of grey. +Inwardy, too, he was blithe, and consequently chatty to an exceptional +degree. So also was Bathsheba now that he had come, though the +uninvited presence of Pennyways, the bailiff who had been dismissed for +theft, disturbed her equanimity for a while. + +Supper being ended, Coggan began on his own private account, without +reference to listeners:— + +I’ve lost my love, and I care not, +I’ve lost my love, and I care not; + I shall soon have another + That’s better than t’other; +I’ve lost my love, and I care not. + + +This lyric, when concluded, was received with a silently appreciative +gaze at the table, implying that the performance, like a work by those +established authors who are independent of notices in the papers, was a +well-known delight which required no applause. + +“Now, Master Poorgrass, your song!” said Coggan. + +“I be all but in liquor, and the gift is wanting in me,” said Joseph, +diminishing himself. + +“Nonsense; wou’st never be so ungrateful, Joseph—never!” said Coggan, +expressing hurt feelings by an inflection of voice. “And mistress is +looking hard at ye, as much as to say, ‘Sing at once, Joseph +Poorgrass.’” + +“Faith, so she is; well, I must suffer it!... Just eye my features, and +see if the tell-tale blood overheats me much, neighbours?” + +“No, yer blushes be quite reasonable,” said Coggan. + +“I always tries to keep my colours from rising when a beauty’s eyes get +fixed on me,” said Joseph, differently; “but if so be ’tis willed they +do, they must.” + +“Now, Joseph, your song, please,” said Bathsheba, from the window. + +“Well, really, ma’am,” he replied, in a yielding tone, “I don’t know +what to say. It would be a poor plain ballet of my own composure.” + +“Hear, hear!” said the supper-party. + +Poorgrass, thus assured, trilled forth a flickering yet commendable +piece of sentiment, the tune of which consisted of the key-note and +another, the latter being the sound chiefly dwelt upon. This was so +successful that he rashly plunged into a second in the same breath, +after a few false starts:— + +I sow′-ed th′-e..... +I sow′-ed..... +I sow′-ed th′-e seeds′ of′ love′, + I-it was′ all′ i′-in the′-e spring′, +I-in A′-pril′, Ma′-ay, a′-nd sun′-ny′ June′, + When sma′-all bi′-irds they′ do′ sing. + + +“Well put out of hand,” said Coggan, at the end of the verse. “‘They do +sing’ was a very taking paragraph.” + +“Ay; and there was a pretty place at ‘seeds of love.’ and ’twas well +heaved out. Though ‘love’ is a nasty high corner when a man’s voice is +getting crazed. Next verse, Master Poorgrass.” + +But during this rendering young Bob Coggan exhibited one of those +anomalies which will afflict little people when other persons are +particularly serious: in trying to check his laughter, he pushed down +his throat as much of the tablecloth as he could get hold of, when, +after continuing hermetically sealed for a short time, his mirth burst +out through his nose. Joseph perceived it, and with hectic cheeks of +indignation instantly ceased singing. Coggan boxed Bob’s ears +immediately. + +“Go on, Joseph—go on, and never mind the young scamp,” said Coggan. +“’Tis a very catching ballet. Now then again—the next bar; I’ll help ye +to flourish up the shrill notes where yer wind is rather wheezy:— + +Oh the wi′-il-lo′-ow tree′ will′ twist′, +And the wil′-low′ tre′-ee wi′-ill twine′. + + +But the singer could not be set going again. Bob Coggan was sent home +for his ill manners, and tranquility was restored by Jacob Smallbury, +who volunteered a ballad as inclusive and interminable as that with +which the worthy toper old Silenus amused on a similar occasion the +swains Chromis and Mnasylus, and other jolly dogs of his day. + +It was still the beaming time of evening, though night was stealthily +making itself visible low down upon the ground, the western lines of +light raking the earth without alighting upon it to any extent, or +illuminating the dead levels at all. The sun had crept round the tree +as a last effort before death, and then began to sink, the shearers’ +lower parts becoming steeped in embrowning twilight, whilst their heads +and shoulders were still enjoying day, touched with a yellow of +self-sustained brilliancy that seemed inherent rather than acquired. + +The sun went down in an ochreous mist; but they sat, and talked on, and +grew as merry as the gods in Homer’s heaven. Bathsheba still remained +enthroned inside the window, and occupied herself in knitting, from +which she sometimes looked up to view the fading scene outside. The +slow twilight expanded and enveloped them completely before the signs +of moving were shown. + +Gabriel suddenly missed Farmer Boldwood from his place at the bottom of +the table. How long he had been gone Oak did not know; but he had +apparently withdrawn into the encircling dusk. Whilst he was thinking +of this, Liddy brought candles into the back part of the room +overlooking the shearers, and their lively new flames shone down the +table and over the men, and dispersed among the green shadows behind. +Bathsheba’s form, still in its original position, was now again +distinct between their eyes and the light, which revealed that Boldwood +had gone inside the room, and was sitting near her. + +Next came the question of the evening. Would Miss Everdene sing to them +the song she always sang so charmingly—“The Banks of Allan +Water”—before they went home? + +After a moment’s consideration Bathsheba assented, beckoning to +Gabriel, who hastened up into the coveted atmosphere. + +“Have you brought your flute?” she whispered. + +“Yes, miss.” + +“Play to my singing, then.” + +She stood up in the window-opening, facing the men, the candles behind +her, Gabriel on her right hand, immediately outside the sash-frame. +Boldwood had drawn up on her left, within the room. Her singing was +soft and rather tremulous at first, but it soon swelled to a steady +clearness. Subsequent events caused one of the verses to be remembered +for many months, and even years, by more than one of those who were +gathered there:— + +For his bride a soldier sought her, + And a winning tongue had he: +On the banks of Allan Water + None was gay as she! + + +In addition to the dulcet piping of Gabriel’s flute, Boldwood supplied +a bass in his customary profound voice, uttering his notes so softly, +however, as to abstain entirely from making anything like an ordinary +duet of the song; they rather formed a rich unexplored shadow, which +threw her tones into relief. The shearers reclined against each other +as at suppers in the early ages of the world, and so silent and +absorbed were they that her breathing could almost be heard between the +bars; and at the end of the ballad, when the last tone loitered on to +an inexpressible close, there arose that buzz of pleasure which is the +attar of applause. + +It is scarcely necessary to state that Gabriel could not avoid noting +the farmer’s bearing to-night towards their entertainer. Yet there was +nothing exceptional in his actions beyond what appertained to his time +of performing them. It was when the rest were all looking away that +Boldwood observed her; when they regarded her he turned aside; when +they thanked or praised he was silent; when they were inattentive he +murmured his thanks. The meaning lay in the difference between actions, +none of which had any meaning of itself; and the necessity of being +jealous, which lovers are troubled with, did not lead Oak to +underestimate these signs. + +Bathsheba then wished them good-night, withdrew from the window, and +retired to the back part of the room, Boldwood thereupon closing the +sash and the shutters, and remaining inside with her. Oak wandered away +under the quiet and scented trees. Recovering from the softer +impressions produced by Bathsheba’s voice, the shearers rose to leave, +Coggan turning to Pennyways as he pushed back the bench to pass out:— + +“I like to give praise where praise is due, and the man deserves +it—that ’a do so,” he remarked, looking at the worthy thief, as if he +were the masterpiece of some world-renowned artist. + +“I’m sure I should never have believed it if we hadn’t proved it, so to +allude,” hiccupped Joseph Poorgrass, “that every cup, every one of the +best knives and forks, and every empty bottle be in their place as +perfect now as at the beginning, and not one stole at all.” + +“I’m sure I don’t deserve half the praise you give me,” said the +virtuous thief, grimly. + +“Well, I’ll say this for Pennyways,” added Coggan, “that whenever he do +really make up his mind to do a noble thing in the shape of a good +action, as I could see by his face he did to-night afore sitting down, +he’s generally able to carry it out. Yes, I’m proud to say, neighbours, +that he’s stole nothing at all.” + +“Well, ’tis an honest deed, and we thank ye for it, Pennyways,” said +Joseph; to which opinion the remainder of the company subscribed +unanimously. + +At this time of departure, when nothing more was visible of the inside +of the parlour than a thin and still chink of light between the +shutters, a passionate scene was in course of enactment there. + +Miss Everdene and Boldwood were alone. Her cheeks had lost a great deal +of their healthful fire from the very seriousness of her position; but +her eye was bright with the excitement of a triumph—though it was a +triumph which had rather been contemplated than desired. + +She was standing behind a low arm-chair, from which she had just risen, +and he was kneeling in it—inclining himself over its back towards her, +and holding her hand in both his own. His body moved restlessly, and it +was with what Keats daintily calls a too happy happiness. This unwonted +abstraction by love of all dignity from a man of whom it had ever +seemed the chief component, was, in its distressing incongruity, a pain +to her which quenched much of the pleasure she derived from the proof +that she was idolized. + +“I will try to love you,” she was saying, in a trembling voice quite +unlike her usual self-confidence. “And if I can believe in any way that +I shall make you a good wife I shall indeed be willing to marry you. +But, Mr. Boldwood, hesitation on so high a matter is honourable in any +woman, and I don’t want to give a solemn promise to-night. I would +rather ask you to wait a few weeks till I can see my situation better. + +“But you have every reason to believe that _then_—” + +“I have every reason to hope that at the end of the five or six weeks, +between this time and harvest, that you say you are going to be away +from home, I shall be able to promise to be your wife,” she said, +firmly. “But remember this distinctly, I don’t promise yet.” + +“It is enough; I don’t ask more. I can wait on those dear words. And +now, Miss Everdene, good-night!” + +“Good-night,” she said, graciously—almost tenderly; and Boldwood +withdrew with a serene smile. + +Bathsheba knew more of him now; he had entirely bared his heart before +her, even until he had almost worn in her eyes the sorry look of a +grand bird without the feathers that make it grand. She had been +awe-struck at her past temerity, and was struggling to make amends +without thinking whether the sin quite deserved the penalty she was +schooling herself to pay. To have brought all this about her ears was +terrible; but after a while the situation was not without a fearful +joy. The facility with which even the most timid women sometimes +acquire a relish for the dreadful when that is amalgamated with a +little triumph, is marvellous. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV +THE SAME NIGHT—THE FIR PLANTATION + + +Among the multifarious duties which Bathsheba had voluntarily imposed +upon herself by dispensing with the services of a bailiff, was the +particular one of looking round the homestead before going to bed, to +see that all was right and safe for the night. Gabriel had almost +constantly preceded her in this tour every evening, watching her +affairs as carefully as any specially appointed officer of surveillance +could have done; but this tender devotion was to a great extent unknown +to his mistress, and as much as was known was somewhat thanklessly +received. Women are never tired of bewailing man’s fickleness in love, +but they only seem to snub his constancy. + +As watching is best done invisibly, she usually carried a dark lantern +in her hand, and every now and then turned on the light to examine +nooks and corners with the coolness of a metropolitan policeman. This +coolness may have owed its existence not so much to her fearlessness of +expected danger as to her freedom from the suspicion of any; her worst +anticipated discovery being that a horse might not be well bedded, the +fowls not all in, or a door not closed. + +This night the buildings were inspected as usual, and she went round to +the farm paddock. Here the only sounds disturbing the stillness were +steady munchings of many mouths, and stentorian breathings from all but +invisible noses, ending in snores and puffs like the blowing of bellows +slowly. Then the munching would recommence, when the lively imagination +might assist the eye to discern a group of pink-white nostrils, shaped +as caverns, and very clammy and humid on their surfaces, not exactly +pleasant to the touch until one got used to them; the mouths beneath +having a great partiality for closing upon any loose end of Bathsheba’s +apparel which came within reach of their tongues. Above each of these a +still keener vision suggested a brown forehead and two staring though +not unfriendly eyes, and above all a pair of whitish crescent-shaped +horns like two particularly new moons, an occasional stolid “moo!” +proclaiming beyond the shade of a doubt that these phenomena were the +features and persons of Daisy, Whitefoot, Bonny-lass, Jolly-O, Spot, +Twinkle-eye, etc., etc.—the respectable dairy of Devon cows belonging +to Bathsheba aforesaid. + +Her way back to the house was by a path through a young plantation of +tapering firs, which had been planted some years earlier to shelter the +premises from the north wind. By reason of the density of the +interwoven foliage overhead, it was gloomy there at cloudless noontide, +twilight in the evening, dark as midnight at dusk, and black as the +ninth plague of Egypt at midnight. To describe the spot is to call it a +vast, low, naturally formed hall, the plumy ceiling of which was +supported by slender pillars of living wood, the floor being covered +with a soft dun carpet of dead spikelets and mildewed cones, with a +tuft of grass-blades here and there. + +This bit of the path was always the crux of the night’s ramble, though, +before starting, her apprehensions of danger were not vivid enough to +lead her to take a companion. Slipping along here covertly as Time, +Bathsheba fancied she could hear footsteps entering the track at the +opposite end. It was certainly a rustle of footsteps. Her own instantly +fell as gently as snowflakes. She reassured herself by a remembrance +that the path was public, and that the traveller was probably some +villager returning home; regretting, at the same time, that the meeting +should be about to occur in the darkest point of her route, even though +only just outside her own door. + +The noise approached, came close, and a figure was apparently on the +point of gliding past her when something tugged at her skirt and pinned +it forcibly to the ground. The instantaneous check nearly threw +Bathsheba off her balance. In recovering she struck against warm +clothes and buttons. + +“A rum start, upon my soul!” said a masculine voice, a foot or so above +her head. “Have I hurt you, mate?” + +“No,” said Bathsheba, attempting to shrink away. + +“We have got hitched together somehow, I think.” + +“Yes.” + +“Are you a woman?” + +“Yes.” + +“A lady, I should have said.” + +“It doesn’t matter.” + +“I am a man.” + +“Oh!” + +Bathsheba softly tugged again, but to no purpose. + +“Is that a dark lantern you have? I fancy so,” said the man. + +“Yes.” + +“If you’ll allow me I’ll open it, and set you free.” + +A hand seized the lantern, the door was opened, the rays burst out from +their prison, and Bathsheba beheld her position with astonishment. + +The man to whom she was hooked was brilliant in brass and scarlet. He +was a soldier. His sudden appearance was to darkness what the sound of +a trumpet is to silence. Gloom, the _genius loci_ at all times +hitherto, was now totally overthrown, less by the lantern-light than by +what the lantern lighted. The contrast of this revelation with her +anticipations of some sinister figure in sombre garb was so great that +it had upon her the effect of a fairy transformation. + +It was immediately apparent that the military man’s spur had become +entangled in the gimp which decorated the skirt of her dress. He caught +a view of her face. + +“I’ll unfasten you in one moment, miss,” he said, with new-born +gallantry. + +“Oh no—I can do it, thank you,” she hastily replied, and stooped for +the performance. + +The unfastening was not such a trifling affair. The rowel of the spur +had so wound itself among the gimp cords in those few moments, that +separation was likely to be a matter of time. + +He too stooped, and the lantern standing on the ground betwixt them +threw the gleam from its open side among the fir-tree needles and the +blades of long damp grass with the effect of a large glowworm. It +radiated upwards into their faces, and sent over half the plantation +gigantic shadows of both man and woman, each dusky shape becoming +distorted and mangled upon the tree-trunks till it wasted to nothing. + +He looked hard into her eyes when she raised them for a moment; +Bathsheba looked down again, for his gaze was too strong to be received +point-blank with her own. But she had obliquely noticed that he was +young and slim, and that he wore three chevrons upon his sleeve. + +Bathsheba pulled again. + +“You are a prisoner, miss; it is no use blinking the matter,” said the +soldier, drily. “I must cut your dress if you are in such a hurry.” + +“Yes—please do!” she exclaimed, helplessly. + +“It wouldn’t be necessary if you could wait a moment,” and he unwound a +cord from the little wheel. She withdrew her own hand, but, whether by +accident or design, he touched it. Bathsheba was vexed; she hardly knew +why. + +His unravelling went on, but it nevertheless seemed coming to no end. +She looked at him again. + +“Thank you for the sight of such a beautiful face!” said the young +sergeant, without ceremony. + +She coloured with embarrassment. “’Twas unwillingly shown,” she +replied, stiffly, and with as much dignity—which was very little—as she +could infuse into a position of captivity. + +“I like you the better for that incivility, miss,” he said. + +“I should have liked—I wish—you had never shown yourself to me by +intruding here!” She pulled again, and the gathers of her dress began +to give way like liliputian musketry. + +“I deserve the chastisement your words give me. But why should such a +fair and dutiful girl have such an aversion to her father’s sex?” + +“Go on your way, please.” + +“What, Beauty, and drag you after me? Do but look; I never saw such a +tangle!” + +“Oh, ’tis shameful of you; you have been making it worse on purpose to +keep me here—you have!” + +“Indeed, I don’t think so,” said the sergeant, with a merry twinkle. + +“I tell you you have!” she exclaimed, in high temper. “I insist upon +undoing it. Now, allow me!” + +“Certainly, miss; I am not of steel.” He added a sigh which had as much +archness in it as a sigh could possess without losing its nature +altogether. “I am thankful for beauty, even when ’tis thrown to me like +a bone to a dog. These moments will be over too soon!” + +She closed her lips in a determined silence. + +Bathsheba was revolving in her mind whether by a bold and desperate +rush she could free herself at the risk of leaving her skirt bodily +behind her. The thought was too dreadful. The dress—which she had put +on to appear stately at the supper—was the head and front of her +wardrobe; not another in her stock became her so well. What woman in +Bathsheba’s position, not naturally timid, and within call of her +retainers, would have bought escape from a dashing soldier at so dear a +price? + +“All in good time; it will soon be done, I perceive,” said her cool +friend. + +“This trifling provokes, and—and—” + +“Not too cruel!” + +“—Insults me!” + +“It is done in order that I may have the pleasure of apologizing to so +charming a woman, which I straightway do most humbly, madam,” he said, +bowing low. + +Bathsheba really knew not what to say. + +“I’ve seen a good many women in my time,” continued the young man in a +murmur, and more thoughtfully than hitherto, critically regarding her +bent head at the same time; “but I’ve never seen a woman so beautiful +as you. Take it or leave it—be offended or like it—I don’t care.” + +“Who are you, then, who can so well afford to despise opinion?” + +“No stranger. Sergeant Troy. I am staying in this place.—There! it is +undone at last, you see. Your light fingers were more eager than mine. +I wish it had been the knot of knots, which there’s no untying!” + +This was worse and worse. She started up, and so did he. How to +decently get away from him—that was her difficulty now. She sidled off +inch by inch, the lantern in her hand, till she could see the redness +of his coat no longer. + +“Ah, Beauty; good-bye!” he said. + +She made no reply, and, reaching a distance of twenty or thirty yards, +turned about, and ran indoors. + +Liddy had just retired to rest. In ascending to her own chamber, +Bathsheba opened the girl’s door an inch or two, and, panting, said— + +“Liddy, is any soldier staying in the village—sergeant somebody—rather +gentlemanly for a sergeant, and good looking—a red coat with blue +facings?” + +“No, miss.... No, I say; but really it might be Sergeant Troy home on +furlough, though I have not seen him. He was here once in that way when +the regiment was at Casterbridge.” + +“Yes; that’s the name. Had he a moustache—no whiskers or beard?” + +“He had.” + +“What kind of a person is he?” + +“Oh! miss—I blush to name it—a gay man! But I know him to be very quick +and trim, who might have made his thousands, like a squire. Such a +clever young dandy as he is! He’s a doctor’s son by name, which is a +great deal; and he’s an earl’s son by nature!” + +“Which is a great deal more. Fancy! Is it true?” + +“Yes. And, he was brought up so well, and sent to Casterbridge Grammar +School for years and years. Learnt all languages while he was there; +and it was said he got on so far that he could take down Chinese in +shorthand; but that I don’t answer for, as it was only reported. +However, he wasted his gifted lot, and listed a soldier; but even then +he rose to be a sergeant without trying at all. Ah! such a blessing it +is to be high-born; nobility of blood will shine out even in the ranks +and files. And is he really come home, miss?” + +“I believe so. Good-night, Liddy.” + +After all, how could a cheerful wearer of skirts be permanently +offended with the man? There are occasions when girls like Bathsheba +will put up with a great deal of unconventional behaviour. When they +want to be praised, which is often, when they want to be mastered, +which is sometimes; and when they want no nonsense, which is seldom. +Just now the first feeling was in the ascendant with Bathsheba, with a +dash of the second. Moreover, by chance or by devilry, the ministrant +was antecedently made interesting by being a handsome stranger who had +evidently seen better days. + +So she could not clearly decide whether it was her opinion that he had +insulted her or not. + +“Was ever anything so odd!” she at last exclaimed to herself, in her +own room. “And was ever anything so meanly done as what I did—to skulk +away like that from a man who was only civil and kind!” Clearly she did +not think his barefaced praise of her person an insult now. + +It was a fatal omission of Boldwood’s that he had never once told her +she was beautiful. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV +THE NEW ACQUAINTANCE DESCRIBED + + +Idiosyncrasy and vicissitude had combined to stamp Sergeant Troy as an +exceptional being. + +He was a man to whom memories were an incumbrance, and anticipations a +superfluity. Simply feeling, considering, and caring for what was +before his eyes, he was vulnerable only in the present. His outlook +upon time was as a transient flash of the eye now and then: that +projection of consciousness into days gone by and to come, which makes +the past a synonym for the pathetic and the future a word for +circumspection, was foreign to Troy. With him the past was yesterday; +the future, to-morrow; never, the day after. + +On this account he might, in certain lights, have been regarded as one +of the most fortunate of his order. For it may be argued with great +plausibility that reminiscence is less an endowment than a disease, and +that expectation in its only comfortable form—that of absolute faith—is +practically an impossibility; whilst in the form of hope and the +secondary compounds, patience, impatience, resolve, curiosity, it is a +constant fluctuation between pleasure and pain. + +Sergeant Troy, being entirely innocent of the practice of expectation, +was never disappointed. To set against this negative gain there may +have been some positive losses from a certain narrowing of the higher +tastes and sensations which it entailed. But limitation of the capacity +is never recognized as a loss by the loser therefrom: in this attribute +moral or æsthetic poverty contrasts plausibly with material, since +those who suffer do not mind it, whilst those who mind it soon cease to +suffer. It is not a denial of anything to have been always without it, +and what Troy had never enjoyed he did not miss; but, being fully +conscious that what sober people missed he enjoyed, his capacity, +though really less, seemed greater than theirs. + +He was moderately truthful towards men, but to women lied like a +Cretan—a system of ethics above all others calculated to win popularity +at the first flush of admission into lively society; and the +possibility of the favour gained being transitory had reference only to +the future. + +He never passed the line which divides the spruce vices from the ugly; +and hence, though his morals had hardly been applauded, disapproval of +them had frequently been tempered with a smile. This treatment had led +to his becoming a sort of regrater of other men’s gallantries, to his +own aggrandizement as a Corinthian, rather than to the moral profit of +his hearers. + +His reason and his propensities had seldom any reciprocating influence, +having separated by mutual consent long ago: thence it sometimes +happened that, while his intentions were as honourable as could be +wished, any particular deed formed a dark background which threw them +into fine relief. The sergeant’s vicious phases being the offspring of +impulse, and his virtuous phases of cool meditation, the latter had a +modest tendency to be oftener heard of than seen. + +Troy was full of activity, but his activities were less of a locomotive +than a vegetative nature; and, never being based upon any original +choice of foundation or direction, they were exercised on whatever +object chance might place in their way. Hence, whilst he sometimes +reached the brilliant in speech because that was spontaneous, he fell +below the commonplace in action, from inability to guide incipient +effort. He had a quick comprehension and considerable force of +character; but, being without the power to combine them, the +comprehension became engaged with trivialities whilst waiting for the +will to direct it, and the force wasted itself in useless grooves +through unheeding the comprehension. + +He was a fairly well-educated man for one of middle class—exceptionally +well educated for a common soldier. He spoke fluently and unceasingly. +He could in this way be one thing and seem another: for instance, he +could speak of love and think of dinner; call on the husband to look at +the wife; be eager to pay and intend to owe. + +The wondrous power of flattery in _passados_ at woman is a perception +so universal as to be remarked upon by many people almost as +automatically as they repeat a proverb, or say that they are Christians +and the like, without thinking much of the enormous corollaries which +spring from the proposition. Still less is it acted upon for the good +of the complemental being alluded to. With the majority such an opinion +is shelved with all those trite aphorisms which require some +catastrophe to bring their tremendous meanings thoroughly home. When +expressed with some amount of reflectiveness it seems co-ordinate with +a belief that this flattery must be reasonable to be effective. It is +to the credit of men that few attempt to settle the question by +experiment, and it is for their happiness, perhaps, that accident has +never settled it for them. Nevertheless, that a male dissembler who by +deluging her with untenable fictions charms the female wisely, may +acquire powers reaching to the extremity of perdition, is a truth +taught to many by unsought and wringing occurrences. And some profess +to have attained to the same knowledge by experiment as aforesaid, and +jauntily continue their indulgence in such experiments with terrible +effect. Sergeant Troy was one. + +He had been known to observe casually that in dealing with womankind +the only alternative to flattery was cursing and swearing. There was no +third method. “Treat them fairly, and you are a lost man.” he would +say. + +This person’s public appearance in Weatherbury promptly followed his +arrival there. A week or two after the shearing, Bathsheba, feeling a +nameless relief of spirits on account of Boldwood’s absence, approached +her hayfields and looked over the hedge towards the haymakers. They +consisted in about equal proportions of gnarled and flexuous forms, the +former being the men, the latter the women, who wore tilt bonnets +covered with nankeen, which hung in a curtain upon their shoulders. +Coggan and Mark Clark were mowing in a less forward meadow, Clark +humming a tune to the strokes of his scythe, to which Jan made no +attempt to keep time with his. In the first mead they were already +loading hay, the women raking it into cocks and windrows, and the men +tossing it upon the waggon. + +From behind the waggon a bright scarlet spot emerged, and went on +loading unconcernedly with the rest. It was the gallant sergeant, who +had come haymaking for pleasure; and nobody could deny that he was +doing the mistress of the farm real knight-service by this voluntary +contribution of his labour at a busy time. + +As soon as she had entered the field Troy saw her, and sticking his +pitchfork into the ground and picking up his crop or cane, he came +forward. Bathsheba blushed with half-angry embarrassment, and adjusted +her eyes as well as her feet to the direct line of her path. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI +SCENE ON THE VERGE OF THE HAY-MEAD + + +“Ah, Miss Everdene!” said the sergeant, touching his diminutive cap. +“Little did I think it was you I was speaking to the other night. And +yet, if I had reflected, the ‘Queen of the Corn-market’ (truth is truth +at any hour of the day or night, and I heard you so named in +Casterbridge yesterday), the ‘Queen of the Corn-market.’ I say, could +be no other woman. I step across now to beg your forgiveness a thousand +times for having been led by my feelings to express myself too strongly +for a stranger. To be sure I am no stranger to the place—I am Sergeant +Troy, as I told you, and I have assisted your uncle in these fields no +end of times when I was a lad. I have been doing the same for you +to-day.” + +“I suppose I must thank you for that, Sergeant Troy,” said the Queen of +the Corn-market, in an indifferently grateful tone. + +The sergeant looked hurt and sad. “Indeed you must not, Miss Everdene,” +he said. “Why could you think such a thing necessary?” + +“I am glad it is not.” + +“Why? if I may ask without offence.” + +“Because I don’t much want to thank you for anything.” + +“I am afraid I have made a hole with my tongue that my heart will never +mend. O these intolerable times: that ill-luck should follow a man for +honestly telling a woman she is beautiful! ’Twas the most I said—you +must own that; and the least I could say—that I own myself.” + +“There is some talk I could do without more easily than money.” + +“Indeed. That remark is a sort of digression.” + +“No. It means that I would rather have your room than your company.” + +“And I would rather have curses from you than kisses from any other +woman; so I’ll stay here.” + +Bathsheba was absolutely speechless. And yet she could not help feeling +that the assistance he was rendering forbade a harsh repulse. + +“Well,” continued Troy, “I suppose there is a praise which is rudeness, +and that may be mine. At the same time there is a treatment which is +injustice, and that may be yours. Because a plain blunt man, who has +never been taught concealment, speaks out his mind without exactly +intending it, he’s to be snapped off like the son of a sinner.” + +“Indeed there’s no such case between us,” she said, turning away. “I +don’t allow strangers to be bold and impudent—even in praise of me.” + +“Ah—it is not the fact but the method which offends you,” he said, +carelessly. “But I have the sad satisfaction of knowing that my words, +whether pleasing or offensive, are unmistakably true. Would you have +had me look at you, and tell my acquaintance that you are quite a +common-place woman, to save you the embarrassment of being stared at if +they come near you? Not I. I couldn’t tell any such ridiculous lie +about a beauty to encourage a single woman in England in too excessive +a modesty.” + +“It is all pretence—what you are saying!” exclaimed Bathsheba, laughing +in spite of herself at the sly method. “You have a rare invention, +Sergeant Troy. Why couldn’t you have passed by me that night, and said +nothing?—that was all I meant to reproach you for.” + +“Because I wasn’t going to. Half the pleasure of a feeling lies in +being able to express it on the spur of the moment, and I let out mine. +It would have been just the same if you had been the reverse +person—ugly and old—I should have exclaimed about it in the same way.” + +“How long is it since you have been so afflicted with strong feeling, +then?” + +“Oh, ever since I was big enough to know loveliness from deformity.” + +“’Tis to be hoped your sense of the difference you speak of doesn’t +stop at faces, but extends to morals as well.” + +“I won’t speak of morals or religion—my own or anybody else’s. Though +perhaps I should have been a very good Christian if you pretty women +hadn’t made me an idolater.” + +Bathsheba moved on to hide the irrepressible dimplings of merriment. +Troy followed, whirling his crop. + +“But—Miss Everdene—you do forgive me?” + +“Hardly.” + +“Why?” + +“You say such things.” + +“I said you were beautiful, and I’ll say so still; for, by G—— so you +are! The most beautiful ever I saw, or may I fall dead this instant! +Why, upon my ——” + +“Don’t—don’t! I won’t listen to you—you are so profane!” she said, in a +restless state between distress at hearing him and a _penchant_ to hear +more. + +“I again say you are a most fascinating woman. There’s nothing +remarkable in my saying so, is there? I’m sure the fact is evident +enough. Miss Everdene, my opinion may be too forcibly let out to please +you, and, for the matter of that, too insignificant to convince you, +but surely it is honest, and why can’t it be excused?” + +“Because it—it isn’t a correct one,” she femininely murmured. + +“Oh, fie—fie! Am I any worse for breaking the third of that Terrible +Ten than you for breaking the ninth?” + +“Well, it doesn’t seem _quite_ true to me that I am fascinating,” she +replied evasively. + +“Not so to you: then I say with all respect that, if so, it is owing to +your modesty, Miss Everdene. But surely you must have been told by +everybody of what everybody notices? And you should take their words +for it.” + +“They don’t say so exactly.” + +“Oh yes, they must!” + +“Well, I mean to my face, as you do,” she went on, allowing herself to +be further lured into a conversation that intention had rigorously +forbidden. + +“But you know they think so?” + +“No—that is—I certainly have heard Liddy say they do, but—” She paused. + +Capitulation—that was the purport of the simple reply, guarded as it +was—capitulation, unknown to herself. Never did a fragile tailless +sentence convey a more perfect meaning. The careless sergeant smiled +within himself, and probably too the devil smiled from a loop-hole in +Tophet, for the moment was the turning-point of a career. Her tone and +mien signified beyond mistake that the seed which was to lift the +foundation had taken root in the chink: the remainder was a mere +question of time and natural changes. + +“There the truth comes out!” said the soldier, in reply. “Never tell me +that a young lady can live in a buzz of admiration without knowing +something about it. Ah, well, Miss Everdene, you are—pardon my blunt +way—you are rather an injury to our race than otherwise.” + +“How—indeed?” she said, opening her eyes. + +“Oh, it is true enough. I may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb (an +old country saying, not of much account, but it will do for a rough +soldier), and so I will speak my mind, regardless of your pleasure, and +without hoping or intending to get your pardon. Why, Miss Everdene, it +is in this manner that your good looks may do more harm than good in +the world.” The sergeant looked down the mead in critical abstraction. +“Probably some one man on an average falls in love with each ordinary +woman. She can marry him: he is content, and leads a useful life. Such +women as you a hundred men always covet—your eyes will bewitch scores +on scores into an unavailing fancy for you—you can only marry one of +that many. Out of these say twenty will endeavour to drown the +bitterness of despised love in drink; twenty more will mope away their +lives without a wish or attempt to make a mark in the world, because +they have no ambition apart from their attachment to you; twenty +more—the susceptible person myself possibly among them—will be always +draggling after you, getting where they may just see you, doing +desperate things. Men are such constant fools! The rest may try to get +over their passion with more or less success. But all these men will be +saddened. And not only those ninety-nine men, but the ninety-nine women +they might have married are saddened with them. There’s my tale. That’s +why I say that a woman so charming as yourself, Miss Everdene, is +hardly a blessing to her race.” + +The handsome sergeant’s features were during this speech as rigid and +stern as John Knox’s in addressing his gay young queen. + +Seeing she made no reply, he said, “Do you read French?” + +“No; I began, but when I got to the verbs, father died,” she said +simply. + +“I do—when I have an opportunity, which latterly has not been often (my +mother was a Parisienne)—and there’s a proverb they have, _Qui aime +bien, châtie bien_—‘He chastens who loves well.’ Do you understand me?” + +“Ah!” she replied, and there was even a little tremulousness in the +usually cool girl’s voice; “if you can only fight half as winningly as +you can talk, you are able to make a pleasure of a bayonet wound!” And +then poor Bathsheba instantly perceived her slip in making this +admission: in hastily trying to retrieve it, she went from bad to +worse. “Don’t, however, suppose that _I_ derive any pleasure from what +you tell me.” + +“I know you do not—I know it perfectly,” said Troy, with much hearty +conviction on the exterior of his face: and altering the expression to +moodiness; “when a dozen men are ready to speak tenderly to you, and +give the admiration you deserve without adding the warning you need, it +stands to reason that my poor rough-and-ready mixture of praise and +blame cannot convey much pleasure. Fool as I may be, I am not so +conceited as to suppose that!” + +“I think you—are conceited, nevertheless,” said Bathsheba, looking +askance at a reed she was fitfully pulling with one hand, having lately +grown feverish under the soldier’s system of procedure—not because the +nature of his cajolery was entirely unperceived, but because its vigour +was overwhelming. + +“I would not own it to anybody else—nor do I exactly to you. Still, +there might have been some self-conceit in my foolish supposition the +other night. I knew that what I said in admiration might be an opinion +too often forced upon you to give any pleasure, but I certainly did +think that the kindness of your nature might prevent you judging an +uncontrolled tongue harshly—which you have done—and thinking badly of +me and wounding me this morning, when I am working hard to save your +hay.” + +“Well, you need not think more of that: perhaps you did not mean to be +rude to me by speaking out your mind: indeed, I believe you did not,” +said the shrewd woman, in painfully innocent earnest. “And I thank you +for giving help here. But—but mind you don’t speak to me again in that +way, or in any other, unless I speak to you.” + +“Oh, Miss Bathsheba! That is too hard!” + +“No, it isn’t. Why is it?” + +“You will never speak to me; for I shall not be here long. I am soon +going back again to the miserable monotony of drill—and perhaps our +regiment will be ordered out soon. And yet you take away the one little +ewe-lamb of pleasure that I have in this dull life of mine. Well, +perhaps generosity is not a woman’s most marked characteristic.” + +“When are you going from here?” she asked, with some interest. + +“In a month.” + +“But how can it give you pleasure to speak to me?” + +“Can you ask Miss Everdene—knowing as you do—what my offence is based +on?” + +“If you do care so much for a silly trifle of that kind, then, I don’t +mind doing it,” she uncertainly and doubtingly answered. “But you can’t +really care for a word from me? you only say so—I think you only say +so.” + +“That’s unjust—but I won’t repeat the remark. I am too gratified to get +such a mark of your friendship at any price to cavil at the tone. I +_do_, Miss Everdene, care for it. You may think a man foolish to want a +mere word—just a good morning. Perhaps he is—I don’t know. But you have +never been a man looking upon a woman, and that woman yourself.” + +“Well.” + +“Then you know nothing of what such an experience is like—and Heaven +forbid that you ever should!” + +“Nonsense, flatterer! What is it like? I am interested in knowing.” + +“Put shortly, it is not being able to think, hear, or look in any +direction except one without wretchedness, nor there without torture.” + +“Ah, sergeant, it won’t do—you are pretending!” she said, shaking her +head. “Your words are too dashing to be true.” + +“I am not, upon the honour of a soldier.” + +“But _why_ is it so?—Of course I ask for mere pastime.” + +“Because you are so distracting—and I am so distracted.” + +“You look like it.” + +“I am indeed.” + +“Why, you only saw me the other night!” + +“That makes no difference. The lightning works instantaneously. I loved +you then, at once—as I do now.” + +Bathsheba surveyed him curiously, from the feet upward, as high as she +liked to venture her glance, which was not quite so high as his eyes. + +“You cannot and you don’t,” she said demurely. “There is no such sudden +feeling in people. I won’t listen to you any longer. Hear me, I wish I +knew what o’clock it is—I am going—I have wasted too much time here +already!” + +The sergeant looked at his watch and told her. “What, haven’t you a +watch, miss?” he inquired. + +“I have not just at present—I am about to get a new one.” + +“No. You shall be given one. Yes—you shall. A gift, Miss Everdene—a +gift.” + +And before she knew what the young man was intending, a heavy gold +watch was in her hand. + +“It is an unusually good one for a man like me to possess,” he quietly +said. “That watch has a history. Press the spring and open the back.” + +She did so. + +“What do you see?” + +“A crest and a motto.” + +“A coronet with five points, and beneath, _Cedit amor rebus_—‘Love +yields to circumstance.’ It’s the motto of the Earls of Severn. That +watch belonged to the last lord, and was given to my mother’s husband, +a medical man, for his use till I came of age, when it was to be given +to me. It was all the fortune that ever I inherited. That watch has +regulated imperial interests in its time—the stately ceremonial, the +courtly assignation, pompous travels, and lordly sleeps. Now it is +yours.” + +“But, Sergeant Troy, I cannot take this—I cannot!” she exclaimed, with +round-eyed wonder. “A gold watch! What are you doing? Don’t be such a +dissembler!” + +The sergeant retreated to avoid receiving back his gift, which she held +out persistently towards him. Bathsheba followed as he retired. + +“Keep it—do, Miss Everdene—keep it!” said the erratic child of impulse. +“The fact of your possessing it makes it worth ten times as much to me. +A more plebeian one will answer my purpose just as well, and the +pleasure of knowing whose heart my old one beats against—well, I won’t +speak of that. It is in far worthier hands than ever it has been in +before.” + +“But indeed I can’t have it!” she said, in a perfect simmer of +distress. “Oh, how can you do such a thing; that is if you really mean +it! Give me your dead father’s watch, and such a valuable one! You +should not be so reckless, indeed, Sergeant Troy!” + +“I loved my father: good; but better, I love you more. That’s how I can +do it,” said the sergeant, with an intonation of such exquisite +fidelity to nature that it was evidently not all acted now. Her beauty, +which, whilst it had been quiescent, he had praised in jest, had in its +animated phases moved him to earnest; and though his seriousness was +less than she imagined, it was probably more than he imagined himself. + +Bathsheba was brimming with agitated bewilderment, and she said, in +half-suspicious accents of feeling, “Can it be! Oh, how can it be, that +you care for me, and so suddenly! You have seen so little of me: I may +not be really so—so nice-looking as I seem to you. Please, do take it; +Oh, do! I cannot and will not have it. Believe me, your generosity is +too great. I have never done you a single kindness, and why should you +be so kind to me?” + +A factitious reply had been again upon his lips, but it was again +suspended, and he looked at her with an arrested eye. The truth was, +that as she now stood—excited, wild, and honest as the day—her alluring +beauty bore out so fully the epithets he had bestowed upon it that he +was quite startled at his temerity in advancing them as false. He said +mechanically, “Ah, why?” and continued to look at her. + +“And my workfolk see me following you about the field, and are +wondering. Oh, this is dreadful!” she went on, unconscious of the +transmutation she was effecting. + +“I did not quite mean you to accept it at first, for it was my one poor +patent of nobility,” he broke out, bluntly; “but, upon my soul, I wish +you would now. Without any shamming, come! Don’t deny me the happiness +of wearing it for my sake? But you are too lovely even to care to be +kind as others are.” + +“No, no; don’t say so! I have reasons for reserve which I cannot +explain.” + +“Let it be, then, let it be,” he said, receiving back the watch at +last; “I must be leaving you now. And will you speak to me for these +few weeks of my stay?” + +“Indeed I will. Yet, I don’t know if I will! Oh, why did you come and +disturb me so!” + +“Perhaps in setting a gin, I have caught myself. Such things have +happened. Well, will you let me work in your fields?” he coaxed. + +“Yes, I suppose so; if it is any pleasure to you.” + +“Miss Everdene, I thank you.” + +“No, no.” + +“Good-bye!” + +The sergeant brought his hand to the cap on the slope of his head, +saluted, and returned to the distant group of haymakers. + +Bathsheba could not face the haymakers now. Her heart erratically +flitting hither and thither from perplexed excitement, hot, and almost +tearful, she retreated homeward, murmuring, “Oh, what have I done! What +does it mean! I wish I knew how much of it was true!” + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII +HIVING THE BEES + + +The Weatherbury bees were late in their swarming this year. It was in +the latter part of June, and the day after the interview with Troy in +the hayfield, that Bathsheba was standing in her garden, watching a +swarm in the air and guessing their probable settling place. Not only +were they late this year, but unruly. Sometimes throughout a whole +season all the swarms would alight on the lowest attainable bough—such +as part of a currant-bush or espalier apple-tree; next year they would, +with just the same unanimity, make straight off to the uppermost member +of some tall, gaunt costard, or quarrenden, and there defy all invaders +who did not come armed with ladders and staves to take them. + +This was the case at present. Bathsheba’s eyes, shaded by one hand, +were following the ascending multitude against the unexplorable stretch +of blue till they ultimately halted by one of the unwieldy trees spoken +of. A process somewhat analogous to that of alleged formations of the +universe, time and times ago, was observable. The bustling swarm had +swept the sky in a scattered and uniform haze, which now thickened to a +nebulous centre: this glided on to a bough and grew still denser, till +it formed a solid black spot upon the light. + +The men and women being all busily engaged in saving the hay—even Liddy +had left the house for the purpose of lending a hand—Bathsheba resolved +to hive the bees herself, if possible. She had dressed the hive with +herbs and honey, fetched a ladder, brush, and crook, made herself +impregnable with armour of leather gloves, straw hat, and large gauze +veil—once green but now faded to snuff colour—and ascended a dozen +rungs of the ladder. At once she heard, not ten yards off, a voice that +was beginning to have a strange power in agitating her. + +“Miss Everdene, let me assist you; you should not attempt such a thing +alone.” + +Troy was just opening the garden gate. + +Bathsheba flung down the brush, crook, and empty hive, pulled the skirt +of her dress tightly round her ankles in a tremendous flurry, and as +well as she could slid down the ladder. By the time she reached the +bottom Troy was there also, and he stooped to pick up the hive. + +“How fortunate I am to have dropped in at this moment!” exclaimed the +sergeant. + +She found her voice in a minute. “What! and will you shake them in for +me?” she asked, in what, for a defiant girl, was a faltering way; +though, for a timid girl, it would have seemed a brave way enough. + +“Will I!” said Troy. “Why, of course I will. How blooming you are +to-day!” Troy flung down his cane and put his foot on the ladder to +ascend. + +“But you must have on the veil and gloves, or you’ll be stung +fearfully!” + +“Ah, yes. I must put on the veil and gloves. Will you kindly show me +how to fix them properly?” + +“And you must have the broad-brimmed hat, too, for your cap has no brim +to keep the veil off, and they’d reach your face.” + +“The broad-brimmed hat, too, by all means.” + +So a whimsical fate ordered that her hat should be taken off—veil and +all attached—and placed upon his head, Troy tossing his own into a +gooseberry bush. Then the veil had to be tied at its lower edge round +his collar and the gloves put on him. + +He looked such an extraordinary object in this guise that, flurried as +she was, she could not avoid laughing outright. It was the removal of +yet another stake from the palisade of cold manners which had kept him +off. + +Bathsheba looked on from the ground whilst he was busy sweeping and +shaking the bees from the tree, holding up the hive with the other hand +for them to fall into. She made use of an unobserved minute whilst his +attention was absorbed in the operation to arrange her plumes a little. +He came down holding the hive at arm’s length, behind which trailed a +cloud of bees. + +“Upon my life,” said Troy, through the veil, “holding up this hive +makes one’s arm ache worse than a week of sword-exercise.” When the +manœuvre was complete he approached her. “Would you be good enough to +untie me and let me out? I am nearly stifled inside this silk cage.” + +To hide her embarrassment during the unwonted process of untying the +string about his neck, she said:— + +“I have never seen that you spoke of.” + +“What?” + +“The sword-exercise.” + +“Ah! would you like to?” said Troy. + +Bathsheba hesitated. She had heard wondrous reports from time to time +by dwellers in Weatherbury, who had by chance sojourned awhile in +Casterbridge, near the barracks, of this strange and glorious +performance, the sword-exercise. Men and boys who had peeped through +chinks or over walls into the barrack-yard returned with accounts of +its being the most flashing affair conceivable; accoutrements and +weapons glistening like stars—here, there, around—yet all by rule and +compass. So she said mildly what she felt strongly. + +“Yes; I should like to see it very much.” + +“And so you shall; you shall see me go through it.” + +“No! How?” + +“Let me consider.” + +“Not with a walking-stick—I don’t care to see that. It must be a real +sword.” + +“Yes, I know; and I have no sword here; but I think I could get one by +the evening. Now, will you do this?” + +Troy bent over her and murmured some suggestion in a low voice. + +“Oh no, indeed!” said Bathsheba, blushing. “Thank you very much, but I +couldn’t on any account.” + +“Surely you might? Nobody would know.” + +She shook her head, but with a weakened negation. “If I were to,” she +said, “I must bring Liddy too. Might I not?” + +Troy looked far away. “I don’t see why you want to bring her,” he said +coldly. + +An unconscious look of assent in Bathsheba’s eyes betrayed that +something more than his coldness had made her also feel that Liddy +would be superfluous in the suggested scene. She had felt it, even +whilst making the proposal. + +“Well, I won’t bring Liddy—and I’ll come. But only for a very short +time,” she added; “a very short time.” + +“It will not take five minutes,” said Troy. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII +THE HOLLOW AMID THE FERNS + + +The hill opposite Bathsheba’s dwelling extended, a mile off, into an +uncultivated tract of land, dotted at this season with tall thickets of +brake fern, plump and diaphanous from recent rapid growth, and radiant +in hues of clear and untainted green. + +At eight o’clock this midsummer evening, whilst the bristling ball of +gold in the west still swept the tips of the ferns with its long, +luxuriant rays, a soft brushing-by of garments might have been heard +among them, and Bathsheba appeared in their midst, their soft, feathery +arms caressing her up to her shoulders. She paused, turned, went back +over the hill and half-way to her own door, whence she cast a farewell +glance upon the spot she had just left, having resolved not to remain +near the place after all. + +She saw a dim spot of artificial red moving round the shoulder of the +rise. It disappeared on the other side. + +She waited one minute—two minutes—thought of Troy’s disappointment at +her non-fulfilment of a promised engagement, till she again ran along +the field, clambered over the bank, and followed the original +direction. She was now literally trembling and panting at this her +temerity in such an errant undertaking; her breath came and went +quickly, and her eyes shone with an infrequent light. Yet go she must. +She reached the verge of a pit in the middle of the ferns. Troy stood +in the bottom, looking up towards her. + +“I heard you rustling through the fern before I saw you,” he said, +coming up and giving her his hand to help her down the slope. + +The pit was a saucer-shaped concave, naturally formed, with a top +diameter of about thirty feet, and shallow enough to allow the sunshine +to reach their heads. Standing in the centre, the sky overhead was met +by a circular horizon of fern: this grew nearly to the bottom of the +slope and then abruptly ceased. The middle within the belt of verdure +was floored with a thick flossy carpet of moss and grass intermingled, +so yielding that the foot was half-buried within it. + +“Now,” said Troy, producing the sword, which, as he raised it into the +sunlight, gleamed a sort of greeting, like a living thing, “first, we +have four right and four left cuts; four right and four left thrusts. +Infantry cuts and guards are more interesting than ours, to my mind; +but they are not so swashing. They have seven cuts and three thrusts. +So much as a preliminary. Well, next, our cut one is as if you were +sowing your corn—so.” Bathsheba saw a sort of rainbow, upside down in +the air, and Troy’s arm was still again. “Cut two, as if you were +hedging—so. Three, as if you were reaping—so. Four, as if you were +threshing—in that way. Then the same on the left. The thrusts are +these: one, two, three, four, right; one, two, three, four, left.” He +repeated them. “Have ’em again?” he said. “One, two—” + +She hurriedly interrupted: “I’d rather not; though I don’t mind your +twos and fours; but your ones and threes are terrible!” + +“Very well. I’ll let you off the ones and threes. Next, cuts, points +and guards altogether.” Troy duly exhibited them. “Then there’s +pursuing practice, in this way.” He gave the movements as before. +“There, those are the stereotyped forms. The infantry have two most +diabolical upward cuts, which we are too humane to use. Like +this—three, four.” + +“How murderous and bloodthirsty!” + +“They are rather deathly. Now I’ll be more interesting, and let you see +some loose play—giving all the cuts and points, infantry and cavalry, +quicker than lightning, and as promiscuously—with just enough rule to +regulate instinct and yet not to fetter it. You are my antagonist, with +this difference from real warfare, that I shall miss you every time by +one hair’s breadth, or perhaps two. Mind you don’t flinch, whatever you +do.” + +“I’ll be sure not to!” she said invincibly. + +He pointed to about a yard in front of him. + +Bathsheba’s adventurous spirit was beginning to find some grains of +relish in these highly novel proceedings. She took up her position as +directed, facing Troy. + +“Now just to learn whether you have pluck enough to let me do what I +wish, I’ll give you a preliminary test.” + +He flourished the sword by way of introduction number two, and the next +thing of which she was conscious was that the point and blade of the +sword were darting with a gleam towards her left side, just above her +hip; then of their reappearance on her right side, emerging as it were +from between her ribs, having apparently passed through her body. The +third item of consciousness was that of seeing the same sword, +perfectly clean and free from blood held vertically in Troy’s hand (in +the position technically called “recover swords”). All was as quick as +electricity. + +“Oh!” she cried out in affright, pressing her hand to her side. “Have +you run me through?—no, you have not! Whatever have you done!” + +“I have not touched you,” said Troy, quietly. “It was mere sleight of +hand. The sword passed behind you. Now you are not afraid, are you? +Because if you are I can’t perform. I give my word that I will not only +not hurt you, but not once touch you.” + +“I don’t think I am afraid. You are quite sure you will not hurt me?” + +“Quite sure.” + +“Is the sword very sharp?” + +“O no—only stand as still as a statue. Now!” + +In an instant the atmosphere was transformed to Bathsheba’s eyes. Beams +of light caught from the low sun’s rays, above, around, in front of +her, well-nigh shut out earth and heaven—all emitted in the marvellous +evolutions of Troy’s reflecting blade, which seemed everywhere at once, +and yet nowhere specially. These circling gleams were accompanied by a +keen rush that was almost a whistling—also springing from all sides of +her at once. In short, she was enclosed in a firmament of light, and of +sharp hisses, resembling a sky-full of meteors close at hand. + +Never since the broadsword became the national weapon had there been +more dexterity shown in its management than by the hands of Sergeant +Troy, and never had he been in such splendid temper for the performance +as now in the evening sunshine among the ferns with Bathsheba. It may +safely be asserted with respect to the closeness of his cuts, that had +it been possible for the edge of the sword to leave in the air a +permanent substance wherever it flew past, the space left untouched +would have been almost a mould of Bathsheba’s figure. + +Behind the luminous streams of this _aurora militaris_, she could see +the hue of Troy’s sword arm, spread in a scarlet haze over the space +covered by its motions, like a twanged harpstring, and behind all Troy +himself, mostly facing her; sometimes, to show the rear cuts, half +turned away, his eye nevertheless always keenly measuring her breadth +and outline, and his lips tightly closed in sustained effort. Next, his +movements lapsed slower, and she could see them individually. The +hissing of the sword had ceased, and he stopped entirely. + +“That outer loose lock of hair wants tidying,” he said, before she had +moved or spoken. “Wait: I’ll do it for you.” + +An arc of silver shone on her right side: the sword had descended. The +lock dropped to the ground. + +“Bravely borne!” said Troy. “You didn’t flinch a shade’s thickness. +Wonderful in a woman!” + +“It was because I didn’t expect it. Oh, you have spoilt my hair!” + +“Only once more.” + +“No—no! I am afraid of you—indeed I am!” she cried. + +“I won’t touch you at all—not even your hair. I am only going to kill +that caterpillar settling on you. Now: still!” + +It appeared that a caterpillar had come from the fern and chosen the +front of her bodice as his resting place. She saw the point glisten +towards her bosom, and seemingly enter it. Bathsheba closed her eyes in +the full persuasion that she was killed at last. However, feeling just +as usual, she opened them again. + +“There it is, look,” said the sergeant, holding his sword before her +eyes. + +The caterpillar was spitted upon its point. + +“Why, it is magic!” said Bathsheba, amazed. + +“Oh no—dexterity. I merely gave point to your bosom where the +caterpillar was, and instead of running you through checked the +extension a thousandth of an inch short of your surface.” + +“But how could you chop off a curl of my hair with a sword that has no +edge?” + +“No edge! This sword will shave like a razor. Look here.” + +He touched the palm of his hand with the blade, and then, lifting it, +showed her a thin shaving of scarf-skin dangling therefrom. + +“But you said before beginning that it was blunt and couldn’t cut me!” + +“That was to get you to stand still, and so make sure of your safety. +The risk of injuring you through your moving was too great not to force +me to tell you a fib to escape it.” + +She shuddered. “I have been within an inch of my life, and didn’t know +it!” + +“More precisely speaking, you have been within half an inch of being +pared alive two hundred and ninety-five times.” + +“Cruel, cruel, ’tis of you!” + +“You have been perfectly safe, nevertheless. My sword never errs.” And +Troy returned the weapon to the scabbard. + +Bathsheba, overcome by a hundred tumultuous feelings resulting from the +scene, abstractedly sat down on a tuft of heather. + +“I must leave you now,” said Troy, softly. “And I’ll venture to take +and keep this in remembrance of you.” + +She saw him stoop to the grass, pick up the winding lock which he had +severed from her manifold tresses, twist it round his fingers, unfasten +a button in the breast of his coat, and carefully put it inside. She +felt powerless to withstand or deny him. He was altogether too much for +her, and Bathsheba seemed as one who, facing a reviving wind, finds it +blow so strongly that it stops the breath. He drew near and said, “I +must be leaving you.” + +He drew nearer still. A minute later and she saw his scarlet form +disappear amid the ferny thicket, almost in a flash, like a brand +swiftly waved. + +That minute’s interval had brought the blood beating into her face, set +her stinging as if aflame to the very hollows of her feet, and enlarged +emotion to a compass which quite swamped thought. It had brought upon +her a stroke resulting, as did that of Moses in Horeb, in a liquid +stream—here a stream of tears. She felt like one who has sinned a great +sin. + +The circumstance had been the gentle dip of Troy’s mouth downwards upon +her own. He had kissed her. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX +PARTICULARS OF A TWILIGHT WALK + + +We now see the element of folly distinctly mingling with the many +varying particulars which made up the character of Bathsheba Everdene. +It was almost foreign to her intrinsic nature. Introduced as lymph on +the dart of Eros, it eventually permeated and coloured her whole +constitution. Bathsheba, though she had too much understanding to be +entirely governed by her womanliness, had too much womanliness to use +her understanding to the best advantage. Perhaps in no minor point does +woman astonish her helpmate more than in the strange power she +possesses of believing cajoleries that she knows to be false—except, +indeed, in that of being utterly sceptical on strictures that she knows +to be true. + +Bathsheba loved Troy in the way that only self-reliant women love when +they abandon their self-reliance. When a strong woman recklessly throws +away her strength she is worse than a weak woman who has never had any +strength to throw away. One source of her inadequacy is the novelty of +the occasion. She has never had practice in making the best of such a +condition. Weakness is doubly weak by being new. + +Bathsheba was not conscious of guile in this matter. Though in one +sense a woman of the world, it was, after all, that world of daylight +coteries and green carpets wherein cattle form the passing crowd and +winds the busy hum; where a quiet family of rabbits or hares lives on +the other side of your party-wall, where your neighbour is everybody in +the tything, and where calculation is confined to market-days. Of the +fabricated tastes of good fashionable society she knew but little, and +of the formulated self-indulgence of bad, nothing at all. Had her +utmost thoughts in this direction been distinctly worded (and by +herself they never were), they would only have amounted to such a +matter as that she felt her impulses to be pleasanter guides than her +discretion. Her love was entire as a child’s, and though warm as summer +it was fresh as spring. Her culpability lay in her making no attempt to +control feeling by subtle and careful inquiry into consequences. She +could show others the steep and thorny way, but “reck’d not her own +rede.” + +And Troy’s deformities lay deep down from a woman’s vision, whilst his +embellishments were upon the very surface; thus contrasting with homely +Oak, whose defects were patent to the blindest, and whose virtues were +as metals in a mine. + +The difference between love and respect was markedly shown in her +conduct. Bathsheba had spoken of her interest in Boldwood with the +greatest freedom to Liddy, but she had only communed with her own heart +concerning Troy. + +All this infatuation Gabriel saw, and was troubled thereby from the +time of his daily journey a-field to the time of his return, and on to +the small hours of many a night. That he was not beloved had hitherto +been his great sorrow; that Bathsheba was getting into the toils was +now a sorrow greater than the first, and one which nearly obscured it. +It was a result which paralleled the oft-quoted observation of +Hippocrates concerning physical pains. + +That is a noble though perhaps an unpromising love which not even the +fear of breeding aversion in the bosom of the one beloved can deter +from combating his or her errors. Oak determined to speak to his +mistress. He would base his appeal on what he considered her unfair +treatment of Farmer Boldwood, now absent from home. + +An opportunity occurred one evening when she had gone for a short walk +by a path through the neighbouring cornfields. It was dusk when Oak, +who had not been far a-field that day, took the same path and met her +returning, quite pensively, as he thought. + +The wheat was now tall, and the path was narrow; thus the way was quite +a sunken groove between the embowing thicket on either side. Two +persons could not walk abreast without damaging the crop, and Oak stood +aside to let her pass. + +“Oh, is it Gabriel?” she said. “You are taking a walk too. Good-night.” + +“I thought I would come to meet you, as it is rather late,” said Oak, +turning and following at her heels when she had brushed somewhat +quickly by him. + +“Thank you, indeed, but I am not very fearful.” + +“Oh no; but there are bad characters about.” + +“I never meet them.” + +Now Oak, with marvellous ingenuity, had been going to introduce the +gallant sergeant through the channel of “bad characters.” But all at +once the scheme broke down, it suddenly occurring to him that this was +rather a clumsy way, and too barefaced to begin with. He tried another +preamble. + +“And as the man who would naturally come to meet you is away from home, +too—I mean Farmer Boldwood—why, thinks I, I’ll go,” he said. + +“Ah, yes.” She walked on without turning her head, and for many steps +nothing further was heard from her quarter than the rustle of her dress +against the heavy corn-ears. Then she resumed rather tartly— + +“I don’t quite understand what you meant by saying that Mr. Boldwood +would naturally come to meet me.” + +“I meant on account of the wedding which they say is likely to take +place between you and him, miss. Forgive my speaking plainly.” + +“They say what is not true.” she returned quickly. “No marriage is +likely to take place between us.” + +Gabriel now put forth his unobscured opinion, for the moment had come. +“Well, Miss Everdene,” he said, “putting aside what people say, I never +in my life saw any courting if his is not a courting of you.” + +Bathsheba would probably have terminated the conversation there and +then by flatly forbidding the subject, had not her conscious weakness +of position allured her to palter and argue in endeavours to better it. + +“Since this subject has been mentioned,” she said very emphatically, “I +am glad of the opportunity of clearing up a mistake which is very +common and very provoking. I didn’t definitely promise Mr. Boldwood +anything. I have never cared for him. I respect him, and he has urged +me to marry him. But I have given him no distinct answer. As soon as he +returns I shall do so; and the answer will be that I cannot think of +marrying him.” + +“People are full of mistakes, seemingly.” + +“They are.” + +“The other day they said you were trifling with him, and you almost +proved that you were not; lately they have said that you be not, and +you straightway begin to show—” + +“That I am, I suppose you mean.” + +“Well, I hope they speak the truth.” + +“They do, but wrongly applied. I don’t trifle with him; but then, I +have nothing to do with him.” + +Oak was unfortunately led on to speak of Boldwood’s rival in a wrong +tone to her after all. “I wish you had never met that young Sergeant +Troy, miss,” he sighed. + +Bathsheba’s steps became faintly spasmodic. “Why?” she asked. + +“He is not good enough for ’ee.” + +“Did any one tell you to speak to me like this?” + +“Nobody at all.” + +“Then it appears to me that Sergeant Troy does not concern us here,” +she said, intractably. “Yet I must say that Sergeant Troy is an +educated man, and quite worthy of any woman. He is well born.” + +“His being higher in learning and birth than the ruck o’ soldiers is +anything but a proof of his worth. It show’s his course to be +down’ard.” + +“I cannot see what this has to do with our conversation. Mr. Troy’s +course is not by any means downward; and his superiority _is_ a proof +of his worth!” + +“I believe him to have no conscience at all. And I cannot help begging +you, miss, to have nothing to do with him. Listen to me this once—only +this once! I don’t say he’s such a bad man as I have fancied—I pray to +God he is not. But since we don’t exactly know what he is, why not +behave as if he _might_ be bad, simply for your own safety? Don’t trust +him, mistress; I ask you not to trust him so.” + +“Why, pray?” + +“I like soldiers, but this one I do not like,” he said, sturdily. “His +cleverness in his calling may have tempted him astray, and what is +mirth to the neighbours is ruin to the woman. When he tries to talk to +’ee again, why not turn away with a short ‘Good day’; and when you see +him coming one way, turn the other. When he says anything laughable, +fail to see the point and don’t smile, and speak of him before those +who will report your talk as ‘that fantastical man,’ or ‘that Sergeant +What’s-his-name.’ ‘That man of a family that has come to the dogs.’ +Don’t be unmannerly towards en, but harmless-uncivil, and so get rid of +the man.” + +No Christmas robin detained by a window-pane ever pulsed as did +Bathsheba now. + +“I say—I say again—that it doesn’t become you to talk about him. Why he +should be mentioned passes me quite!” she exclaimed desperately. “I +know this, th-th-that he is a thoroughly conscientious man—blunt +sometimes even to rudeness—but always speaking his mind about you plain +to your face!” + +“Oh.” + +“He is as good as anybody in this parish! He is very particular, too, +about going to church—yes, he is!” + +“I am afeard nobody saw him there. I never did, certainly.” + +“The reason of that is,” she said eagerly, “that he goes in privately +by the old tower door, just when the service commences, and sits at the +back of the gallery. He told me so.” + +This supreme instance of Troy’s goodness fell upon Gabriel ears like +the thirteenth stroke of crazy clock. It was not only received with +utter incredulity as regarded itself, but threw a doubt on all the +assurances that had preceded it. + +Oak was grieved to find how entirely she trusted him. He brimmed with +deep feeling as he replied in a steady voice, the steadiness of which +was spoilt by the palpableness of his great effort to keep it so:— + +“You know, mistress, that I love you, and shall love you always. I only +mention this to bring to your mind that at any rate I would wish to do +you no harm: beyond that I put it aside. I have lost in the race for +money and good things, and I am not such a fool as to pretend to ’ee +now I am poor, and you have got altogether above me. But Bathsheba, +dear mistress, this I beg you to consider—that, both to keep yourself +well honoured among the workfolk, and in common generosity to an +honourable man who loves you as well as I, you should be more discreet +in your bearing towards this soldier.” + +“Don’t, don’t, don’t!” she exclaimed, in a choking voice. + +“Are ye not more to me than my own affairs, and even life!” he went on. +“Come, listen to me! I am six years older than you, and Mr. Boldwood is +ten years older than I, and consider—I do beg of ’ee to consider before +it is too late—how safe you would be in his hands!” + +Oak’s allusion to his own love for her lessened, to some extent, her +anger at his interference; but she could not really forgive him for +letting his wish to marry her be eclipsed by his wish to do her good, +any more than for his slighting treatment of Troy. + +“I wish you to go elsewhere,” she commanded, a paleness of face +invisible to the eye being suggested by the trembling words. “Do not +remain on this farm any longer. I don’t want you—I beg you to go!” + +“That’s nonsense,” said Oak, calmly. “This is the second time you have +pretended to dismiss me; and what’s the use o’ it?” + +“Pretended! You shall go, sir—your lecturing I will not hear! I am +mistress here.” + +“Go, indeed—what folly will you say next? Treating me like Dick, Tom +and Harry when you know that a short time ago my position was as good +as yours! Upon my life, Bathsheba, it is too barefaced. You know, too, +that I can’t go without putting things in such a strait as you wouldn’t +get out of I can’t tell when. Unless, indeed, you’ll promise to have an +understanding man as bailiff, or manager, or something. I’ll go at once +if you’ll promise that.” + +“I shall have no bailiff; I shall continue to be my own manager,” she +said decisively. + +“Very well, then; you should be thankful to me for biding. How would +the farm go on with nobody to mind it but a woman? But mind this, I +don’t wish ’ee to feel you owe me anything. Not I. What I do, I do. +Sometimes I say I should be as glad as a bird to leave the place—for +don’t suppose I’m content to be a nobody. I was made for better things. +However, I don’t like to see your concerns going to ruin, as they must +if you keep in this mind.... I hate taking my own measure so plain, +but, upon my life, your provoking ways make a man say what he wouldn’t +dream of at other times! I own to being rather interfering. But you +know well enough how it is, and who she is that I like too well, and +feel too much like a fool about to be civil to her!” + +It is more than probable that she privately and unconsciously respected +him a little for this grim fidelity, which had been shown in his tone +even more than in his words. At any rate she murmured something to the +effect that he might stay if he wished. She said more distinctly, “Will +you leave me alone now? I don’t order it as a mistress—I ask it as a +woman, and I expect you not to be so uncourteous as to refuse.” + +“Certainly I will, Miss Everdene,” said Gabriel, gently. He wondered +that the request should have come at this moment, for the strife was +over, and they were on a most desolate hill, far from every human +habitation, and the hour was getting late. He stood still and allowed +her to get far ahead of him till he could only see her form upon the +sky. + +A distressing explanation of this anxiety to be rid of him at that +point now ensued. A figure apparently rose from the earth beside her. +The shape beyond all doubt was Troy’s. Oak would not be even a possible +listener, and at once turned back till a good two hundred yards were +between the lovers and himself. + +Gabriel went home by way of the churchyard. In passing the tower he +thought of what she had said about the sergeant’s virtuous habit of +entering the church unperceived at the beginning of service. Believing +that the little gallery door alluded to was quite disused, he ascended +the external flight of steps at the top of which it stood, and examined +it. The pale lustre yet hanging in the north-western heaven was +sufficient to show that a sprig of ivy had grown from the wall across +the door to a length of more than a foot, delicately tying the panel to +the stone jamb. It was a decisive proof that the door had not been +opened at least since Troy came back to Weatherbury. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX +HOT CHEEKS AND TEARFUL EYES + + +Half an hour later Bathsheba entered her own house. There burnt upon +her face when she met the light of the candles the flush and excitement +which were little less than chronic with her now. The farewell words of +Troy, who had accompanied her to the very door, still lingered in her +ears. He had bidden her adieu for two days, which were, so he stated, +to be spent at Bath in visiting some friends. He had also kissed her a +second time. + +It is only fair to Bathsheba to explain here a little fact which did +not come to light till a long time afterwards: that Troy’s presentation +of himself so aptly at the roadside this evening was not by any +distinctly preconcerted arrangement. He had hinted—she had forbidden; +and it was only on the chance of his still coming that she had +dismissed Oak, fearing a meeting between them just then. + +She now sank down into a chair, wild and perturbed by all these new and +fevering sequences. Then she jumped up with a manner of decision, and +fetched her desk from a side table. + +In three minutes, without pause or modification, she had written a +letter to Boldwood, at his address beyond Casterbridge, saying mildly +but firmly that she had well considered the whole subject he had +brought before her and kindly given her time to decide upon; that her +final decision was that she could not marry him. She had expressed to +Oak an intention to wait till Boldwood came home before communicating +to him her conclusive reply. But Bathsheba found that she could not +wait. + +It was impossible to send this letter till the next day; yet to quell +her uneasiness by getting it out of her hands, and so, as it were, +setting the act in motion at once, she arose to take it to any one of +the women who might be in the kitchen. + +She paused in the passage. A dialogue was going on in the kitchen, and +Bathsheba and Troy were the subject of it. + +“If he marry her, she’ll gie up farming.” + +“’Twill be a gallant life, but may bring some trouble between the +mirth—so say I.” + +“Well, I wish I had half such a husband.” + +Bathsheba had too much sense to mind seriously what her servitors said +about her; but too much womanly redundance of speech to leave alone +what was said till it died the natural death of unminded things. She +burst in upon them. + +“Who are you speaking of?” she asked. + +There was a pause before anybody replied. At last Liddy said frankly, +“What was passing was a bit of a word about yourself, miss.” + +“I thought so! Maryann and Liddy and Temperance—now I forbid you to +suppose such things. You know I don’t care the least for Mr. Troy—not +I. Everybody knows how much I hate him.—Yes,” repeated the froward +young person, “_hate_ him!” + +“We know you do, miss,” said Liddy; “and so do we all.” + +“I hate him too,” said Maryann. + +“Maryann—Oh you perjured woman! How can you speak that wicked story!” +said Bathsheba, excitedly. “You admired him from your heart only this +morning in the very world, you did. Yes, Maryann, you know it!” + +“Yes, miss, but so did you. He is a wild scamp now, and you are right +to hate him.” + +“He’s _not_ a wild scamp! How dare you to my face! I have no right to +hate him, nor you, nor anybody. But I am a silly woman! What is it to +me what he is? You know it is nothing. I don’t care for him; I don’t +mean to defend his good name, not I. Mind this, if any of you say a +word against him you’ll be dismissed instantly!” + +She flung down the letter and surged back into the parlour, with a big +heart and tearful eyes, Liddy following her. + +“Oh miss!” said mild Liddy, looking pitifully into Bathsheba’s face. “I +am sorry we mistook you so! I did think you cared for him; but I see +you don’t now.” + +“Shut the door, Liddy.” + +Liddy closed the door, and went on: “People always say such foolery, +miss. I’ll make answer hencefor’ard, ‘Of course a lady like Miss +Everdene can’t love him’; I’ll say it out in plain black and white.” + +Bathsheba burst out: “O Liddy, are you such a simpleton? Can’t you read +riddles? Can’t you see? Are you a woman yourself?” + +Liddy’s clear eyes rounded with wonderment. + +“Yes; you must be a blind thing, Liddy!” she said, in reckless +abandonment and grief. “Oh, I love him to very distraction and misery +and agony! Don’t be frightened at me, though perhaps I am enough to +frighten any innocent woman. Come closer—closer.” She put her arms +round Liddy’s neck. “I must let it out to somebody; it is wearing me +away! Don’t you yet know enough of me to see through that miserable +denial of mine? O God, what a lie it was! Heaven and my Love forgive +me. And don’t you know that a woman who loves at all thinks nothing of +perjury when it is balanced against her love? There, go out of the +room; I want to be quite alone.” + +Liddy went towards the door. + +“Liddy, come here. Solemnly swear to me that he’s not a fast man; that +it is all lies they say about him!” + +“But, miss, how can I say he is not if—” + +“You graceless girl! How can you have the cruel heart to repeat what +they say? Unfeeling thing that you are.... But _I’ll_ see if you or +anybody else in the village, or town either, dare do such a thing!” She +started off, pacing from fireplace to door, and back again. + +“No, miss. I don’t—I know it is not true!” said Liddy, frightened at +Bathsheba’s unwonted vehemence. + +“I suppose you only agree with me like that to please me. But, Liddy, +he _cannot be_ bad, as is said. Do you hear?” + +“Yes, miss, yes.” + +“And you don’t believe he is?” + +“I don’t know what to say, miss,” said Liddy, beginning to cry. “If I +say No, you don’t believe me; and if I say Yes, you rage at me!” + +“Say you don’t believe it—say you don’t!” + +“I don’t believe him to be so bad as they make out.” + +“He is not bad at all.... My poor life and heart, how weak I am!” she +moaned, in a relaxed, desultory way, heedless of Liddy’s presence. “Oh, +how I wish I had never seen him! Loving is misery for women always. I +shall never forgive God for making me a woman, and dearly am I +beginning to pay for the honour of owning a pretty face.” She freshened +and turned to Liddy suddenly. “Mind this, Lydia Smallbury, if you +repeat anywhere a single word of what I have said to you inside this +closed door, I’ll never trust you, or love you, or have you with me a +moment longer—not a moment!” + +“I don’t want to repeat anything,” said Liddy, with womanly dignity of +a diminutive order; “but I don’t wish to stay with you. And, if you +please, I’ll go at the end of the harvest, or this week, or to-day.... +I don’t see that I deserve to be put upon and stormed at for nothing!” +concluded the small woman, bigly. + +“No, no, Liddy; you must stay!” said Bathsheba, dropping from +haughtiness to entreaty with capricious inconsequence. “You must not +notice my being in a taking just now. You are not as a servant—you are +a companion to me. Dear, dear—I don’t know what I am doing since this +miserable ache of my heart has weighted and worn upon me so! What shall +I come to! I suppose I shall get further and further into troubles. I +wonder sometimes if I am doomed to die in the Union. I am friendless +enough, God knows!” + +“I won’t notice anything, nor will I leave you!” sobbed Liddy, +impulsively putting up her lips to Bathsheba’s, and kissing her. + +Then Bathsheba kissed Liddy, and all was smooth again. + +“I don’t often cry, do I, Lidd? but you have made tears come into my +eyes,” she said, a smile shining through the moisture. “Try to think +him a good man, won’t you, dear Liddy?” + +“I will, miss, indeed.” + +“He is a sort of steady man in a wild way, you know. That’s better than +to be as some are, wild in a steady way. I am afraid that’s how I am. +And promise me to keep my secret—do, Liddy! And do not let them know +that I have been crying about him, because it will be dreadful for me, +and no good to him, poor thing!” + +“Death’s head himself shan’t wring it from me, mistress, if I’ve a mind +to keep anything; and I’ll always be your friend,” replied Liddy, +emphatically, at the same time bringing a few more tears into her own +eyes, not from any particular necessity, but from an artistic sense of +making herself in keeping with the remainder of the picture, which +seems to influence women at such times. “I think God likes us to be +good friends, don’t you?” + +“Indeed I do.” + +“And, dear miss, you won’t harry me and storm at me, will you? because +you seem to swell so tall as a lion then, and it frightens me! Do you +know, I fancy you would be a match for any man when you are in one o’ +your takings.” + +“Never! do you?” said Bathsheba, slightly laughing, though somewhat +seriously alarmed by this Amazonian picture of herself. “I hope I am +not a bold sort of maid—mannish?” she continued with some anxiety. + +“Oh no, not mannish; but so almighty womanish that ’tis getting on that +way sometimes. Ah! miss,” she said, after having drawn her breath very +sadly in and sent it very sadly out, “I wish I had half your failing +that way. ’Tis a great protection to a poor maid in these illegit’mate +days!” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI +BLAME—FURY + + +The next evening Bathsheba, with the idea of getting out of the way of +Mr. Boldwood in the event of his returning to answer her note in +person, proceeded to fulfil an engagement made with Liddy some few +hours earlier. Bathsheba’s companion, as a gauge of their +reconciliation, had been granted a week’s holiday to visit her sister, +who was married to a thriving hurdler and cattle-crib-maker living in a +delightful labyrinth of hazel copse not far beyond Yalbury. The +arrangement was that Miss Everdene should honour them by coming there +for a day or two to inspect some ingenious contrivances which this man +of the woods had introduced into his wares. + +Leaving her instructions with Gabriel and Maryann, that they were to +see everything carefully locked up for the night, she went out of the +house just at the close of a timely thunder-shower, which had refined +the air, and daintily bathed the coat of the land, though all beneath +was dry as ever. Freshness was exhaled in an essence from the varied +contours of bank and hollow, as if the earth breathed maiden breath; +and the pleased birds were hymning to the scene. Before her, among the +clouds, there was a contrast in the shape of lairs of fierce light +which showed themselves in the neighbourhood of a hidden sun, lingering +on to the farthest north-west corner of the heavens that this midsummer +season allowed. + +She had walked nearly two miles of her journey, watching how the day +was retreating, and thinking how the time of deeds was quietly melting +into the time of thought, to give place in its turn to the time of +prayer and sleep, when she beheld advancing over Yalbury hill the very +man she sought so anxiously to elude. Boldwood was stepping on, not +with that quiet tread of reserved strength which was his customary +gait, in which he always seemed to be balancing two thoughts. His +manner was stunned and sluggish now. + +Boldwood had for the first time been awakened to woman’s privileges in +tergiversation even when it involves another person’s possible blight. +That Bathsheba was a firm and positive girl, far less inconsequent than +her fellows, had been the very lung of his hope; for he had held that +these qualities would lead her to adhere to a straight course for +consistency’s sake, and accept him, though her fancy might not flood +him with the iridescent hues of uncritical love. But the argument now +came back as sorry gleams from a broken mirror. The discovery was no +less a scourge than a surprise. + +He came on looking upon the ground, and did not see Bathsheba till they +were less than a stone’s throw apart. He looked up at the sound of her +pit-pat, and his changed appearance sufficiently denoted to her the +depth and strength of the feelings paralyzed by her letter. + +“Oh; is it you, Mr. Boldwood?” she faltered, a guilty warmth pulsing in +her face. + +Those who have the power of reproaching in silence may find it a means +more effective than words. There are accents in the eye which are not +on the tongue, and more tales come from pale lips than can enter an +ear. It is both the grandeur and the pain of the remoter moods that +they avoid the pathway of sound. Boldwood’s look was unanswerable. + +Seeing she turned a little aside, he said, “What, are you afraid of +me?” + +“Why should you say that?” said Bathsheba. + +“I fancied you looked so,” said he. “And it is most strange, because of +its contrast with my feeling for you.” + +She regained self-possession, fixed her eyes calmly, and waited. + +“You know what that feeling is,” continued Boldwood, deliberately. “A +thing strong as death. No dismissal by a hasty letter affects that.” + +“I wish you did not feel so strongly about me,” she murmured. “It is +generous of you, and more than I deserve, but I must not hear it now.” + +“Hear it? What do you think I have to say, then? I am not to marry you, +and that’s enough. Your letter was excellently plain. I want you to +hear nothing—not I.” + +Bathsheba was unable to direct her will into any definite groove for +freeing herself from this fearfully awkward position. She confusedly +said, “Good evening,” and was moving on. Boldwood walked up to her +heavily and dully. + +“Bathsheba—darling—is it final indeed?” + +“Indeed it is.” + +“Oh, Bathsheba—have pity upon me!” Boldwood burst out. “God’s sake, +yes—I am come to that low, lowest stage—to ask a woman for pity! Still, +she is you—she is you.” + +Bathsheba commanded herself well. But she could hardly get a clear +voice for what came instinctively to her lips: “There is little honour +to the woman in that speech.” It was only whispered, for something +unutterably mournful no less than distressing in this spectacle of a +man showing himself to be so entirely the vane of a passion enervated +the feminine instinct for punctilios. + +“I am beyond myself about this, and am mad,” he said. “I am no stoic at +all to be supplicating here; but I do supplicate to you. I wish you +knew what is in me of devotion to you; but it is impossible, that. In +bare human mercy to a lonely man, don’t throw me off now!” + +“I don’t throw you off—indeed, how can I? I never had you.” In her +noon-clear sense that she had never loved him she forgot for a moment +her thoughtless angle on that day in February. + +“But there was a time when you turned to me, before I thought of you! I +don’t reproach you, for even now I feel that the ignorant and cold +darkness that I should have lived in if you had not attracted me by +that letter—valentine you call it—would have been worse than my +knowledge of you, though it has brought this misery. But, I say, there +was a time when I knew nothing of you, and cared nothing for you, and +yet you drew me on. And if you say you gave me no encouragement, I +cannot but contradict you.” + +“What you call encouragement was the childish game of an idle minute. I +have bitterly repented of it—ay, bitterly, and in tears. Can you still +go on reminding me?” + +“I don’t accuse you of it—I deplore it. I took for earnest what you +insist was jest, and now this that I pray to be jest you say is awful, +wretched earnest. Our moods meet at wrong places. I wish your feeling +was more like mine, or my feeling more like yours! Oh, could I but have +foreseen the torture that trifling trick was going to lead me into, how +I should have cursed you; but only having been able to see it since, I +cannot do that, for I love you too well! But it is weak, idle +drivelling to go on like this.... Bathsheba, you are the first woman of +any shade or nature that I have ever looked at to love, and it is the +having been so near claiming you for my own that makes this denial so +hard to bear. How nearly you promised me! But I don’t speak now to move +your heart, and make you grieve because of my pain; it is no use, that. +I must bear it; my pain would get no less by paining you.” + +“But I do pity you—deeply—O, so deeply!” she earnestly said. + +“Do no such thing—do no such thing. Your dear love, Bathsheba, is such +a vast thing beside your pity, that the loss of your pity as well as +your love is no great addition to my sorrow, nor does the gain of your +pity make it sensibly less. O sweet—how dearly you spoke to me behind +the spear-bed at the washing-pool, and in the barn at the shearing, and +that dearest last time in the evening at your home! Where are your +pleasant words all gone—your earnest hope to be able to love me? Where +is your firm conviction that you would get to care for me very much? +Really forgotten?—really?” + +She checked emotion, looked him quietly and clearly in the face, and +said in her low, firm voice, “Mr. Boldwood, I promised you nothing. +Would you have had me a woman of clay when you paid me that furthest, +highest compliment a man can pay a woman—telling her he loves her? I +was bound to show some feeling, if I would not be a graceless shrew. +Yet each of those pleasures was just for the day—the day just for the +pleasure. How was I to know that what is a pastime to all other men was +death to you? Have reason, do, and think more kindly of me!” + +“Well, never mind arguing—never mind. One thing is sure: you were all +but mine, and now you are not nearly mine. Everything is changed, and +that by you alone, remember. You were nothing to me once, and I was +contented; you are now nothing to me again, and how different the +second nothing is from the first! Would to God you had never taken me +up, since it was only to throw me down!” + +Bathsheba, in spite of her mettle, began to feel unmistakable signs +that she was inherently the weaker vessel. She strove miserably against +this femininity which would insist upon supplying unbidden emotions in +stronger and stronger current. She had tried to elude agitation by +fixing her mind on the trees, sky, any trivial object before her eyes, +whilst his reproaches fell, but ingenuity could not save her now. + +“I did not take you up—surely I did not!” she answered as heroically as +she could. “But don’t be in this mood with me. I can endure being told +I am in the wrong, if you will only tell it me gently! O sir, will you +not kindly forgive me, and look at it cheerfully?” + +“Cheerfully! Can a man fooled to utter heart-burning find a reason for +being merry? If I have lost, how can I be as if I had won? Heavens you +must be heartless quite! Had I known what a fearfully bitter sweet this +was to be, how I would have avoided you, and never seen you, and been +deaf of you. I tell you all this, but what do you care! You don’t +care.” + +She returned silent and weak denials to his charges, and swayed her +head desperately, as if to thrust away the words as they came showering +about her ears from the lips of the trembling man in the climax of +life, with his bronzed Roman face and fine frame. + +“Dearest, dearest, I am wavering even now between the two opposites of +recklessly renouncing you, and labouring humbly for you again. Forget +that you have said No, and let it be as it was! Say, Bathsheba, that +you only wrote that refusal to me in fun—come, say it to me!” + +“It would be untrue, and painful to both of us. You overrate my +capacity for love. I don’t possess half the warmth of nature you +believe me to have. An unprotected childhood in a cold world has beaten +gentleness out of me.” + +He immediately said with more resentment: “That may be true, somewhat; +but ah, Miss Everdene, it won’t do as a reason! You are not the cold +woman you would have me believe. No, no! It isn’t because you have no +feeling in you that you don’t love me. You naturally would have me +think so—you would hide from me that you have a burning heart like +mine. You have love enough, but it is turned into a new channel. I know +where.” + +The swift music of her heart became hubbub now, and she throbbed to +extremity. He was coming to Troy. He did then know what had occurred! +And the name fell from his lips the next moment. + +“Why did Troy not leave my treasure alone?” he asked, fiercely. “When I +had no thought of injuring him, why did he force himself upon your +notice! Before he worried you your inclination was to have me; when +next I should have come to you your answer would have been Yes. Can you +deny it—I ask, can you deny it?” + +She delayed the reply, but was too honest to withhold it. “I cannot,” +she whispered. + +“I know you cannot. But he stole in in my absence and robbed me. Why +didn’t he win you away before, when nobody would have been +grieved?—when nobody would have been set tale-bearing. Now the people +sneer at me—the very hills and sky seem to laugh at me till I blush +shamefully for my folly. I have lost my respect, my good name, my +standing—lost it, never to get it again. Go and marry your man—go on!” + +“Oh sir—Mr. Boldwood!” + +“You may as well. I have no further claim upon you. As for me, I had +better go somewhere alone, and hide—and pray. I loved a woman once. I +am now ashamed. When I am dead they’ll say, miserable love-sick man +that he was. Heaven—heaven—if I had got jilted secretly, and the +dishonour not known, and my position kept! But no matter, it is gone, +and the woman not gained. Shame upon him—shame!” + +His unreasonable anger terrified her, and she glided from him, without +obviously moving, as she said, “I am only a girl—do not speak to me +so!” + +“All the time you knew—how very well you knew—that your new freak was +my misery. Dazzled by brass and scarlet—Oh, Bathsheba—this is woman’s +folly indeed!” + +She fired up at once. “You are taking too much upon yourself!” she +said, vehemently. “Everybody is upon me—everybody. It is unmanly to +attack a woman so! I have nobody in the world to fight my battles for +me; but no mercy is shown. Yet if a thousand of you sneer and say +things against me, I _will not_ be put down!” + +“You’ll chatter with him doubtless about me. Say to him, ‘Boldwood +would have died for me.’ Yes, and you have given way to him, knowing +him to be not the man for you. He has kissed you—claimed you as his. Do +you hear—he has kissed you. Deny it!” + +The most tragic woman is cowed by a tragic man, and although Boldwood +was, in vehemence and glow, nearly her own self rendered into another +sex, Bathsheba’s cheek quivered. She gasped, “Leave me, sir—leave me! I +am nothing to you. Let me go on!” + +“Deny that he has kissed you.” + +“I shall not.” + +“Ha—then he has!” came hoarsely from the farmer. + +“He has,” she said, slowly, and, in spite of her fear, defiantly. “I am +not ashamed to speak the truth.” + +“Then curse him; and curse him!” said Boldwood, breaking into a +whispered fury. “Whilst I would have given worlds to touch your hand, +you have let a rake come in without right or ceremony and—kiss you! +Heaven’s mercy—kiss you!... Ah, a time of his life shall come when he +will have to repent, and think wretchedly of the pain he has caused +another man; and then may he ache, and wish, and curse, and yearn—as I +do now!” + +“Don’t, don’t, oh, don’t pray down evil upon him!” she implored in a +miserable cry. “Anything but that—anything. Oh, be kind to him, sir, +for I love him true!” + +Boldwood’s ideas had reached that point of fusion at which outline and +consistency entirely disappear. The impending night appeared to +concentrate in his eye. He did not hear her at all now. + +“I’ll punish him—by my soul, that will I! I’ll meet him, soldier or no, +and I’ll horsewhip the untimely stripling for this reckless theft of my +one delight. If he were a hundred men I’d horsewhip him—” He dropped +his voice suddenly and unnaturally. “Bathsheba, sweet, lost coquette, +pardon me! I’ve been blaming you, threatening you, behaving like a +churl to you, when he’s the greatest sinner. He stole your dear heart +away with his unfathomable lies!... It is a fortunate thing for him +that he’s gone back to his regiment—that he’s away up the country, and +not here! I hope he may not return here just yet. I pray God he may not +come into my sight, for I may be tempted beyond myself. Oh, Bathsheba, +keep him away—yes, keep him away from me!” + +For a moment Boldwood stood so inertly after this that his soul seemed +to have been entirely exhaled with the breath of his passionate words. +He turned his face away, and withdrew, and his form was soon covered +over by the twilight as his footsteps mixed in with the low hiss of the +leafy trees. + +Bathsheba, who had been standing motionless as a model all this latter +time, flung her hands to her face, and wildly attempted to ponder on +the exhibition which had just passed away. Such astounding wells of +fevered feeling in a still man like Mr. Boldwood were incomprehensible, +dreadful. Instead of being a man trained to repression he was—what she +had seen him. + +The force of the farmer’s threats lay in their relation to a +circumstance known at present only to herself: her lover was coming +back to Weatherbury in the course of the very next day or two. Troy had +not returned to his distant barracks as Boldwood and others supposed, +but had merely gone to visit some acquaintance in Bath, and had yet a +week or more remaining to his furlough. + +She felt wretchedly certain that if he revisited her just at this nick +of time, and came into contact with Boldwood, a fierce quarrel would be +the consequence. She panted with solicitude when she thought of +possible injury to Troy. The least spark would kindle the farmer’s +swift feelings of rage and jealousy; he would lose his self-mastery as +he had this evening; Troy’s blitheness might become aggressive; it +might take the direction of derision, and Boldwood’s anger might then +take the direction of revenge. + +With almost a morbid dread of being thought a gushing girl, this +guileless woman too well concealed from the world under a manner of +carelessness the warm depths of her strong emotions. But now there was +no reserve. In her distraction, instead of advancing further she walked +up and down, beating the air with her fingers, pressing on her brow, +and sobbing brokenly to herself. Then she sat down on a heap of stones +by the wayside to think. There she remained long. Above the dark margin +of the earth appeared foreshores and promontories of coppery cloud, +bounding a green and pellucid expanse in the western sky. Amaranthine +glosses came over them then, and the unresting world wheeled her round +to a contrasting prospect eastward, in the shape of indecisive and +palpitating stars. She gazed upon their silent throes amid the shades +of space, but realised none at all. Her troubled spirit was far away +with Troy. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII +NIGHT—HORSES TRAMPING + + +The village of Weatherbury was quiet as the graveyard in its midst, and +the living were lying well-nigh as still as the dead. The church clock +struck eleven. The air was so empty of other sounds that the whirr of +the clock-work immediately before the strokes was distinct, and so was +also the click of the same at their close. The notes flew forth with +the usual blind obtuseness of inanimate things—flapping and rebounding +among walls, undulating against the scattered clouds, spreading through +their interstices into unexplored miles of space. + +Bathsheba’s crannied and mouldy halls were to-night occupied only by +Maryann, Liddy being, as was stated, with her sister, whom Bathsheba +had set out to visit. A few minutes after eleven had struck, Maryann +turned in her bed with a sense of being disturbed. She was totally +unconscious of the nature of the interruption to her sleep. It led to a +dream, and the dream to an awakening, with an uneasy sensation that +something had happened. She left her bed and looked out of the window. +The paddock abutted on this end of the building, and in the paddock she +could just discern by the uncertain gray a moving figure approaching +the horse that was feeding there. The figure seized the horse by the +forelock, and led it to the corner of the field. Here she could see +some object which circumstances proved to be a vehicle, for after a few +minutes spent apparently in harnessing, she heard the trot of the horse +down the road, mingled with the sound of light wheels. + +Two varieties only of humanity could have entered the paddock with the +ghostlike glide of that mysterious figure. They were a woman and a +gipsy man. A woman was out of the question in such an occupation at +this hour, and the comer could be no less than a thief, who might +probably have known the weakness of the household on this particular +night, and have chosen it on that account for his daring attempt. +Moreover, to raise suspicion to conviction itself, there were gipsies +in Weatherbury Bottom. + +Maryann, who had been afraid to shout in the robber’s presence, having +seen him depart had no fear. She hastily slipped on her clothes, +stumped down the disjointed staircase with its hundred creaks, ran to +Coggan’s, the nearest house, and raised an alarm. Coggan called +Gabriel, who now again lodged in his house as at first, and together +they went to the paddock. Beyond all doubt the horse was gone. + +“Hark!” said Gabriel. + +They listened. Distinct upon the stagnant air came the sounds of a +trotting horse passing up Longpuddle Lane—just beyond the gipsies’ +encampment in Weatherbury Bottom. + +“That’s our Dainty—I’ll swear to her step,” said Jan. + +“Mighty me! Won’t mis’ess storm and call us stupids when she comes +back!” moaned Maryann. “How I wish it had happened when she was at +home, and none of us had been answerable!” + +“We must ride after,” said Gabriel, decisively. “I’ll be responsible to +Miss Everdene for what we do. Yes, we’ll follow.” + +“Faith, I don’t see how,” said Coggan. “All our horses are too heavy +for that trick except little Poppet, and what’s she between two of +us?—If we only had that pair over the hedge we might do something.” + +“Which pair?” + +“Mr. Boldwood’s Tidy and Moll.” + +“Then wait here till I come hither again,” said Gabriel. He ran down +the hill towards Farmer Boldwood’s. + +“Farmer Boldwood is not at home,” said Maryann. + +“All the better,” said Coggan. “I know what he’s gone for.” + +Less than five minutes brought up Oak again, running at the same pace, +with two halters dangling from his hand. + +“Where did you find ’em?” said Coggan, turning round and leaping upon +the hedge without waiting for an answer. + +“Under the eaves. I knew where they were kept,” said Gabriel, following +him. “Coggan, you can ride bare-backed? there’s no time to look for +saddles.” + +“Like a hero!” said Jan. + +“Maryann, you go to bed,” Gabriel shouted to her from the top of the +hedge. + +Springing down into Boldwood’s pastures, each pocketed his halter to +hide it from the horses, who, seeing the men empty-handed, docilely +allowed themselves to be seized by the mane, when the halters were +dexterously slipped on. Having neither bit nor bridle, Oak and Coggan +extemporized the former by passing the rope in each case through the +animal’s mouth and looping it on the other side. Oak vaulted astride, +and Coggan clambered up by aid of the bank, when they ascended to the +gate and galloped off in the direction taken by Bathsheba’s horse and +the robber. Whose vehicle the horse had been harnessed to was a matter +of some uncertainty. + +Weatherbury Bottom was reached in three or four minutes. They scanned +the shady green patch by the roadside. The gipsies were gone. + +“The villains!” said Gabriel. “Which way have they gone, I wonder?” + +“Straight on, as sure as God made little apples,” said Jan. + +“Very well; we are better mounted, and must overtake ’em”, said Oak. +“Now on at full speed!” + +No sound of the rider in their van could now be discovered. The +road-metal grew softer and more clayey as Weatherbury was left behind, +and the late rain had wetted its surface to a somewhat plastic, but not +muddy state. They came to cross-roads. Coggan suddenly pulled up Moll +and slipped off. + +“What’s the matter?” said Gabriel. + +“We must try to track ’em, since we can’t hear ’em,” said Jan, fumbling +in his pockets. He struck a light, and held the match to the ground. +The rain had been heavier here, and all foot and horse tracks made +previous to the storm had been abraded and blurred by the drops, and +they were now so many little scoops of water, which reflected the flame +of the match like eyes. One set of tracks was fresh and had no water in +them; one pair of ruts was also empty, and not small canals, like the +others. The footprints forming this recent impression were full of +information as to pace; they were in equidistant pairs, three or four +feet apart, the right and left foot of each pair being exactly opposite +one another. + +“Straight on!” Jan exclaimed. “Tracks like that mean a stiff gallop. No +wonder we don’t hear him. And the horse is harnessed—look at the ruts. +Ay, that’s our mare sure enough!” + +“How do you know?” + +“Old Jimmy Harris only shoed her last week, and I’d swear to his make +among ten thousand.” + +“The rest of the gipsies must ha’ gone on earlier, or some other way,” +said Oak. “You saw there were no other tracks?” + +“True.” They rode along silently for a long weary time. Coggan carried +an old pinchbeck repeater which he had inherited from some genius in +his family; and it now struck one. He lighted another match, and +examined the ground again. + +“’Tis a canter now,” he said, throwing away the light. “A twisty, +rickety pace for a gig. The fact is, they over-drove her at starting; +we shall catch ’em yet.” + +Again they hastened on, and entered Blackmore Vale. Coggan’s watch +struck one. When they looked again the hoof-marks were so spaced as to +form a sort of zigzag if united, like the lamps along a street. + +“That’s a trot, I know,” said Gabriel. + +“Only a trot now,” said Coggan, cheerfully. “We shall overtake him in +time.” + +They pushed rapidly on for yet two or three miles. “Ah! a moment,” said +Jan. “Let’s see how she was driven up this hill. ’Twill help us.” A +light was promptly struck upon his gaiters as before, and the +examination made. + +“Hurrah!” said Coggan. “She walked up here—and well she might. We shall +get them in two miles, for a crown.” + +They rode three, and listened. No sound was to be heard save a millpond +trickling hoarsely through a hatch, and suggesting gloomy possibilities +of drowning by jumping in. Gabriel dismounted when they came to a +turning. The tracks were absolutely the only guide as to the direction +that they now had, and great caution was necessary to avoid confusing +them with some others which had made their appearance lately. + +“What does this mean?—though I guess,” said Gabriel, looking up at +Coggan as he moved the match over the ground about the turning. Coggan, +who, no less than the panting horses, had latterly shown signs of +weariness, again scrutinized the mystic characters. This time only +three were of the regular horseshoe shape. Every fourth was a dot. + +He screwed up his face and emitted a long “Whew-w-w!” + +“Lame,” said Oak. + +“Yes. Dainty is lamed; the near-foot-afore,” said Coggan slowly, +staring still at the footprints. + +“We’ll push on,” said Gabriel, remounting his humid steed. + +Although the road along its greater part had been as good as any +turnpike-road in the country, it was nominally only a byway. The last +turning had brought them into the high road leading to Bath. Coggan +recollected himself. + +“We shall have him now!” he exclaimed. + +“Where?” + +“Sherton Turnpike. The keeper of that gate is the sleepiest man between +here and London—Dan Randall, that’s his name—knowed en for years, when +he was at Casterbridge gate. Between the lameness and the gate ’tis a +done job.” + +They now advanced with extreme caution. Nothing was said until, against +a shady background of foliage, five white bars were visible, crossing +their route a little way ahead. + +“Hush—we are almost close!” said Gabriel. + +“Amble on upon the grass,” said Coggan. + +The white bars were blotted out in the midst by a dark shape in front +of them. The silence of this lonely time was pierced by an exclamation +from that quarter. + +“Hoy-a-hoy! Gate!” + +It appeared that there had been a previous call which they had not +noticed, for on their close approach the door of the turnpike-house +opened, and the keeper came out half-dressed, with a candle in his +hand. The rays illumined the whole group. + +“Keep the gate close!” shouted Gabriel. “He has stolen the horse!” + +“Who?” said the turnpike-man. + +Gabriel looked at the driver of the gig, and saw a woman—Bathsheba, his +mistress. + +On hearing his voice she had turned her face away from the light. +Coggan had, however, caught sight of her in the meanwhile. + +“Why, ’tis mistress—I’ll take my oath!” he said, amazed. + +Bathsheba it certainly was, and she had by this time done the trick she +could do so well in crises not of love, namely, mask a surprise by +coolness of manner. + +“Well, Gabriel,” she inquired quietly, “where are you going?” + +“We thought—” began Gabriel. + +“I am driving to Bath,” she said, taking for her own use the assurance +that Gabriel lacked. “An important matter made it necessary for me to +give up my visit to Liddy, and go off at once. What, then, were you +following me?” + +“We thought the horse was stole.” + +“Well—what a thing! How very foolish of you not to know that I had +taken the trap and horse. I could neither wake Maryann nor get into the +house, though I hammered for ten minutes against her window-sill. +Fortunately, I could get the key of the coach-house, so I troubled no +one further. Didn’t you think it might be me?” + +“Why should we, miss?” + +“Perhaps not. Why, those are never Farmer Boldwood’s horses! Goodness +mercy! what have you been doing—bringing trouble upon me in this way? +What! mustn’t a lady move an inch from her door without being dogged +like a thief?” + +“But how was we to know, if you left no account of your doings?” +expostulated Coggan, “and ladies don’t drive at these hours, miss, as a +jineral rule of society.” + +“I did leave an account—and you would have seen it in the morning. I +wrote in chalk on the coach-house doors that I had come back for the +horse and gig, and driven off; that I could arouse nobody, and should +return soon.” + +“But you’ll consider, ma’am, that we couldn’t see that till it got +daylight.” + +“True,” she said, and though vexed at first she had too much sense to +blame them long or seriously for a devotion to her that was as valuable +as it was rare. She added with a very pretty grace, “Well, I really +thank you heartily for taking all this trouble; but I wish you had +borrowed anybody’s horses but Mr. Boldwood’s.” + +“Dainty is lame, miss,” said Coggan. “Can ye go on?” + +“It was only a stone in her shoe. I got down and pulled it out a +hundred yards back. I can manage very well, thank you. I shall be in +Bath by daylight. Will you now return, please?” + +She turned her head—the gateman’s candle shimmering upon her quick, +clear eyes as she did so—passed through the gate, and was soon wrapped +in the embowering shades of mysterious summer boughs. Coggan and +Gabriel put about their horses, and, fanned by the velvety air of this +July night, retraced the road by which they had come. + +“A strange vagary, this of hers, isn’t it, Oak?” said Coggan, +curiously. + +“Yes,” said Gabriel, shortly. + +“She won’t be in Bath by no daylight!” + +“Coggan, suppose we keep this night’s work as quiet as we can?” + +“I am of one and the same mind.” + +“Very well. We shall be home by three o’clock or so, and can creep into +the parish like lambs.” + +Bathsheba’s perturbed meditations by the roadside had ultimately +evolved a conclusion that there were only two remedies for the present +desperate state of affairs. The first was merely to keep Troy away from +Weatherbury till Boldwood’s indignation had cooled; the second to +listen to Oak’s entreaties, and Boldwood’s denunciations, and give up +Troy altogether. + +Alas! Could she give up this new love—induce him to renounce her by +saying she did not like him—could no more speak to him, and beg him, +for her good, to end his furlough in Bath, and see her and Weatherbury +no more? + +It was a picture full of misery, but for a while she contemplated it +firmly, allowing herself, nevertheless, as girls will, to dwell upon +the happy life she would have enjoyed had Troy been Boldwood, and the +path of love the path of duty—inflicting upon herself gratuitous +tortures by imagining him the lover of another woman after forgetting +her; for she had penetrated Troy’s nature so far as to estimate his +tendencies pretty accurately, but unfortunately loved him no less in +thinking that he might soon cease to love her—indeed, considerably +more. + +She jumped to her feet. She would see him at once. Yes, she would +implore him by word of mouth to assist her in this dilemma. A letter to +keep him away could not reach him in time, even if he should be +disposed to listen to it. + +Was Bathsheba altogether blind to the obvious fact that the support of +a lover’s arms is not of a kind best calculated to assist a resolve to +renounce him? Or was she sophistically sensible, with a thrill of +pleasure, that by adopting this course for getting rid of him she was +ensuring a meeting with him, at any rate, once more? + +It was now dark, and the hour must have been nearly ten. The only way +to accomplish her purpose was to give up her idea of visiting Liddy at +Yalbury, return to Weatherbury Farm, put the horse into the gig, and +drive at once to Bath. The scheme seemed at first impossible: the +journey was a fearfully heavy one, even for a strong horse, at her own +estimate; and she much underrated the distance. It was most venturesome +for a woman, at night, and alone. + +But could she go on to Liddy’s and leave things to take their course? +No, no; anything but that. Bathsheba was full of a stimulating +turbulence, beside which caution vainly prayed for a hearing. She +turned back towards the village. + +Her walk was slow, for she wished not to enter Weatherbury till the +cottagers were in bed, and, particularly, till Boldwood was secure. Her +plan was now to drive to Bath during the night, see Sergeant Troy in +the morning before he set out to come to her, bid him farewell, and +dismiss him: then to rest the horse thoroughly (herself to weep the +while, she thought), starting early the next morning on her return +journey. By this arrangement she could trot Dainty gently all the day, +reach Liddy at Yalbury in the evening, and come home to Weatherbury +with her whenever they chose—so nobody would know she had been to Bath +at all. Such was Bathsheba’s scheme. But in her topographical ignorance +as a late comer to the place, she misreckoned the distance of her +journey as not much more than half what it really was. + +This idea she proceeded to carry out, with what initial success we have +already seen. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII +IN THE SUN—A HARBINGER + + +A week passed, and there were no tidings of Bathsheba; nor was there +any explanation of her Gilpin’s rig. + +Then a note came for Maryann, stating that the business which had +called her mistress to Bath still detained her there; but that she +hoped to return in the course of another week. + +Another week passed. The oat-harvest began, and all the men were +a-field under a monochromatic Lammas sky, amid the trembling air and +short shadows of noon. Indoors nothing was to be heard save the droning +of blue-bottle flies; out-of-doors the whetting of scythes and the hiss +of tressy oat-ears rubbing together as their perpendicular stalks of +amber-yellow fell heavily to each swath. Every drop of moisture not in +the men’s bottles and flagons in the form of cider was raining as +perspiration from their foreheads and cheeks. Drought was everywhere +else. + +They were about to withdraw for a while into the charitable shade of a +tree in the fence, when Coggan saw a figure in a blue coat and brass +buttons running to them across the field. + +“I wonder who that is?” he said. + +“I hope nothing is wrong about mistress,” said Maryann, who with some +other women was tying the bundles (oats being always sheafed on this +farm), “but an unlucky token came to me indoors this morning. I went to +unlock the door and dropped the key, and it fell upon the stone floor +and broke into two pieces. Breaking a key is a dreadful bodement. I +wish mis’ess was home.” + +“’Tis Cain Ball,” said Gabriel, pausing from whetting his reaphook. + +Oak was not bound by his agreement to assist in the corn-field; but the +harvest month is an anxious time for a farmer, and the corn was +Bathsheba’s, so he lent a hand. + +“He’s dressed up in his best clothes,” said Matthew Moon. “He hev been +away from home for a few days, since he’s had that felon upon his +finger; for ’a said, since I can’t work I’ll have a hollerday.” + +“A good time for one—a’ excellent time,” said Joseph Poorgrass, +straightening his back; for he, like some of the others, had a way of +resting a while from his labour on such hot days for reasons +preternaturally small; of which Cain Ball’s advent on a week-day in his +Sunday-clothes was one of the first magnitude. “’Twas a bad leg allowed +me to read the _Pilgrim’s Progress_, and Mark Clark learnt All-Fours in +a whitlow.” + +“Ay, and my father put his arm out of joint to have time to go +courting,” said Jan Coggan, in an eclipsing tone, wiping his face with +his shirt-sleeve and thrusting back his hat upon the nape of his neck. + +By this time Cainy was nearing the group of harvesters, and was +perceived to be carrying a large slice of bread and ham in one hand, +from which he took mouthfuls as he ran, the other being wrapped in a +bandage. When he came close, his mouth assumed the bell shape, and he +began to cough violently. + +“Now, Cainy!” said Gabriel, sternly. “How many more times must I tell +you to keep from running so fast when you be eating? You’ll choke +yourself some day, that’s what you’ll do, Cain Ball.” + +“Hok-hok-hok!” replied Cain. “A crumb of my victuals went the wrong +way—hok-hok! That’s what ’tis, Mister Oak! And I’ve been visiting to +Bath because I had a felon on my thumb; yes, and I’ve seen—ahok-hok!” + +Directly Cain mentioned Bath, they all threw down their hooks and forks +and drew round him. Unfortunately the erratic crumb did not improve his +narrative powers, and a supplementary hindrance was that of a sneeze, +jerking from his pocket his rather large watch, which dangled in front +of the young man pendulum-wise. + +“Yes,” he continued, directing his thoughts to Bath and letting his +eyes follow, “I’ve seed the world at last—yes—and I’ve seed our +mis’ess—ahok-hok-hok!” + +“Bother the boy!” said Gabriel. “Something is always going the wrong +way down your throat, so that you can’t tell what’s necessary to be +told.” + +“Ahok! there! Please, Mister Oak, a gnat have just fleed into my +stomach and brought the cough on again!” + +“Yes, that’s just it. Your mouth is always open, you young rascal!” + +“’Tis terrible bad to have a gnat fly down yer throat, pore boy!” said +Matthew Moon. + +“Well, at Bath you saw—” prompted Gabriel. + +“I saw our mistress,” continued the junior shepherd, “and a sojer, +walking along. And bymeby they got closer and closer, and then they +went arm-in-crook, like courting complete—hok-hok! like courting +complete—hok!—courting complete—” Losing the thread of his narrative at +this point simultaneously with his loss of breath, their informant +looked up and down the field apparently for some clue to it. “Well, I +see our mis’ess and a soldier—a-ha-a-wk!” + +“Damn the boy!” said Gabriel. + +“’Tis only my manner, Mister Oak, if ye’ll excuse it,” said Cain Ball, +looking reproachfully at Oak, with eyes drenched in their own dew. + +“Here’s some cider for him—that’ll cure his throat,” said Jan Coggan, +lifting a flagon of cider, pulling out the cork, and applying the hole +to Cainy’s mouth; Joseph Poorgrass in the meantime beginning to think +apprehensively of the serious consequences that would follow Cainy +Ball’s strangulation in his cough, and the history of his Bath +adventures dying with him. + +“For my poor self, I always say ‘please God’ afore I do anything,” said +Joseph, in an unboastful voice; “and so should you, Cain Ball. ’Tis a +great safeguard, and might perhaps save you from being choked to death +some day.” + +Mr. Coggan poured the liquor with unstinted liberality at the suffering +Cain’s circular mouth; half of it running down the side of the flagon, +and half of what reached his mouth running down outside his throat, and +half of what ran in going the wrong way, and being coughed and sneezed +around the persons of the gathered reapers in the form of a cider fog, +which for a moment hung in the sunny air like a small exhalation. + +“There’s a great clumsy sneeze! Why can’t ye have better manners, you +young dog!” said Coggan, withdrawing the flagon. + +“The cider went up my nose!” cried Cainy, as soon as he could speak; +“and now ’tis gone down my neck, and into my poor dumb felon, and over +my shiny buttons and all my best cloze!” + +“The poor lad’s cough is terrible unfortunate,” said Matthew Moon. “And +a great history on hand, too. Bump his back, shepherd.” + +“’Tis my nater,” mourned Cain. “Mother says I always was so excitable +when my feelings were worked up to a point!” + +“True, true,” said Joseph Poorgrass. “The Balls were always a very +excitable family. I knowed the boy’s grandfather—a truly nervous and +modest man, even to genteel refinery. ’Twas blush, blush with him, +almost as much as ’tis with me—not but that ’tis a fault in me!” + +“Not at all, Master Poorgrass,” said Coggan. “’Tis a very noble quality +in ye.” + +“Heh-heh! well, I wish to noise nothing abroad—nothing at all,” +murmured Poorgrass, diffidently. “But we be born to things—that’s true. +Yet I would rather my trifle were hid; though, perhaps, a high nater is +a little high, and at my birth all things were possible to my Maker, +and he may have begrudged no gifts.... But under your bushel, Joseph! +under your bushel with ’ee! A strange desire, neighbours, this desire +to hide, and no praise due. Yet there is a Sermon on the Mount with a +calendar of the blessed at the head, and certain meek men may be named +therein.” + +“Cainy’s grandfather was a very clever man,” said Matthew Moon. +“Invented a’ apple-tree out of his own head, which is called by his +name to this day—the Early Ball. You know ’em, Jan? A Quarrenden +grafted on a Tom Putt, and a Rathe-ripe upon top o’ that again. ’Tis +trew ’a used to bide about in a public-house wi’ a ’ooman in a way he +had no business to by rights, but there—’a were a clever man in the +sense of the term.” + +“Now then,” said Gabriel, impatiently, “what did you see, Cain?” + +“I seed our mis’ess go into a sort of a park place, where there’s +seats, and shrubs and flowers, arm-in-crook with a sojer,” continued +Cainy, firmly, and with a dim sense that his words were very effective +as regarded Gabriel’s emotions. “And I think the sojer was Sergeant +Troy. And they sat there together for more than half-an-hour, talking +moving things, and she once was crying a’most to death. And when they +came out her eyes were shining and she was as white as a lily; and they +looked into one another’s faces, as far-gone friendly as a man and +woman can be.” + +Gabriel’s features seemed to get thinner. “Well, what did you see +besides?” + +“Oh, all sorts.” + +“White as a lily? You are sure ’twas she?” + +“Yes.” + +“Well, what besides?” + +“Great glass windows to the shops, and great clouds in the sky, full of +rain, and old wooden trees in the country round.” + +“You stun-poll! What will ye say next?” said Coggan. + +“Let en alone,” interposed Joseph Poorgrass. “The boy’s meaning is that +the sky and the earth in the kingdom of Bath is not altogether +different from ours here. ’Tis for our good to gain knowledge of +strange cities, and as such the boy’s words should be suffered, so to +speak it.” + +“And the people of Bath,” continued Cain, “never need to light their +fires except as a luxury, for the water springs up out of the earth +ready boiled for use.” + +“’Tis true as the light,” testified Matthew Moon. “I’ve heard other +navigators say the same thing.” + +“They drink nothing else there,” said Cain, “and seem to enjoy it, to +see how they swaller it down.” + +“Well, it seems a barbarian practice enough to us, but I daresay the +natives think nothing o’ it,” said Matthew. + +“And don’t victuals spring up as well as drink?” asked Coggan, twirling +his eye. + +“No—I own to a blot there in Bath—a true blot. God didn’t provide ’em +with victuals as well as drink, and ’twas a drawback I couldn’t get +over at all.” + +“Well, ’tis a curious place, to say the least,” observed Moon; “and it +must be a curious people that live therein.” + +“Miss Everdene and the soldier were walking about together, you say?” +said Gabriel, returning to the group. + +“Ay, and she wore a beautiful gold-colour silk gown, trimmed with black +lace, that would have stood alone ’ithout legs inside if required. +’Twas a very winsome sight; and her hair was brushed splendid. And when +the sun shone upon the bright gown and his red coat—my! how handsome +they looked. You could see ’em all the length of the street.” + +“And what then?” murmured Gabriel. + +“And then I went into Griffin’s to hae my boots hobbed, and then I went +to Riggs’s batty-cake shop, and asked ’em for a penneth of the cheapest +and nicest stales, that were all but blue-mouldy, but not quite. And +whilst I was chawing ’em down I walked on and seed a clock with a face +as big as a baking trendle—” + +“But that’s nothing to do with mistress!” + +“I’m coming to that, if you’ll leave me alone, Mister Oak!” +remonstrated Cainy. “If you excites me, perhaps you’ll bring on my +cough, and then I shan’t be able to tell ye nothing.” + +“Yes—let him tell it his own way,” said Coggan. + +Gabriel settled into a despairing attitude of patience, and Cainy went +on:— + +“And there were great large houses, and more people all the week long +than at Weatherbury club-walking on White Tuesdays. And I went to grand +churches and chapels. And how the parson would pray! Yes; he would +kneel down and put up his hands together, and make the holy gold rings +on his fingers gleam and twinkle in yer eyes, that he’d earned by +praying so excellent well!—Ah yes, I wish I lived there.” + +“Our poor Parson Thirdly can’t get no money to buy such rings,” said +Matthew Moon, thoughtfully. “And as good a man as ever walked. I don’t +believe poor Thirdly have a single one, even of humblest tin or copper. +Such a great ornament as they’d be to him on a dull afternoon, when +he’s up in the pulpit lighted by the wax candles! But ’tis impossible, +poor man. Ah, to think how unequal things be.” + +“Perhaps he’s made of different stuff than to wear ’em,” said Gabriel, +grimly. “Well, that’s enough of this. Go on, Cainy—quick.” + +“Oh—and the new style of parsons wear moustaches and long beards,” +continued the illustrious traveller, “and look like Moses and Aaron +complete, and make we fokes in the congregation feel all over like the +children of Israel.” + +“A very right feeling—very,” said Joseph Poorgrass. + +“And there’s two religions going on in the nation now—High Church and +High Chapel. And, thinks I, I’ll play fair; so I went to High Church in +the morning, and High Chapel in the afternoon.” + +“A right and proper boy,” said Joseph Poorgrass. + +“Well, at High Church they pray singing, and worship all the colours of +the rainbow; and at High Chapel they pray preaching, and worship drab +and whitewash only. And then—I didn’t see no more of Miss Everdene at +all.” + +“Why didn’t you say so afore, then?” exclaimed Oak, with much +disappointment. + +“Ah,” said Matthew Moon, “she’ll wish her cake dough if so be she’s +over intimate with that man.” + +“She’s not over intimate with him,” said Gabriel, indignantly. + +“She would know better,” said Coggan. “Our mis’ess has too much sense +under they knots of black hair to do such a mad thing.” + +“You see, he’s not a coarse, ignorant man, for he was well brought up,” +said Matthew, dubiously. “’Twas only wildness that made him a soldier, +and maids rather like your man of sin.” + +“Now, Cain Ball,” said Gabriel restlessly, “can you swear in the most +awful form that the woman you saw was Miss Everdene?” + +“Cain Ball, you be no longer a babe and suckling,” said Joseph in the +sepulchral tone the circumstances demanded, “and you know what taking +an oath is. ’Tis a horrible testament mind ye, which you say and seal +with your blood-stone, and the prophet Matthew tells us that on +whomsoever it shall fall it will grind him to powder. Now, before all +the work-folk here assembled, can you swear to your words as the +shepherd asks ye?” + +“Please no, Mister Oak!” said Cainy, looking from one to the other with +great uneasiness at the spiritual magnitude of the position. “I don’t +mind saying ’tis true, but I don’t like to say ’tis damn true, if +that’s what you mane.” + +“Cain, Cain, how can you!” asked Joseph sternly. “You be asked to swear +in a holy manner, and you swear like wicked Shimei, the son of Gera, +who cursed as he came. Young man, fie!” + +“No, I don’t! ’Tis you want to squander a pore boy’s soul, Joseph +Poorgrass—that’s what ’tis!” said Cain, beginning to cry. “All I mane +is that in common truth ’twas Miss Everdene and Sergeant Troy, but in +the horrible so-help-me truth that ye want to make of it perhaps ’twas +somebody else!” + +“There’s no getting at the rights of it,” said Gabriel, turning to his +work. + +“Cain Ball, you’ll come to a bit of bread!” groaned Joseph Poorgrass. + +Then the reapers’ hooks were flourished again, and the old sounds went +on. Gabriel, without making any pretence of being lively, did nothing +to show that he was particularly dull. However, Coggan knew pretty +nearly how the land lay, and when they were in a nook together he said— + +“Don’t take on about her, Gabriel. What difference does it make whose +sweetheart she is, since she can’t be yours?” + +“That’s the very thing I say to myself,” said Gabriel. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV +HOME AGAIN—A TRICKSTER + + +That same evening at dusk Gabriel was leaning over Coggan’s +garden-gate, taking an up-and-down survey before retiring to rest. + +A vehicle of some kind was softly creeping along the grassy margin of +the lane. From it spread the tones of two women talking. The tones were +natural and not at all suppressed. Oak instantly knew the voices to be +those of Bathsheba and Liddy. + +The carriage came opposite and passed by. It was Miss Everdene’s gig, +and Liddy and her mistress were the only occupants of the seat. Liddy +was asking questions about the city of Bath, and her companion was +answering them listlessly and unconcernedly. Both Bathsheba and the +horse seemed weary. + +The exquisite relief of finding that she was here again, safe and +sound, overpowered all reflection, and Oak could only luxuriate in the +sense of it. All grave reports were forgotten. + +He lingered and lingered on, till there was no difference between the +eastern and western expanses of sky, and the timid hares began to limp +courageously round the dim hillocks. Gabriel might have been there an +additional half-hour when a dark form walked slowly by. “Good-night, +Gabriel,” the passer said. + +It was Boldwood. “Good-night, sir,” said Gabriel. + +Boldwood likewise vanished up the road, and Oak shortly afterwards +turned indoors to bed. + +Farmer Boldwood went on towards Miss Everdene’s house. He reached the +front, and approaching the entrance, saw a light in the parlour. The +blind was not drawn down, and inside the room was Bathsheba, looking +over some papers or letters. Her back was towards Boldwood. He went to +the door, knocked, and waited with tense muscles and an aching brow. + +Boldwood had not been outside his garden since his meeting with +Bathsheba in the road to Yalbury. Silent and alone, he had remained in +moody meditation on woman’s ways, deeming as essentials of the whole +sex the accidents of the single one of their number he had ever closely +beheld. By degrees a more charitable temper had pervaded him, and this +was the reason of his sally to-night. He had come to apologize and beg +forgiveness of Bathsheba with something like a sense of shame at his +violence, having but just now learnt that she had returned—only from a +visit to Liddy, as he supposed, the Bath escapade being quite unknown +to him. + +He inquired for Miss Everdene. Liddy’s manner was odd, but he did not +notice it. She went in, leaving him standing there, and in her absence +the blind of the room containing Bathsheba was pulled down. Boldwood +augured ill from that sign. Liddy came out. + +“My mistress cannot see you, sir,” she said. + +The farmer instantly went out by the gate. He was unforgiven—that was +the issue of it all. He had seen her who was to him simultaneously a +delight and a torture, sitting in the room he had shared with her as a +peculiarly privileged guest only a little earlier in the summer, and +she had denied him an entrance there now. + +Boldwood did not hurry homeward. It was ten o’clock at least, when, +walking deliberately through the lower part of Weatherbury, he heard +the carrier’s spring van entering the village. The van ran to and from +a town in a northern direction, and it was owned and driven by a +Weatherbury man, at the door of whose house it now pulled up. The lamp +fixed to the head of the hood illuminated a scarlet and gilded form, +who was the first to alight. + +“Ah!” said Boldwood to himself, “come to see her again.” + +Troy entered the carrier’s house, which had been the place of his +lodging on his last visit to his native place. Boldwood was moved by a +sudden determination. He hastened home. In ten minutes he was back +again, and made as if he were going to call upon Troy at the carrier’s. +But as he approached, some one opened the door and came out. He heard +this person say “Good-night” to the inmates, and the voice was Troy’s. +This was strange, coming so immediately after his arrival. Boldwood, +however, hastened up to him. Troy had what appeared to be a carpet-bag +in his hand—the same that he had brought with him. It seemed as if he +were going to leave again this very night. + +Troy turned up the hill and quickened his pace. Boldwood stepped +forward. + +“Sergeant Troy?” + +“Yes—I’m Sergeant Troy.” + +“Just arrived from up the country, I think?” + +“Just arrived from Bath.” + +“I am William Boldwood.” + +“Indeed.” + +The tone in which this word was uttered was all that had been wanted to +bring Boldwood to the point. + +“I wish to speak a word with you,” he said. + +“What about?” + +“About her who lives just ahead there—and about a woman you have +wronged.” + +“I wonder at your impertinence,” said Troy, moving on. + +“Now look here,” said Boldwood, standing in front of him, “wonder or +not, you are going to hold a conversation with me.” + +Troy heard the dull determination in Boldwood’s voice, looked at his +stalwart frame, then at the thick cudgel he carried in his hand. He +remembered it was past ten o’clock. It seemed worth while to be civil +to Boldwood. + +“Very well, I’ll listen with pleasure,” said Troy, placing his bag on +the ground, “only speak low, for somebody or other may overhear us in +the farmhouse there.” + +“Well then—I know a good deal concerning your Fanny Robin’s attachment +to you. I may say, too, that I believe I am the only person in the +village, excepting Gabriel Oak, who does know it. You ought to marry +her.” + +“I suppose I ought. Indeed, I wish to, but I cannot.” + +“Why?” + +Troy was about to utter something hastily; he then checked himself and +said, “I am too poor.” His voice was changed. Previously it had had a +devil-may-care tone. It was the voice of a trickster now. + +Boldwood’s present mood was not critical enough to notice tones. He +continued, “I may as well speak plainly; and understand, I don’t wish +to enter into the questions of right or wrong, woman’s honour and +shame, or to express any opinion on your conduct. I intend a business +transaction with you.” + +“I see,” said Troy. “Suppose we sit down here.” + +An old tree trunk lay under the hedge immediately opposite, and they +sat down. + +“I was engaged to be married to Miss Everdene,” said Boldwood, “but you +came and—” + +“Not engaged,” said Troy. + +“As good as engaged.” + +“If I had not turned up she might have become engaged to you.” + +“Hang might!” + +“Would, then.” + +“If you had not come I should certainly—yes, _certainly_—have been +accepted by this time. If you had not seen her you might have been +married to Fanny. Well, there’s too much difference between Miss +Everdene’s station and your own for this flirtation with her ever to +benefit you by ending in marriage. So all I ask is, don’t molest her +any more. Marry Fanny. I’ll make it worth your while.” + +“How will you?” + +“I’ll pay you well now, I’ll settle a sum of money upon her, and I’ll +see that you don’t suffer from poverty in the future. I’ll put it +clearly. Bathsheba is only playing with you: you are too poor for her +as I said; so give up wasting your time about a great match you’ll +never make for a moderate and rightful match you may make to-morrow; +take up your carpet-bag, turn about, leave Weatherbury now, this night, +and you shall take fifty pounds with you. Fanny shall have fifty to +enable her to prepare for the wedding, when you have told me where she +is living, and she shall have five hundred paid down on her +wedding-day.” + +In making this statement Boldwood’s voice revealed only too clearly a +consciousness of the weakness of his position, his aims, and his +method. His manner had lapsed quite from that of the firm and dignified +Boldwood of former times; and such a scheme as he had now engaged in he +would have condemned as childishly imbecile only a few months ago. We +discern a grand force in the lover which he lacks whilst a free man; +but there is a breadth of vision in the free man which in the lover we +vainly seek. Where there is much bias there must be some narrowness, +and love, though added emotion, is subtracted capacity. Boldwood +exemplified this to an abnormal degree: he knew nothing of Fanny +Robin’s circumstances or whereabouts, he knew nothing of Troy’s +possibilities, yet that was what he said. + +“I like Fanny best,” said Troy; “and if, as you say, Miss Everdene is +out of my reach, why I have all to gain by accepting your money, and +marrying Fan. But she’s only a servant.” + +“Never mind—do you agree to my arrangement?” + +“I do.” + +“Ah!” said Boldwood, in a more elastic voice. “Oh, Troy, if you like +her best, why then did you step in here and injure my happiness?” + +“I love Fanny best now,” said Troy. “But Bathsh—Miss Everdene inflamed +me, and displaced Fanny for a time. It is over now.” + +“Why should it be over so soon? And why then did you come here again?” + +“There are weighty reasons. Fifty pounds at once, you said!” + +“I did,” said Boldwood, “and here they are—fifty sovereigns.” He handed +Troy a small packet. + +“You have everything ready—it seems that you calculated on my accepting +them,” said the sergeant, taking the packet. + +“I thought you might accept them,” said Boldwood. + +“You’ve only my word that the programme shall be adhered to, whilst I +at any rate have fifty pounds.” + +“I had thought of that, and I have considered that if I can’t appeal to +your honour I can trust to your—well, shrewdness we’ll call it—not to +lose five hundred pounds in prospect, and also make a bitter enemy of a +man who is willing to be an extremely useful friend.” + +“Stop, listen!” said Troy in a whisper. + +A light pit-pat was audible upon the road just above them. + +“By George—’tis she,” he continued. “I must go on and meet her.” + +“She—who?” + +“Bathsheba.” + +“Bathsheba—out alone at this time o’ night!” said Boldwood in +amazement, and starting up. “Why must you meet her?” + +“She was expecting me to-night—and I must now speak to her, and wish +her good-bye, according to your wish.” + +“I don’t see the necessity of speaking.” + +“It can do no harm—and she’ll be wandering about looking for me if I +don’t. You shall hear all I say to her. It will help you in your +love-making when I am gone.” + +“Your tone is mocking.” + +“Oh no. And remember this, if she does not know what has become of me, +she will think more about me than if I tell her flatly I have come to +give her up.” + +“Will you confine your words to that one point?—Shall I hear every word +you say?” + +“Every word. Now sit still there, and hold my carpet bag for me, and +mark what you hear.” + +The light footstep came closer, halting occasionally, as if the walker +listened for a sound. Troy whistled a double note in a soft, fluty +tone. + +“Come to that, is it!” murmured Boldwood, uneasily. + +“You promised silence,” said Troy. + +“I promise again.” + +Troy stepped forward. + +“Frank, dearest, is that you?” The tones were Bathsheba’s. + +“O God!” said Boldwood. + +“Yes,” said Troy to her. + +“How late you are,” she continued, tenderly. “Did you come by the +carrier? I listened and heard his wheels entering the village, but it +was some time ago, and I had almost given you up, Frank.” + +“I was sure to come,” said Frank. “You knew I should, did you not?” + +“Well, I thought you would,” she said, playfully; “and, Frank, it is so +lucky! There’s not a soul in my house but me to-night. I’ve packed them +all off so nobody on earth will know of your visit to your lady’s +bower. Liddy wanted to go to her grandfather’s to tell him about her +holiday, and I said she might stay with them till to-morrow—when you’ll +be gone again.” + +“Capital,” said Troy. “But, dear me, I had better go back for my bag, +because my slippers and brush and comb are in it; you run home whilst I +fetch it, and I’ll promise to be in your parlour in ten minutes.” + +“Yes.” She turned and tripped up the hill again. + +During the progress of this dialogue there was a nervous twitching of +Boldwood’s tightly closed lips, and his face became bathed in a clammy +dew. He now started forward towards Troy. Troy turned to him and took +up the bag. + +“Shall I tell her I have come to give her up and cannot marry her?” +said the soldier, mockingly. + +“No, no; wait a minute. I want to say more to you—more to you!” said +Boldwood, in a hoarse whisper. + +“Now,” said Troy, “you see my dilemma. Perhaps I am a bad man—the +victim of my impulses—led away to do what I ought to leave undone. I +can’t, however, marry them both. And I have two reasons for choosing +Fanny. First, I like her best upon the whole, and second, you make it +worth my while.” + +At the same instant Boldwood sprang upon him, and held him by the neck. +Troy felt Boldwood’s grasp slowly tightening. The move was absolutely +unexpected. + +“A moment,” he gasped. “You are injuring her you love!” + +“Well, what do you mean?” said the farmer. + +“Give me breath,” said Troy. + +Boldwood loosened his hand, saying, “By Heaven, I’ve a mind to kill +you!” + +“And ruin her.” + +“Save her.” + +“Oh, how can she be saved now, unless I marry her?” + +Boldwood groaned. He reluctantly released the soldier, and flung him +back against the hedge. “Devil, you torture me!” said he. + +Troy rebounded like a ball, and was about to make a dash at the farmer; +but he checked himself, saying lightly— + +“It is not worth while to measure my strength with you. Indeed it is a +barbarous way of settling a quarrel. I shall shortly leave the army +because of the same conviction. Now after that revelation of how the +land lies with Bathsheba, ’twould be a mistake to kill me, would it +not?” + +“’Twould be a mistake to kill you,” repeated Boldwood, mechanically, +with a bowed head. + +“Better kill yourself.” + +“Far better.” + +“I’m glad you see it.” + +“Troy, make her your wife, and don’t act upon what I arranged just now. +The alternative is dreadful, but take Bathsheba; I give her up! She +must love you indeed to sell soul and body to you so utterly as she has +done. Wretched woman—deluded woman—you are, Bathsheba!” + +“But about Fanny?” + +“Bathsheba is a woman well to do,” continued Boldwood, in nervous +anxiety, “and, Troy, she will make a good wife; and, indeed, she is +worth your hastening on your marriage with her!” + +“But she has a will—not to say a temper, and I shall be a mere slave to +her. I could do anything with poor Fanny Robin.” + +“Troy,” said Boldwood, imploringly, “I’ll do anything for you, only +don’t desert her; pray don’t desert her, Troy.” + +“Which, poor Fanny?” + +“No; Bathsheba Everdene. Love her best! Love her tenderly! How shall I +get you to see how advantageous it will be to you to secure her at +once?” + +“I don’t wish to secure her in any new way.” + +Boldwood’s arm moved spasmodically towards Troy’s person again. He +repressed the instinct, and his form drooped as with pain. + +Troy went on— + +“I shall soon purchase my discharge, and then—” + +“But I wish you to hasten on this marriage! It will be better for you +both. You love each other, and you must let me help you to do it.” + +“How?” + +“Why, by settling the five hundred on Bathsheba instead of Fanny, to +enable you to marry at once. No; she wouldn’t have it of me. I’ll pay +it down to you on the wedding-day.” + +Troy paused in secret amazement at Boldwood’s wild infatuation. He +carelessly said, “And am I to have anything now?” + +“Yes, if you wish to. But I have not much additional money with me. I +did not expect this; but all I have is yours.” + +Boldwood, more like a somnambulist than a wakeful man, pulled out the +large canvas bag he carried by way of a purse, and searched it. + +“I have twenty-one pounds more with me,” he said. “Two notes and a +sovereign. But before I leave you I must have a paper signed—” + +“Pay me the money, and we’ll go straight to her parlour, and make any +arrangement you please to secure my compliance with your wishes. But +she must know nothing of this cash business.” + +“Nothing, nothing,” said Boldwood, hastily. “Here is the sum, and if +you’ll come to my house we’ll write out the agreement for the +remainder, and the terms also.” + +“First we’ll call upon her.” + +“But why? Come with me to-night, and go with me to-morrow to the +surrogate’s.” + +“But she must be consulted; at any rate informed.” + +“Very well; go on.” + +They went up the hill to Bathsheba’s house. When they stood at the +entrance, Troy said, “Wait here a moment.” Opening the door, he glided +inside, leaving the door ajar. + +Boldwood waited. In two minutes a light appeared in the passage. +Boldwood then saw that the chain had been fastened across the door. +Troy appeared inside, carrying a bedroom candlestick. + +“What, did you think I should break in?” said Boldwood, contemptuously. + +“Oh, no, it is merely my humour to secure things. Will you read this a +moment? I’ll hold the light.” + +Troy handed a folded newspaper through the slit between door and +doorpost, and put the candle close. “That’s the paragraph,” he said, +placing his finger on a line. + +Boldwood looked and read— + +MARRIAGES. +On the 17th inst., at St. Ambrose’s Church, Bath, by the Rev. G. +Mincing, B.A., Francis Troy, only son of the late Edward Troy, Esq., +M.D., of Weatherbury, and sergeant with Dragoon Guards, to Bathsheba, +only surviving daughter of the late Mr. John Everdene, of Casterbridge. + + +“This may be called Fort meeting Feeble, hey, Boldwood?” said Troy. A +low gurgle of derisive laughter followed the words. + +The paper fell from Boldwood’s hands. Troy continued— + +“Fifty pounds to marry Fanny. Good. Twenty-one pounds not to marry +Fanny, but Bathsheba. Good. Finale: already Bathsheba’s husband. Now, +Boldwood, yours is the ridiculous fate which always attends +interference between a man and his wife. And another word. Bad as I am, +I am not such a villain as to make the marriage or misery of any woman +a matter of huckster and sale. Fanny has long ago left me. I don’t know +where she is. I have searched everywhere. Another word yet. You say you +love Bathsheba; yet on the merest apparent evidence you instantly +believe in her dishonour. A fig for such love! Now that I’ve taught you +a lesson, take your money back again.” + +“I will not; I will not!” said Boldwood, in a hiss. + +“Anyhow I won’t have it,” said Troy, contemptuously. He wrapped the +packet of gold in the notes, and threw the whole into the road. + +Boldwood shook his clenched fist at him. “You juggler of Satan! You +black hound! But I’ll punish you yet; mark me, I’ll punish you yet!” + +Another peal of laughter. Troy then closed the door, and locked himself +in. + +Throughout the whole of that night Boldwood’s dark form might have been +seen walking about the hills and downs of Weatherbury like an unhappy +Shade in the Mournful Fields by Acheron. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV +AT AN UPPER WINDOW + + +It was very early the next morning—a time of sun and dew. The confused +beginnings of many birds’ songs spread into the healthy air, and the +wan blue of the heaven was here and there coated with thin webs of +incorporeal cloud which were of no effect in obscuring day. All the +lights in the scene were yellow as to colour, and all the shadows were +attenuated as to form. The creeping plants about the old manor-house +were bowed with rows of heavy water drops, which had upon objects +behind them the effect of minute lenses of high magnifying power. + +Just before the clock struck five Gabriel Oak and Coggan passed the +village cross, and went on together to the fields. They were yet barely +in view of their mistress’s house, when Oak fancied he saw the opening +of a casement in one of the upper windows. The two men were at this +moment partially screened by an elder bush, now beginning to be +enriched with black bunches of fruit, and they paused before emerging +from its shade. + +A handsome man leaned idly from the lattice. He looked east and then +west, in the manner of one who makes a first morning survey. The man +was Sergeant Troy. His red jacket was loosely thrown on, but not +buttoned, and he had altogether the relaxed bearing of a soldier taking +his ease. + +Coggan spoke first, looking quietly at the window. + +“She has married him!” he said. + +Gabriel had previously beheld the sight, and he now stood with his back +turned, making no reply. + +“I fancied we should know something to-day,” continued Coggan. “I heard +wheels pass my door just after dark—you were out somewhere.” He glanced +round upon Gabriel. “Good heavens above us, Oak, how white your face +is; you look like a corpse!” + +“Do I?” said Oak, with a faint smile. + +“Lean on the gate: I’ll wait a bit.” + +“All right, all right.” + +They stood by the gate awhile, Gabriel listlessly staring at the +ground. His mind sped into the future, and saw there enacted in years +of leisure the scenes of repentance that would ensue from this work of +haste. That they were married he had instantly decided. Why had it been +so mysteriously managed? It had become known that she had had a fearful +journey to Bath, owing to her miscalculating the distance: that the +horse had broken down, and that she had been more than two days getting +there. It was not Bathsheba’s way to do things furtively. With all her +faults, she was candour itself. Could she have been entrapped? The +union was not only an unutterable grief to him: it amazed him, +notwithstanding that he had passed the preceding week in a suspicion +that such might be the issue of Troy’s meeting her away from home. Her +quiet return with Liddy had to some extent dispersed the dread. Just as +that imperceptible motion which appears like stillness is infinitely +divided in its properties from stillness itself, so had his hope +undistinguishable from despair differed from despair indeed. + +In a few minutes they moved on again towards the house. The sergeant +still looked from the window. + +“Morning, comrades!” he shouted, in a cheery voice, when they came up. + +Coggan replied to the greeting. “Bain’t ye going to answer the man?” he +then said to Gabriel. “I’d say good morning—you needn’t spend a hapenny +of meaning upon it, and yet keep the man civil.” + +Gabriel soon decided too that, since the deed was done, to put the best +face upon the matter would be the greatest kindness to her he loved. + +“Good morning, Sergeant Troy,” he returned, in a ghastly voice. + +“A rambling, gloomy house this,” said Troy, smiling. + +“Why—they _may_ not be married!” suggested Coggan. “Perhaps she’s not +there.” + +Gabriel shook his head. The soldier turned a little towards the east, +and the sun kindled his scarlet coat to an orange glow. + +“But it is a nice old house,” responded Gabriel. + +“Yes—I suppose so; but I feel like new wine in an old bottle here. My +notion is that sash-windows should be put throughout, and these old +wainscoted walls brightened up a bit; or the oak cleared quite away, +and the walls papered.” + +“It would be a pity, I think.” + +“Well, no. A philosopher once said in my hearing that the old builders, +who worked when art was a living thing, had no respect for the work of +builders who went before them, but pulled down and altered as they +thought fit; and why shouldn’t we? ‘Creation and preservation don’t do +well together,’ says he, ‘and a million of antiquarians can’t invent a +style.’ My mind exactly. I am for making this place more modern, that +we may be cheerful whilst we can.” + +The military man turned and surveyed the interior of the room, to +assist his ideas of improvement in this direction. Gabriel and Coggan +began to move on. + +“Oh, Coggan,” said Troy, as if inspired by a recollection “do you know +if insanity has ever appeared in Mr. Boldwood’s family?” + +Jan reflected for a moment. + +“I once heard that an uncle of his was queer in his head, but I don’t +know the rights o’t,” he said. + +“It is of no importance,” said Troy, lightly. “Well, I shall be down in +the fields with you some time this week; but I have a few matters to +attend to first. So good-day to you. We shall, of course, keep on just +as friendly terms as usual. I’m not a proud man: nobody is ever able to +say that of Sergeant Troy. However, what is must be, and here’s +half-a-crown to drink my health, men.” + +Troy threw the coin dexterously across the front plot and over the +fence towards Gabriel, who shunned it in its fall, his face turning to +an angry red. Coggan twirled his eye, edged forward, and caught the +money in its ricochet upon the road. + +“Very well—you keep it, Coggan,” said Gabriel with disdain and almost +fiercely. “As for me, I’ll do without gifts from him!” + +“Don’t show it too much,” said Coggan, musingly. “For if he’s married +to her, mark my words, he’ll buy his discharge and be our master here. +Therefore ’tis well to say ‘Friend’ outwardly, though you say +‘Troublehouse’ within.” + +“Well—perhaps it is best to be silent; but I can’t go further than +that. I can’t flatter, and if my place here is only to be kept by +smoothing him down, my place must be lost.” + +A horseman, whom they had for some time seen in the distance, now +appeared close beside them. + +“There’s Mr. Boldwood,” said Oak. “I wonder what Troy meant by his +question.” + +Coggan and Oak nodded respectfully to the farmer, just checked their +paces to discover if they were wanted, and finding they were not stood +back to let him pass on. + +The only signs of the terrible sorrow Boldwood had been combating +through the night, and was combating now, were the want of colour in +his well-defined face, the enlarged appearance of the veins in his +forehead and temples, and the sharper lines about his mouth. The horse +bore him away, and the very step of the animal seemed significant of +dogged despair. Gabriel, for a minute, rose above his own grief in +noticing Boldwood’s. He saw the square figure sitting erect upon the +horse, the head turned to neither side, the elbows steady by the hips, +the brim of the hat level and undisturbed in its onward glide, until +the keen edges of Boldwood’s shape sank by degrees over the hill. To +one who knew the man and his story there was something more striking in +this immobility than in a collapse. The clash of discord between mood +and matter here was forced painfully home to the heart; and, as in +laughter there are more dreadful phases than in tears, so was there in +the steadiness of this agonized man an expression deeper than a cry. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI +WEALTH IN JEOPARDY—THE REVEL + + +One night, at the end of August, when Bathsheba’s experiences as a +married woman were still new, and when the weather was yet dry and +sultry, a man stood motionless in the stockyard of Weatherbury Upper +Farm, looking at the moon and sky. + +The night had a sinister aspect. A heated breeze from the south slowly +fanned the summits of lofty objects, and in the sky dashes of buoyant +cloud were sailing in a course at right angles to that of another +stratum, neither of them in the direction of the breeze below. The +moon, as seen through these films, had a lurid metallic look. The +fields were sallow with the impure light, and all were tinged in +monochrome, as if beheld through stained glass. The same evening the +sheep had trailed homeward head to tail, the behaviour of the rooks had +been confused, and the horses had moved with timidity and caution. + +Thunder was imminent, and, taking some secondary appearances into +consideration, it was likely to be followed by one of the lengthened +rains which mark the close of dry weather for the season. Before twelve +hours had passed a harvest atmosphere would be a bygone thing. + +Oak gazed with misgiving at eight naked and unprotected ricks, massive +and heavy with the rich produce of one-half the farm for that year. He +went on to the barn. + +This was the night which had been selected by Sergeant Troy—ruling now +in the room of his wife—for giving the harvest supper and dance. As Oak +approached the building the sound of violins and a tambourine, and the +regular jigging of many feet, grew more distinct. He came close to the +large doors, one of which stood slightly ajar, and looked in. + +The central space, together with the recess at one end, was emptied of +all incumbrances, and this area, covering about two-thirds of the +whole, was appropriated for the gathering, the remaining end, which was +piled to the ceiling with oats, being screened off with sail-cloth. +Tufts and garlands of green foliage decorated the walls, beams, and +extemporized chandeliers, and immediately opposite to Oak a rostrum had +been erected, bearing a table and chairs. Here sat three fiddlers, and +beside them stood a frantic man with his hair on end, perspiration +streaming down his cheeks, and a tambourine quivering in his hand. + +The dance ended, and on the black oak floor in the midst a new row of +couples formed for another. + +“Now, ma’am, and no offence I hope, I ask what dance you would like +next?” said the first violin. + +“Really, it makes no difference,” said the clear voice of Bathsheba, +who stood at the inner end of the building, observing the scene from +behind a table covered with cups and viands. Troy was lolling beside +her. + +“Then,” said the fiddler, “I’ll venture to name that the right and +proper thing is ‘The Soldier’s Joy’—there being a gallant soldier +married into the farm—hey, my sonnies, and gentlemen all?” + +“It shall be ‘The Soldier’s Joy,’” exclaimed a chorus. + +“Thanks for the compliment,” said the sergeant gaily, taking Bathsheba +by the hand and leading her to the top of the dance. “For though I have +purchased my discharge from Her Most Gracious Majesty’s regiment of +cavalry the 11th Dragoon Guards, to attend to the new duties awaiting +me here, I shall continue a soldier in spirit and feeling as long as I +live.” + +So the dance began. As to the merits of “The Soldier’s Joy,” there +cannot be, and never were, two opinions. It has been observed in the +musical circles of Weatherbury and its vicinity that this melody, at +the end of three-quarters of an hour of thunderous footing, still +possesses more stimulative properties for the heel and toe than the +majority of other dances at their first opening. “The Soldier’s Joy” +has, too, an additional charm, in being so admirably adapted to the +tambourine aforesaid—no mean instrument in the hands of a performer who +understands the proper convulsions, spasms, St. Vitus’s dances, and +fearful frenzies necessary when exhibiting its tones in their highest +perfection. + +The immortal tune ended, a fine DD rolling forth from the bass-viol +with the sonorousness of a cannonade, and Gabriel delayed his entry no +longer. He avoided Bathsheba, and got as near as possible to the +platform, where Sergeant Troy was now seated, drinking +brandy-and-water, though the others drank without exception cider and +ale. Gabriel could not easily thrust himself within speaking distance +of the sergeant, and he sent a message, asking him to come down for a +moment. The sergeant said he could not attend. + +“Will you tell him, then,” said Gabriel, “that I only stepped ath’art +to say that a heavy rain is sure to fall soon, and that something +should be done to protect the ricks?” + +“Mr. Troy says it will not rain,” returned the messenger, “and he +cannot stop to talk to you about such fidgets.” + +In juxtaposition with Troy, Oak had a melancholy tendency to look like +a candle beside gas, and ill at ease, he went out again, thinking he +would go home; for, under the circumstances, he had no heart for the +scene in the barn. At the door he paused for a moment: Troy was +speaking. + +“Friends, it is not only the harvest home that we are celebrating +to-night; but this is also a Wedding Feast. A short time ago I had the +happiness to lead to the altar this lady, your mistress, and not until +now have we been able to give any public flourish to the event in +Weatherbury. That it may be thoroughly well done, and that every man +may go happy to bed, I have ordered to be brought here some bottles of +brandy and kettles of hot water. A treble-strong goblet will be handed +round to each guest.” + +Bathsheba put her hand upon his arm, and, with upturned pale face, said +imploringly, “No—don’t give it to them—pray don’t, Frank! It will only +do them harm: they have had enough of everything.” + +“True—we don’t wish for no more, thank ye,” said one or two. + +“Pooh!” said the sergeant contemptuously, and raised his voice as if +lighted up by a new idea. “Friends,” he said, “we’ll send the +women-folk home! ’Tis time they were in bed. Then we cockbirds will +have a jolly carouse to ourselves! If any of the men show the white +feather, let them look elsewhere for a winter’s work.” + +Bathsheba indignantly left the barn, followed by all the women and +children. The musicians, not looking upon themselves as “company,” +slipped quietly away to their spring waggon and put in the horse. Thus +Troy and the men on the farm were left sole occupants of the place. +Oak, not to appear unnecessarily disagreeable, stayed a little while; +then he, too, arose and quietly took his departure, followed by a +friendly oath from the sergeant for not staying to a second round of +grog. + +Gabriel proceeded towards his home. In approaching the door, his toe +kicked something which felt and sounded soft, leathery, and distended, +like a boxing-glove. It was a large toad humbly travelling across the +path. Oak took it up, thinking it might be better to kill the creature +to save it from pain; but finding it uninjured, he placed it again +among the grass. He knew what this direct message from the Great Mother +meant. And soon came another. + +When he struck a light indoors there appeared upon the table a thin +glistening streak, as if a brush of varnish had been lightly dragged +across it. Oak’s eyes followed the serpentine sheen to the other side, +where it led up to a huge brown garden-slug, which had come indoors +to-night for reasons of its own. It was Nature’s second way of hinting +to him that he was to prepare for foul weather. + +Oak sat down meditating for nearly an hour. During this time two black +spiders, of the kind common in thatched houses, promenaded the ceiling, +ultimately dropping to the floor. This reminded him that if there was +one class of manifestation on this matter that he thoroughly +understood, it was the instincts of sheep. He left the room, ran across +two or three fields towards the flock, got upon a hedge, and looked +over among them. + +They were crowded close together on the other side around some furze +bushes, and the first peculiarity observable was that, on the sudden +appearance of Oak’s head over the fence, they did not stir or run away. +They had now a terror of something greater than their terror of man. +But this was not the most noteworthy feature: they were all grouped in +such a way that their tails, without a single exception, were towards +that half of the horizon from which the storm threatened. There was an +inner circle closely huddled, and outside these they radiated wider +apart, the pattern formed by the flock as a whole not being unlike a +vandyked lace collar, to which the clump of furze-bushes stood in the +position of a wearer’s neck. + +This was enough to re-establish him in his original opinion. He knew +now that he was right, and that Troy was wrong. Every voice in nature +was unanimous in bespeaking change. But two distinct translations +attached to these dumb expressions. Apparently there was to be a +thunder-storm, and afterwards a cold continuous rain. The creeping +things seemed to know all about the later rain, but little of the +interpolated thunder-storm; whilst the sheep knew all about the +thunder-storm and nothing of the later rain. + +This complication of weathers being uncommon, was all the more to be +feared. Oak returned to the stack-yard. All was silent here, and the +conical tips of the ricks jutted darkly into the sky. There were five +wheat-ricks in this yard, and three stacks of barley. The wheat when +threshed would average about thirty quarters to each stack; the barley, +at least forty. Their value to Bathsheba, and indeed to anybody, Oak +mentally estimated by the following simple calculation:— + + 5 × 30 = 150 quarters = 500 £. +3 × 40 = 120 quarters = 250 £. +–––– +Total . . 750 £. + +Seven hundred and fifty pounds in the divinest form that money can +wear—that of necessary food for man and beast: should the risk be run +of deteriorating this bulk of corn to less than half its value, because +of the instability of a woman? “Never, if I can prevent it!” said +Gabriel. + +Such was the argument that Oak set outwardly before him. But man, even +to himself, is a palimpsest, having an ostensible writing, and another +beneath the lines. It is possible that there was this golden legend +under the utilitarian one: “I will help to my last effort the woman I +have loved so dearly.” + +He went back to the barn to endeavour to obtain assistance for covering +the ricks that very night. All was silent within, and he would have +passed on in the belief that the party had broken up, had not a dim +light, yellow as saffron by contrast with the greenish whiteness +outside, streamed through a knot-hole in the folding doors. + +Gabriel looked in. An unusual picture met his eye. + +The candles suspended among the evergreens had burnt down to their +sockets, and in some cases the leaves tied about them were scorched. +Many of the lights had quite gone out, others smoked and stank, grease +dropping from them upon the floor. Here, under the table, and leaning +against forms and chairs in every conceivable attitude except the +perpendicular, were the wretched persons of all the work-folk, the hair +of their heads at such low levels being suggestive of mops and brooms. +In the midst of these shone red and distinct the figure of Sergeant +Troy, leaning back in a chair. Coggan was on his back, with his mouth +open, huzzing forth snores, as were several others; the united +breathings of the horizonal assemblage forming a subdued roar like +London from a distance. Joseph Poorgrass was curled round in the +fashion of a hedge-hog, apparently in attempts to present the least +possible portion of his surface to the air; and behind him was dimly +visible an unimportant remnant of William Smallbury. The glasses and +cups still stood upon the table, a water-jug being overturned, from +which a small rill, after tracing its course with marvellous precision +down the centre of the long table, fell into the neck of the +unconscious Mark Clark, in a steady, monotonous drip, like the dripping +of a stalactite in a cave. + +Gabriel glanced hopelessly at the group, which, with one or two +exceptions, composed all the able-bodied men upon the farm. He saw at +once that if the ricks were to be saved that night, or even the next +morning, he must save them with his own hands. + +A faint “ting-ting” resounded from under Coggan’s waistcoat. It was +Coggan’s watch striking the hour of two. + +Oak went to the recumbent form of Matthew Moon, who usually undertook +the rough thatching of the home-stead, and shook him. The shaking was +without effect. + +Gabriel shouted in his ear, “where’s your thatching-beetle and +rick-stick and spars?” + +“Under the staddles,” said Moon, mechanically, with the unconscious +promptness of a medium. + +Gabriel let go his head, and it dropped upon the floor like a bowl. He +then went to Susan Tall’s husband. + +“Where’s the key of the granary?” + +No answer. The question was repeated, with the same result. To be +shouted to at night was evidently less of a novelty to Susan Tall’s +husband than to Matthew Moon. Oak flung down Tall’s head into the +corner again and turned away. + +To be just, the men were not greatly to blame for this painful and +demoralizing termination to the evening’s entertainment. Sergeant Troy +had so strenuously insisted, glass in hand, that drinking should be the +bond of their union, that those who wished to refuse hardly liked to be +so unmannerly under the circumstances. Having from their youth up been +entirely unaccustomed to any liquor stronger than cider or mild ale, it +was no wonder that they had succumbed, one and all, with extraordinary +uniformity, after the lapse of about an hour. + +Gabriel was greatly depressed. This debauch boded ill for that wilful +and fascinating mistress whom the faithful man even now felt within him +as the embodiment of all that was sweet and bright and hopeless. + +He put out the expiring lights, that the barn might not be endangered, +closed the door upon the men in their deep and oblivious sleep, and +went again into the lone night. A hot breeze, as if breathed from the +parted lips of some dragon about to swallow the globe, fanned him from +the south, while directly opposite in the north rose a grim misshapen +body of cloud, in the very teeth of the wind. So unnaturally did it +rise that one could fancy it to be lifted by machinery from below. +Meanwhile the faint cloudlets had flown back into the south-east corner +of the sky, as if in terror of the large cloud, like a young brood +gazed in upon by some monster. + +Going on to the village, Oak flung a small stone against the window of +Laban Tall’s bedroom, expecting Susan to open it; but nobody stirred. +He went round to the back door, which had been left unfastened for +Laban’s entry, and passed in to the foot of the staircase. + +“Mrs. Tall, I’ve come for the key of the granary, to get at the +rick-cloths,” said Oak, in a stentorian voice. + +“Is that you?” said Mrs. Susan Tall, half awake. + +“Yes,” said Gabriel. + +“Come along to bed, do, you drawlatching rogue—keeping a body awake +like this!” + +“It isn’t Laban—’tis Gabriel Oak. I want the key of the granary.” + +“Gabriel! What in the name of fortune did you pretend to be Laban for?” + +“I didn’t. I thought you meant—” + +“Yes you did! What do you want here?” + +“The key of the granary.” + +“Take it then. ’Tis on the nail. People coming disturbing women at this +time of night ought—” + +Gabriel took the key, without waiting to hear the conclusion of the +tirade. Ten minutes later his lonely figure might have been seen +dragging four large water-proof coverings across the yard, and soon two +of these heaps of treasure in grain were covered snug—two cloths to +each. Two hundred pounds were secured. Three wheat-stacks remained +open, and there were no more cloths. Oak looked under the staddles and +found a fork. He mounted the third pile of wealth and began operating, +adopting the plan of sloping the upper sheaves one over the other; and, +in addition, filling the interstices with the material of some untied +sheaves. + +So far all was well. By this hurried contrivance Bathsheba’s property +in wheat was safe for at any rate a week or two, provided always that +there was not much wind. + +Next came the barley. This it was only possible to protect by +systematic thatching. Time went on, and the moon vanished not to +reappear. It was the farewell of the ambassador previous to war. The +night had a haggard look, like a sick thing; and there came finally an +utter expiration of air from the whole heaven in the form of a slow +breeze, which might have been likened to a death. And now nothing was +heard in the yard but the dull thuds of the beetle which drove in the +spars, and the rustle of thatch in the intervals. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII +THE STORM—THE TWO TOGETHER + + +A light flapped over the scene, as if reflected from phosphorescent +wings crossing the sky, and a rumble filled the air. It was the first +move of the approaching storm. + +The second peal was noisy, with comparatively little visible lightning. +Gabriel saw a candle shining in Bathsheba’s bedroom, and soon a shadow +swept to and fro upon the blind. + +Then there came a third flash. Manœuvres of a most extraordinary kind +were going on in the vast firmamental hollows overhead. The lightning +now was the colour of silver, and gleamed in the heavens like a mailed +army. Rumbles became rattles. Gabriel from his elevated position could +see over the landscape at least half-a-dozen miles in front. Every +hedge, bush, and tree was distinct as in a line engraving. In a paddock +in the same direction was a herd of heifers, and the forms of these +were visible at this moment in the act of galloping about in the +wildest and maddest confusion, flinging their heels and tails high into +the air, their heads to earth. A poplar in the immediate foreground was +like an ink stroke on burnished tin. Then the picture vanished, leaving +the darkness so intense that Gabriel worked entirely by feeling with +his hands. + +He had stuck his ricking-rod, or poniard, as it was indifferently +called—a long iron lance, polished by handling—into the stack, used to +support the sheaves instead of the support called a groom used on +houses. A blue light appeared in the zenith, and in some indescribable +manner flickered down near the top of the rod. It was the fourth of the +larger flashes. A moment later and there was a smack—smart, clear, and +short. Gabriel felt his position to be anything but a safe one, and he +resolved to descend. + +Not a drop of rain had fallen as yet. He wiped his weary brow, and +looked again at the black forms of the unprotected stacks. Was his life +so valuable to him after all? What were his prospects that he should be +so chary of running risk, when important and urgent labour could not be +carried on without such risk? He resolved to stick to the stack. +However, he took a precaution. Under the staddles was a long tethering +chain, used to prevent the escape of errant horses. This he carried up +the ladder, and sticking his rod through the clog at one end, allowed +the other end of the chain to trail upon the ground. The spike attached +to it he drove in. Under the shadow of this extemporized +lightning-conductor he felt himself comparatively safe. + +Before Oak had laid his hands upon his tools again out leapt the fifth +flash, with the spring of a serpent and the shout of a fiend. It was +green as an emerald, and the reverberation was stunning. What was this +the light revealed to him? In the open ground before him, as he looked +over the ridge of the rick, was a dark and apparently female form. +Could it be that of the only venturesome woman in the parish—Bathsheba? +The form moved on a step: then he could see no more. + +“Is that you, ma’am?” said Gabriel to the darkness. + +“Who is there?” said the voice of Bathsheba. + +“Gabriel. I am on the rick, thatching.” + +“Oh, Gabriel!—and are you? I have come about them. The weather awoke +me, and I thought of the corn. I am so distressed about it—can we save +it anyhow? I cannot find my husband. Is he with you?” + +“He is not here.” + +“Do you know where he is?” + +“Asleep in the barn.” + +“He promised that the stacks should be seen to, and now they are all +neglected! Can I do anything to help? Liddy is afraid to come out. +Fancy finding you here at such an hour! Surely I can do something?” + +“You can bring up some reed-sheaves to me, one by one, ma’am; if you +are not afraid to come up the ladder in the dark,” said Gabriel. “Every +moment is precious now, and that would save a good deal of time. It is +not very dark when the lightning has been gone a bit.” + +“I’ll do anything!” she said, resolutely. She instantly took a sheaf +upon her shoulder, clambered up close to his heels, placed it behind +the rod, and descended for another. At her third ascent the rick +suddenly brightened with the brazen glare of shining majolica—every +knot in every straw was visible. On the slope in front of him appeared +two human shapes, black as jet. The rick lost its sheen—the shapes +vanished. Gabriel turned his head. It had been the sixth flash which +had come from the east behind him, and the two dark forms on the slope +had been the shadows of himself and Bathsheba. + +Then came the peal. It hardly was credible that such a heavenly light +could be the parent of such a diabolical sound. + +“How terrible!” she exclaimed, and clutched him by the sleeve. Gabriel +turned, and steadied her on her aerial perch by holding her arm. At the +same moment, while he was still reversed in his attitude, there was +more light, and he saw, as it were, a copy of the tall poplar tree on +the hill drawn in black on the wall of the barn. It was the shadow of +that tree, thrown across by a secondary flash in the west. + +The next flare came. Bathsheba was on the ground now, shouldering +another sheaf, and she bore its dazzle without flinching—thunder and +all—and again ascended with the load. There was then a silence +everywhere for four or five minutes, and the crunch of the spars, as +Gabriel hastily drove them in, could again be distinctly heard. He +thought the crisis of the storm had passed. But there came a burst of +light. + +“Hold on!” said Gabriel, taking the sheaf from her shoulder, and +grasping her arm again. + +Heaven opened then, indeed. The flash was almost too novel for its +inexpressibly dangerous nature to be at once realized, and they could +only comprehend the magnificence of its beauty. It sprang from east, +west, north, south, and was a perfect dance of death. The forms of +skeletons appeared in the air, shaped with blue fire for bones—dancing, +leaping, striding, racing around, and mingling altogether in +unparalleled confusion. With these were intertwined undulating snakes +of green, and behind these was a broad mass of lesser light. +Simultaneously came from every part of the tumbling sky what may be +called a shout; since, though no shout ever came near it, it was more +of the nature of a shout than of anything else earthly. In the meantime +one of the grisly forms had alighted upon the point of Gabriel’s rod, +to run invisibly down it, down the chain, and into the earth. Gabriel +was almost blinded, and he could feel Bathsheba’s warm arm tremble in +his hand—a sensation novel and thrilling enough; but love, life, +everything human, seemed small and trifling in such close juxtaposition +with an infuriated universe. + +Oak had hardly time to gather up these impressions into a thought, and +to see how strangely the red feather of her hat shone in this light, +when the tall tree on the hill before mentioned seemed on fire to a +white heat, and a new one among these terrible voices mingled with the +last crash of those preceding. It was a stupefying blast, harsh and +pitiless, and it fell upon their ears in a dead, flat blow, without +that reverberation which lends the tones of a drum to more distant +thunder. By the lustre reflected from every part of the earth and from +the wide domical scoop above it, he saw that the tree was sliced down +the whole length of its tall, straight stem, a huge riband of bark +being apparently flung off. The other portion remained erect, and +revealed the bared surface as a strip of white down the front. The +lightning had struck the tree. A sulphurous smell filled the air; then +all was silent, and black as a cave in Hinnom. + +“We had a narrow escape!” said Gabriel, hurriedly. “You had better go +down.” + +Bathsheba said nothing; but he could distinctly hear her rhythmical +pants, and the recurrent rustle of the sheaf beside her in response to +her frightened pulsations. She descended the ladder, and, on second +thoughts, he followed her. The darkness was now impenetrable by the +sharpest vision. They both stood still at the bottom, side by side. +Bathsheba appeared to think only of the weather—Oak thought only of her +just then. At last he said— + +“The storm seems to have passed now, at any rate.” + +“I think so too,” said Bathsheba. “Though there are multitudes of +gleams, look!” + +The sky was now filled with an incessant light, frequent repetition +melting into complete continuity, as an unbroken sound results from the +successive strokes on a gong. + +“Nothing serious,” said he. “I cannot understand no rain falling. But +Heaven be praised, it is all the better for us. I am now going up +again.” + +“Gabriel, you are kinder than I deserve! I will stay and help you yet. +Oh, why are not some of the others here!” + +“They would have been here if they could,” said Oak, in a hesitating +way. + +“O, I know it all—all,” she said, adding slowly: “They are all asleep +in the barn, in a drunken sleep, and my husband among them. That’s it, +is it not? Don’t think I am a timid woman and can’t endure things.” + +“I am not certain,” said Gabriel. “I will go and see.” + +He crossed to the barn, leaving her there alone. He looked through the +chinks of the door. All was in total darkness, as he had left it, and +there still arose, as at the former time, the steady buzz of many +snores. + +He felt a zephyr curling about his cheek, and turned. It was +Bathsheba’s breath—she had followed him, and was looking into the same +chink. + +He endeavoured to put off the immediate and painful subject of their +thoughts by remarking gently, “If you’ll come back again, miss—ma’am, +and hand up a few more; it would save much time.” + +Then Oak went back again, ascended to the top, stepped off the ladder +for greater expedition, and went on thatching. She followed, but +without a sheaf. + +“Gabriel,” she said, in a strange and impressive voice. + +Oak looked up at her. She had not spoken since he left the barn. The +soft and continual shimmer of the dying lightning showed a marble face +high against the black sky of the opposite quarter. Bathsheba was +sitting almost on the apex of the stack, her feet gathered up beneath +her, and resting on the top round of the ladder. + +“Yes, mistress,” he said. + +“I suppose you thought that when I galloped away to Bath that night it +was on purpose to be married?” + +“I did at last—not at first,” he answered, somewhat surprised at the +abruptness with which this new subject was broached. + +“And others thought so, too?” + +“Yes.” + +“And you blamed me for it?” + +“Well—a little.” + +“I thought so. Now, I care a little for your good opinion, and I want +to explain something—I have longed to do it ever since I returned, and +you looked so gravely at me. For if I were to die—and I may die soon—it +would be dreadful that you should always think mistakenly of me. Now, +listen.” + +Gabriel ceased his rustling. + +“I went to Bath that night in the full intention of breaking off my +engagement to Mr. Troy. It was owing to circumstances which occurred +after I got there that—that we were married. Now, do you see the matter +in a new light?” + +“I do—somewhat.” + +“I must, I suppose, say more, now that I have begun. And perhaps it’s +no harm, for you are certainly under no delusion that I ever loved you, +or that I can have any object in speaking, more than that object I have +mentioned. Well, I was alone in a strange city, and the horse was lame. +And at last I didn’t know what to do. I saw, when it was too late, that +scandal might seize hold of me for meeting him alone in that way. But I +was coming away, when he suddenly said he had that day seen a woman +more beautiful than I, and that his constancy could not be counted on +unless I at once became his.... And I was grieved and troubled—” She +cleared her voice, and waited a moment, as if to gather breath. “And +then, between jealousy and distraction, I married him!” she whispered +with desperate impetuosity. + +Gabriel made no reply. + +“He was not to blame, for it was perfectly true about—about his seeing +somebody else,” she quickly added. “And now I don’t wish for a single +remark from you upon the subject—indeed, I forbid it. I only wanted you +to know that misunderstood bit of my history before a time comes when +you could never know it.—You want some more sheaves?” + +She went down the ladder, and the work proceeded. Gabriel soon +perceived a languor in the movements of his mistress up and down, and +he said to her, gently as a mother— + +“I think you had better go indoors now, you are tired. I can finish the +rest alone. If the wind does not change the rain is likely to keep +off.” + +“If I am useless I will go,” said Bathsheba, in a flagging cadence. +“But O, if your life should be lost!” + +“You are not useless; but I would rather not tire you longer. You have +done well.” + +“And you better!” she said, gratefully. “Thank you for your devotion, a +thousand times, Gabriel! Goodnight—I know you are doing your very best +for me.” + +She diminished in the gloom, and vanished, and he heard the latch of +the gate fall as she passed through. He worked in a reverie now, musing +upon her story, and upon the contradictoriness of that feminine heart +which had caused her to speak more warmly to him to-night than she ever +had done whilst unmarried and free to speak as warmly as she chose. + +He was disturbed in his meditation by a grating noise from the +coach-house. It was the vane on the roof turning round, and this change +in the wind was the signal for a disastrous rain. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII +RAIN—ONE SOLITARY MEETS ANOTHER + + +It was now five o’clock, and the dawn was promising to break in hues of +drab and ash. + +The air changed its temperature and stirred itself more vigorously. +Cool breezes coursed in transparent eddies round Oak’s face. The wind +shifted yet a point or two and blew stronger. In ten minutes every wind +of heaven seemed to be roaming at large. Some of the thatching on the +wheat-stacks was now whirled fantastically aloft, and had to be +replaced and weighted with some rails that lay near at hand. This done, +Oak slaved away again at the barley. A huge drop of rain smote his +face, the wind snarled round every corner, the trees rocked to the +bases of their trunks, and the twigs clashed in strife. Driving in +spars at any point and on any system, inch by inch he covered more and +more safely from ruin this distracting impersonation of seven hundred +pounds. The rain came on in earnest, and Oak soon felt the water to be +tracking cold and clammy routes down his back. Ultimately he was +reduced well-nigh to a homogeneous sop, and the dyes of his clothes +trickled down and stood in a pool at the foot of the ladder. The rain +stretched obliquely through the dull atmosphere in liquid spines, +unbroken in continuity between their beginnings in the clouds and their +points in him. + +Oak suddenly remembered that eight months before this time he had been +fighting against fire in the same spot as desperately as he was +fighting against water now—and for a futile love of the same woman. As +for her—But Oak was generous and true, and dismissed his reflections. + +It was about seven o’clock in the dark leaden morning when Gabriel came +down from the last stack, and thankfully exclaimed, “It is done!” He +was drenched, weary, and sad, and yet not so sad as drenched and weary, +for he was cheered by a sense of success in a good cause. + +Faint sounds came from the barn, and he looked that way. Figures +stepped singly and in pairs through the doors—all walking awkwardly, +and abashed, save the foremost, who wore a red jacket, and advanced +with his hands in his pockets, whistling. The others shambled after +with a conscience-stricken air: the whole procession was not unlike +Flaxman’s group of the suitors tottering on towards the infernal +regions under the conduct of Mercury. The gnarled shapes passed into +the village, Troy, their leader, entering the farmhouse. Not a single +one of them had turned his face to the ricks, or apparently bestowed +one thought upon their condition. + +Soon Oak too went homeward, by a different route from theirs. In front +of him against the wet glazed surface of the lane he saw a person +walking yet more slowly than himself under an umbrella. The man turned +and plainly started; he was Boldwood. + +“How are you this morning, sir?” said Oak. + +“Yes, it is a wet day.—Oh, I am well, very well, I thank you; quite +well.” + +“I am glad to hear it, sir.” + +Boldwood seemed to awake to the present by degrees. “You look tired and +ill, Oak,” he said then, desultorily regarding his companion. + +“I am tired. You look strangely altered, sir.” + +“I? Not a bit of it: I am well enough. What put that into your head?” + +“I thought you didn’t look quite so topping as you used to, that was +all.” + +“Indeed, then you are mistaken,” said Boldwood, shortly. “Nothing hurts +me. My constitution is an iron one.” + +“I’ve been working hard to get our ricks covered, and was barely in +time. Never had such a struggle in my life.... Yours of course are +safe, sir.” + +“Oh yes,” Boldwood added, after an interval of silence: “What did you +ask, Oak?” + +“Your ricks are all covered before this time?” + +“No.” + +“At any rate, the large ones upon the stone staddles?” + +“They are not.” + +“Them under the hedge?” + +“No. I forgot to tell the thatcher to set about it.” + +“Nor the little one by the stile?” + +“Nor the little one by the stile. I overlooked the ricks this year.” + +“Then not a tenth of your corn will come to measure, sir.” + +“Possibly not.” + +“Overlooked them,” repeated Gabriel slowly to himself. It is difficult +to describe the intensely dramatic effect that announcement had upon +Oak at such a moment. All the night he had been feeling that the +neglect he was labouring to repair was abnormal and isolated—the only +instance of the kind within the circuit of the county. Yet at this very +time, within the same parish, a greater waste had been going on, +uncomplained of and disregarded. A few months earlier Boldwood’s +forgetting his husbandry would have been as preposterous an idea as a +sailor forgetting he was in a ship. Oak was just thinking that whatever +he himself might have suffered from Bathsheba’s marriage, here was a +man who had suffered more, when Boldwood spoke in a changed voice—that +of one who yearned to make a confidence and relieve his heart by an +outpouring. + +“Oak, you know as well as I that things have gone wrong with me lately. +I may as well own it. I was going to get a little settled in life; but +in some way my plan has come to nothing.” + +“I thought my mistress would have married you,” said Gabriel, not +knowing enough of the full depths of Boldwood’s love to keep silence on +the farmer’s account, and determined not to evade discipline by doing +so on his own. “However, it is so sometimes, and nothing happens that +we expect,” he added, with the repose of a man whom misfortune had +inured rather than subdued. + +“I daresay I am a joke about the parish,” said Boldwood, as if the +subject came irresistibly to his tongue, and with a miserable lightness +meant to express his indifference. + +“Oh no—I don’t think that.” + +“—But the real truth of the matter is that there was not, as some +fancy, any jilting on—her part. No engagement ever existed between me +and Miss Everdene. People say so, but it is untrue: she never promised +me!” Boldwood stood still now and turned his wild face to Oak. “Oh, +Gabriel,” he continued, “I am weak and foolish, and I don’t know what, +and I can’t fend off my miserable grief!... I had some faint belief in +the mercy of God till I lost that woman. Yes, He prepared a gourd to +shade me, and like the prophet I thanked Him and was glad. But the next +day He prepared a worm to smite the gourd and wither it; and I feel it +is better to die than to live!” + +A silence followed. Boldwood aroused himself from the momentary mood of +confidence into which he had drifted, and walked on again, resuming his +usual reserve. + +“No, Gabriel,” he resumed, with a carelessness which was like the smile +on the countenance of a skull: “it was made more of by other people +than ever it was by us. I do feel a little regret occasionally, but no +woman ever had power over me for any length of time. Well, good +morning; I can trust you not to mention to others what has passed +between us two here.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX +COMING HOME—A CRY + + +On the turnpike road, between Casterbridge and Weatherbury, and about +three miles from the former place, is Yalbury Hill, one of those steep +long ascents which pervade the highways of this undulating part of +South Wessex. In returning from market it is usual for the farmers and +other gig-gentry to alight at the bottom and walk up. + +One Saturday evening in the month of October Bathsheba’s vehicle was +duly creeping up this incline. She was sitting listlessly in the second +seat of the gig, whilst walking beside her in a farmer’s marketing suit +of unusually fashionable cut was an erect, well-made young man. Though +on foot, he held the reins and whip, and occasionally aimed light cuts +at the horse’s ear with the end of the lash, as a recreation. This man +was her husband, formerly Sergeant Troy, who, having bought his +discharge with Bathsheba’s money, was gradually transforming himself +into a farmer of a spirited and very modern school. People of +unalterable ideas still insisted upon calling him “Sergeant” when they +met him, which was in some degree owing to his having still retained +the well-shaped moustache of his military days, and the soldierly +bearing inseparable from his form and training. + +“Yes, if it hadn’t been for that wretched rain I should have cleared +two hundred as easy as looking, my love,” he was saying. “Don’t you +see, it altered all the chances? To speak like a book I once read, wet +weather is the narrative, and fine days are the episodes, of our +country’s history; now, isn’t that true?” + +“But the time of year is come for changeable weather.” + +“Well, yes. The fact is, these autumn races are the ruin of everybody. +Never did I see such a day as ’twas! ’Tis a wild open place, just out +of Budmouth, and a drab sea rolled in towards us like liquid misery. +Wind and rain—good Lord! Dark? Why, ’twas as black as my hat before the +last race was run. ’Twas five o’clock, and you couldn’t see the horses +till they were almost in, leave alone colours. The ground was as heavy +as lead, and all judgment from a fellow’s experience went for nothing. +Horses, riders, people, were all blown about like ships at sea. Three +booths were blown over, and the wretched folk inside crawled out upon +their hands and knees; and in the next field were as many as a dozen +hats at one time. Ay, Pimpernel regularly stuck fast, when about sixty +yards off, and when I saw Policy stepping on, it did knock my heart +against the lining of my ribs, I assure you, my love!” + +“And you mean, Frank,” said Bathsheba, sadly—her voice was painfully +lowered from the fulness and vivacity of the previous summer—“that you +have lost more than a hundred pounds in a month by this dreadful +horse-racing? O, Frank, it is cruel; it is foolish of you to take away +my money so. We shall have to leave the farm; that will be the end of +it!” + +“Humbug about cruel. Now, there ’tis again—turn on the waterworks; +that’s just like you.” + +“But you’ll promise me not to go to Budmouth second meeting, won’t +you?” she implored. Bathsheba was at the full depth for tears, but she +maintained a dry eye. + +“I don’t see why I should; in fact, if it turns out to be a fine day, I +was thinking of taking you.” + +“Never, never! I’ll go a hundred miles the other way first. I hate the +sound of the very word!” + +“But the question of going to see the race or staying at home has very +little to do with the matter. Bets are all booked safely enough before +the race begins, you may depend. Whether it is a bad race for me or a +good one, will have very little to do with our going there next +Monday.” + +“But you don’t mean to say that you have risked anything on this one +too!” she exclaimed, with an agonized look. + +“There now, don’t you be a little fool. Wait till you are told. Why, +Bathsheba, you have lost all the pluck and sauciness you formerly had, +and upon my life if I had known what a chicken-hearted creature you +were under all your boldness, I’d never have—I know what.” + +A flash of indignation might have been seen in Bathsheba’s dark eyes as +she looked resolutely ahead after this reply. They moved on without +further speech, some early-withered leaves from the trees which hooded +the road at this spot occasionally spinning downward across their path +to the earth. + +A woman appeared on the brow of the hill. The ridge was in a cutting, +so that she was very near the husband and wife before she became +visible. Troy had turned towards the gig to remount, and whilst putting +his foot on the step the woman passed behind him. + +Though the overshadowing trees and the approach of eventide enveloped +them in gloom, Bathsheba could see plainly enough to discern the +extreme poverty of the woman’s garb, and the sadness of her face. + +“Please, sir, do you know at what time Casterbridge Union-house closes +at night?” + +The woman said these words to Troy over his shoulder. + +Troy started visibly at the sound of the voice; yet he seemed to +recover presence of mind sufficient to prevent himself from giving way +to his impulse to suddenly turn and face her. He said, slowly— + +“I don’t know.” + +The woman, on hearing him speak, quickly looked up, examined the side +of his face, and recognized the soldier under the yeoman’s garb. Her +face was drawn into an expression which had gladness and agony both +among its elements. She uttered an hysterical cry, and fell down. + +“Oh, poor thing!” exclaimed Bathsheba, instantly preparing to alight. + +“Stay where you are, and attend to the horse!” said Troy, peremptorily +throwing her the reins and the whip. “Walk the horse to the top: I’ll +see to the woman.” + +“But I—” + +“Do you hear? Clk—Poppet!” + +The horse, gig, and Bathsheba moved on. + +“How on earth did you come here? I thought you were miles away, or +dead! Why didn’t you write to me?” said Troy to the woman, in a +strangely gentle, yet hurried voice, as he lifted her up. + +“I feared to.” + +“Have you any money?” + +“None.” + +“Good Heaven—I wish I had more to give you! Here’s—wretched—the merest +trifle. It is every farthing I have left. I have none but what my wife +gives me, you know, and I can’t ask her now.” + +The woman made no answer. + +“I have only another moment,” continued Troy; “and now listen. Where +are you going to-night? Casterbridge Union?” + +“Yes; I thought to go there.” + +“You shan’t go there; yet, wait. Yes, perhaps for to-night; I can do +nothing better—worse luck! Sleep there to-night, and stay there +to-morrow. Monday is the first free day I have; and on Monday morning, +at ten exactly, meet me on Grey’s Bridge just out of the town. I’ll +bring all the money I can muster. You shan’t want—I’ll see that, Fanny; +then I’ll get you a lodging somewhere. Good-bye till then. I am a +brute—but good-bye!” + +After advancing the distance which completed the ascent of the hill, +Bathsheba turned her head. The woman was upon her feet, and Bathsheba +saw her withdrawing from Troy, and going feebly down the hill by the +third milestone from Casterbridge. Troy then came on towards his wife, +stepped into the gig, took the reins from her hand, and without making +any observation whipped the horse into a trot. He was rather agitated. + +“Do you know who that woman was?” said Bathsheba, looking searchingly +into his face. + +“I do,” he said, looking boldly back into hers. + +“I thought you did,” said she, with angry hauteur, and still regarding +him. “Who is she?” + +He suddenly seemed to think that frankness would benefit neither of the +women. + +“Nothing to either of us,” he said. “I know her by sight.” + +“What is her name?” + +“How should I know her name?” + +“I think you do.” + +“Think if you will, and be—” The sentence was completed by a smart cut +of the whip round Poppet’s flank, which caused the animal to start +forward at a wild pace. No more was said. + + + + +CHAPTER XL +ON CASTERBRIDGE HIGHWAY + + +For a considerable time the woman walked on. Her steps became feebler, +and she strained her eyes to look afar upon the naked road, now +indistinct amid the penumbræ of night. At length her onward walk +dwindled to the merest totter, and she opened a gate within which was a +haystack. Underneath this she sat down and presently slept. + +When the woman awoke it was to find herself in the depths of a moonless +and starless night. A heavy unbroken crust of cloud stretched across +the sky, shutting out every speck of heaven; and a distant halo which +hung over the town of Casterbridge was visible against the black +concave, the luminosity appearing the brighter by its great contrast +with the circumscribing darkness. Towards this weak, soft glow the +woman turned her eyes. + +“If I could only get there!” she said. “Meet him the day after +to-morrow: God help me! Perhaps I shall be in my grave before then.” + +A manor-house clock from the far depths of shadow struck the hour, one, +in a small, attenuated tone. After midnight the voice of a clock seems +to lose in breadth as much as in length, and to diminish its +sonorousness to a thin falsetto. + +Afterwards a light—two lights—arose from the remote shade, and grew +larger. A carriage rolled along the road, and passed the gate. It +probably contained some late diners-out. The beams from one lamp shone +for a moment upon the crouching woman, and threw her face into vivid +relief. The face was young in the groundwork, old in the finish; the +general contours were flexuous and childlike, but the finer lineaments +had begun to be sharp and thin. + +The pedestrian stood up, apparently with revived determination, and +looked around. The road appeared to be familiar to her, and she +carefully scanned the fence as she slowly walked along. Presently there +became visible a dim white shape; it was another milestone. She drew +her fingers across its face to feel the marks. + +“Two more!” she said. + +She leant against the stone as a means of rest for a short interval, +then bestirred herself, and again pursued her way. For a slight +distance she bore up bravely, afterwards flagging as before. This was +beside a lone copsewood, wherein heaps of white chips strewn upon the +leafy ground showed that woodmen had been faggoting and making hurdles +during the day. Now there was not a rustle, not a breeze, not the +faintest clash of twigs to keep her company. The woman looked over the +gate, opened it, and went in. Close to the entrance stood a row of +faggots, bound and unbound, together with stakes of all sizes. + +For a few seconds the wayfarer stood with that tense stillness which +signifies itself to be not the end, but merely the suspension, of a +previous motion. Her attitude was that of a person who listens, either +to the external world of sound, or to the imagined discourse of +thought. A close criticism might have detected signs proving that she +was intent on the latter alternative. Moreover, as was shown by what +followed, she was oddly exercising the faculty of invention upon the +speciality of the clever Jacquet Droz, the designer of automatic +substitutes for human limbs. + +By the aid of the Casterbridge aurora, and by feeling with her hands, +the woman selected two sticks from the heaps. These sticks were nearly +straight to the height of three or four feet, where each branched into +a fork like the letter Y. She sat down, snapped off the small upper +twigs, and carried the remainder with her into the road. She placed one +of these forks under each arm as a crutch, tested them, timidly threw +her whole weight upon them—so little that it was—and swung herself +forward. The girl had made for herself a material aid. + +The crutches answered well. The pat of her feet, and the tap of her +sticks upon the highway, were all the sounds that came from the +traveller now. She had passed the last milestone by a good long +distance, and began to look wistfully towards the bank as if +calculating upon another milestone soon. The crutches, though so very +useful, had their limits of power. Mechanism only transfers labour, +being powerless to supersede it, and the original amount of exertion +was not cleared away; it was thrown into the body and arms. She was +exhausted, and each swing forward became fainter. At last she swayed +sideways, and fell. + +Here she lay, a shapeless heap, for ten minutes and more. The morning +wind began to boom dully over the flats, and to move afresh dead leaves +which had lain still since yesterday. The woman desperately turned +round upon her knees, and next rose to her feet. Steadying herself by +the help of one crutch, she essayed a step, then another, then a third, +using the crutches now as walking-sticks only. Thus she progressed till +descending Mellstock Hill another milestone appeared, and soon the +beginning of an iron-railed fence came into view. She staggered across +to the first post, clung to it, and looked around. + +The Casterbridge lights were now individually visible. It was getting +towards morning, and vehicles might be hoped for, if not expected soon. +She listened. There was not a sound of life save that acme and +sublimation of all dismal sounds, the bark of a fox, its three hollow +notes being rendered at intervals of a minute with the precision of a +funeral bell. + +“Less than a mile!” the woman murmured. “No; more,” she added, after a +pause. “The mile is to the county hall, and my resting-place is on the +other side Casterbridge. A little over a mile, and there I am!” After +an interval she again spoke. “Five or six steps to a yard—six perhaps. +I have to go seventeen hundred yards. A hundred times six, six hundred. +Seventeen times that. O pity me, Lord!” + +Holding to the rails, she advanced, thrusting one hand forward upon the +rail, then the other, then leaning over it whilst she dragged her feet +on beneath. + +This woman was not given to soliloquy; but extremity of feeling lessens +the individuality of the weak, as it increases that of the strong. She +said again in the same tone, “I’ll believe that the end lies five posts +forward, and no further, and so get strength to pass them.” + +This was a practical application of the principle that a half-feigned +and fictitious faith is better than no faith at all. + +She passed five posts and held on to the fifth. + +“I’ll pass five more by believing my longed-for spot is at the next +fifth. I can do it.” + +She passed five more. + +“It lies only five further.” + +She passed five more. + +“But it is five further.” + +She passed them. + +“That stone bridge is the end of my journey,” she said, when the bridge +over the Froom was in view. + +She crawled to the bridge. During the effort each breath of the woman +went into the air as if never to return again. + +“Now for the truth of the matter,” she said, sitting down. “The truth +is, that I have less than half a mile.” Self-beguilement with what she +had known all the time to be false had given her strength to come over +half a mile that she would have been powerless to face in the lump. The +artifice showed that the woman, by some mysterious intuition, had +grasped the paradoxical truth that blindness may operate more +vigorously than prescience, and the short-sighted effect more than the +far-seeing; that limitation, and not comprehensiveness, is needed for +striking a blow. + +The half-mile stood now before the sick and weary woman like a stolid +Juggernaut. It was an impassive King of her world. The road here ran +across Durnover Moor, open to the road on either side. She surveyed the +wide space, the lights, herself, sighed, and lay down against a +guard-stone of the bridge. + +Never was ingenuity exercised so sorely as the traveller here exercised +hers. Every conceivable aid, method, stratagem, mechanism, by which +these last desperate eight hundred yards could be overpassed by a human +being unperceived, was revolved in her busy brain, and dismissed as +impracticable. She thought of sticks, wheels, crawling—she even thought +of rolling. But the exertion demanded by either of these latter two was +greater than to walk erect. The faculty of contrivance was worn out. +Hopelessness had come at last. + +“No further!” she whispered, and closed her eyes. + +From the stripe of shadow on the opposite side of the bridge a portion +of shade seemed to detach itself and move into isolation upon the pale +white of the road. It glided noiselessly towards the recumbent woman. + +She became conscious of something touching her hand; it was softness +and it was warmth. She opened her eyes, and the substance touched her +face. A dog was licking her cheek. + +He was a huge, heavy, and quiet creature, standing darkly against the +low horizon, and at least two feet higher than the present position of +her eyes. Whether Newfoundland, mastiff, bloodhound, or what not, it +was impossible to say. He seemed to be of too strange and mysterious a +nature to belong to any variety among those of popular nomenclature. +Being thus assignable to no breed, he was the ideal embodiment of +canine greatness—a generalization from what was common to all. Night, +in its sad, solemn, and benevolent aspect, apart from its stealthy and +cruel side, was personified in this form. Darkness endows the small and +ordinary ones among mankind with poetical power, and even the suffering +woman threw her idea into figure. + +In her reclining position she looked up to him just as in earlier times +she had, when standing, looked up to a man. The animal, who was as +homeless as she, respectfully withdrew a step or two when the woman +moved, and, seeing that she did not repulse him, he licked her hand +again. + +A thought moved within her like lightning. “Perhaps I can make use of +him—I might do it then!” + +She pointed in the direction of Casterbridge, and the dog seemed to +misunderstand: he trotted on. Then, finding she could not follow, he +came back and whined. + +The ultimate and saddest singularity of woman’s effort and invention +was reached when, with a quickened breathing, she rose to a stooping +posture, and, resting her two little arms upon the shoulders of the +dog, leant firmly thereon, and murmured stimulating words. Whilst she +sorrowed in her heart she cheered with her voice, and what was stranger +than that the strong should need encouragement from the weak was that +cheerfulness should be so well stimulated by such utter dejection. Her +friend moved forward slowly, and she with small mincing steps moved +forward beside him, half her weight being thrown upon the animal. +Sometimes she sank as she had sunk from walking erect, from the +crutches, from the rails. The dog, who now thoroughly understood her +desire and her incapacity, was frantic in his distress on these +occasions; he would tug at her dress and run forward. She always called +him back, and it was now to be observed that the woman listened for +human sounds only to avoid them. It was evident that she had an object +in keeping her presence on the road and her forlorn state unknown. + +Their progress was necessarily very slow. They reached the bottom of +the town, and the Casterbridge lamps lay before them like fallen +Pleiads as they turned to the left into the dense shade of a deserted +avenue of chestnuts, and so skirted the borough. Thus the town was +passed, and the goal was reached. + +On this much-desired spot outside the town rose a picturesque building. +Originally it had been a mere case to hold people. The shell had been +so thin, so devoid of excrescence, and so closely drawn over the +accommodation granted, that the grim character of what was beneath +showed through it, as the shape of a body is visible under a +winding-sheet. + +Then Nature, as if offended, lent a hand. Masses of ivy grew up, +completely covering the walls, till the place looked like an abbey; and +it was discovered that the view from the front, over the Casterbridge +chimneys, was one of the most magnificent in the county. A neighbouring +earl once said that he would give up a year’s rental to have at his own +door the view enjoyed by the inmates from theirs—and very probably the +inmates would have given up the view for his year’s rental. + +This stone edifice consisted of a central mass and two wings, whereon +stood as sentinels a few slim chimneys, now gurgling sorrowfully to the +slow wind. In the wall was a gate, and by the gate a bellpull formed of +a hanging wire. The woman raised herself as high as possible upon her +knees, and could just reach the handle. She moved it and fell forwards +in a bowed attitude, her face upon her bosom. + +It was getting on towards six o’clock, and sounds of movement were to +be heard inside the building which was the haven of rest to this +wearied soul. A little door by the large one was opened, and a man +appeared inside. He discerned the panting heap of clothes, went back +for a light, and came again. He entered a second time, and returned +with two women. + +These lifted the prostrate figure and assisted her in through the +doorway. The man then closed the door. + +“How did she get here?” said one of the women. + +“The Lord knows,” said the other. + +“There is a dog outside,” murmured the overcome traveller. “Where is he +gone? He helped me.” + +“I stoned him away,” said the man. + +The little procession then moved forward—the man in front bearing the +light, the two bony women next, supporting between them the small and +supple one. Thus they entered the house and disappeared. + + + + +CHAPTER XLI +SUSPICION—FANNY IS SENT FOR + + +Bathsheba said very little to her husband all that evening of their +return from market, and he was not disposed to say much to her. He +exhibited the unpleasant combination of a restless condition with a +silent tongue. The next day, which was Sunday, passed nearly in the +same manner as regarded their taciturnity, Bathsheba going to church +both morning and afternoon. This was the day before the Budmouth races. +In the evening Troy said, suddenly— + +“Bathsheba, could you let me have twenty pounds?” + +Her countenance instantly sank. “Twenty pounds?” she said. + +“The fact is, I want it badly.” The anxiety upon Troy’s face was +unusual and very marked. It was a culmination of the mood he had been +in all the day. + +“Ah! for those races to-morrow.” + +Troy for the moment made no reply. Her mistake had its advantages to a +man who shrank from having his mind inspected as he did now. “Well, +suppose I do want it for races?” he said, at last. + +“Oh, Frank!” Bathsheba replied, and there was such a volume of entreaty +in the words. “Only such a few weeks ago you said that I was far +sweeter than all your other pleasures put together, and that you would +give them all up for me; and now, won’t you give up this one, which is +more a worry than a pleasure? Do, Frank. Come, let me fascinate you by +all I can do—by pretty words and pretty looks, and everything I can +think of—to stay at home. Say yes to your wife—say yes!” + +The tenderest and softest phases of Bathsheba’s nature were prominent +now—advanced impulsively for his acceptance, without any of the +disguises and defences which the wariness of her character when she was +cool too frequently threw over them. Few men could have resisted the +arch yet dignified entreaty of the beautiful face, thrown a little back +and sideways in the well known attitude that expresses more than the +words it accompanies, and which seems to have been designed for these +special occasions. Had the woman not been his wife, Troy would have +succumbed instantly; as it was, he thought he would not deceive her +longer. + +“The money is not wanted for racing debts at all,” he said. + +“What is it for?” she asked. “You worry me a great deal by these +mysterious responsibilities, Frank.” + +Troy hesitated. He did not now love her enough to allow himself to be +carried too far by her ways. Yet it was necessary to be civil. “You +wrong me by such a suspicious manner,” he said. “Such +strait-waistcoating as you treat me to is not becoming in you at so +early a date.” + +“I think that I have a right to grumble a little if I pay,” she said, +with features between a smile and a pout. + +“Exactly; and, the former being done, suppose we proceed to the latter. +Bathsheba, fun is all very well, but don’t go too far, or you may have +cause to regret something.” + +She reddened. “I do that already,” she said, quickly. + +“What do you regret?” + +“That my romance has come to an end.” + +“All romances end at marriage.” + +“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that. You grieve me to my soul by being +smart at my expense.” + +“You are dull enough at mine. I believe you hate me.” + +“Not you—only your faults. I do hate them.” + +“’Twould be much more becoming if you set yourself to cure them. Come, +let’s strike a balance with the twenty pounds, and be friends.” + +She gave a sigh of resignation. “I have about that sum here for +household expenses. If you must have it, take it.” + +“Very good. Thank you. I expect I shall have gone away before you are +in to breakfast to-morrow.” + +“And must you go? Ah! there was a time, Frank, when it would have taken +a good many promises to other people to drag you away from me. You used +to call me darling, then. But it doesn’t matter to you how my days are +passed now.” + +“I must go, in spite of sentiment.” Troy, as he spoke, looked at his +watch, and, apparently actuated by _non lucendo_ principles, opened the +case at the back, revealing, snugly stowed within it, a small coil of +hair. + +Bathsheba’s eyes had been accidentally lifted at that moment, and she +saw the action and saw the hair. She flushed in pain and surprise, and +some words escaped her before she had thought whether or not it was +wise to utter them. “A woman’s curl of hair!” she said. “Oh, Frank, +whose is that?” + +Troy had instantly closed his watch. He carelessly replied, as one who +cloaked some feelings that the sight had stirred. “Why, yours, of +course. Whose should it be? I had quite forgotten that I had it.” + +“What a dreadful fib, Frank!” + +“I tell you I had forgotten it!” he said, loudly. + +“I don’t mean that—it was yellow hair.” + +“Nonsense.” + +“That’s insulting me. I know it was yellow. Now whose was it? I want to +know.” + +“Very well—I’ll tell you, so make no more ado. It is the hair of a +young woman I was going to marry before I knew you.” + +“You ought to tell me her name, then.” + +“I cannot do that.” + +“Is she married yet?” + +“No.” + +“Is she alive?” + +“Yes.” + +“Is she pretty?” + +“Yes.” + +“It is wonderful how she can be, poor thing, under such an awful +affliction!” + +“Affliction—what affliction?” he inquired, quickly. + +“Having hair of that dreadful colour.” + +“Oh—ho—I like that!” said Troy, recovering himself. “Why, her hair has +been admired by everybody who has seen her since she has worn it loose, +which has not been long. It is beautiful hair. People used to turn +their heads to look at it, poor girl!” + +“Pooh! that’s nothing—that’s nothing!” she exclaimed, in incipient +accents of pique. “If I cared for your love as much as I used to I +could say people had turned to look at mine.” + +“Bathsheba, don’t be so fitful and jealous. You knew what married life +would be like, and shouldn’t have entered it if you feared these +contingencies.” + +Troy had by this time driven her to bitterness: her heart was big in +her throat, and the ducts to her eyes were painfully full. Ashamed as +she was to show emotion, at last she burst out:— + +“This is all I get for loving you so well! Ah! when I married you your +life was dearer to me than my own. I would have died for you—how truly +I can say that I would have died for you! And now you sneer at my +foolishness in marrying you. O! is it kind to me to throw my mistake in +my face? Whatever opinion you may have of my wisdom, you should not +tell me of it so mercilessly, now that I am in your power.” + +“I can’t help how things fall out,” said Troy; “upon my heart, women +will be the death of me!” + +“Well you shouldn’t keep people’s hair. You’ll burn it, won’t you, +Frank?” + +Frank went on as if he had not heard her. “There are considerations +even before my consideration for you; reparations to be made—ties you +know nothing of. If you repent of marrying, so do I.” + +Trembling now, she put her hand upon his arm, saying, in mingled tones +of wretchedness and coaxing, “I only repent it if you don’t love me +better than any woman in the world! I don’t otherwise, Frank. You don’t +repent because you already love somebody better than you love me, do +you?” + +“I don’t know. Why do you say that?” + +“You won’t burn that curl. You like the woman who owns that pretty +hair—yes; it is pretty—more beautiful than my miserable black mane! +Well, it is no use; I can’t help being ugly. You must like her best, if +you will!” + +“Until to-day, when I took it from a drawer, I have never looked upon +that bit of hair for several months—that I am ready to swear.” + +“But just now you said ‘ties’; and then—that woman we met?” + +“’Twas the meeting with her that reminded me of the hair.” + +“Is it hers, then?” + +“Yes. There, now that you have wormed it out of me, I hope you are +content.” + +“And what are the ties?” + +“Oh! that meant nothing—a mere jest.” + +“A mere jest!” she said, in mournful astonishment. “Can you jest when I +am so wretchedly in earnest? Tell me the truth, Frank. I am not a fool, +you know, although I am a woman, and have my woman’s moments. Come! +treat me fairly,” she said, looking honestly and fearlessly into his +face. “I don’t want much; bare justice—that’s all! Ah! once I felt I +could be content with nothing less than the highest homage from the +husband I should choose. Now, anything short of cruelty will content +me. Yes! the independent and spirited Bathsheba is come to this!” + +“For Heaven’s sake don’t be so desperate!” Troy said, snappishly, +rising as he did so, and leaving the room. + +Directly he had gone, Bathsheba burst into great sobs—dry-eyed sobs, +which cut as they came, without any softening by tears. But she +determined to repress all evidences of feeling. She was conquered; but +she would never own it as long as she lived. Her pride was indeed +brought low by despairing discoveries of her spoliation by marriage +with a less pure nature than her own. She chafed to and fro in +rebelliousness, like a caged leopard; her whole soul was in arms, and +the blood fired her face. Until she had met Troy, Bathsheba had been +proud of her position as a woman; it had been a glory to her to know +that her lips had been touched by no man’s on earth—that her waist had +never been encircled by a lover’s arm. She hated herself now. In those +earlier days she had always nourished a secret contempt for girls who +were the slaves of the first good-looking young fellow who should +choose to salute them. She had never taken kindly to the idea of +marriage in the abstract as did the majority of women she saw about +her. In the turmoil of her anxiety for her lover she had agreed to +marry him; but the perception that had accompanied her happiest hours +on this account was rather that of self-sacrifice than of promotion and +honour. Although she scarcely knew the divinity’s name, Diana was the +goddess whom Bathsheba instinctively adored. That she had never, by +look, word, or sign, encouraged a man to approach her—that she had felt +herself sufficient to herself, and had in the independence of her +girlish heart fancied there was a certain degradation in renouncing the +simplicity of a maiden existence to become the humbler half of an +indifferent matrimonial whole—were facts now bitterly remembered. Oh, +if she had never stooped to folly of this kind, respectable as it was, +and could only stand again, as she had stood on the hill at Norcombe, +and dare Troy or any other man to pollute a hair of her head by his +interference! + +The next morning she rose earlier than usual, and had the horse saddled +for her ride round the farm in the customary way. When she came in at +half-past eight—their usual hour for breakfasting—she was informed that +her husband had risen, taken his breakfast, and driven off to +Casterbridge with the gig and Poppet. + +After breakfast she was cool and collected—quite herself in fact—and +she rambled to the gate, intending to walk to another quarter of the +farm, which she still personally superintended as well as her duties in +the house would permit, continually, however, finding herself preceded +in forethought by Gabriel Oak, for whom she began to entertain the +genuine friendship of a sister. Of course, she sometimes thought of him +in the light of an old lover, and had momentary imaginings of what life +with him as a husband would have been like; also of life with Boldwood +under the same conditions. But Bathsheba, though she could feel, was +not much given to futile dreaming, and her musings under this head were +short and entirely confined to the times when Troy’s neglect was more +than ordinarily evident. + +She saw coming up the road a man like Mr. Boldwood. It was Mr. +Boldwood. Bathsheba blushed painfully, and watched. The farmer stopped +when still a long way off, and held up his hand to Gabriel Oak, who was +in a footpath across the field. The two men then approached each other +and seemed to engage in earnest conversation. + +Thus they continued for a long time. Joseph Poorgrass now passed near +them, wheeling a barrow of apples up the hill to Bathsheba’s residence. +Boldwood and Gabriel called to him, spoke to him for a few minutes, and +then all three parted, Joseph immediately coming up the hill with his +barrow. + +Bathsheba, who had seen this pantomime with some surprise, experienced +great relief when Boldwood turned back again. “Well, what’s the +message, Joseph?” she said. + +He set down his barrow, and, putting upon himself the refined aspect +that a conversation with a lady required, spoke to Bathsheba over the +gate. + +“You’ll never see Fanny Robin no more—use nor principal—ma’am.” + +“Why?” + +“Because she’s dead in the Union.” + +“Fanny dead—never!” + +“Yes, ma’am.” + +“What did she die from?” + +“I don’t know for certain; but I should be inclined to think it was +from general neshness of constitution. She was such a limber maid that +’a could stand no hardship, even when I knowed her, and ’a went like a +candle-snoff, so ’tis said. She was took bad in the morning, and, being +quite feeble and worn out, she died in the evening. She belongs by law +to our parish; and Mr. Boldwood is going to send a waggon at three this +afternoon to fetch her home here and bury her.” + +“Indeed I shall not let Mr. Boldwood do any such thing—I shall do it! +Fanny was my uncle’s servant, and, although I only knew her for a +couple of days, she belongs to me. How very, very sad this is!—the idea +of Fanny being in a workhouse.” Bathsheba had begun to know what +suffering was, and she spoke with real feeling.... “Send across to Mr. +Boldwood’s, and say that Mrs. Troy will take upon herself the duty of +fetching an old servant of the family.... We ought not to put her in a +waggon; we’ll get a hearse.” + +“There will hardly be time, ma’am, will there?” + +“Perhaps not,” she said, musingly. “When did you say we must be at the +door—three o’clock?” + +“Three o’clock this afternoon, ma’am, so to speak it.” + +“Very well—you go with it. A pretty waggon is better than an ugly +hearse, after all. Joseph, have the new spring waggon with the blue +body and red wheels, and wash it very clean. And, Joseph—” + +“Yes, ma’am.” + +“Carry with you some evergreens and flowers to put upon her +coffin—indeed, gather a great many, and completely bury her in them. +Get some boughs of laurustinus, and variegated box, and yew, and +boy’s-love; ay, and some bunches of chrysanthemum. And let old Pleasant +draw her, because she knew him so well.” + +“I will, ma’am. I ought to have said that the Union, in the form of +four labouring men, will meet me when I gets to our churchyard gate, +and take her and bury her according to the rites of the Board of +Guardians, as by law ordained.” + +“Dear me—Casterbridge Union—and is Fanny come to this?” said Bathsheba, +musing. “I wish I had known of it sooner. I thought she was far away. +How long has she lived there?” + +“On’y been there a day or two.” + +“Oh!—then she has not been staying there as a regular inmate?” + +“No. She first went to live in a garrison-town t’other side o’ Wessex, +and since then she’s been picking up a living at seampstering in +Melchester for several months, at the house of a very respectable +widow-woman who takes in work of that sort. She only got handy the +Union-house on Sunday morning ’a b’lieve, and ’tis supposed here and +there that she had traipsed every step of the way from Melchester. Why +she left her place, I can’t say, for I don’t know; and as to a lie, +why, I wouldn’t tell it. That’s the short of the story, ma’am.” + +“Ah-h!” + +No gem ever flashed from a rosy ray to a white one more rapidly than +changed the young wife’s countenance whilst this word came from her in +a long-drawn breath. “Did she walk along our turnpike-road?” she said, +in a suddenly restless and eager voice. + +“I believe she did.... Ma’am, shall I call Liddy? You bain’t well, +ma’am, surely? You look like a lily—so pale and fainty!” + +“No; don’t call her; it is nothing. When did she pass Weatherbury?” + +“Last Saturday night.” + +“That will do, Joseph; now you may go.” + +“Certainly, ma’am.” + +“Joseph, come hither a moment. What was the colour of Fanny Robin’s +hair?” + +“Really, mistress, now that ’tis put to me so judge-and-jury like, I +can’t call to mind, if ye’ll believe me!” + +“Never mind; go on and do what I told you. Stop—well no, go on.” + +She turned herself away from him, that he might no longer notice the +mood which had set its sign so visibly upon her, and went indoors with +a distressing sense of faintness and a beating brow. About an hour +after, she heard the noise of the waggon and went out, still with a +painful consciousness of her bewildered and troubled look. Joseph, +dressed in his best suit of clothes, was putting in the horse to start. +The shrubs and flowers were all piled in the waggon, as she had +directed; Bathsheba hardly saw them now. + +“Died of what? did you say, Joseph?” + +“I don’t know, ma’am.” + +“Are you quite sure?” + +“Yes, ma’am, quite sure.” + +“Sure of what?” + +“I’m sure that all I know is that she arrived in the morning and died +in the evening without further parley. What Oak and Mr. Boldwood told +me was only these few words. ‘Little Fanny Robin is dead, Joseph,’ +Gabriel said, looking in my face in his steady old way. I was very +sorry, and I said, ‘Ah!—and how did she come to die?’ ‘Well, she’s dead +in Casterbridge Union,’ he said, ‘and perhaps ’tisn’t much matter about +how she came to die. She reached the Union early Sunday morning, and +died in the afternoon—that’s clear enough.’ Then I asked what she’d +been doing lately, and Mr. Boldwood turned round to me then, and left +off spitting a thistle with the end of his stick. He told me about her +having lived by seampstering in Melchester, as I mentioned to you, and +that she walked therefrom at the end of last week, passing near here +Saturday night in the dusk. They then said I had better just name a +hint of her death to you, and away they went. Her death might have been +brought on by biding in the night wind, you know, ma’am; for people +used to say she’d go off in a decline: she used to cough a good deal in +winter time. However, ’tisn’t much odds to us about that now, for ’tis +all over.” + +“Have you heard a different story at all?” She looked at him so +intently that Joseph’s eyes quailed. + +“Not a word, mistress, I assure ’ee!” he said. “Hardly anybody in the +parish knows the news yet.” + +“I wonder why Gabriel didn’t bring the message to me himself. He mostly +makes a point of seeing me upon the most trifling errand.” These words +were merely murmured, and she was looking upon the ground. + +“Perhaps he was busy, ma’am,” Joseph suggested. “And sometimes he seems +to suffer from things upon his mind, connected with the time when he +was better off than ’a is now. ’A’s rather a curious item, but a very +understanding shepherd, and learned in books.” + +“Did anything seem upon his mind whilst he was speaking to you about +this?” + +“I cannot but say that there did, ma’am. He was terrible down, and so +was Farmer Boldwood.” + +“Thank you, Joseph. That will do. Go on now, or you’ll be late.” + +Bathsheba, still unhappy, went indoors again. In the course of the +afternoon she said to Liddy, who had been informed of the occurrence, +“What was the colour of poor Fanny Robin’s hair? Do you know? I cannot +recollect—I only saw her for a day or two.” + +“It was light, ma’am; but she wore it rather short, and packed away +under her cap, so that you would hardly notice it. But I have seen her +let it down when she was going to bed, and it looked beautiful then. +Real golden hair.” + +“Her young man was a soldier, was he not?” + +“Yes. In the same regiment as Mr. Troy. He says he knew him very well.” + +“What, Mr. Troy says so? How came he to say that?” + +“One day I just named it to him, and asked him if he knew Fanny’s young +man. He said, ‘Oh yes, he knew the young man as well as he knew +himself, and that there wasn’t a man in the regiment he liked better.’” + +“Ah! Said that, did he?” + +“Yes; and he said there was a strong likeness between himself and the +other young man, so that sometimes people mistook them—” + +“Liddy, for Heaven’s sake stop your talking!” said Bathsheba, with the +nervous petulance that comes from worrying perceptions. + + + + +CHAPTER XLII +JOSEPH AND HIS BURDEN—BUCK’S HEAD + + +A wall bounded the site of Casterbridge Union-house, except along a +portion of the end. Here a high gable stood prominent, and it was +covered like the front with a mat of ivy. In this gable was no window, +chimney, ornament, or protuberance of any kind. The single feature +appertaining to it, beyond the expanse of dark green leaves, was a +small door. + +The situation of the door was peculiar. The sill was three or four feet +above the ground, and for a moment one was at a loss for an explanation +of this exceptional altitude, till ruts immediately beneath suggested +that the door was used solely for the passage of articles and persons +to and from the level of a vehicle standing on the outside. Upon the +whole, the door seemed to advertise itself as a species of Traitor’s +Gate translated to another sphere. That entry and exit hereby was only +at rare intervals became apparent on noting that tufts of grass were +allowed to flourish undisturbed in the chinks of the sill. + +As the clock over the South-street Alms-house pointed to five minutes +to three, a blue spring waggon, picked out with red, and containing +boughs and flowers, passed the end of the street, and up towards this +side of the building. Whilst the chimes were yet stammering out a +shattered form of “Malbrook,” Joseph Poorgrass rang the bell, and +received directions to back his waggon against the high door under the +gable. The door then opened, and a plain elm coffin was slowly thrust +forth, and laid by two men in fustian along the middle of the vehicle. + +One of the men then stepped up beside it, took from his pocket a lump +of chalk, and wrote upon the cover the name and a few other words in a +large scrawling hand. (We believe that they do these things more +tenderly now, and provide a plate.) He covered the whole with a black +cloth, threadbare, but decent, the tail-board of the waggon was +returned to its place, one of the men handed a certificate of registry +to Poorgrass, and both entered the door, closing it behind them. Their +connection with her, short as it had been, was over for ever. + +Joseph then placed the flowers as enjoined, and the evergreens around +the flowers, till it was difficult to divine what the waggon contained; +he smacked his whip, and the rather pleasing funeral car crept down the +hill, and along the road to Weatherbury. + +The afternoon drew on apace, and, looking to the right towards the sea +as he walked beside the horse, Poorgrass saw strange clouds and scrolls +of mist rolling over the long ridges which girt the landscape in that +quarter. They came in yet greater volumes, and indolently crept across +the intervening valleys, and around the withered papery flags of the +moor and river brinks. Then their dank spongy forms closed in upon the +sky. It was a sudden overgrowth of atmospheric fungi which had their +roots in the neighbouring sea, and by the time that horse, man, and +corpse entered Yalbury Great Wood, these silent workings of an +invisible hand had reached them, and they were completely enveloped, +this being the first arrival of the autumn fogs, and the first fog of +the series. + +The air was as an eye suddenly struck blind. The waggon and its load +rolled no longer on the horizontal division between clearness and +opacity, but were imbedded in an elastic body of a monotonous pallor +throughout. There was no perceptible motion in the air, not a visible +drop of water fell upon a leaf of the beeches, birches, and firs +composing the wood on either side. The trees stood in an attitude of +intentness, as if they waited longingly for a wind to come and rock +them. A startling quiet overhung all surrounding things—so completely, +that the crunching of the waggon-wheels was as a great noise, and small +rustles, which had never obtained a hearing except by night, were +distinctly individualized. + +Joseph Poorgrass looked round upon his sad burden as it loomed faintly +through the flowering laurustinus, then at the unfathomable gloom amid +the high trees on each hand, indistinct, shadowless, and spectre-like +in their monochrome of grey. He felt anything but cheerful, and wished +he had the company even of a child or dog. Stopping the horse, he +listened. Not a footstep or wheel was audible anywhere around, and the +dead silence was broken only by a heavy particle falling from a tree +through the evergreens and alighting with a smart rap upon the coffin +of poor Fanny. The fog had by this time saturated the trees, and this +was the first dropping of water from the overbrimming leaves. The +hollow echo of its fall reminded the waggoner painfully of the grim +Leveller. Then hard by came down another drop, then two or three. +Presently there was a continual tapping of these heavy drops upon the +dead leaves, the road, and the travellers. The nearer boughs were +beaded with the mist to the greyness of aged men, and the rusty-red +leaves of the beeches were hung with similar drops, like diamonds on +auburn hair. + +At the roadside hamlet called Roy-Town, just beyond this wood, was the +old inn Buck’s Head. It was about a mile and a half from Weatherbury, +and in the meridian times of stage-coach travelling had been the place +where many coaches changed and kept their relays of horses. All the old +stabling was now pulled down, and little remained besides the habitable +inn itself, which, standing a little way back from the road, signified +its existence to people far up and down the highway by a sign hanging +from the horizontal bough of an elm on the opposite side of the way. + +Travellers—for the variety _tourist_ had hardly developed into a +distinct species at this date—sometimes said in passing, when they cast +their eyes up to the sign-bearing tree, that artists were fond of +representing the signboard hanging thus, but that they themselves had +never before noticed so perfect an instance in actual working order. It +was near this tree that the waggon was standing into which Gabriel Oak +crept on his first journey to Weatherbury; but, owing to the darkness, +the sign and the inn had been unobserved. + +The manners of the inn were of the old-established type. Indeed, in the +minds of its frequenters they existed as unalterable formulæ: _e.g._— + +Rap with the bottom of your pint for more liquor. +For tobacco, shout. +In calling for the girl in waiting, say, “Maid!” +Ditto for the landlady, “Old Soul!” etc., etc. + + +It was a relief to Joseph’s heart when the friendly signboard came in +view, and, stopping his horse immediately beneath it, he proceeded to +fulfil an intention made a long time before. His spirits were oozing +out of him quite. He turned the horse’s head to the green bank, and +entered the hostel for a mug of ale. + +Going down into the kitchen of the inn, the floor of which was a step +below the passage, which in its turn was a step below the road outside, +what should Joseph see to gladden his eyes but two copper-coloured +discs, in the form of the countenances of Mr. Jan Coggan and Mr. Mark +Clark. These owners of the two most appreciative throats in the +neighbourhood, within the pale of respectability, were now sitting face +to face over a three-legged circular table, having an iron rim to keep +cups and pots from being accidentally elbowed off; they might have been +said to resemble the setting sun and the full moon shining _vis-à-vis_ +across the globe. + +“Why, ’tis neighbour Poorgrass!” said Mark Clark. “I’m sure your face +don’t praise your mistress’s table, Joseph.” + +“I’ve had a very pale companion for the last four miles,” said Joseph, +indulging in a shudder toned down by resignation. “And to speak the +truth, ’twas beginning to tell upon me. I assure ye, I ha’n’t seed the +colour of victuals or drink since breakfast time this morning, and that +was no more than a dew-bit afield.” + +“Then drink, Joseph, and don’t restrain yourself!” said Coggan, handing +him a hooped mug three-quarters full. + +Joseph drank for a moderately long time, then for a longer time, +saying, as he lowered the jug, “’Tis pretty drinking—very pretty +drinking, and is more than cheerful on my melancholy errand, so to +speak it.” + +“True, drink is a pleasant delight,” said Jan, as one who repeated a +truism so familiar to his brain that he hardly noticed its passage over +his tongue; and, lifting the cup, Coggan tilted his head gradually +backwards, with closed eyes, that his expectant soul might not be +diverted for one instant from its bliss by irrelevant surroundings. + +“Well, I must be on again,” said Poorgrass. “Not but that I should like +another nip with ye; but the parish might lose confidence in me if I +was seed here.” + +“Where be ye trading o’t to to-day, then, Joseph?” + +“Back to Weatherbury. I’ve got poor little Fanny Robin in my waggon +outside, and I must be at the churchyard gates at a quarter to five +with her.” + +“Ay—I’ve heard of it. And so she’s nailed up in parish boards after +all, and nobody to pay the bell shilling and the grave half-crown.” + +“The parish pays the grave half-crown, but not the bell shilling, +because the bell’s a luxery: but ’a can hardly do without the grave, +poor body. However, I expect our mistress will pay all.” + +“A pretty maid as ever I see! But what’s yer hurry, Joseph? The pore +woman’s dead, and you can’t bring her to life, and you may as well sit +down comfortable, and finish another with us.” + +“I don’t mind taking just the least thimbleful ye can dream of more +with ye, sonnies. But only a few minutes, because ’tis as ’tis.” + +“Of course, you’ll have another drop. A man’s twice the man afterwards. +You feel so warm and glorious, and you whop and slap at your work +without any trouble, and everything goes on like sticks a-breaking. Too +much liquor is bad, and leads us to that horned man in the smoky house; +but after all, many people haven’t the gift of enjoying a wet, and +since we be highly favoured with a power that way, we should make the +most o’t.” + +“True,” said Mark Clark. “’Tis a talent the Lord has mercifully +bestowed upon us, and we ought not to neglect it. But, what with the +parsons and clerks and school-people and serious tea-parties, the merry +old ways of good life have gone to the dogs—upon my carcase, they +have!” + +“Well, really, I must be onward again now,” said Joseph. + +“Now, now, Joseph; nonsense! The poor woman is dead, isn’t she, and +what’s your hurry?” + +“Well, I hope Providence won’t be in a way with me for my doings,” said +Joseph, again sitting down. “I’ve been troubled with weak moments +lately, ’tis true. I’ve been drinky once this month already, and I did +not go to church a-Sunday, and I dropped a curse or two yesterday; so I +don’t want to go too far for my safety. Your next world is your next +world, and not to be squandered offhand.” + +“I believe ye to be a chapelmember, Joseph. That I do.” + +“Oh, no, no! I don’t go so far as that.” + +“For my part,” said Coggan, “I’m staunch Church of England.” + +“Ay, and faith, so be I,” said Mark Clark. + +“I won’t say much for myself; I don’t wish to,” Coggan continued, with +that tendency to talk on principles which is characteristic of the +barley-corn. “But I’ve never changed a single doctrine: I’ve stuck like +a plaster to the old faith I was born in. Yes; there’s this to be said +for the Church, a man can belong to the Church and bide in his cheerful +old inn, and never trouble or worry his mind about doctrines at all. +But to be a meetinger, you must go to chapel in all winds and weathers, +and make yerself as frantic as a skit. Not but that chapel members be +clever chaps enough in their way. They can lift up beautiful prayers +out of their own heads, all about their families and shipwrecks in the +newspaper.” + +“They can—they can,” said Mark Clark, with corroborative feeling; “but +we Churchmen, you see, must have it all printed aforehand, or, dang it +all, we should no more know what to say to a great gaffer like the Lord +than babes unborn.” + +“Chapelfolk be more hand-in-glove with them above than we,” said +Joseph, thoughtfully. + +“Yes,” said Coggan. “We know very well that if anybody do go to heaven, +they will. They’ve worked hard for it, and they deserve to have it, +such as ’tis. I bain’t such a fool as to pretend that we who stick to +the Church have the same chance as they, because we know we have not. +But I hate a feller who’ll change his old ancient doctrines for the +sake of getting to heaven. I’d as soon turn king’s-evidence for the few +pounds you get. Why, neighbours, when every one of my taties were +frosted, our Parson Thirdly were the man who gave me a sack for seed, +though he hardly had one for his own use, and no money to buy ’em. If +it hadn’t been for him, I shouldn’t hae had a tatie to put in my +garden. D’ye think I’d turn after that? No, I’ll stick to my side; and +if we be in the wrong, so be it: I’ll fall with the fallen!” + +“Well said—very well said,” observed Joseph.—“However, folks, I must be +moving now: upon my life I must. Pa’son Thirdly will be waiting at the +church gates, and there’s the woman a-biding outside in the waggon.” + +“Joseph Poorgrass, don’t be so miserable! Pa’son Thirdly won’t mind. +He’s a generous man; he’s found me in tracts for years, and I’ve +consumed a good many in the course of a long and shady life; but he’s +never been the man to cry out at the expense. Sit down.” + +The longer Joseph Poorgrass remained, the less his spirit was troubled +by the duties which devolved upon him this afternoon. The minutes +glided by uncounted, until the evening shades began perceptibly to +deepen, and the eyes of the three were but sparkling points on the +surface of darkness. Coggan’s repeater struck six from his pocket in +the usual still small tones. + +At that moment hasty steps were heard in the entry, and the door opened +to admit the figure of Gabriel Oak, followed by the maid of the inn +bearing a candle. He stared sternly at the one lengthy and two round +faces of the sitters, which confronted him with the expressions of a +fiddle and a couple of warming-pans. Joseph Poorgrass blinked, and +shrank several inches into the background. + +“Upon my soul, I’m ashamed of you; ’tis disgraceful, Joseph, +disgraceful!” said Gabriel, indignantly. “Coggan, you call yourself a +man, and don’t know better than this.” + +Coggan looked up indefinitely at Oak, one or other of his eyes +occasionally opening and closing of its own accord, as if it were not a +member, but a dozy individual with a distinct personality. + +“Don’t take on so, shepherd!” said Mark Clark, looking reproachfully at +the candle, which appeared to possess special features of interest for +his eyes. + +“Nobody can hurt a dead woman,” at length said Coggan, with the +precision of a machine. “All that could be done for her is done—she’s +beyond us: and why should a man put himself in a tearing hurry for +lifeless clay that can neither feel nor see, and don’t know what you do +with her at all? If she’d been alive, I would have been the first to +help her. If she now wanted victuals and drink, I’d pay for it, money +down. But she’s dead, and no speed of ours will bring her to life. The +woman’s past us—time spent upon her is throwed away: why should we +hurry to do what’s not required? Drink, shepherd, and be friends, for +to-morrow we may be like her.” + +“We may,” added Mark Clark, emphatically, at once drinking himself, to +run no further risk of losing his chance by the event alluded to, Jan +meanwhile merging his additional thoughts of to-morrow in a song:— + + To-mor-row, to-mor-row! +And while peace and plen-ty I find at my board, + With a heart free from sick-ness and sor-row, +With my friends will I share what to-day may af-ford, + And let them spread the ta-ble to-mor-row. + To-mor-row, to-mor—— + + +“Do hold thy horning, Jan!” said Oak; and turning upon Poorgrass, “as +for you, Joseph, who do your wicked deeds in such confoundedly holy +ways, you are as drunk as you can stand.” + +“No, Shepherd Oak, no! Listen to reason, shepherd. All that’s the +matter with me is the affliction called a multiplying eye, and that’s +how it is I look double to you—I mean, you look double to me.” + +“A multiplying eye is a very bad thing,” said Mark Clark. + +“It always comes on when I have been in a public-house a little time,” +said Joseph Poorgrass, meekly. “Yes; I see two of every sort, as if I +were some holy man living in the times of King Noah and entering into +the ark.... Y-y-y-yes,” he added, becoming much affected by the picture +of himself as a person thrown away, and shedding tears; “I feel too +good for England: I ought to have lived in Genesis by rights, like the +other men of sacrifice, and then I shouldn’t have b-b-been called a +d-d-drunkard in such a way!” + +“I wish you’d show yourself a man of spirit, and not sit whining +there!” + +“Show myself a man of spirit?... Ah, well! let me take the name of +drunkard humbly—let me be a man of contrite knees—let it be! I know +that I always do say ‘Please God’ afore I do anything, from my getting +up to my going down of the same, and I be willing to take as much +disgrace as there is in that holy act. Hah, yes!... But not a man of +spirit? Have I ever allowed the toe of pride to be lifted against my +hinder parts without groaning manfully that I question the right to do +so? I inquire that query boldly?” + +“We can’t say that you have, Hero Poorgrass,” admitted Jan. + +“Never have I allowed such treatment to pass unquestioned! Yet the +shepherd says in the face of that rich testimony that I be not a man of +spirit! Well, let it pass by, and death is a kind friend!” + +Gabriel, seeing that neither of the three was in a fit state to take +charge of the waggon for the remainder of the journey, made no reply, +but, closing the door again upon them, went across to where the vehicle +stood, now getting indistinct in the fog and gloom of this mildewy +time. He pulled the horse’s head from the large patch of turf it had +eaten bare, readjusted the boughs over the coffin, and drove along +through the unwholesome night. + +It had gradually become rumoured in the village that the body to be +brought and buried that day was all that was left of the unfortunate +Fanny Robin who had followed the Eleventh from Casterbridge through +Melchester and onwards. But, thanks to Boldwood’s reticence and Oak’s +generosity, the lover she had followed had never been individualized as +Troy. Gabriel hoped that the whole truth of the matter might not be +published till at any rate the girl had been in her grave for a few +days, when the interposing barriers of earth and time, and a sense that +the events had been somewhat shut into oblivion, would deaden the sting +that revelation and invidious remark would have for Bathsheba just now. + +By the time that Gabriel reached the old manor-house, her residence, +which lay in his way to the church, it was quite dark. A man came from +the gate and said through the fog, which hung between them like blown +flour— + +“Is that Poorgrass with the corpse?” + +Gabriel recognized the voice as that of the parson. + +“The corpse is here, sir,” said Gabriel. + +“I have just been to inquire of Mrs. Troy if she could tell me the +reason of the delay. I am afraid it is too late now for the funeral to +be performed with proper decency. Have you the registrar’s +certificate?” + +“No,” said Gabriel. “I expect Poorgrass has that; and he’s at the +Buck’s Head. I forgot to ask him for it.” + +“Then that settles the matter. We’ll put off the funeral till to-morrow +morning. The body may be brought on to the church, or it may be left +here at the farm and fetched by the bearers in the morning. They waited +more than an hour, and have now gone home.” + +Gabriel had his reasons for thinking the latter a most objectionable +plan, notwithstanding that Fanny had been an inmate of the farm-house +for several years in the lifetime of Bathsheba’s uncle. Visions of +several unhappy contingencies which might arise from this delay flitted +before him. But his will was not law, and he went indoors to inquire of +his mistress what were her wishes on the subject. He found her in an +unusual mood: her eyes as she looked up to him were suspicious and +perplexed as with some antecedent thought. Troy had not yet returned. +At first Bathsheba assented with a mien of indifference to his +proposition that they should go on to the church at once with their +burden; but immediately afterwards, following Gabriel to the gate, she +swerved to the extreme of solicitousness on Fanny’s account, and +desired that the girl might be brought into the house. Oak argued upon +the convenience of leaving her in the waggon, just as she lay now, with +her flowers and green leaves about her, merely wheeling the vehicle +into the coach-house till the morning, but to no purpose. “It is unkind +and unchristian,” she said, “to leave the poor thing in a coach-house +all night.” + +“Very well, then,” said the parson. “And I will arrange that the +funeral shall take place early to-morrow. Perhaps Mrs. Troy is right in +feeling that we cannot treat a dead fellow-creature too thoughtfully. +We must remember that though she may have erred grievously in leaving +her home, she is still our sister: and it is to be believed that God’s +uncovenanted mercies are extended towards her, and that she is a member +of the flock of Christ.” + +The parson’s words spread into the heavy air with a sad yet unperturbed +cadence, and Gabriel shed an honest tear. Bathsheba seemed unmoved. Mr. +Thirdly then left them, and Gabriel lighted a lantern. Fetching three +other men to assist him, they bore the unconscious truant indoors, +placing the coffin on two benches in the middle of a little +sitting-room next the hall, as Bathsheba directed. + +Every one except Gabriel Oak then left the room. He still indecisively +lingered beside the body. He was deeply troubled at the wretchedly +ironical aspect that circumstances were putting on with regard to +Troy’s wife, and at his own powerlessness to counteract them. In spite +of his careful manœuvering all this day, the very worst event that +could in any way have happened in connection with the burial had +happened now. Oak imagined a terrible discovery resulting from this +afternoon’s work that might cast over Bathsheba’s life a shade which +the interposition of many lapsing years might but indifferently +lighten, and which nothing at all might altogether remove. + +Suddenly, as in a last attempt to save Bathsheba from, at any rate, +immediate anguish, he looked again, as he had looked before, at the +chalk writing upon the coffin-lid. The scrawl was this simple one, +“_Fanny Robin and child_.” Gabriel took his handkerchief and carefully +rubbed out the two latter words, leaving visible the inscription +“_Fanny Robin_” only. He then left the room, and went out quietly by +the front door. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIII +FANNY’S REVENGE + + +“Do you want me any longer ma’am?” inquired Liddy, at a later hour the +same evening, standing by the door with a chamber candlestick in her +hand and addressing Bathsheba, who sat cheerless and alone in the large +parlour beside the first fire of the season. + +“No more to-night, Liddy.” + +“I’ll sit up for master if you like, ma’am. I am not at all afraid of +Fanny, if I may sit in my own room and have a candle. She was such a +childlike, nesh young thing that her spirit couldn’t appear to anybody +if it tried, I’m quite sure.” + +“Oh no, no! You go to bed. I’ll sit up for him myself till twelve +o’clock, and if he has not arrived by that time, I shall give him up +and go to bed too.” + +“It is half-past ten now.” + +“Oh! is it?” + +“Why don’t you sit upstairs, ma’am?” + +“Why don’t I?” said Bathsheba, desultorily. “It isn’t worth +while—there’s a fire here, Liddy.” She suddenly exclaimed in an +impulsive and excited whisper, “Have you heard anything strange said of +Fanny?” The words had no sooner escaped her than an expression of +unutterable regret crossed her face, and she burst into tears. + +“No—not a word!” said Liddy, looking at the weeping woman with +astonishment. “What is it makes you cry so, ma’am; has anything hurt +you?” She came to Bathsheba’s side with a face full of sympathy. + +“No, Liddy—I don’t want you any more. I can hardly say why I have taken +to crying lately: I never used to cry. Good-night.” + +Liddy then left the parlour and closed the door. + +Bathsheba was lonely and miserable now; not lonelier actually than she +had been before her marriage; but her loneliness then was to that of +the present time as the solitude of a mountain is to the solitude of a +cave. And within the last day or two had come these disquieting +thoughts about her husband’s past. Her wayward sentiment that evening +concerning Fanny’s temporary resting-place had been the result of a +strange complication of impulses in Bathsheba’s bosom. Perhaps it would +be more accurately described as a determined rebellion against her +prejudices, a revulsion from a lower instinct of uncharitableness, +which would have withheld all sympathy from the dead woman, because in +life she had preceded Bathsheba in the attentions of a man whom +Bathsheba had by no means ceased from loving, though her love was sick +to death just now with the gravity of a further misgiving. + +In five or ten minutes there was another tap at the door. Liddy +reappeared, and coming in a little way stood hesitating, until at +length she said, “Maryann has just heard something very strange, but I +know it isn’t true. And we shall be sure to know the rights of it in a +day or two.” + +“What is it?” + +“Oh, nothing connected with you or us, ma’am. It is about Fanny. That +same thing you have heard.” + +“I have heard nothing.” + +“I mean that a wicked story is got to Weatherbury within this last +hour—that—” Liddy came close to her mistress and whispered the +remainder of the sentence slowly into her ear, inclining her head as +she spoke in the direction of the room where Fanny lay. + +Bathsheba trembled from head to foot. + +“I don’t believe it!” she said, excitedly. “And there’s only one name +written on the coffin-cover.” + +“Nor I, ma’am. And a good many others don’t; for we should surely have +been told more about it if it had been true—don’t you think so, ma’am?” + +“We might or we might not.” + +Bathsheba turned and looked into the fire, that Liddy might not see her +face. Finding that her mistress was going to say no more, Liddy glided +out, closed the door softly, and went to bed. + +Bathsheba’s face, as she continued looking into the fire that evening, +might have excited solicitousness on her account even among those who +loved her least. The sadness of Fanny Robin’s fate did not make +Bathsheba’s glorious, although she was the Esther to this poor Vashti, +and their fates might be supposed to stand in some respects as +contrasts to each other. When Liddy came into the room a second time +the beautiful eyes which met hers had worn a listless, weary look. When +she went out after telling the story they had expressed wretchedness in +full activity. Her simple country nature, fed on old-fashioned +principles, was troubled by that which would have troubled a woman of +the world very little, both Fanny and her child, if she had one, being +dead. + +Bathsheba had grounds for conjecturing a connection between her own +history and the dimly suspected tragedy of Fanny’s end which Oak and +Boldwood never for a moment credited her with possessing. The meeting +with the lonely woman on the previous Saturday night had been +unwitnessed and unspoken of. Oak may have had the best of intentions in +withholding for as many days as possible the details of what had +happened to Fanny; but had he known that Bathsheba’s perceptions had +already been exercised in the matter, he would have done nothing to +lengthen the minutes of suspense she was now undergoing, when the +certainty which must terminate it would be the worst fact suspected +after all. + +She suddenly felt a longing desire to speak to some one stronger than +herself, and so get strength to sustain her surmised position with +dignity and her lurking doubts with stoicism. Where could she find such +a friend? nowhere in the house. She was by far the coolest of the women +under her roof. Patience and suspension of judgement for a few hours +were what she wanted to learn, and there was nobody to teach her. Might +she but go to Gabriel Oak!—but that could not be. What a way Oak had, +she thought, of enduring things. Boldwood, who seemed so much deeper +and higher and stronger in feeling than Gabriel, had not yet learnt, +any more than she herself, the simple lesson which Oak showed a mastery +of by every turn and look he gave—that among the multitude of interests +by which he was surrounded, those which affected his personal +well-being were not the most absorbing and important in his eyes. Oak +meditatively looked upon the horizon of circumstances without any +special regard to his own standpoint in the midst. That was how she +would wish to be. But then Oak was not racked by incertitude upon the +inmost matter of his bosom, as she was at this moment. Oak knew all +about Fanny that he wished to know—she felt convinced of that. If she +were to go to him now at once and say no more than these few words, +“What is the truth of the story?” he would feel bound in honour to tell +her. It would be an inexpressible relief. No further speech would need +to be uttered. He knew her so well that no eccentricity of behaviour in +her would alarm him. + +She flung a cloak round her, went to the door and opened it. Every +blade, every twig was still. The air was yet thick with moisture, +though somewhat less dense than during the afternoon, and a steady +smack of drops upon the fallen leaves under the boughs was almost +musical in its soothing regularity. It seemed better to be out of the +house than within it, and Bathsheba closed the door, and walked slowly +down the lane till she came opposite to Gabriel’s cottage, where he now +lived alone, having left Coggan’s house through being pinched for room. +There was a light in one window only, and that was downstairs. The +shutters were not closed, nor was any blind or curtain drawn over the +window, neither robbery nor observation being a contingency which could +do much injury to the occupant of the domicile. Yes, it was Gabriel +himself who was sitting up: he was reading. From her standing-place in +the road she could see him plainly, sitting quite still, his light +curly head upon his hand, and only occasionally looking up to snuff the +candle which stood beside him. At length he looked at the clock, seemed +surprised at the lateness of the hour, closed his book, and arose. He +was going to bed, she knew, and if she tapped it must be done at once. + +Alas for her resolve! She felt she could not do it. Not for worlds now +could she give a hint about her misery to him, much less ask him +plainly for information on the cause of Fanny’s death. She must +suspect, and guess, and chafe, and bear it all alone. + +Like a homeless wanderer she lingered by the bank, as if lulled and +fascinated by the atmosphere of content which seemed to spread from +that little dwelling, and was so sadly lacking in her own. Gabriel +appeared in an upper room, placed his light in the window-bench, and +then—knelt down to pray. The contrast of the picture with her +rebellious and agitated existence at this same time was too much for +her to bear to look upon longer. It was not for her to make a truce +with trouble by any such means. She must tread her giddy distracting +measure to its last note, as she had begun it. With a swollen heart she +went again up the lane, and entered her own door. + +More fevered now by a reaction from the first feelings which Oak’s +example had raised in her, she paused in the hall, looking at the door +of the room wherein Fanny lay. She locked her fingers, threw back her +head, and strained her hot hands rigidly across her forehead, saying, +with a hysterical sob, “Would to God you would speak and tell me your +secret, Fanny!... Oh, I hope, hope it is not true that there are two of +you!... If I could only look in upon you for one little minute, I +should know all!” + +A few moments passed, and she added, slowly, “_And I will_.” + +Bathsheba in after times could never gauge the mood which carried her +through the actions following this murmured resolution on this +memorable evening of her life. She went to the lumber-closet for a +screw-driver. At the end of a short though undefined time she found +herself in the small room, quivering with emotion, a mist before her +eyes, and an excruciating pulsation in her brain, standing beside the +uncovered coffin of the girl whose conjectured end had so entirely +engrossed her, and saying to herself in a husky voice as she gazed +within— + +“It was best to know the worst, and I know it now!” + +She was conscious of having brought about this situation by a series of +actions done as by one in an extravagant dream; of following that idea +as to method, which had burst upon her in the hall with glaring +obviousness, by gliding to the top of the stairs, assuring herself by +listening to the heavy breathing of her maids that they were asleep, +gliding down again, turning the handle of the door within which the +young girl lay, and deliberately setting herself to do what, if she had +anticipated any such undertaking at night and alone, would have +horrified her, but which, when done, was not so dreadful as was the +conclusive proof of her husband’s conduct which came with knowing +beyond doubt the last chapter of Fanny’s story. + +Bathsheba’s head sank upon her bosom, and the breath which had been +bated in suspense, curiosity, and interest, was exhaled now in the form +of a whispered wail: “Oh-h-h!” she said, and the silent room added +length to her moan. + +Her tears fell fast beside the unconscious pair in the coffin: tears of +a complicated origin, of a nature indescribable, almost indefinable +except as other than those of simple sorrow. Assuredly their wonted +fires must have lived in Fanny’s ashes when events were so shaped as to +chariot her hither in this natural, unobtrusive, yet effectual manner. +The one feat alone—that of dying—by which a mean condition could be +resolved into a grand one, Fanny had achieved. And to that had destiny +subjoined this reencounter to-night, which had, in Bathsheba’s wild +imagining, turned her companion’s failure to success, her humiliation +to triumph, her lucklessness to ascendency; it had thrown over herself +a garish light of mockery, and set upon all things about her an +ironical smile. + +Fanny’s face was framed in by that yellow hair of hers; and there was +no longer much room for doubt as to the origin of the curl owned by +Troy. In Bathsheba’s heated fancy the innocent white countenance +expressed a dim triumphant consciousness of the pain she was +retaliating for her pain with all the merciless rigour of the Mosaic +law: “Burning for burning; wound for wound: strife for strife.” + +Bathsheba indulged in contemplations of escape from her position by +immediate death, which, thought she, though it was an inconvenient and +awful way, had limits to its inconvenience and awfulness that could not +be overpassed; whilst the shames of life were measureless. Yet even +this scheme of extinction by death was but tamely copying her rival’s +method without the reasons which had glorified it in her rival’s case. +She glided rapidly up and down the room, as was mostly her habit when +excited, her hands hanging clasped in front of her, as she thought and +in part expressed in broken words: “O, I hate her, yet I don’t mean +that I hate her, for it is grievous and wicked; and yet I hate her a +little! Yes, my flesh insists upon hating her, whether my spirit is +willing or no!... If she had only lived, I could have been angry and +cruel towards her with some justification; but to be vindictive towards +a poor dead woman recoils upon myself. O God, have mercy! I am +miserable at all this!” + +Bathsheba became at this moment so terrified at her own state of mind +that she looked around for some sort of refuge from herself. The vision +of Oak kneeling down that night recurred to her, and with the imitative +instinct which animates women she seized upon the idea, resolved to +kneel, and, if possible, pray. Gabriel had prayed; so would she. + +She knelt beside the coffin, covered her face with her hands, and for a +time the room was silent as a tomb. Whether from a purely mechanical, +or from any other cause, when Bathsheba arose it was with a quieted +spirit, and a regret for the antagonistic instincts which had seized +upon her just before. + +In her desire to make atonement she took flowers from a vase by the +window, and began laying them around the dead girl’s head. Bathsheba +knew no other way of showing kindness to persons departed than by +giving them flowers. She knew not how long she remained engaged thus. +She forgot time, life, where she was, what she was doing. A slamming +together of the coach-house doors in the yard brought her to herself +again. An instant after, the front door opened and closed, steps +crossed the hall, and her husband appeared at the entrance to the room, +looking in upon her. + +He beheld it all by degrees, stared in stupefaction at the scene, as if +he thought it an illusion raised by some fiendish incantation. +Bathsheba, pallid as a corpse on end, gazed back at him in the same +wild way. + +So little are instinctive guesses the fruit of a legitimate induction +that, at this moment, as he stood with the door in his hand, Troy never +once thought of Fanny in connection with what he saw. His first +confused idea was that somebody in the house had died. + +“Well—what?” said Troy, blankly. + +“I must go! I must go!” said Bathsheba, to herself more than to him. +She came with a dilated eye towards the door, to push past him. + +“What’s the matter, in God’s name? who’s dead?” said Troy. + +“I cannot say; let me go out. I want air!” she continued. + +“But no; stay, I insist!” He seized her hand, and then volition seemed +to leave her, and she went off into a state of passivity. He, still +holding her, came up the room, and thus, hand in hand, Troy and +Bathsheba approached the coffin’s side. + +The candle was standing on a bureau close by them, and the light +slanted down, distinctly enkindling the cold features of both mother +and babe. Troy looked in, dropped his wife’s hand, knowledge of it all +came over him in a lurid sheen, and he stood still. + +So still he remained that he could be imagined to have left in him no +motive power whatever. The clashes of feeling in all directions +confounded one another, produced a neutrality, and there was motion in +none. + +“Do you know her?” said Bathsheba, in a small enclosed echo, as from +the interior of a cell. + +“I do,” said Troy. + +“Is it she?” + +“It is.” + +He had originally stood perfectly erect. And now, in the well-nigh +congealed immobility of his frame could be discerned an incipient +movement, as in the darkest night may be discerned light after a while. +He was gradually sinking forwards. The lines of his features softened, +and dismay modulated to illimitable sadness. Bathsheba was regarding +him from the other side, still with parted lips and distracted eyes. +Capacity for intense feeling is proportionate to the general intensity +of the nature, and perhaps in all Fanny’s sufferings, much greater +relatively to her strength, there never was a time she suffered in an +absolute sense what Bathsheba suffered now. + +What Troy did was to sink upon his knees with an indefinable union of +remorse and reverence upon his face, and, bending over Fanny Robin, +gently kissed her, as one would kiss an infant asleep to avoid +awakening it. + +At the sight and sound of that, to her, unendurable act, Bathsheba +sprang towards him. All the strong feelings which had been scattered +over her existence since she knew what feeling was, seemed gathered +together into one pulsation now. The revulsion from her indignant mood +a little earlier, when she had meditated upon compromised honour, +forestalment, eclipse in maternity by another, was violent and entire. +All that was forgotten in the simple and still strong attachment of +wife to husband. She had sighed for her self-completeness then, and now +she cried aloud against the severance of the union she had deplored. +She flung her arms round Troy’s neck, exclaiming wildly from the +deepest deep of her heart— + +“Don’t—don’t kiss them! O, Frank, I can’t bear it—I can’t! I love you +better than she did: kiss me too, Frank—kiss me! _You will, Frank, kiss +me too!_” + +There was something so abnormal and startling in the childlike pain and +simplicity of this appeal from a woman of Bathsheba’s calibre and +independence, that Troy, loosening her tightly clasped arms from his +neck, looked at her in bewilderment. It was such an unexpected +revelation of all women being alike at heart, even those so different +in their accessories as Fanny and this one beside him, that Troy could +hardly seem to believe her to be his proud wife Bathsheba. Fanny’s own +spirit seemed to be animating her frame. But this was the mood of a few +instants only. When the momentary surprise had passed, his expression +changed to a silencing imperious gaze. + +“I will not kiss you!” he said pushing her away. + +Had the wife now but gone no further. Yet, perhaps, under the harrowing +circumstances, to speak out was the one wrong act which can be better +understood, if not forgiven in her, than the right and politic one, her +rival being now but a corpse. All the feeling she had been betrayed +into showing she drew back to herself again by a strenuous effort of +self-command. + +“What have you to say as your reason?” she asked, her bitter voice +being strangely low—quite that of another woman now. + +“I have to say that I have been a bad, black-hearted man,” he answered. + +“And that this woman is your victim; and I not less than she.” + +“Ah! don’t taunt me, madam. This woman is more to me, dead as she is, +than ever you were, or are, or can be. If Satan had not tempted me with +that face of yours, and those cursed coquetries, I should have married +her. I never had another thought till you came in my way. Would to God +that I had; but it is all too late!” He turned to Fanny then. “But +never mind, darling,” he said; “in the sight of Heaven you are my very, +very wife!” + +At these words there arose from Bathsheba’s lips a long, low cry of +measureless despair and indignation, such a wail of anguish as had +never before been heard within those old-inhabited walls. It was the +Τετέλεσται[*] of her union with Troy. + +“If she’s—that,—what—am I?” she added, as a continuation of the same +cry, and sobbing pitifully: and the rarity with her of such abandonment +only made the condition more dire. + +“You are nothing to me—nothing,” said Troy, heartlessly. “A ceremony +before a priest doesn’t make a marriage. I am not morally yours.” + +A vehement impulse to flee from him, to run from this place, hide, and +escape his words at any price, not stopping short of death itself, +mastered Bathsheba now. She waited not an instant, but turned to the +door and ran out. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIV +UNDER A TREE—REACTION + + +Bathsheba went along the dark road, neither knowing nor caring about +the direction or issue of her flight. The first time that she +definitely noticed her position was when she reached a gate leading +into a thicket overhung by some large oak and beech trees. On looking +into the place, it occurred to her that she had seen it by daylight on +some previous occasion, and that what appeared like an impassable +thicket was in reality a brake of fern now withering fast. She could +think of nothing better to do with her palpitating self than to go in +here and hide; and entering, she lighted on a spot sheltered from the +damp fog by a reclining trunk, where she sank down upon a tangled couch +of fronds and stems. She mechanically pulled some armfuls round her to +keep off the breezes, and closed her eyes. + +Whether she slept or not that night Bathsheba was not clearly aware. +But it was with a freshened existence and a cooler brain that, a long +time afterwards, she became conscious of some interesting proceedings +which were going on in the trees above her head and around. + +A coarse-throated chatter was the first sound. + +It was a sparrow just waking. + +Next: “Chee-weeze-weeze-weeze!” from another retreat. + +It was a finch. + +Third: “Tink-tink-tink-tink-a-chink!” from the hedge. + +It was a robin. + +“Chuck-chuck-chuck!” overhead. + +A squirrel. + +Then, from the road, “With my ra-ta-ta, and my rum-tum-tum!” + +It was a ploughboy. Presently he came opposite, and she believed from +his voice that he was one of the boys on her own farm. He was followed +by a shambling tramp of heavy feet, and looking through the ferns +Bathsheba could just discern in the wan light of daybreak a team of her +own horses. They stopped to drink at a pond on the other side of the +way. She watched them flouncing into the pool, drinking, tossing up +their heads, drinking again, the water dribbling from their lips in +silver threads. There was another flounce, and they came out of the +pond, and turned back again towards the farm. + +She looked further around. Day was just dawning, and beside its cool +air and colours her heated actions and resolves of the night stood out +in lurid contrast. She perceived that in her lap, and clinging to her +hair, were red and yellow leaves which had come down from the tree and +settled silently upon her during her partial sleep. Bathsheba shook her +dress to get rid of them, when multitudes of the same family lying +round about her rose and fluttered away in the breeze thus created, +“like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing.” + +There was an opening towards the east, and the glow from the as yet +unrisen sun attracted her eyes thither. From her feet, and between the +beautiful yellowing ferns with their feathery arms, the ground sloped +downwards to a hollow, in which was a species of swamp, dotted with +fungi. A morning mist hung over it now—a fulsome yet magnificent +silvery veil, full of light from the sun, yet semi-opaque—the hedge +behind it being in some measure hidden by its hazy luminousness. Up the +sides of this depression grew sheaves of the common rush, and here and +there a peculiar species of flag, the blades of which glistened in the +emerging sun, like scythes. But the general aspect of the swamp was +malignant. From its moist and poisonous coat seemed to be exhaled the +essences of evil things in the earth, and in the waters under the +earth. The fungi grew in all manner of positions from rotting leaves +and tree stumps, some exhibiting to her listless gaze their clammy +tops, others their oozing gills. Some were marked with great splotches, +red as arterial blood, others were saffron yellow, and others tall and +attenuated, with stems like macaroni. Some were leathery and of richest +browns. The hollow seemed a nursery of pestilences small and great, in +the immediate neighbourhood of comfort and health, and Bathsheba arose +with a tremor at the thought of having passed the night on the brink of +so dismal a place. + +There were now other footsteps to be heard along the road. Bathsheba’s +nerves were still unstrung: she crouched down out of sight again, and +the pedestrian came into view. He was a schoolboy, with a bag slung +over his shoulder containing his dinner, and a book in his hand. He +paused by the gate, and, without looking up, continued murmuring words +in tones quite loud enough to reach her ears. + +“‘O Lord, O Lord, O Lord, O Lord, O Lord’:—that I know out o’ book. +‘Give us, give us, give us, give us, give us’:—that I know. ‘Grace +that, grace that, grace that, grace that’:—that I know.” Other words +followed to the same effect. The boy was of the dunce class apparently; +the book was a psalter, and this was his way of learning the collect. +In the worst attacks of trouble there appears to be always a +superficial film of consciousness which is left disengaged and open to +the notice of trifles, and Bathsheba was faintly amused at the boy’s +method, till he too passed on. + +By this time stupor had given place to anxiety, and anxiety began to +make room for hunger and thirst. A form now appeared upon the rise on +the other side of the swamp, half-hidden by the mist, and came towards +Bathsheba. The woman—for it was a woman—approached with her face +askance, as if looking earnestly on all sides of her. When she got a +little further round to the left, and drew nearer, Bathsheba could see +the newcomer’s profile against the sunny sky, and knew the wavy sweep +from forehead to chin, with neither angle nor decisive line anywhere +about it, to be the familiar contour of Liddy Smallbury. + +Bathsheba’s heart bounded with gratitude in the thought that she was +not altogether deserted, and she jumped up. “Oh, Liddy!” she said, or +attempted to say; but the words had only been framed by her lips; there +came no sound. She had lost her voice by exposure to the clogged +atmosphere all these hours of night. + +“Oh, ma’am! I am so glad I have found you,” said the girl, as soon as +she saw Bathsheba. + +“You can’t come across,” Bathsheba said in a whisper, which she vainly +endeavoured to make loud enough to reach Liddy’s ears. Liddy, not +knowing this, stepped down upon the swamp, saying, as she did so, “It +will bear me up, I think.” + +Bathsheba never forgot that transient little picture of Liddy crossing +the swamp to her there in the morning light. Iridescent bubbles of dank +subterranean breath rose from the sweating sod beside the +waiting-maid’s feet as she trod, hissing as they burst and expanded +away to join the vapoury firmament above. Liddy did not sink, as +Bathsheba had anticipated. + +She landed safely on the other side, and looked up at the beautiful +though pale and weary face of her young mistress. + +“Poor thing!” said Liddy, with tears in her eyes, “Do hearten yourself +up a little, ma’am. However did—” + +“I can’t speak above a whisper—my voice is gone for the present,” said +Bathsheba, hurriedly. “I suppose the damp air from that hollow has +taken it away. Liddy, don’t question me, mind. Who sent you—anybody?” + +“Nobody. I thought, when I found you were not at home, that something +cruel had happened. I fancy I heard his voice late last night; and so, +knowing something was wrong—” + +“Is he at home?” + +“No; he left just before I came out.” + +“Is Fanny taken away?” + +“Not yet. She will soon be—at nine o’clock.” + +“We won’t go home at present, then. Suppose we walk about in this +wood?” + +Liddy, without exactly understanding everything, or anything, in this +episode, assented, and they walked together further among the trees. + +“But you had better come in, ma’am, and have something to eat. You will +die of a chill!” + +“I shall not come indoors yet—perhaps never.” + +“Shall I get you something to eat, and something else to put over your +head besides that little shawl?” + +“If you will, Liddy.” + +Liddy vanished, and at the end of twenty minutes returned with a cloak, +hat, some slices of bread and butter, a tea-cup, and some hot tea in a +little china jug. + +“Is Fanny gone?” said Bathsheba. + +“No,” said her companion, pouring out the tea. + +Bathsheba wrapped herself up and ate and drank sparingly. Her voice was +then a little clearer, and trifling colour returned to her face. “Now +we’ll walk about again,” she said. + +They wandered about the wood for nearly two hours, Bathsheba replying +in monosyllables to Liddy’s prattle, for her mind ran on one subject, +and one only. She interrupted with— + +“I wonder if Fanny is gone by this time?” + +“I will go and see.” + +She came back with the information that the men were just taking away +the corpse; that Bathsheba had been inquired for; that she had replied +to the effect that her mistress was unwell and could not be seen. + +“Then they think I am in my bedroom?” + +“Yes.” Liddy then ventured to add: “You said when I first found you +that you might never go home again—you didn’t mean it, ma’am?” + +“No; I’ve altered my mind. It is only women with no pride in them who +run away from their husbands. There is one position worse than that of +being found dead in your husband’s house from his ill usage, and that +is, to be found alive through having gone away to the house of somebody +else. I’ve thought of it all this morning, and I’ve chosen my course. A +runaway wife is an encumbrance to everybody, a burden to herself and a +byword—all of which make up a heap of misery greater than any that +comes by staying at home—though this may include the trifling items of +insult, beating, and starvation. Liddy, if ever you marry—God forbid +that you ever should!—you’ll find yourself in a fearful situation; but +mind this, don’t you flinch. Stand your ground, and be cut to pieces. +That’s what I’m going to do.” + +“Oh, mistress, don’t talk so!” said Liddy, taking her hand; “but I knew +you had too much sense to bide away. May I ask what dreadful thing it +is that has happened between you and him?” + +“You may ask; but I may not tell.” + +In about ten minutes they returned to the house by a circuitous route, +entering at the rear. Bathsheba glided up the back stairs to a disused +attic, and her companion followed. + +“Liddy,” she said, with a lighter heart, for youth and hope had begun +to reassert themselves; “you are to be my confidante for the +present—somebody must be—and I choose you. Well, I shall take up my +abode here for a while. Will you get a fire lighted, put down a piece +of carpet, and help me to make the place comfortable. Afterwards, I +want you and Maryann to bring up that little stump bedstead in the +small room, and the bed belonging to it, and a table, and some other +things.... What shall I do to pass the heavy time away?” + +“Hemming handkerchiefs is a very good thing,” said Liddy. + +“Oh no, no! I hate needlework—I always did.” + +“Knitting?” + +“And that, too.” + +“You might finish your sampler. Only the carnations and peacocks want +filling in; and then it could be framed and glazed, and hung beside +your aunt’s ma’am.” + +“Samplers are out of date—horribly countrified. No Liddy, I’ll read. +Bring up some books—not new ones. I haven’t heart to read anything +new.” + +“Some of your uncle’s old ones, ma’am?” + +“Yes. Some of those we stowed away in boxes.” A faint gleam of humour +passed over her face as she said: “Bring Beaumont and Fletcher’s +_Maid’s Tragedy_, and the _Mourning Bride_, and—let me see—_Night +Thoughts_, and the _Vanity of Human Wishes_.” + +“And that story of the black man, who murdered his wife Desdemona? It +is a nice dismal one that would suit you excellent just now.” + +“Now, Liddy, you’ve been looking into my books without telling me; and +I said you were not to! How do you know it would suit me? It wouldn’t +suit me at all.” + +“But if the others do—” + +“No, they don’t; and I won’t read dismal books. Why should I read +dismal books, indeed? Bring me _Love in a Village_, and _Maid of the +Mill_, and _Doctor Syntax_, and some volumes of the _Spectator_.” + +All that day Bathsheba and Liddy lived in the attic in a state of +barricade; a precaution which proved to be needless as against Troy, +for he did not appear in the neighbourhood or trouble them at all. +Bathsheba sat at the window till sunset, sometimes attempting to read, +at other times watching every movement outside without much purpose, +and listening without much interest to every sound. + +The sun went down almost blood-red that night, and a livid cloud +received its rays in the east. Up against this dark background the west +front of the church tower—the only part of the edifice visible from the +farm-house windows—rose distinct and lustrous, the vane upon the summit +bristling with rays. Hereabouts, at six o’clock, the young men of the +village gathered, as was their custom, for a game of Prisoners’ base. +The spot had been consecrated to this ancient diversion from time +immemorial, the old stocks conveniently forming a base facing the +boundary of the churchyard, in front of which the ground was trodden +hard and bare as a pavement by the players. She could see the brown and +black heads of the young lads darting about right and left, their white +shirt-sleeves gleaming in the sun; whilst occasionally a shout and a +peal of hearty laughter varied the stillness of the evening air. They +continued playing for a quarter of an hour or so, when the game +concluded abruptly, and the players leapt over the wall and vanished +round to the other side behind a yew-tree, which was also half behind a +beech, now spreading in one mass of golden foliage, on which the +branches traced black lines. + +“Why did the base-players finish their game so suddenly?” Bathsheba +inquired, the next time that Liddy entered the room. + +“I think ’twas because two men came just then from Casterbridge and +began putting up a grand carved tombstone,” said Liddy. “The lads went +to see whose it was.” + +“Do you know?” Bathsheba asked. + +“I don’t,” said Liddy. + + + + +CHAPTER XLV +TROY’S ROMANTICISM + + +When Troy’s wife had left the house at the previous midnight his first +act was to cover the dead from sight. This done he ascended the stairs, +and throwing himself down upon the bed dressed as he was, he waited +miserably for the morning. + +Fate had dealt grimly with him through the last four-and-twenty hours. +His day had been spent in a way which varied very materially from his +intentions regarding it. There is always an inertia to be overcome in +striking out a new line of conduct—not more in ourselves, it seems, +than in circumscribing events, which appear as if leagued together to +allow no novelties in the way of amelioration. + +Twenty pounds having been secured from Bathsheba, he had managed to add +to the sum every farthing he could muster on his own account, which had +been seven pounds ten. With this money, twenty-seven pounds ten in all, +he had hastily driven from the gate that morning to keep his +appointment with Fanny Robin. + +On reaching Casterbridge he left the horse and trap at an inn, and at +five minutes before ten came back to the bridge at the lower end of the +town, and sat himself upon the parapet. The clocks struck the hour, and +no Fanny appeared. In fact, at that moment she was being robed in her +grave-clothes by two attendants at the Union poorhouse—the first and +last tiring-women the gentle creature had ever been honoured with. The +quarter went, the half hour. A rush of recollection came upon Troy as +he waited: this was the second time she had broken a serious engagement +with him. In anger he vowed it should be the last, and at eleven +o’clock, when he had lingered and watched the stone of the bridge till +he knew every lichen upon their face and heard the chink of the ripples +underneath till they oppressed him, he jumped from his seat, went to +the inn for his gig, and in a bitter mood of indifference concerning +the past, and recklessness about the future, drove on to Budmouth +races. + +He reached the race-course at two o’clock, and remained either there or +in the town till nine. But Fanny’s image, as it had appeared to him in +the sombre shadows of that Saturday evening, returned to his mind, +backed up by Bathsheba’s reproaches. He vowed he would not bet, and he +kept his vow, for on leaving the town at nine o’clock in the evening he +had diminished his cash only to the extent of a few shillings. + +He trotted slowly homeward, and it was now that he was struck for the +first time with a thought that Fanny had been really prevented by +illness from keeping her promise. This time she could have made no +mistake. He regretted that he had not remained in Casterbridge and made +inquiries. Reaching home he quietly unharnessed the horse and came +indoors, as we have seen, to the fearful shock that awaited him. + +As soon as it grew light enough to distinguish objects, Troy arose from +the coverlet of the bed, and in a mood of absolute indifference to +Bathsheba’s whereabouts, and almost oblivious of her existence, he +stalked downstairs and left the house by the back door. His walk was +towards the churchyard, entering which he searched around till he found +a newly dug unoccupied grave—the grave dug the day before for Fanny. +The position of this having been marked, he hastened on to +Casterbridge, only pausing and musing for a while at the hill whereon +he had last seen Fanny alive. + +Reaching the town, Troy descended into a side street and entered a pair +of gates surmounted by a board bearing the words, “Lester, stone and +marble mason.” Within were lying about stones of all sizes and designs, +inscribed as being sacred to the memory of unnamed persons who had not +yet died. + +Troy was so unlike himself now in look, word, and deed, that the want +of likeness was perceptible even to his own consciousness. His method +of engaging himself in this business of purchasing a tomb was that of +an absolutely unpractised man. He could not bring himself to consider, +calculate, or economize. He waywardly wished for something, and he set +about obtaining it like a child in a nursery. “I want a good tomb,” he +said to the man who stood in a little office within the yard. “I want +as good a one as you can give me for twenty-seven pounds.” + +It was all the money he possessed. + +“That sum to include everything?” + +“Everything. Cutting the name, carriage to Weatherbury, and erection. +And I want it now, at once.” + +“We could not get anything special worked this week.” + +“I must have it now.” + +“If you would like one of these in stock it could be got ready +immediately.” + +“Very well,” said Troy, impatiently. “Let’s see what you have.” + +“The best I have in stock is this one,” said the stone-cutter, going +into a shed. “Here’s a marble headstone beautifully crocketed, with +medallions beneath of typical subjects; here’s the footstone after the +same pattern, and here’s the coping to enclose the grave. The polishing +alone of the set cost me eleven pounds—the slabs are the best of their +kind, and I can warrant them to resist rain and frost for a hundred +years without flying.” + +“And how much?” + +“Well, I could add the name, and put it up at Weatherbury for the sum +you mention.” + +“Get it done to-day, and I’ll pay the money now.” + +The man agreed, and wondered at such a mood in a visitor who wore not a +shred of mourning. Troy then wrote the words which were to form the +inscription, settled the account and went away. In the afternoon he +came back again, and found that the lettering was almost done. He +waited in the yard till the tomb was packed, and saw it placed in the +cart and starting on its way to Weatherbury, giving directions to the +two men who were to accompany it to inquire of the sexton for the grave +of the person named in the inscription. + +It was quite dark when Troy came out of Casterbridge. He carried rather +a heavy basket upon his arm, with which he strode moodily along the +road, resting occasionally at bridges and gates, whereon he deposited +his burden for a time. Midway on his journey he met, returning in the +darkness, the men and the waggon which had conveyed the tomb. He merely +inquired if the work was done, and, on being assured that it was, +passed on again. + +Troy entered Weatherbury churchyard about ten o’clock and went +immediately to the corner where he had marked the vacant grave early in +the morning. It was on the obscure side of the tower, screened to a +great extent from the view of passers along the road—a spot which until +lately had been abandoned to heaps of stones and bushes of alder, but +now it was cleared and made orderly for interments, by reason of the +rapid filling of the ground elsewhere. + +Here now stood the tomb as the men had stated, snow-white and shapely +in the gloom, consisting of head and foot-stone, and enclosing border +of marble-work uniting them. In the midst was mould, suitable for +plants. + +Troy deposited his basket beside the tomb, and vanished for a few +minutes. When he returned he carried a spade and a lantern, the light +of which he directed for a few moments upon the marble, whilst he read +the inscription. He hung his lantern on the lowest bough of the +yew-tree, and took from his basket flower-roots of several varieties. +There were bundles of snow-drop, hyacinth and crocus bulbs, violets and +double daisies, which were to bloom in early spring, and of carnations, +pinks, picotees, lilies of the valley, forget-me-not, summer’s +farewell, meadow-saffron and others, for the later seasons of the year. + +Troy laid these out upon the grass, and with an impassive face set to +work to plant them. The snowdrops were arranged in a line on the +outside of the coping, the remainder within the enclosure of the grave. +The crocuses and hyacinths were to grow in rows; some of the summer +flowers he placed over her head and feet, the lilies and forget-me-nots +over her heart. The remainder were dispersed in the spaces between +these. + +Troy, in his prostration at this time, had no perception that in the +futility of these romantic doings, dictated by a remorseful reaction +from previous indifference, there was any element of absurdity. +Deriving his idiosyncrasies from both sides of the Channel, he showed +at such junctures as the present the inelasticity of the Englishman, +together with that blindness to the line where sentiment verges on +mawkishness, characteristic of the French. + +It was a cloudy, muggy, and very dark night, and the rays from Troy’s +lantern spread into the two old yews with a strange illuminating power, +flickering, as it seemed, up to the black ceiling of cloud above. He +felt a large drop of rain upon the back of his hand, and presently one +came and entered one of the holes of the lantern, whereupon the candle +sputtered and went out. Troy was weary and it being now not far from +midnight, and the rain threatening to increase, he resolved to leave +the finishing touches of his labour until the day should break. He +groped along the wall and over the graves in the dark till he found +himself round at the north side. Here he entered the porch, and, +reclining upon the bench within, fell asleep. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVI +THE GURGOYLE: ITS DOINGS + + +The tower of Weatherbury Church was a square erection of +fourteenth-century date, having two stone gurgoyles on each of the four +faces of its parapet. Of these eight carved protuberances only two at +this time continued to serve the purpose of their erection—that of +spouting the water from the lead roof within. One mouth in each front +had been closed by bygone church-wardens as superfluous, and two others +were broken away and choked—a matter not of much consequence to the +wellbeing of the tower, for the two mouths which still remained open +and active were gaping enough to do all the work. + +It has been sometimes argued that there is no truer criterion of the +vitality of any given art-period than the power of the master-spirits +of that time in grotesque; and certainly in the instance of Gothic art +there is no disputing the proposition. Weatherbury tower was a somewhat +early instance of the use of an ornamental parapet in parish as +distinct from cathedral churches, and the gurgoyles, which are the +necessary correlatives of a parapet, were exceptionally prominent—of +the boldest cut that the hand could shape, and of the most original +design that a human brain could conceive. There was, so to speak, that +symmetry in their distortion which is less the characteristic of +British than of Continental grotesques of the period. All the eight +were different from each other. A beholder was convinced that nothing +on earth could be more hideous than those he saw on the north side +until he went round to the south. Of the two on this latter face, only +that at the south-eastern corner concerns the story. It was too human +to be called like a dragon, too impish to be like a man, too animal to +be like a fiend, and not enough like a bird to be called a griffin. +This horrible stone entity was fashioned as if covered with a wrinkled +hide; it had short, erect ears, eyes starting from their sockets, and +its fingers and hands were seizing the corners of its mouth, which they +thus seemed to pull open to give free passage to the water it vomited. +The lower row of teeth was quite washed away, though the upper still +remained. Here and thus, jutting a couple of feet from the wall against +which its feet rested as a support, the creature had for four hundred +years laughed at the surrounding landscape, voicelessly in dry weather, +and in wet with a gurgling and snorting sound. + +Troy slept on in the porch, and the rain increased outside. Presently +the gurgoyle spat. In due time a small stream began to trickle through +the seventy feet of aerial space between its mouth and the ground, +which the water-drops smote like duckshot in their accelerated +velocity. The stream thickened in substance, and increased in power, +gradually spouting further and yet further from the side of the tower. +When the rain fell in a steady and ceaseless torrent the stream dashed +downward in volumes. + +We follow its course to the ground at this point of time. The end of +the liquid parabola has come forward from the wall, has advanced over +the plinth mouldings, over a heap of stones, over the marble border, +into the midst of Fanny Robin’s grave. + +The force of the stream had, until very lately, been received upon some +loose stones spread thereabout, which had acted as a shield to the soil +under the onset. These during the summer had been cleared from the +ground, and there was now nothing to resist the down-fall but the bare +earth. For several years the stream had not spouted so far from the +tower as it was doing on this night, and such a contingency had been +over-looked. Sometimes this obscure corner received no inhabitant for +the space of two or three years, and then it was usually but a pauper, +a poacher, or other sinner of undignified sins. + +The persistent torrent from the gurgoyle’s jaws directed all its +vengeance into the grave. The rich tawny mould was stirred into motion, +and boiled like chocolate. The water accumulated and washed deeper +down, and the roar of the pool thus formed spread into the night as the +head and chief among other noises of the kind created by the deluging +rain. The flowers so carefully planted by Fanny’s repentant lover began +to move and writhe in their bed. The winter-violets turned slowly +upside down, and became a mere mat of mud. Soon the snowdrop and other +bulbs danced in the boiling mass like ingredients in a cauldron. Plants +of the tufted species were loosened, rose to the surface, and floated +off. + +Troy did not awake from his comfortless sleep till it was broad day. +Not having been in bed for two nights his shoulders felt stiff, his +feet tender, and his head heavy. He remembered his position, arose, +shivered, took the spade, and again went out. + +The rain had quite ceased, and the sun was shining through the green, +brown, and yellow leaves, now sparkling and varnished by the raindrops +to the brightness of similar effects in the landscapes of Ruysdael and +Hobbema, and full of all those infinite beauties that arise from the +union of water and colour with high lights. The air was rendered so +transparent by the heavy fall of rain that the autumn hues of the +middle distance were as rich as those near at hand, and the remote +fields intercepted by the angle of the tower appeared in the same plane +as the tower itself. + +He entered the gravel path which would take him behind the tower. The +path, instead of being stony as it had been the night before, was +browned over with a thin coating of mud. At one place in the path he +saw a tuft of stringy roots washed white and clean as a bundle of +tendons. He picked it up—surely it could not be one of the primroses he +had planted? He saw a bulb, another, and another as he advanced. Beyond +doubt they were the crocuses. With a face of perplexed dismay Troy +turned the corner and then beheld the wreck the stream had made. + +The pool upon the grave had soaked away into the ground, and in its +place was a hollow. The disturbed earth was washed over the grass and +pathway in the guise of the brown mud he had already seen, and it +spotted the marble tombstone with the same stains. Nearly all the +flowers were washed clean out of the ground, and they lay, roots +upwards, on the spots whither they had been splashed by the stream. + +Troy’s brow became heavily contracted. He set his teeth closely, and +his compressed lips moved as those of one in great pain. This singular +accident, by a strange confluence of emotions in him, was felt as the +sharpest sting of all. Troy’s face was very expressive, and any +observer who had seen him now would hardly have believed him to be a +man who had laughed, and sung, and poured love-trifles into a woman’s +ear. To curse his miserable lot was at first his impulse, but even that +lowest stage of rebellion needed an activity whose absence was +necessarily antecedent to the existence of the morbid misery which +wrung him. The sight, coming as it did, superimposed upon the other +dark scenery of the previous days, formed a sort of climax to the whole +panorama, and it was more than he could endure. Sanguine by nature, +Troy had a power of eluding grief by simply adjourning it. He could put +off the consideration of any particular spectre till the matter had +become old and softened by time. The planting of flowers on Fanny’s +grave had been perhaps but a species of elusion of the primary grief, +and now it was as if his intention had been known and circumvented. + +Almost for the first time in his life, Troy, as he stood by this +dismantled grave, wished himself another man. It is seldom that a +person with much animal spirit does not feel that the fact of his life +being his own is the one qualification which singles it out as a more +hopeful life than that of others who may actually resemble him in every +particular. Troy had felt, in his transient way, hundreds of times, +that he could not envy other people their condition, because the +possession of that condition would have necessitated a different +personality, when he desired no other than his own. He had not minded +the peculiarities of his birth, the vicissitudes of his life, the +meteor-like uncertainty of all that related to him, because these +appertained to the hero of his story, without whom there would have +been no story at all for him; and it seemed to be only in the nature of +things that matters would right themselves at some proper date and wind +up well. This very morning the illusion completed its disappearance, +and, as it were, all of a sudden, Troy hated himself. The suddenness +was probably more apparent than real. A coral reef which just comes +short of the ocean surface is no more to the horizon than if it had +never been begun, and the mere finishing stroke is what often appears +to create an event which has long been potentially an accomplished +thing. + +He stood and meditated—a miserable man. Whither should he go? “He that +is accursed, let him be accursed still,” was the pitiless anathema +written in this spoliated effort of his new-born solicitousness. A man +who has spent his primal strength in journeying in one direction has +not much spirit left for reversing his course. Troy had, since +yesterday, faintly reversed his; but the merest opposition had +disheartened him. To turn about would have been hard enough under the +greatest providential encouragement; but to find that Providence, far +from helping him into a new course, or showing any wish that he might +adopt one, actually jeered his first trembling and critical attempt in +that kind, was more than nature could bear. + +He slowly withdrew from the grave. He did not attempt to fill up the +hole, replace the flowers, or do anything at all. He simply threw up +his cards and forswore his game for that time and always. Going out of +the churchyard silently and unobserved—none of the villagers having yet +risen—he passed down some fields at the back, and emerged just as +secretly upon the high road. Shortly afterwards he had gone from the +village. + +Meanwhile, Bathsheba remained a voluntary prisoner in the attic. The +door was kept locked, except during the entries and exits of Liddy, for +whom a bed had been arranged in a small adjoining room. The light of +Troy’s lantern in the churchyard was noticed about ten o’clock by the +maid-servant, who casually glanced from the window in that direction +whilst taking her supper, and she called Bathsheba’s attention to it. +They looked curiously at the phenomenon for a time, until Liddy was +sent to bed. + +Bathsheba did not sleep very heavily that night. When her attendant was +unconscious and softly breathing in the next room, the mistress of the +house was still looking out of the window at the faint gleam spreading +from among the trees—not in a steady shine, but blinking like a +revolving coast-light, though this appearance failed to suggest to her +that a person was passing and repassing in front of it. Bathsheba sat +here till it began to rain, and the light vanished, when she withdrew +to lie restlessly in her bed and re-enact in a worn mind the lurid +scene of yesternight. + +Almost before the first faint sign of dawn appeared she arose again, +and opened the window to obtain a full breathing of the new morning +air, the panes being now wet with trembling tears left by the night +rain, each one rounded with a pale lustre caught from primrose-hued +slashes through a cloud low down in the awakening sky. From the trees +came the sound of steady dripping upon the drifted leaves under them, +and from the direction of the church she could hear another +noise—peculiar, and not intermittent like the rest, the purl of water +falling into a pool. + +Liddy knocked at eight o’clock, and Bathsheba unlocked the door. + +“What a heavy rain we’ve had in the night, ma’am!” said Liddy, when her +inquiries about breakfast had been made. + +“Yes, very heavy.” + +“Did you hear the strange noise from the churchyard?” + +“I heard one strange noise. I’ve been thinking it must have been the +water from the tower spouts.” + +“Well, that’s what the shepherd was saying, ma’am. He’s now gone on to +see.” + +“Oh! Gabriel has been here this morning!” + +“Only just looked in in passing—quite in his old way, which I thought +he had left off lately. But the tower spouts used to spatter on the +stones, and we are puzzled, for this was like the boiling of a pot.” + +Not being able to read, think, or work, Bathsheba asked Liddy to stay +and breakfast with her. The tongue of the more childish woman still ran +upon recent events. “Are you going across to the church, ma’am?” she +asked. + +“Not that I know of,” said Bathsheba. + +“I thought you might like to go and see where they have put Fanny. The +trees hide the place from your window.” + +Bathsheba had all sorts of dreads about meeting her husband. “Has Mr. +Troy been in to-night?” she said. + +“No, ma’am; I think he’s gone to Budmouth.” + +Budmouth! The sound of the word carried with it a much diminished +perspective of him and his deeds; there were thirteen miles interval +betwixt them now. She hated questioning Liddy about her husband’s +movements, and indeed had hitherto sedulously avoided doing so; but now +all the house knew that there had been some dreadful disagreement +between them, and it was futile to attempt disguise. Bathsheba had +reached a stage at which people cease to have any appreciative regard +for public opinion. + +“What makes you think he has gone there?” she said. + +“Laban Tall saw him on the Budmouth road this morning before +breakfast.” + +Bathsheba was momentarily relieved of that wayward heaviness of the +past twenty-four hours which had quenched the vitality of youth in her +without substituting the philosophy of maturer years, and she resolved +to go out and walk a little way. So when breakfast was over, she put on +her bonnet, and took a direction towards the church. It was nine +o’clock, and the men having returned to work again from their first +meal, she was not likely to meet many of them in the road. Knowing that +Fanny had been laid in the reprobates’ quarter of the graveyard, called +in the parish “behind church,” which was invisible from the road, it +was impossible to resist the impulse to enter and look upon a spot +which, from nameless feelings, she at the same time dreaded to see. She +had been unable to overcome an impression that some connection existed +between her rival and the light through the trees. + +Bathsheba skirted the buttress, and beheld the hole and the tomb, its +delicately veined surface splashed and stained just as Troy had seen it +and left it two hours earlier. On the other side of the scene stood +Gabriel. His eyes, too, were fixed on the tomb, and her arrival having +been noiseless, she had not as yet attracted his attention. Bathsheba +did not at once perceive that the grand tomb and the disturbed grave +were Fanny’s, and she looked on both sides and around for some humbler +mound, earthed up and clodded in the usual way. Then her eye followed +Oak’s, and she read the words with which the inscription opened:— + +Erected by Francis Troy +In Beloved Memory of +Fanny Robin + + +Oak saw her, and his first act was to gaze inquiringly and learn how +she received this knowledge of the authorship of the work, which to +himself had caused considerable astonishment. But such discoveries did +not much affect her now. Emotional convulsions seemed to have become +the commonplaces of her history, and she bade him good morning, and +asked him to fill in the hole with the spade which was standing by. +Whilst Oak was doing as she desired, Bathsheba collected the flowers, +and began planting them with that sympathetic manipulation of roots and +leaves which is so conspicuous in a woman’s gardening, and which +flowers seem to understand and thrive upon. She requested Oak to get +the churchwardens to turn the leadwork at the mouth of the gurgoyle +that hung gaping down upon them, that by this means the stream might be +directed sideways, and a repetition of the accident prevented. Finally, +with the superfluous magnanimity of a woman whose narrower instincts +have brought down bitterness upon her instead of love, she wiped the +mud spots from the tomb as if she rather liked its words than +otherwise, and went again home.[2] + + + + +CHAPTER XLVII +ADVENTURES BY THE SHORE + + +Troy wandered along towards the south. A composite feeling, made up of +disgust with the, to him, humdrum tediousness of a farmer’s life, +gloomy images of her who lay in the churchyard, remorse, and a general +averseness to his wife’s society, impelled him to seek a home in any +place on earth save Weatherbury. The sad accessories of Fanny’s end +confronted him as vivid pictures which threatened to be indelible, and +made life in Bathsheba’s house intolerable. At three in the afternoon +he found himself at the foot of a slope more than a mile in length, +which ran to the ridge of a range of hills lying parallel with the +shore, and forming a monotonous barrier between the basin of cultivated +country inland and the wilder scenery of the coast. Up the hill +stretched a road nearly straight and perfectly white, the two sides +approaching each other in a gradual taper till they met the sky at the +top about two miles off. Throughout the length of this narrow and +irksome inclined plane not a sign of life was visible on this garish +afternoon. Troy toiled up the road with a languor and depression +greater than any he had experienced for many a day and year before. The +air was warm and muggy, and the top seemed to recede as he approached. + +At last he reached the summit, and a wide and novel prospect burst upon +him with an effect almost like that of the Pacific upon Balboa’s gaze. +The broad steely sea, marked only by faint lines, which had a semblance +of being etched thereon to a degree not deep enough to disturb its +general evenness, stretched the whole width of his front and round to +the right, where, near the town and port of Budmouth, the sun bristled +down upon it, and banished all colour, to substitute in its place a +clear oily polish. Nothing moved in sky, land, or sea, except a frill +of milkwhite foam along the nearer angles of the shore, shreds of which +licked the contiguous stones like tongues. + +He descended and came to a small basin of sea enclosed by the cliffs. +Troy’s nature freshened within him; he thought he would rest and bathe +here before going farther. He undressed and plunged in. Inside the cove +the water was uninteresting to a swimmer, being smooth as a pond, and +to get a little of the ocean swell, Troy presently swam between the two +projecting spurs of rock which formed the pillars of Hercules to this +miniature Mediterranean. Unfortunately for Troy a current unknown to +him existed outside, which, unimportant to craft of any burden, was +awkward for a swimmer who might be taken in it unawares. Troy found +himself carried to the left and then round in a swoop out to sea. + +He now recollected the place and its sinister character. Many bathers +had there prayed for a dry death from time to time, and, like Gonzalo +also, had been unanswered; and Troy began to deem it possible that he +might be added to their number. Not a boat of any kind was at present +within sight, but far in the distance Budmouth lay upon the sea, as it +were quietly regarding his efforts, and beside the town the harbour +showed its position by a dim meshwork of ropes and spars. After +well-nigh exhausting himself in attempts to get back to the mouth of +the cove, in his weakness swimming several inches deeper than was his +wont, keeping up his breathing entirely by his nostrils, turning upon +his back a dozen times over, swimming _en papillon_, and so on, Troy +resolved as a last resource to tread water at a slight incline, and so +endeavour to reach the shore at any point, merely giving himself a +gentle impetus inwards whilst carried on in the general direction of +the tide. This, necessarily a slow process, he found to be not +altogether so difficult, and though there was no choice of a +landing-place—the objects on shore passing by him in a sad and slow +procession—he perceptibly approached the extremity of a spit of land +yet further to the right, now well defined against the sunny portion of +the horizon. While the swimmer’s eyes were fixed upon the spit as his +only means of salvation on this side of the Unknown, a moving object +broke the outline of the extremity, and immediately a ship’s boat +appeared manned with several sailor lads, her bows towards the sea. + +All Troy’s vigour spasmodically revived to prolong the struggle yet a +little further. Swimming with his right arm, he held up his left to +hail them, splashing upon the waves, and shouting with all his might. +From the position of the setting sun his white form was distinctly +visible upon the now deep-hued bosom of the sea to the east of the +boat, and the men saw him at once. Backing their oars and putting the +boat about, they pulled towards him with a will, and in five or six +minutes from the time of his first halloo, two of the sailors hauled +him in over the stern. + +They formed part of a brig’s crew, and had come ashore for sand. +Lending him what little clothing they could spare among them as a +slight protection against the rapidly cooling air, they agreed to land +him in the morning; and without further delay, for it was growing late, +they made again towards the roadstead where their vessel lay. + +And now night drooped slowly upon the wide watery levels in front; and +at no great distance from them, where the shoreline curved round, and +formed a long riband of shade upon the horizon, a series of points of +yellow light began to start into existence, denoting the spot to be the +site of Budmouth, where the lamps were being lighted along the parade. +The cluck of their oars was the only sound of any distinctness upon the +sea, and as they laboured amid the thickening shades the lamp-lights +grew larger, each appearing to send a flaming sword deep down into the +waves before it, until there arose, among other dim shapes of the kind, +the form of the vessel for which they were bound. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVIII +DOUBTS ARISE—DOUBTS LINGER + + +Bathsheba underwent the enlargement of her husband’s absence from hours +to days with a slight feeling of surprise, and a slight feeling of +relief; yet neither sensation rose at any time far above the level +commonly designated as indifference. She belonged to him: the +certainties of that position were so well defined, and the reasonable +probabilities of its issue so bounded that she could not speculate on +contingencies. Taking no further interest in herself as a splendid +woman, she acquired the indifferent feelings of an outsider in +contemplating her probable fate as a singular wretch; for Bathsheba +drew herself and her future in colours that no reality could exceed for +darkness. Her original vigorous pride of youth had sickened, and with +it had declined all her anxieties about coming years, since anxiety +recognizes a better and a worse alternative, and Bathsheba had made up +her mind that alternatives on any noteworthy scale had ceased for her. +Soon, or later—and that not very late—her husband would be home again. +And then the days of their tenancy of the Upper Farm would be numbered. +There had originally been shown by the agent to the estate some +distrust of Bathsheba’s tenure as James Everdene’s successor, on the +score of her sex, and her youth, and her beauty; but the peculiar +nature of her uncle’s will, his own frequent testimony before his death +to her cleverness in such a pursuit, and her vigorous marshalling of +the numerous flocks and herds which came suddenly into her hands before +negotiations were concluded, had won confidence in her powers, and no +further objections had been raised. She had latterly been in great +doubt as to what the legal effects of her marriage would be upon her +position; but no notice had been taken as yet of her change of name, +and only one point was clear—that in the event of her own or her +husband’s inability to meet the agent at the forthcoming January +rent-day, very little consideration would be shown, and, for that +matter, very little would be deserved. Once out of the farm, the +approach of poverty would be sure. + +Hence Bathsheba lived in a perception that her purposes were broken +off. She was not a woman who could hope on without good materials for +the process, differing thus from the less far-sighted and energetic, +though more petted ones of the sex, with whom hope goes on as a sort of +clockwork which the merest food and shelter are sufficient to wind up; +and perceiving clearly that her mistake had been a fatal one, she +accepted her position, and waited coldly for the end. + +The first Saturday after Troy’s departure she went to Casterbridge +alone, a journey she had not before taken since her marriage. On this +Saturday Bathsheba was passing slowly on foot through the crowd of +rural business-men gathered as usual in front of the market-house, who +were as usual gazed upon by the burghers with feelings that those +healthy lives were dearly paid for by exclusion from possible +aldermanship, when a man, who had apparently been following her, said +some words to another on her left hand. Bathsheba’s ears were keen as +those of any wild animal, and she distinctly heard what the speaker +said, though her back was towards him. + +“I am looking for Mrs. Troy. Is that she there?” + +“Yes; that’s the young lady, I believe,” said the the person addressed. + +“I have some awkward news to break to her. Her husband is drowned.” + +As if endowed with the spirit of prophecy, Bathsheba gasped out, “No, +it is not true; it cannot be true!” Then she said and heard no more. +The ice of self-command which had latterly gathered over her was +broken, and the currents burst forth again, and overwhelmed her. A +darkness came into her eyes, and she fell. + +But not to the ground. A gloomy man, who had been observing her from +under the portico of the old corn-exchange when she passed through the +group without, stepped quickly to her side at the moment of her +exclamation, and caught her in his arms as she sank down. + +“What is it?” said Boldwood, looking up at the bringer of the big news, +as he supported her. + +“Her husband was drowned this week while bathing in Lulwind Cove. A +coastguardsman found his clothes, and brought them into Budmouth +yesterday.” + +Thereupon a strange fire lighted up Boldwood’s eye, and his face +flushed with the suppressed excitement of an unutterable thought. +Everybody’s glance was now centred upon him and the unconscious +Bathsheba. He lifted her bodily off the ground, and smoothed down the +folds of her dress as a child might have taken a storm-beaten bird and +arranged its ruffled plumes, and bore her along the pavement to the +King’s Arms Inn. Here he passed with her under the archway into a +private room; and by the time he had deposited—so lothly—the precious +burden upon a sofa, Bathsheba had opened her eyes. Remembering all that +had occurred, she murmured, “I want to go home!” + +Boldwood left the room. He stood for a moment in the passage to recover +his senses. The experience had been too much for his consciousness to +keep up with, and now that he had grasped it it had gone again. For +those few heavenly, golden moments she had been in his arms. What did +it matter about her not knowing it? She had been close to his breast; +he had been close to hers. + +He started onward again, and sending a woman to her, went out to +ascertain all the facts of the case. These appeared to be limited to +what he had already heard. He then ordered her horse to be put into the +gig, and when all was ready returned to inform her. He found that, +though still pale and unwell, she had in the meantime sent for the +Budmouth man who brought the tidings, and learnt from him all there was +to know. + +Being hardly in a condition to drive home as she had driven to town, +Boldwood, with every delicacy of manner and feeling, offered to get her +a driver, or to give her a seat in his phaeton, which was more +comfortable than her own conveyance. These proposals Bathsheba gently +declined, and the farmer at once departed. + +About half-an-hour later she invigorated herself by an effort, and took +her seat and the reins as usual—in external appearance much as if +nothing had happened. She went out of the town by a tortuous back +street, and drove slowly along, unconscious of the road and the scene. +The first shades of evening were showing themselves when Bathsheba +reached home, where, silently alighting and leaving the horse in the +hands of the boy, she proceeded at once upstairs. Liddy met her on the +landing. The news had preceded Bathsheba to Weatherbury by +half-an-hour, and Liddy looked inquiringly into her mistress’s face. +Bathsheba had nothing to say. + +She entered her bedroom and sat by the window, and thought and thought +till night enveloped her, and the extreme lines only of her shape were +visible. Somebody came to the door, knocked, and opened it. + +“Well, what is it, Liddy?” she said. + +“I was thinking there must be something got for you to wear,” said +Liddy, with hesitation. + +“What do you mean?” + +“Mourning.” + +“No, no, no,” said Bathsheba, hurriedly. + +“But I suppose there must be something done for poor—” + +“Not at present, I think. It is not necessary.” + +“Why not, ma’am?” + +“Because he’s still alive.” + +“How do you know that?” said Liddy, amazed. + +“I don’t know it. But wouldn’t it have been different, or shouldn’t I +have heard more, or wouldn’t they have found him, Liddy?—or—I don’t +know how it is, but death would have been different from how this is. I +am perfectly convinced that he is still alive!” + +Bathsheba remained firm in this opinion till Monday, when two +circumstances conjoined to shake it. The first was a short paragraph in +the local newspaper, which, beyond making by a methodizing pen +formidable presumptive evidence of Troy’s death by drowning, contained +the important testimony of a young Mr. Barker, M.D., of Budmouth, who +spoke to being an eyewitness of the accident, in a letter to the +editor. In this he stated that he was passing over the cliff on the +remoter side of the cove just as the sun was setting. At that time he +saw a bather carried along in the current outside the mouth of the +cove, and guessed in an instant that there was but a poor chance for +him unless he should be possessed of unusual muscular powers. He +drifted behind a projection of the coast, and Mr. Barker followed along +the shore in the same direction. But by the time that he could reach an +elevation sufficiently great to command a view of the sea beyond, dusk +had set in, and nothing further was to be seen. + +The other circumstance was the arrival of his clothes, when it became +necessary for her to examine and identify them—though this had +virtually been done long before by those who inspected the letters in +his pockets. It was so evident to her in the midst of her agitation +that Troy had undressed in the full conviction of dressing again almost +immediately, that the notion that anything but death could have +prevented him was a perverse one to entertain. + +Then Bathsheba said to herself that others were assured in their +opinion; strange that she should not be. A strange reflection occurred +to her, causing her face to flush. Suppose that Troy had followed Fanny +into another world. Had he done this intentionally, yet contrived to +make his death appear like an accident? Nevertheless, this thought of +how the apparent might differ from the real—made vivid by her bygone +jealousy of Fanny, and the remorse he had shown that night—did not +blind her to the perception of a likelier difference, less tragic, but +to herself far more disastrous. + +When alone late that evening beside a small fire, and much calmed down, +Bathsheba took Troy’s watch into her hand, which had been restored to +her with the rest of the articles belonging to him. She opened the case +as he had opened it before her a week ago. There was the little coil of +pale hair which had been as the fuze to this great explosion. + +“He was hers and she was his; they should be gone together,” she said. +“I am nothing to either of them, and why should I keep her hair?” She +took it in her hand, and held it over the fire. “No—I’ll not burn +it—I’ll keep it in memory of her, poor thing!” she added, snatching +back her hand. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIX +OAK’S ADVANCEMENT—A GREAT HOPE + + +The later autumn and the winter drew on apace, and the leaves lay thick +upon the turf of the glades and the mosses of the woods. Bathsheba, +having previously been living in a state of suspended feeling which was +not suspense, now lived in a mood of quietude which was not precisely +peacefulness. While she had known him to be alive she could have +thought of his death with equanimity; but now that it might be she had +lost him, she regretted that he was not hers still. She kept the farm +going, raked in her profits without caring keenly about them, and +expended money on ventures because she had done so in bygone days, +which, though not long gone by, seemed infinitely removed from her +present. She looked back upon that past over a great gulf, as if she +were now a dead person, having the faculty of meditation still left in +her, by means of which, like the mouldering gentlefolk of the poet’s +story, she could sit and ponder what a gift life used to be. + +However, one excellent result of her general apathy was the +long-delayed installation of Oak as bailiff; but he having virtually +exercised that function for a long time already, the change, beyond the +substantial increase of wages it brought, was little more than a +nominal one addressed to the outside world. + +Boldwood lived secluded and inactive. Much of his wheat and all his +barley of that season had been spoilt by the rain. It sprouted, grew +into intricate mats, and was ultimately thrown to the pigs in armfuls. +The strange neglect which had produced this ruin and waste became the +subject of whispered talk among all the people round; and it was +elicited from one of Boldwood’s men that forgetfulness had nothing to +do with it, for he had been reminded of the danger to his corn as many +times and as persistently as inferiors dared to do. The sight of the +pigs turning in disgust from the rotten ears seemed to arouse Boldwood, +and he one evening sent for Oak. Whether it was suggested by +Bathsheba’s recent act of promotion or not, the farmer proposed at the +interview that Gabriel should undertake the superintendence of the +Lower Farm as well as of Bathsheba’s, because of the necessity Boldwood +felt for such aid, and the impossibility of discovering a more +trustworthy man. Gabriel’s malignant star was assuredly setting fast. + +Bathsheba, when she learnt of this proposal—for Oak was obliged to +consult her—at first languidly objected. She considered that the two +farms together were too extensive for the observation of one man. +Boldwood, who was apparently determined by personal rather than +commercial reasons, suggested that Oak should be furnished with a horse +for his sole use, when the plan would present no difficulty, the two +farms lying side by side. Boldwood did not directly communicate with +her during these negotiations, only speaking to Oak, who was the +go-between throughout. All was harmoniously arranged at last, and we +now see Oak mounted on a strong cob, and daily trotting the length and +breadth of about two thousand acres in a cheerful spirit of +surveillance, as if the crops all belonged to him—the actual mistress +of the one-half and the master of the other, sitting in their +respective homes in gloomy and sad seclusion. + +Out of this there arose, during the spring succeeding, a talk in the +parish that Gabriel Oak was feathering his nest fast. + +“Whatever d’ye think,” said Susan Tall, “Gable Oak is coming it quite +the dand. He now wears shining boots with hardly a hob in ’em, two or +three times a-week, and a tall hat a-Sundays, and ’a hardly knows the +name of smockfrock. When I see people strut enough to be cut up into +bantam cocks, I stand dormant with wonder, and says no more!” + +It was eventually known that Gabriel, though paid a fixed wage by +Bathsheba independent of the fluctuations of agricultural profits, had +made an engagement with Boldwood by which Oak was to receive a share of +the receipts—a small share certainly, yet it was money of a higher +quality than mere wages, and capable of expansion in a way that wages +were not. Some were beginning to consider Oak a “near” man, for though +his condition had thus far improved, he lived in no better style than +before, occupying the same cottage, paring his own potatoes, mending +his stockings, and sometimes even making his bed with his own hands. +But as Oak was not only provokingly indifferent to public opinion, but +a man who clung persistently to old habits and usages, simply because +they were old, there was room for doubt as to his motives. + +A great hope had latterly germinated in Boldwood, whose unreasoning +devotion to Bathsheba could only be characterized as a fond madness +which neither time nor circumstance, evil nor good report, could weaken +or destroy. This fevered hope had grown up again like a grain of +mustard-seed during the quiet which followed the hasty conjecture that +Troy was drowned. He nourished it fearfully, and almost shunned the +contemplation of it in earnest, lest facts should reveal the wildness +of the dream. Bathsheba having at last been persuaded to wear mourning, +her appearance as she entered the church in that guise was in itself a +weekly addition to his faith that a time was coming—very far off +perhaps, yet surely nearing—when his waiting on events should have its +reward. How long he might have to wait he had not yet closely +considered. What he would try to recognize was that the severe +schooling she had been subjected to had made Bathsheba much more +considerate than she had formerly been of the feelings of others, and +he trusted that, should she be willing at any time in the future to +marry any man at all, that man would be himself. There was a substratum +of good feeling in her: her self-reproach for the injury she had +thoughtlessly done him might be depended upon now to a much greater +extent than before her infatuation and disappointment. It would be +possible to approach her by the channel of her good nature, and to +suggest a friendly businesslike compact between them for fulfilment at +some future day, keeping the passionate side of his desire entirely out +of her sight. Such was Boldwood’s hope. + +To the eyes of the middle-aged, Bathsheba was perhaps additionally +charming just now. Her exuberance of spirit was pruned down; the +original phantom of delight had shown herself to be not too bright for +human nature’s daily food, and she had been able to enter this second +poetical phase without losing much of the first in the process. + +Bathsheba’s return from a two months’ visit to her old aunt at Norcombe +afforded the impassioned and yearning farmer a pretext for inquiring +directly after her—now possibly in the ninth month of her widowhood—and +endeavouring to get a notion of her state of mind regarding him. This +occurred in the middle of the haymaking, and Boldwood contrived to be +near Liddy, who was assisting in the fields. + +“I am glad to see you out of doors, Lydia,” he said pleasantly. + +She simpered, and wondered in her heart why he should speak so frankly +to her. + +“I hope Mrs. Troy is quite well after her long absence,” he continued, +in a manner expressing that the coldest-hearted neighbour could +scarcely say less about her. + +“She is quite well, sir.” + +“And cheerful, I suppose.” + +“Yes, cheerful.” + +“Fearful, did you say?” + +“Oh no. I merely said she was cheerful.” + +“Tells you all her affairs?” + +“No, sir.” + +“Some of them?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Mrs. Troy puts much confidence in you, Lydia, and very wisely, +perhaps.” + +“She do, sir. I’ve been with her all through her troubles, and was with +her at the time of Mr. Troy’s going and all. And if she were to marry +again I expect I should bide with her.” + +“She promises that you shall—quite natural,” said the strategic lover, +throbbing throughout him at the presumption which Liddy’s words +appeared to warrant—that his darling had thought of re-marriage. + +“No—she doesn’t promise it exactly. I merely judge on my own account.” + +“Yes, yes, I understand. When she alludes to the possibility of +marrying again, you conclude—” + +“She never do allude to it, sir,” said Liddy, thinking how very stupid +Mr. Boldwood was getting. + +“Of course not,” he returned hastily, his hope falling again. “You +needn’t take quite such long reaches with your rake, Lydia—short and +quick ones are best. Well, perhaps, as she is absolute mistress again +now, it is wise of her to resolve never to give up her freedom.” + +“My mistress did certainly once say, though not seriously, that she +supposed she might marry again at the end of seven years from last +year, if she cared to risk Mr. Troy’s coming back and claiming her.” + +“Ah, six years from the present time. Said that she might. She might +marry at once in every reasonable person’s opinion, whatever the +lawyers may say to the contrary.” + +“Have you been to ask them?” said Liddy, innocently. + +“Not I,” said Boldwood, growing red. “Liddy, you needn’t stay here a +minute later than you wish, so Mr. Oak says. I am now going on a little +farther. Good-afternoon.” + +He went away vexed with himself, and ashamed of having for this one +time in his life done anything which could be called underhand. Poor +Boldwood had no more skill in finesse than a battering-ram, and he was +uneasy with a sense of having made himself to appear stupid and, what +was worse, mean. But he had, after all, lighted upon one fact by way of +repayment. It was a singularly fresh and fascinating fact, and though +not without its sadness it was pertinent and real. In little more than +six years from this time Bathsheba might certainly marry him. There was +something definite in that hope, for admitting that there might have +been no deep thought in her words to Liddy about marriage, they showed +at least her creed on the matter. + +This pleasant notion was now continually in his mind. Six years were a +long time, but how much shorter than never, the idea he had for so long +been obliged to endure! Jacob had served twice seven years for Rachel: +what were six for such a woman as this? He tried to like the notion of +waiting for her better than that of winning her at once. Boldwood felt +his love to be so deep and strong and eternal, that it was possible she +had never yet known its full volume, and this patience in delay would +afford him an opportunity of giving sweet proof on the point. He would +annihilate the six years of his life as if they were minutes—so little +did he value his time on earth beside her love. He would let her see, +all those six years of intangible ethereal courtship, how little care +he had for anything but as it bore upon the consummation. + +Meanwhile the early and the late summer brought round the week in which +Greenhill Fair was held. This fair was frequently attended by the folk +of Weatherbury. + + + + +CHAPTER L +THE SHEEP FAIR—TROY TOUCHES HIS WIFE’S HAND + + +Greenhill was the Nijni Novgorod of South Wessex; and the busiest, +merriest, noisiest day of the whole statute number was the day of the +sheep fair. This yearly gathering was upon the summit of a hill which +retained in good preservation the remains of an ancient earthwork, +consisting of a huge rampart and entrenchment of an oval form +encircling the top of the hill, though somewhat broken down here and +there. To each of the two chief openings on opposite sides a winding +road ascended, and the level green space of ten or fifteen acres +enclosed by the bank was the site of the fair. A few permanent +erections dotted the spot, but the majority of visitors patronized +canvas alone for resting and feeding under during the time of their +sojourn here. + +Shepherds who attended with their flocks from long distances started +from home two or three days, or even a week, before the fair, driving +their charges a few miles each day—not more than ten or twelve—and +resting them at night in hired fields by the wayside at previously +chosen points, where they fed, having fasted since morning. The +shepherd of each flock marched behind, a bundle containing his kit for +the week strapped upon his shoulders, and in his hand his crook, which +he used as the staff of his pilgrimage. Several of the sheep would get +worn and lame, and occasionally a lambing occurred on the road. To meet +these contingencies, there was frequently provided, to accompany the +flocks from the remoter points, a pony and waggon into which the weakly +ones were taken for the remainder of the journey. + +The Weatherbury Farms, however, were no such long distance from the +hill, and those arrangements were not necessary in their case. But the +large united flocks of Bathsheba and Farmer Boldwood formed a valuable +and imposing multitude which demanded much attention, and on this +account Gabriel, in addition to Boldwood’s shepherd and Cain Ball, +accompanied them along the way, through the decayed old town of +Kingsbere, and upward to the plateau,—old George the dog of course +behind them. + +When the autumn sun slanted over Greenhill this morning and lighted the +dewy flat upon its crest, nebulous clouds of dust were to be seen +floating between the pairs of hedges which streaked the wide prospect +around in all directions. These gradually converged upon the base of +the hill, and the flocks became individually visible, climbing the +serpentine ways which led to the top. Thus, in a slow procession, they +entered the opening to which the roads tended, multitude after +multitude, horned and hornless—blue flocks and red flocks, buff flocks +and brown flocks, even green and salmon-tinted flocks, according to the +fancy of the colourist and custom of the farm. Men were shouting, dogs +were barking, with greatest animation, but the thronging travellers in +so long a journey had grown nearly indifferent to such terrors, though +they still bleated piteously at the unwontedness of their experiences, +a tall shepherd rising here and there in the midst of them, like a +gigantic idol amid a crowd of prostrate devotees. + +The great mass of sheep in the fair consisted of South Downs and the +old Wessex horned breeds; to the latter class Bathsheba’s and Farmer +Boldwood’s mainly belonged. These filed in about nine o’clock, their +vermiculated horns lopping gracefully on each side of their cheeks in +geometrically perfect spirals, a small pink and white ear nestling +under each horn. Before and behind came other varieties, perfect +leopards as to the full rich substance of their coats, and only lacking +the spots. There were also a few of the Oxfordshire breed, whose wool +was beginning to curl like a child’s flaxen hair, though surpassed in +this respect by the effeminate Leicesters, which were in turn less +curly than the Cotswolds. But the most picturesque by far was a small +flock of Exmoors, which chanced to be there this year. Their pied faces +and legs, dark and heavy horns, tresses of wool hanging round their +swarthy foreheads, quite relieved the monotony of the flocks in that +quarter. + +All these bleating, panting, and weary thousands had entered and were +penned before the morning had far advanced, the dog belonging to each +flock being tied to the corner of the pen containing it. Alleys for +pedestrians intersected the pens, which soon became crowded with buyers +and sellers from far and near. + +In another part of the hill an altogether different scene began to +force itself upon the eye towards midday. A circular tent, of +exceptional newness and size, was in course of erection here. As the +day drew on, the flocks began to change hands, lightening the +shepherd’s responsibilities; and they turned their attention to this +tent and inquired of a man at work there, whose soul seemed +concentrated on tying a bothering knot in no time, what was going on. + +“The Royal Hippodrome Performance of Turpin’s Ride to York and the +Death of Black Bess,” replied the man promptly, without turning his +eyes or leaving off tying. + +As soon as the tent was completed the band struck up highly stimulating +harmonies, and the announcement was publicly made, Black Bess standing +in a conspicuous position on the outside, as a living proof, if proof +were wanted, of the truth of the oracular utterances from the stage +over which the people were to enter. These were so convinced by such +genuine appeals to heart and understanding both that they soon began to +crowd in abundantly, among the foremost being visible Jan Coggan and +Joseph Poorgrass, who were holiday keeping here to-day. + +“That’s the great ruffen pushing me!” screamed a woman in front of Jan +over her shoulder at him when the rush was at its fiercest. + +“How can I help pushing ye when the folk behind push me?” said Coggan, +in a deprecating tone, turning his head towards the aforesaid folk as +far as he could without turning his body, which was jammed as in a +vice. + +There was a silence; then the drums and trumpets again sent forth their +echoing notes. The crowd was again ecstasied, and gave another lurch in +which Coggan and Poorgrass were again thrust by those behind upon the +women in front. + +“Oh that helpless feymels should be at the mercy of such ruffens!” +exclaimed one of these ladies again, as she swayed like a reed shaken +by the wind. + +“Now,” said Coggan, appealing in an earnest voice to the public at +large as it stood clustered about his shoulder-blades, “did ye ever +hear such onreasonable woman as that? Upon my carcase, neighbours, if I +could only get out of this cheese-wring, the damn women might eat the +show for me!” + +“Don’t ye lose yer temper, Jan!” implored Joseph Poorgrass, in a +whisper. “They might get their men to murder us, for I think by the +shine of their eyes that they be a sinful form of womankind.” + +Jan held his tongue, as if he had no objection to be pacified to please +a friend, and they gradually reached the foot of the ladder, Poorgrass +being flattened like a jumping-jack, and the sixpence, for admission, +which he had got ready half-an-hour earlier, having become so reeking +hot in the tight squeeze of his excited hand that the woman in +spangles, brazen rings set with glass diamonds, and with chalked face +and shoulders, who took the money of him, hastily dropped it again from +a fear that some trick had been played to burn her fingers. So they all +entered, and the cloth of the tent, to the eyes of an observer on the +outside, became bulged into innumerable pimples such as we observe on a +sack of potatoes, caused by the various human heads, backs, and elbows +at high pressure within. + +At the rear of the large tent there were two small dressing-tents. One +of these, alloted to the male performers, was partitioned into halves +by a cloth; and in one of the divisions there was sitting on the grass, +pulling on a pair of jack-boots, a young man whom we instantly +recognise as Sergeant Troy. + +Troy’s appearance in this position may be briefly accounted for. The +brig aboard which he was taken in Budmouth Roads was about to start on +a voyage, though somewhat short of hands. Troy read the articles and +joined, but before they sailed a boat was despatched across the bay to +Lulwind cove; as he had half expected, his clothes were gone. He +ultimately worked his passage to the United States, where he made a +precarious living in various towns as Professor of Gymnastics, Sword +Exercise, Fencing, and Pugilism. A few months were sufficient to give +him a distaste for this kind of life. There was a certain animal form +of refinement in his nature; and however pleasant a strange condition +might be whilst privations were easily warded off, it was +disadvantageously coarse when money was short. There was ever present, +too, the idea that he could claim a home and its comforts did he but +chose to return to England and Weatherbury Farm. Whether Bathsheba +thought him dead was a frequent subject of curious conjecture. To +England he did return at last; but the fact of drawing nearer to +Weatherbury abstracted its fascinations, and his intention to enter his +old groove at the place became modified. It was with gloom he +considered on landing at Liverpool that if he were to go home his +reception would be of a kind very unpleasant to contemplate; for what +Troy had in the way of emotion was an occasional fitful sentiment which +sometimes caused him as much inconvenience as emotion of a strong and +healthy kind. Bathsheba was not a woman to be made a fool of, or a +woman to suffer in silence; and how could he endure existence with a +spirited wife to whom at first entering he would be beholden for food +and lodging? Moreover, it was not at all unlikely that his wife would +fail at her farming, if she had not already done so; and he would then +become liable for her maintenance: and what a life such a future of +poverty with her would be, the spectre of Fanny constantly between +them, harrowing his temper and embittering her words! Thus, for reasons +touching on distaste, regret, and shame commingled, he put off his +return from day to day, and would have decided to put it off altogether +if he could have found anywhere else the ready-made establishment which +existed for him there. + +At this time—the July preceding the September in which we find at +Greenhill Fair—he fell in with a travelling circus which was performing +in the outskirts of a northern town. Troy introduced himself to the +manager by taming a restive horse of the troupe, hitting a suspended +apple with a pistol-bullet fired from the animal’s back when in full +gallop, and other feats. For his merits in these—all more or less based +upon his experiences as a dragoon-guardsman—Troy was taken into the +company, and the play of Turpin was prepared with a view to his +personation of the chief character. Troy was not greatly elated by the +appreciative spirit in which he was undoubtedly treated, but he thought +the engagement might afford him a few weeks for consideration. It was +thus carelessly, and without having formed any definite plan for the +future, that Troy found himself at Greenhill Fair with the rest of the +company on this day. + +And now the mild autumn sun got lower, and in front of the pavilion the +following incident had taken place. Bathsheba—who was driven to the +fair that day by her odd man Poorgrass—had, like every one else, read +or heard the announcement that Mr. Francis, the Great Cosmopolitan +Equestrian and Roughrider, would enact the part of Turpin, and she was +not yet too old and careworn to be without a little curiosity to see +him. This particular show was by far the largest and grandest in the +fair, a horde of little shows grouping themselves under its shade like +chickens around a hen. The crowd had passed in, and Boldwood, who had +been watching all the day for an opportunity of speaking to her, seeing +her comparatively isolated, came up to her side. + +“I hope the sheep have done well to-day, Mrs. Troy?” he said, +nervously. + +“Oh yes, thank you,” said Bathsheba, colour springing up in the centre +of her cheeks. “I was fortunate enough to sell them all just as we got +upon the hill, so we hadn’t to pen at all.” + +“And now you are entirely at leisure?” + +“Yes, except that I have to see one more dealer in two hours’ time: +otherwise I should be going home. He was looking at this large tent and +the announcement. Have you ever seen the play of ‘Turpin’s Ride to +York’? Turpin was a real man, was he not?” + +“Oh yes, perfectly true—all of it. Indeed, I think I’ve heard Jan +Coggan say that a relation of his knew Tom King, Turpin’s friend, quite +well.” + +“Coggan is rather given to strange stories connected with his +relations, we must remember. I hope they can all be believed.” + +“Yes, yes; we know Coggan. But Turpin is true enough. You have never +seen it played, I suppose?” + +“Never. I was not allowed to go into these places when I was young. +Hark! What’s that prancing? How they shout!” + +“Black Bess just started off, I suppose. Am I right in supposing you +would like to see the performance, Mrs. Troy? Please excuse my mistake, +if it is one; but if you would like to, I’ll get a seat for you with +pleasure.” Perceiving that she hesitated, he added, “I myself shall not +stay to see it: I’ve seen it before.” + +Now Bathsheba did care a little to see the show, and had only withheld +her feet from the ladder because she feared to go in alone. She had +been hoping that Oak might appear, whose assistance in such cases was +always accepted as an inalienable right, but Oak was nowhere to be +seen; and hence it was that she said, “Then if you will just look in +first, to see if there’s room, I think I will go in for a minute or +two.” + +And so a short time after this Bathsheba appeared in the tent with +Boldwood at her elbow, who, taking her to a “reserved” seat, again +withdrew. + +This feature consisted of one raised bench in a very conspicuous part +of the circle, covered with red cloth, and floored with a piece of +carpet, and Bathsheba immediately found, to her confusion, that she was +the single reserved individual in the tent, the rest of the crowded +spectators, one and all, standing on their legs on the borders of the +arena, where they got twice as good a view of the performance for half +the money. Hence as many eyes were turned upon her, enthroned alone in +this place of honour, against a scarlet background, as upon the ponies +and clown who were engaged in preliminary exploits in the centre, +Turpin not having yet appeared. Once there, Bathsheba was forced to +make the best of it and remain: she sat down, spreading her skirts with +some dignity over the unoccupied space on each side of her, and giving +a new and feminine aspect to the pavilion. In a few minutes she noticed +the fat red nape of Coggan’s neck among those standing just below her, +and Joseph Poorgrass’s saintly profile a little further on. + +The interior was shadowy with a peculiar shade. The strange luminous +semi-opacities of fine autumn afternoons and eves intensified into +Rembrandt effects the few yellow sunbeams which came through holes and +divisions in the canvas, and spirted like jets of gold-dust across the +dusky blue atmosphere of haze pervading the tent, until they alighted +on inner surfaces of cloth opposite, and shone like little lamps +suspended there. + +Troy, on peeping from his dressing-tent through a slit for a +reconnoitre before entering, saw his unconscious wife on high before +him as described, sitting as queen of the tournament. He started back +in utter confusion, for although his disguise effectually concealed his +personality, he instantly felt that she would be sure to recognize his +voice. He had several times during the day thought of the possibility +of some Weatherbury person or other appearing and recognizing him; but +he had taken the risk carelessly. If they see me, let them, he had +said. But here was Bathsheba in her own person; and the reality of the +scene was so much intenser than any of his prefigurings that he felt he +had not half enough considered the point. + +She looked so charming and fair that his cool mood about Weatherbury +people was changed. He had not expected her to exercise this power over +him in the twinkling of an eye. Should he go on, and care nothing? He +could not bring himself to do that. Beyond a politic wish to remain +unknown, there suddenly arose in him now a sense of shame at the +possibility that his attractive young wife, who already despised him, +should despise him more by discovering him in so mean a condition after +so long a time. He actually blushed at the thought, and was vexed +beyond measure that his sentiments of dislike towards Weatherbury +should have led him to dally about the country in this way. + +But Troy was never more clever than when absolutely at his wit’s end. +He hastily thrust aside the curtain dividing his own little dressing +space from that of the manager and proprietor, who now appeared as the +individual called Tom King as far down as his waist, and as the +aforesaid respectable manager thence to his toes. + +“Here’s the devil to pay!” said Troy. + +“How’s that?” + +“Why, there’s a blackguard creditor in the tent I don’t want to see, +who’ll discover me and nab me as sure as Satan if I open my mouth. +What’s to be done?” + +“You must appear now, I think.” + +“I can’t.” + +“But the play must proceed.” + +“Do you give out that Turpin has got a bad cold, and can’t speak his +part, but that he’ll perform it just the same without speaking.” + +The proprietor shook his head. + +“Anyhow, play or no play, I won’t open my mouth,” said Troy, firmly. + +“Very well, then let me see. I tell you how we’ll manage,” said the +other, who perhaps felt it would be extremely awkward to offend his +leading man just at this time. “I won’t tell ’em anything about your +keeping silence; go on with the piece and say nothing, doing what you +can by a judicious wink now and then, and a few indomitable nods in the +heroic places, you know. They’ll never find out that the speeches are +omitted.” + +This seemed feasible enough, for Turpin’s speeches were not many or +long, the fascination of the piece lying entirely in the action; and +accordingly the play began, and at the appointed time Black Bess leapt +into the grassy circle amid the plaudits of the spectators. At the +turnpike scene, where Bess and Turpin are hotly pursued at midnight by +the officers, and the half-awake gatekeeper in his tasselled nightcap +denies that any horseman has passed, Coggan uttered a broad-chested +“Well done!” which could be heard all over the fair above the bleating, +and Poorgrass smiled delightedly with a nice sense of dramatic contrast +between our hero, who coolly leaps the gate, and halting justice in the +form of his enemies, who must needs pull up cumbersomely and wait to be +let through. At the death of Tom King, he could not refrain from +seizing Coggan by the hand, and whispering, with tears in his eyes, “Of +course he’s not really shot, Jan—only seemingly!” And when the last sad +scene came on, and the body of the gallant and faithful Bess had to be +carried out on a shutter by twelve volunteers from among the +spectators, nothing could restrain Poorgrass from lending a hand, +exclaiming, as he asked Jan to join him, “’Twill be something to tell +of at Warren’s in future years, Jan, and hand down to our children.” +For many a year in Weatherbury, Joseph told, with the air of a man who +had had experiences in his time, that he touched with his own hand the +hoof of Bess as she lay upon the board upon his shoulder. If, as some +thinkers hold, immortality consists in being enshrined in others’ +memories, then did Black Bess become immortal that day if she never had +done so before. + +Meanwhile Troy had added a few touches to his ordinary make-up for the +character, the more effectually to disguise himself, and though he had +felt faint qualms on first entering, the metamorphosis effected by +judiciously “lining” his face with a wire rendered him safe from the +eyes of Bathsheba and her men. Nevertheless, he was relieved when it +was got through. + +There was a second performance in the evening, and the tent was lighted +up. Troy had taken his part very quietly this time, venturing to +introduce a few speeches on occasion; and was just concluding it when, +whilst standing at the edge of the circle contiguous to the first row +of spectators, he observed within a yard of him the eye of a man darted +keenly into his side features. Troy hastily shifted his position, after +having recognized in the scrutineer the knavish bailiff Pennyways, his +wife’s sworn enemy, who still hung about the outskirts of Weatherbury. + +At first Troy resolved to take no notice and abide by circumstances. +That he had been recognized by this man was highly probable; yet there +was room for a doubt. Then the great objection he had felt to allowing +news of his proximity to precede him to Weatherbury in the event of his +return, based on a feeling that knowledge of his present occupation +would discredit him still further in his wife’s eyes, returned in full +force. Moreover, should he resolve not to return at all, a tale of his +being alive and being in the neighbourhood would be awkward; and he was +anxious to acquire a knowledge of his wife’s temporal affairs before +deciding which to do. + +In this dilemma Troy at once went out to reconnoitre. It occurred to +him that to find Pennyways, and make a friend of him if possible, would +be a very wise act. He had put on a thick beard borrowed from the +establishment, and in this he wandered about the fair-field. It was now +almost dark, and respectable people were getting their carts and gigs +ready to go home. + +The largest refreshment booth in the fair was provided by an innkeeper +from a neighbouring town. This was considered an unexceptionable place +for obtaining the necessary food and rest: Host Trencher (as he was +jauntily called by the local newspaper) being a substantial man of high +repute for catering through all the country round. The tent was divided +into first and second-class compartments, and at the end of the +first-class division was a yet further enclosure for the most +exclusive, fenced off from the body of the tent by a luncheon-bar, +behind which the host himself stood bustling about in white apron and +shirt-sleeves, and looking as if he had never lived anywhere but under +canvas all his life. In these penetralia were chairs and a table, +which, on candles being lighted, made quite a cozy and luxurious show, +with an urn, plated tea and coffee pots, china teacups, and plum cakes. + +Troy stood at the entrance to the booth, where a gipsy-woman was frying +pancakes over a little fire of sticks and selling them at a penny +a-piece, and looked over the heads of the people within. He could see +nothing of Pennyways, but he soon discerned Bathsheba through an +opening into the reserved space at the further end. Troy thereupon +retreated, went round the tent into the darkness, and listened. He +could hear Bathsheba’s voice immediately inside the canvas; she was +conversing with a man. A warmth overspread his face: surely she was not +so unprincipled as to flirt in a fair! He wondered if, then, she +reckoned upon his death as an absolute certainty. To get at the root of +the matter, Troy took a penknife from his pocket and softly made two +little cuts crosswise in the cloth, which, by folding back the corners +left a hole the size of a wafer. Close to this he placed his face, +withdrawing it again in a movement of surprise; for his eye had been +within twelve inches of the top of Bathsheba’s head. It was too near to +be convenient. He made another hole a little to one side and lower +down, in a shaded place beside her chair, from which it was easy and +safe to survey her by looking horizontally. + +Troy took in the scene completely now. She was leaning back, sipping a +cup of tea that she held in her hand, and the owner of the male voice +was Boldwood, who had apparently just brought the cup to her, +Bathsheba, being in a negligent mood, leant so idly against the canvas +that it was pressed to the shape of her shoulder, and she was, in fact, +as good as in Troy’s arms; and he was obliged to keep his breast +carefully backward that she might not feel its warmth through the cloth +as he gazed in. + +Troy found unexpected chords of feeling to be stirred again within him +as they had been stirred earlier in the day. She was handsome as ever, +and she was his. It was some minutes before he could counteract his +sudden wish to go in, and claim her. Then he thought how the proud girl +who had always looked down upon him even whilst it was to love him, +would hate him on discovering him to be a strolling player. Were he to +make himself known, that chapter of his life must at all risks be kept +for ever from her and from the Weatherbury people, or his name would be +a byword throughout the parish. He would be nicknamed “Turpin” as long +as he lived. Assuredly before he could claim her these few past months +of his existence must be entirely blotted out. + +“Shall I get you another cup before you start, ma’am?” said Farmer +Boldwood. + +“Thank you,” said Bathsheba. “But I must be going at once. It was great +neglect in that man to keep me waiting here till so late. I should have +gone two hours ago, if it had not been for him. I had no idea of coming +in here; but there’s nothing so refreshing as a cup of tea, though I +should never have got one if you hadn’t helped me.” + +Troy scrutinized her cheek as lit by the candles, and watched each +varying shade thereon, and the white shell-like sinuosities of her +little ear. She took out her purse and was insisting to Boldwood on +paying for her tea for herself, when at this moment Pennyways entered +the tent. Troy trembled: here was his scheme for respectability +endangered at once. He was about to leave his hole of espial, attempt +to follow Pennyways, and find out if the ex-bailiff had recognized him, +when he was arrested by the conversation, and found he was too late. + +“Excuse me, ma’am,” said Pennyways; “I’ve some private information for +your ear alone.” + +“I cannot hear it now,” she said, coldly. That Bathsheba could not +endure this man was evident; in fact, he was continually coming to her +with some tale or other, by which he might creep into favour at the +expense of persons maligned. + +“I’ll write it down,” said Pennyways, confidently. He stooped over the +table, pulled a leaf from a warped pocket-book, and wrote upon the +paper, in a round hand— + +“_Your husband is here. I’ve seen him. Who’s the fool now?_” + +This he folded small, and handed towards her. Bathsheba would not read +it; she would not even put out her hand to take it. Pennyways, then, +with a laugh of derision, tossed it into her lap, and, turning away, +left her. + +From the words and action of Pennyways, Troy, though he had not been +able to see what the ex-bailiff wrote, had not a moment’s doubt that +the note referred to him. Nothing that he could think of could be done +to check the exposure. “Curse my luck!” he whispered, and added +imprecations which rustled in the gloom like a pestilent wind. +Meanwhile Boldwood said, taking up the note from her lap— + +“Don’t you wish to read it, Mrs. Troy? If not, I’ll destroy it.” + +“Oh, well,” said Bathsheba, carelessly, “perhaps it is unjust not to +read it; but I can guess what it is about. He wants me to recommend +him, or it is to tell me of some little scandal or another connected +with my work-people. He’s always doing that.” + +Bathsheba held the note in her right hand. Boldwood handed towards her +a plate of cut bread-and-butter; when, in order to take a slice, she +put the note into her left hand, where she was still holding the purse, +and then allowed her hand to drop beside her close to the canvas. The +moment had come for saving his game, and Troy impulsively felt that he +would play the card. For yet another time he looked at the fair hand, +and saw the pink finger-tips, and the blue veins of the wrist, +encircled by a bracelet of coral chippings which she wore: how familiar +it all was to him! Then, with the lightning action in which he was such +an adept, he noiselessly slipped his hand under the bottom of the +tent-cloth, which was far from being pinned tightly down, lifted it a +little way, keeping his eye to the hole, snatched the note from her +fingers, dropped the canvas, and ran away in the gloom towards the bank +and ditch, smiling at the scream of astonishment which burst from her. +Troy then slid down on the outside of the rampart, hastened round in +the bottom of the entrenchment to a distance of a hundred yards, +ascended again, and crossed boldly in a slow walk towards the front +entrance of the tent. His object was now to get to Pennyways, and +prevent a repetition of the announcement until such time as he should +choose. + +Troy reached the tent door, and standing among the groups there +gathered, looked anxiously for Pennyways, evidently not wishing to make +himself prominent by inquiring for him. One or two men were speaking of +a daring attempt that had just been made to rob a young lady by lifting +the canvas of the tent beside her. It was supposed that the rogue had +imagined a slip of paper which she held in her hand to be a bank note, +for he had seized it, and made off with it, leaving her purse behind. +His chagrin and disappointment at discovering its worthlessness would +be a good joke, it was said. However, the occurrence seemed to have +become known to few, for it had not interrupted a fiddler, who had +lately begun playing by the door of the tent, nor the four bowed old +men with grim countenances and walking-sticks in hand, who were dancing +“Major Malley’s Reel” to the tune. Behind these stood Pennyways. Troy +glided up to him, beckoned, and whispered a few words; and with a +mutual glance of concurrence the two men went into the night together. + + + + +CHAPTER LI +BATHSHEBA TALKS WITH HER OUTRIDER + + +The arrangement for getting back again to Weatherbury had been that Oak +should take the place of Poorgrass in Bathsheba’s conveyance and drive +her home, it being discovered late in the afternoon that Joseph was +suffering from his old complaint, a multiplying eye, and was, +therefore, hardly trustworthy as coachman and protector to a woman. But +Oak had found himself so occupied, and was full of so many cares +relative to those portions of Boldwood’s flocks that were not disposed +of, that Bathsheba, without telling Oak or anybody, resolved to drive +home herself, as she had many times done from Casterbridge Market, and +trust to her good angel for performing the journey unmolested. But +having fallen in with Farmer Boldwood accidentally (on her part at +least) at the refreshment-tent, she found it impossible to refuse his +offer to ride on horseback beside her as escort. It had grown twilight +before she was aware, but Boldwood assured her that there was no cause +for uneasiness, as the moon would be up in half-an-hour. + +Immediately after the incident in the tent, she had risen to go—now +absolutely alarmed and really grateful for her old lover’s +protection—though regretting Gabriel’s absence, whose company she would +have much preferred, as being more proper as well as more pleasant, +since he was her own managing-man and servant. This, however, could not +be helped; she would not, on any consideration, treat Boldwood harshly, +having once already ill-used him, and the moon having risen, and the +gig being ready, she drove across the hilltop in the wending way’s +which led downwards—to oblivious obscurity, as it seemed, for the moon +and the hill it flooded with light were in appearance on a level, the +rest of the world lying as a vast shady concave between them. Boldwood +mounted his horse, and followed in close attendance behind. Thus they +descended into the lowlands, and the sounds of those left on the hill +came like voices from the sky, and the lights were as those of a camp +in heaven. They soon passed the merry stragglers in the immediate +vicinity of the hill, traversed Kingsbere, and got upon the high road. + +The keen instincts of Bathsheba had perceived that the farmer’s staunch +devotion to herself was still undiminished, and she sympathized deeply. +The sight had quite depressed her this evening; had reminded her of her +folly; she wished anew, as she had wished many months ago, for some +means of making reparation for her fault. Hence her pity for the man +who so persistently loved on to his own injury and permanent gloom had +betrayed Bathsheba into an injudicious considerateness of manner, which +appeared almost like tenderness, and gave new vigour to the exquisite +dream of a Jacob’s seven years service in poor Boldwood’s mind. + +He soon found an excuse for advancing from his position in the rear, +and rode close by her side. They had gone two or three miles in the +moonlight, speaking desultorily across the wheel of her gig concerning +the fair, farming, Oak’s usefulness to them both, and other indifferent +subjects, when Boldwood said suddenly and simply— + +“Mrs. Troy, you will marry again some day?” + +This point-blank query unmistakably confused her, and it was not till a +minute or more had elapsed that she said, “I have not seriously thought +of any such subject.” + +“I quite understand that. Yet your late husband has been dead nearly +one year, and—” + +“You forget that his death was never absolutely proved, and may not +have taken place; so that I may not be really a widow,” she said, +catching at the straw of escape that the fact afforded. + +“Not absolutely proved, perhaps, but it was proved circumstantially. A +man saw him drowning, too. No reasonable person has any doubt of his +death; nor have you, ma’am, I should imagine.” + +“I have none now, or I should have acted differently,” she said, +gently. “I certainly, at first, had a strange unaccountable feeling +that he could not have perished, but I have been able to explain that +in several ways since. But though I am fully persuaded that I shall see +him no more, I am far from thinking of marriage with another. I should +be very contemptible to indulge in such a thought.” + +They were silent now awhile, and having struck into an unfrequented +track across a common, the creaks of Boldwood’s saddle and her gig +springs were all the sounds to be heard. Boldwood ended the pause. + +“Do you remember when I carried you fainting in my arms into the King’s +Arms, in Casterbridge? Every dog has his day: that was mine.” + +“I know—I know it all,” she said, hurriedly. + +“I, for one, shall never cease regretting that events so fell out as to +deny you to me.” + +“I, too, am very sorry,” she said, and then checked herself. “I mean, +you know, I am sorry you thought I—” + +“I have always this dreary pleasure in thinking over those past times +with you—that I was something to you before _he_ was anything, and that +you belonged _almost_ to me. But, of course, that’s nothing. You never +liked me.” + +“I did; and respected you, too.” + +“Do you now?” + +“Yes.” + +“Which?” + +“How do you mean which?” + +“Do you like me, or do you respect me?” + +“I don’t know—at least, I cannot tell you. It is difficult for a woman +to define her feelings in language which is chiefly made by men to +express theirs. My treatment of you was thoughtless, inexcusable, +wicked! I shall eternally regret it. If there had been anything I could +have done to make amends I would most gladly have done it—there was +nothing on earth I so longed to do as to repair the error. But that was +not possible.” + +“Don’t blame yourself—you were not so far in the wrong as you suppose. +Bathsheba, suppose you had real complete proof that you are what, in +fact, you are—a widow—would you repair the old wrong to me by marrying +me?” + +“I cannot say. I shouldn’t yet, at any rate.” + +“But you might at some future time of your life?” + +“Oh yes, I might at some time.” + +“Well, then, do you know that without further proof of any kind you may +marry again in about six years from the present—subject to nobody’s +objection or blame?” + +“Oh yes,” she said, quickly. “I know all that. But don’t talk of +it—seven or six years—where may we all be by that time?” + +“They will soon glide by, and it will seem an astonishingly short time +to look back upon when they are past—much less than to look forward to +now.” + +“Yes, yes; I have found that in my own experience.” + +“Now listen once more,” Boldwood pleaded. “If I wait that time, will +you marry me? You own that you owe me amends—let that be your way of +making them.” + +“But, Mr. Boldwood—six years—” + +“Do you want to be the wife of any other man?” + +“No indeed! I mean, that I don’t like to talk about this matter now. +Perhaps it is not proper, and I ought not to allow it. Let us drop it. +My husband may be living, as I said.” + +“Of course, I’ll drop the subject if you wish. But propriety has +nothing to do with reasons. I am a middle-aged man, willing to protect +you for the remainder of our lives. On your side, at least, there is no +passion or blamable haste—on mine, perhaps, there is. But I can’t help +seeing that if you choose from a feeling of pity, and, as you say, a +wish to make amends, to make a bargain with me for a far-ahead time—an +agreement which will set all things right and make me happy, late +though it may be—there is no fault to be found with you as a woman. +Hadn’t I the first place beside you? Haven’t you been almost mine once +already? Surely you can say to me as much as this, you will have me +back again should circumstances permit? Now, pray speak! O Bathsheba, +promise—it is only a little promise—that if you marry again, you will +marry me!” + +His tone was so excited that she almost feared him at this moment, even +whilst she sympathized. It was a simple physical fear—the weak of the +strong; there was no emotional aversion or inner repugnance. She said, +with some distress in her voice, for she remembered vividly his +outburst on the Yalbury Road, and shrank from a repetition of his +anger:— + +“I will never marry another man whilst you wish me to be your wife, +whatever comes—but to say more—you have taken me so by surprise—” + +“But let it stand in these simple words—that in six years’ time you +will be my wife? Unexpected accidents we’ll not mention, because those, +of course, must be given way to. Now, this time I know you will keep +your word.” + +“That’s why I hesitate to give it.” + +“But do give it! Remember the past, and be kind.” + +She breathed; and then said mournfully: “Oh what shall I do? I don’t +love you, and I much fear that I never shall love you as much as a +woman ought to love a husband. If you, sir, know that, and I can yet +give you happiness by a mere promise to marry at the end of six years, +if my husband should not come back, it is a great honour to me. And if +you value such an act of friendship from a woman who doesn’t esteem +herself as she did, and has little love left, why I—I will—” + +“Promise!” + +“—Consider, if I cannot promise soon.” + +“But soon is perhaps never?” + +“Oh no, it is not! I mean soon. Christmas, we’ll say.” + +“Christmas!” He said nothing further till he added: “Well, I’ll say no +more to you about it till that time.” + +Bathsheba was in a very peculiar state of mind, which showed how +entirely the soul is the slave of the body, the ethereal spirit +dependent for its quality upon the tangible flesh and blood. It is +hardly too much to say that she felt coerced by a force stronger than +her own will, not only into the act of promising upon this singularly +remote and vague matter, but into the emotion of fancying that she +ought to promise. When the weeks intervening between the night of this +conversation and Christmas day began perceptibly to diminish, her +anxiety and perplexity increased. + +One day she was led by an accident into an oddly confidential dialogue +with Gabriel about her difficulty. It afforded her a little relief—of a +dull and cheerless kind. They were auditing accounts, and something +occurred in the course of their labours which led Oak to say, speaking +of Boldwood, “He’ll never forget you, ma’am, never.” + +Then out came her trouble before she was aware; and she told him how +she had again got into the toils; what Boldwood had asked her, and how +he was expecting her assent. “The most mournful reason of all for my +agreeing to it,” she said sadly, “and the true reason why I think to do +so for good or for evil, is this—it is a thing I have not breathed to a +living soul as yet—I believe that if I don’t give my word, he’ll go out +of his mind.” + +“Really, do ye?” said Gabriel, gravely. + +“I believe this,” she continued, with reckless frankness; “and Heaven +knows I say it in a spirit the very reverse of vain, for I am grieved +and troubled to my soul about it—I believe I hold that man’s future in +my hand. His career depends entirely upon my treatment of him. O +Gabriel, I tremble at my responsibility, for it is terrible!” + +“Well, I think this much, ma’am, as I told you years ago,” said Oak, +“that his life is a total blank whenever he isn’t hoping for ’ee; but I +can’t suppose—I hope that nothing so dreadful hangs on to it as you +fancy. His natural manner has always been dark and strange, you know. +But since the case is so sad and odd-like, why don’t ye give the +conditional promise? I think I would.” + +“But is it right? Some rash acts of my past life have taught me that a +watched woman must have very much circumspection to retain only a very +little credit, and I do want and long to be discreet in this! And six +years—why we may all be in our graves by that time, even if Mr. Troy +does not come back again, which he may not impossibly do! Such thoughts +give a sort of absurdity to the scheme. Now, isn’t it preposterous, +Gabriel? However he came to dream of it, I cannot think. But is it +wrong? You know—you are older than I.” + +“Eight years older, ma’am.” + +“Yes, eight years—and is it wrong?” + +“Perhaps it would be an uncommon agreement for a man and woman to make: +I don’t see anything really wrong about it,” said Oak, slowly. “In fact +the very thing that makes it doubtful if you ought to marry en under +any condition, that is, your not caring about him—for I may suppose—” + +“Yes, you may suppose that love is wanting,” she said shortly. “Love is +an utterly bygone, sorry, worn-out, miserable thing with me—for him or +any one else.” + +“Well, your want of love seems to me the one thing that takes away harm +from such an agreement with him. If wild heat had to do wi’ it, making +ye long to over-come the awkwardness about your husband’s vanishing, it +mid be wrong; but a cold-hearted agreement to oblige a man seems +different, somehow. The real sin, ma’am in my mind, lies in thinking of +ever wedding wi’ a man you don’t love honest and true.” + +“That I’m willing to pay the penalty of,” said Bathsheba, firmly. “You +know, Gabriel, this is what I cannot get off my conscience—that I once +seriously injured him in sheer idleness. If I had never played a trick +upon him, he would never have wanted to marry me. Oh if I could only +pay some heavy damages in money to him for the harm I did, and so get +the sin off my soul that way!... Well, there’s the debt, which can only +be discharged in one way, and I believe I am bound to do it if it +honestly lies in my power, without any consideration of my own future +at all. When a rake gambles away his expectations, the fact that it is +an inconvenient debt doesn’t make him the less liable. I’ve been a +rake, and the single point I ask you is, considering that my own +scruples, and the fact that in the eye of the law my husband is only +missing, will keep any man from marrying me until seven years have +passed—am I free to entertain such an idea, even though ’tis a sort of +penance—for it will be that? I _hate_ the act of marriage under such +circumstances, and the class of women I should seem to belong to by +doing it!” + +“It seems to me that all depends upon whe’r you think, as everybody +else do, that your husband is dead.” + +“Yes—I’ve long ceased to doubt that. I well know what would have +brought him back long before this time if he had lived.” + +“Well, then, in a religious sense you will be as free to _think_ o’ +marrying again as any real widow of one year’s standing. But why don’t +ye ask Mr. Thirdly’s advice on how to treat Mr. Boldwood?” + +“No. When I want a broad-minded opinion for general enlightenment, +distinct from special advice, I never go to a man who deals in the +subject professionally. So I like the parson’s opinion on law, the +lawyer’s on doctoring, the doctor’s on business, and my +business-man’s—that is, yours—on morals.” + +“And on love—” + +“My own.” + +“I’m afraid there’s a hitch in that argument,” said Oak, with a grave +smile. + +She did not reply at once, and then saying, “Good evening, Mr. Oak,” +went away. + +She had spoken frankly, and neither asked nor expected any reply from +Gabriel more satisfactory than that she had obtained. Yet in the +centremost parts of her complicated heart there existed at this minute +a little pang of disappointment, for a reason she would not allow +herself to recognize. Oak had not once wished her free that he might +marry her himself—had not once said, “I could wait for you as well as +he.” That was the insect sting. Not that she would have listened to any +such hypothesis. O no—for wasn’t she saying all the time that such +thoughts of the future were improper, and wasn’t Gabriel far too poor a +man to speak sentiment to her? Yet he might have just hinted about that +old love of his, and asked, in a playful off-hand way, if he might +speak of it. It would have seemed pretty and sweet, if no more; and +then she would have shown how kind and inoffensive a woman’s “No” can +sometimes be. But to give such cool advice—the very advice she had +asked for—it ruffled our heroine all the afternoon. + + + + +CHAPTER LII +CONVERGING COURSES + +I + +Christmas-eve came, and a party that Boldwood was to give in the +evening was the great subject of talk in Weatherbury. It was not that +the rarity of Christmas parties in the parish made this one a wonder, +but that Boldwood should be the giver. The announcement had had an +abnormal and incongruous sound, as if one should hear of +croquet-playing in a cathedral aisle, or that some much-respected judge +was going upon the stage. That the party was intended to be a truly +jovial one there was no room for doubt. A large bough of mistletoe had +been brought from the woods that day, and suspended in the hall of the +bachelor’s home. Holly and ivy had followed in armfuls. From six that +morning till past noon the huge wood fire in the kitchen roared and +sparkled at its highest, the kettle, the saucepan, and the three-legged +pot appearing in the midst of the flames like Shadrach, Meshach, and +Abednego; moreover, roasting and basting operations were continually +carried on in front of the genial blaze. + +As it grew later the fire was made up in the large long hall into which +the staircase descended, and all encumbrances were cleared out for +dancing. The log which was to form the back-brand of the evening fire +was the uncleft trunk of a tree, so unwieldy that it could be neither +brought nor rolled to its place; and accordingly two men were to be +observed dragging and heaving it in by chains and levers as the hour of +assembly drew near. + +In spite of all this, the spirit of revelry was wanting in the +atmosphere of the house. Such a thing had never been attempted before +by its owner, and it was now done as by a wrench. Intended gaieties +would insist upon appearing like solemn grandeurs, the organization of +the whole effort was carried out coldly, by hirelings, and a shadow +seemed to move about the rooms, saying that the proceedings were +unnatural to the place and the lone man who lived therein, and hence +not good. + +II + +Bathsheba was at this time in her room, dressing for the event. She had +called for candles, and Liddy entered and placed one on each side of +her mistress’s glass. + +“Don’t go away, Liddy,” said Bathsheba, almost timidly. “I am foolishly +agitated—I cannot tell why. I wish I had not been obliged to go to this +dance; but there’s no escaping now. I have not spoken to Mr. Boldwood +since the autumn, when I promised to see him at Christmas on business, +but I had no idea there was to be anything of this kind.” + +“But I would go now,” said Liddy, who was going with her; for Boldwood +had been indiscriminate in his invitations. + +“Yes, I shall make my appearance, of course,” said Bathsheba. “But I am +_the cause_ of the party, and that upsets me!—Don’t tell, Liddy.” + +“Oh no, ma’am. You the cause of it, ma’am?” + +“Yes. I am the reason of the party—I. If it had not been for me, there +would never have been one. I can’t explain any more—there’s no more to +be explained. I wish I had never seen Weatherbury.” + +“That’s wicked of you—to wish to be worse off than you are.” + +“No, Liddy. I have never been free from trouble since I have lived +here, and this party is likely to bring me more. Now, fetch my black +silk dress, and see how it sits upon me.” + +“But you will leave off that, surely, ma’am? You have been a widow-lady +fourteen months, and ought to brighten up a little on such a night as +this.” + +“Is it necessary? No; I will appear as usual, for if I were to wear any +light dress people would say things about me, and I should seem to be +rejoicing when I am solemn all the time. The party doesn’t suit me a +bit; but never mind, stay and help to finish me off.” + +III + +Boldwood was dressing also at this hour. A tailor from Casterbridge was +with him, assisting him in the operation of trying on a new coat that +had just been brought home. + +Never had Boldwood been so fastidious, unreasonable about the fit, and +generally difficult to please. The tailor walked round and round him, +tugged at the waist, pulled the sleeve, pressed out the collar, and for +the first time in his experience Boldwood was not bored. Times had been +when the farmer had exclaimed against all such niceties as childish, +but now no philosophic or hasty rebuke whatever was provoked by this +man for attaching as much importance to a crease in the coat as to an +earthquake in South America. Boldwood at last expressed himself nearly +satisfied, and paid the bill, the tailor passing out of the door just +as Oak came in to report progress for the day. + +“Oh, Oak,” said Boldwood. “I shall of course see you here to-night. +Make yourself merry. I am determined that neither expense nor trouble +shall be spared.” + +“I’ll try to be here, sir, though perhaps it may not be very early,” +said Gabriel, quietly. “I am glad indeed to see such a change in ’ee +from what it used to be.” + +“Yes—I must own it—I am bright to-night: cheerful and more than +cheerful—so much so that I am almost sad again with the sense that all +of it is passing away. And sometimes, when I am excessively hopeful and +blithe, a trouble is looming in the distance: so that I often get to +look upon gloom in me with content, and to fear a happy mood. Still +this may be absurd—I feel that it is absurd. Perhaps my day is dawning +at last.” + +“I hope it ’ill be a long and a fair one.” + +“Thank you—thank you. Yet perhaps my cheerfulness rests on a slender +hope. And yet I trust my hope. It is faith, not hope. I think this time +I reckon with my host.—Oak, my hands are a little shaky, or something; +I can’t tie this neckerchief properly. Perhaps you will tie it for me. +The fact is, I have not been well lately, you know.” + +“I am sorry to hear that, sir.” + +“Oh, it’s nothing. I want it done as well as you can, please. Is there +any late knot in fashion, Oak?” + +“I don’t know, sir,” said Oak. His tone had sunk to sadness. + +Boldwood approached Gabriel, and as Oak tied the neckerchief the farmer +went on feverishly— + +“Does a woman keep her promise, Gabriel?” + +“If it is not inconvenient to her she may.” + +“—Or rather an implied promise.” + +“I won’t answer for her implying,” said Oak, with faint bitterness. +“That’s a word as full o’ holes as a sieve with them.” + +“Oak, don’t talk like that. You have got quite cynical lately—how is +it? We seem to have shifted our positions: I have become the young and +hopeful man, and you the old and unbelieving one. However, does a woman +keep a promise, not to marry, but to enter on an engagement to marry at +some time? Now you know women better than I—tell me.” + +“I am afeard you honour my understanding too much. However, she may +keep such a promise, if it is made with an honest meaning to repair a +wrong.” + +“It has not gone far yet, but I think it will soon—yes, I know it +will,” he said, in an impulsive whisper. “I have pressed her upon the +subject, and she inclines to be kind to me, and to think of me as a +husband at a long future time, and that’s enough for me. How can I +expect more? She has a notion that a woman should not marry within +seven years of her husband’s disappearance—that her own self shouldn’t, +I mean—because his body was not found. It may be merely this legal +reason which influences her, or it may be a religious one, but she is +reluctant to talk on the point. Yet she has promised—implied—that she +will ratify an engagement to-night.” + +“Seven years,” murmured Oak. + +“No, no—it’s no such thing!” he said, with impatience. “Five years, +nine months, and a few days. Fifteen months nearly have passed since he +vanished, and is there anything so wonderful in an engagement of little +more than five years?” + +“It seems long in a forward view. Don’t build too much upon such +promises, sir. Remember, you have once be’n deceived. Her meaning may +be good; but there—she’s young yet.” + +“Deceived? Never!” said Boldwood, vehemently. “She never promised me at +that first time, and hence she did not break her promise! If she +promises me, she’ll marry me. Bathsheba is a woman to her word.” + +IV + +Troy was sitting in a corner of The White Hart tavern at Casterbridge, +smoking and drinking a steaming mixture from a glass. A knock was given +at the door, and Pennyways entered. + +“Well, have you seen him?” Troy inquired, pointing to a chair. + +“Boldwood?” + +“No—Lawyer Long.” + +“He wadn’ at home. I went there first, too.” + +“That’s a nuisance.” + +“’Tis rather, I suppose.” + +“Yet I don’t see that, because a man appears to be drowned and was not, +he should be liable for anything. I shan’t ask any lawyer—not I.” + +“But that’s not it, exactly. If a man changes his name and so forth, +and takes steps to deceive the world and his own wife, he’s a cheat, +and that in the eye of the law is ayless a rogue, and that is ayless a +lammocken vagabond; and that’s a punishable situation.” + +“Ha-ha! Well done, Pennyways,” Troy had laughed, but it was with some +anxiety that he said, “Now, what I want to know is this, do you think +there’s really anything going on between her and Boldwood? Upon my +soul, I should never have believed it! How she must detest me! Have you +found out whether she has encouraged him?” + +“I haen’t been able to learn. There’s a deal of feeling on his side +seemingly, but I don’t answer for her. I didn’t know a word about any +such thing till yesterday, and all I heard then was that she was gwine +to the party at his house to-night. This is the first time she has ever +gone there, they say. And they say that she’ve not so much as spoke to +him since they were at Greenhill Fair: but what can folk believe o’t? +However, she’s not fond of him—quite offish and quite careless, I +know.” + +“I’m not so sure of that.... She’s a handsome woman, Pennyways, is she +not? Own that you never saw a finer or more splendid creature in your +life. Upon my honour, when I set eyes upon her that day I wondered what +I could have been made of to be able to leave her by herself so long. +And then I was hampered with that bothering show, which I’m free of at +last, thank the stars.” He smoked on awhile, and then added, “How did +she look when you passed by yesterday?” + +“Oh, she took no great heed of me, ye may well fancy; but she looked +well enough, far’s I know. Just flashed her haughty eyes upon my poor +scram body, and then let them go past me to what was yond, much as if +I’d been no more than a leafless tree. She had just got off her mare to +look at the last wring-down of cider for the year; she had been riding, +and so her colours were up and her breath rather quick, so that her +bosom plimmed and fell—plimmed and fell—every time plain to my eye. Ay, +and there were the fellers round her wringing down the cheese and +bustling about and saying, ‘Ware o’ the pommy, ma’am: ’twill spoil yer +gown.’ ‘Never mind me,’ says she. Then Gabe brought her some of the new +cider, and she must needs go drinking it through a strawmote, and not +in a nateral way at all. ‘Liddy,’ says she, ‘bring indoors a few +gallons, and I’ll make some cider-wine.’ Sergeant, I was no more to her +than a morsel of scroff in the fuel-house!” + +“I must go and find her out at once—O yes, I see that—I must go. Oak is +head man still, isn’t he?” + +“Yes, ’a b’lieve. And at Little Weatherbury Farm too. He manages +everything.” + +“’Twill puzzle him to manage her, or any other man of his compass!” + +“I don’t know about that. She can’t do without him, and knowing it well +he’s pretty independent. And she’ve a few soft corners to her mind, +though I’ve never been able to get into one, the devil’s in’t!” + +“Ah, baily, she’s a notch above you, and you must own it: a higher +class of animal—a finer tissue. However, stick to me, and neither this +haughty goddess, dashing piece of womanhood, Juno-wife of mine (Juno +was a goddess, you know), nor anybody else shall hurt you. But all this +wants looking into, I perceive. What with one thing and another, I see +that my work is well cut out for me.” + +V + +“How do I look to-night, Liddy?” said Bathsheba, giving a final +adjustment to her dress before leaving the glass. + +“I never saw you look so well before. Yes—I’ll tell you when you looked +like it—that night, a year and a half ago, when you came in so +wildlike, and scolded us for making remarks about you and Mr. Troy.” + +“Everybody will think that I am setting myself to captivate Mr. +Boldwood, I suppose,” she murmured. “At least they’ll say so. Can’t my +hair be brushed down a little flatter? I dread going—yet I dread the +risk of wounding him by staying away.” + +“Anyhow, ma’am, you can’t well be dressed plainer than you are, unless +you go in sackcloth at once. ’Tis your excitement is what makes you +look so noticeable to-night.” + +“I don’t know what’s the matter, I feel wretched at one time, and +buoyant at another. I wish I could have continued quite alone as I have +been for the last year or so, with no hopes and no fears, and no +pleasure and no grief.” + +“Now just suppose Mr. Boldwood should ask you—only just suppose it—to +run away with him, what would you do, ma’am?” + +“Liddy—none of that,” said Bathsheba, gravely. “Mind, I won’t hear +joking on any such matter. Do you hear?” + +“I beg pardon, ma’am. But knowing what rum things we women be, I just +said—however, I won’t speak of it again.” + +“No marrying for me yet for many a year; if ever, ’twill be for reasons +very, very different from those you think, or others will believe! Now +get my cloak, for it is time to go.” + +VI + +“Oak,” said Boldwood, “before you go I want to mention what has been +passing in my mind lately—that little arrangement we made about your +share in the farm I mean. That share is small, too small, considering +how little I attend to business now, and how much time and thought you +give to it. Well, since the world is brightening for me, I want to show +my sense of it by increasing your proportion in the partnership. I’ll +make a memorandum of the arrangement which struck me as likely to be +convenient, for I haven’t time to talk about it now; and then we’ll +discuss it at our leisure. My intention is ultimately to retire from +the management altogether, and until you can take all the expenditure +upon your shoulders, I’ll be a sleeping partner in the stock. Then, if +I marry her—and I hope—I feel I shall, why—” + +“Pray don’t speak of it, sir,” said Oak, hastily. “We don’t know what +may happen. So many upsets may befall ’ee. There’s many a slip, as they +say—and I would advise you—I know you’ll pardon me this once—not to be +_too sure_.” + +“I know, I know. But the feeling I have about increasing your share is +on account of what I know of you. Oak, I have learnt a little about +your secret: your interest in her is more than that of bailiff for an +employer. But you have behaved like a man, and I, as a sort of +successful rival—successful partly through your goodness of +heart—should like definitely to show my sense of your friendship under +what must have been a great pain to you.” + +“O that’s not necessary, thank ’ee,” said Oak, hurriedly. “I must get +used to such as that; other men have, and so shall I.” + +Oak then left him. He was uneasy on Boldwood’s account, for he saw anew +that this constant passion of the farmer made him not the man he once +had been. + +As Boldwood continued awhile in his room alone—ready and dressed to +receive his company—the mood of anxiety about his appearance seemed to +pass away, and to be succeeded by a deep solemnity. He looked out of +the window, and regarded the dim outline of the trees upon the sky, and +the twilight deepening to darkness. + +Then he went to a locked closet, and took from a locked drawer therein +a small circular case the size of a pillbox, and was about to put it +into his pocket. But he lingered to open the cover and take a momentary +glance inside. It contained a woman’s finger-ring, set all the way +round with small diamonds, and from its appearance had evidently been +recently purchased. Boldwood’s eyes dwelt upon its many sparkles a long +time, though that its material aspect concerned him little was plain +from his manner and mien, which were those of a mind following out the +presumed thread of that jewel’s future history. + +The noise of wheels at the front of the house became audible. Boldwood +closed the box, stowed it away carefully in his pocket, and went out +upon the landing. The old man who was his indoor factotum came at the +same moment to the foot of the stairs. + +“They be coming, sir—lots of ’em—a-foot and a-driving!” + +“I was coming down this moment. Those wheels I heard—is it Mrs. Troy?” + +“No, sir—’tis not she yet.” + +A reserved and sombre expression had returned to Boldwood’s face again, +but it poorly cloaked his feelings when he pronounced Bathsheba’s name; +and his feverish anxiety continued to show its existence by a galloping +motion of his fingers upon the side of his thigh as he went down the +stairs. + +VII + +“How does this cover me?” said Troy to Pennyways. “Nobody would +recognize me now, I’m sure.” + +He was buttoning on a heavy grey overcoat of Noachian cut, with cape +and high collar, the latter being erect and rigid, like a girdling +wall, and nearly reaching to the verge of a travelling cap which was +pulled down over his ears. + +Pennyways snuffed the candle, and then looked up and deliberately +inspected Troy. + +“You’ve made up your mind to go then?” he said. + +“Made up my mind? Yes; of course I have.” + +“Why not write to her? ’Tis a very queer corner that you have got into, +sergeant. You see all these things will come to light if you go back, +and they won’t sound well at all. Faith, if I was you I’d even bide as +you be—a single man of the name of Francis. A good wife is good, but +the best wife is not so good as no wife at all. Now that’s my outspoke +mind, and I’ve been called a long-headed feller here and there.” + +“All nonsense!” said Troy, angrily. “There she is with plenty of money, +and a house and farm, and horses, and comfort, and here am I living +from hand to mouth—a needy adventurer. Besides, it is no use talking +now; it is too late, and I am glad of it; I’ve been seen and recognized +here this very afternoon. I should have gone back to her the day after +the fair, if it hadn’t been for you talking about the law, and rubbish +about getting a separation; and I don’t put it off any longer. What the +deuce put it into my head to run away at all, I can’t think! Humbugging +sentiment—that’s what it was. But what man on earth was to know that +his wife would be in such a hurry to get rid of his name!” + +“I should have known it. She’s bad enough for anything.” + +“Pennyways, mind who you are talking to.” + +“Well, sergeant, all I say is this, that if I were you I’d go abroad +again where I came from—’tisn’t too late to do it now. I wouldn’t stir +up the business and get a bad name for the sake of living with her—for +all that about your play-acting is sure to come out, you know, although +you think otherwise. My eyes and limbs, there’ll be a racket if you go +back just now—in the middle of Boldwood’s Christmasing!” + +“H’m, yes. I expect I shall not be a very welcome guest if he has her +there,” said the sergeant, with a slight laugh. “A sort of Alonzo the +Brave; and when I go in the guests will sit in silence and fear, and +all laughter and pleasure will be hushed, and the lights in the chamber +burn blue, and the worms—Ugh, horrible!—Ring for some more brandy, +Pennyways, I felt an awful shudder just then! Well, what is there +besides? A stick—I must have a walking-stick.” + +Pennyways now felt himself to be in something of a difficulty, for +should Bathsheba and Troy become reconciled it would be necessary to +regain her good opinion if he would secure the patronage of her +husband. “I sometimes think she likes you yet, and is a good woman at +bottom,” he said, as a saving sentence. “But there’s no telling to a +certainty from a body’s outside. Well, you’ll do as you like about +going, of course, sergeant, and as for me, I’ll do as you tell me.” + +“Now, let me see what the time is,” said Troy, after emptying his glass +in one draught as he stood. “Half-past six o’clock. I shall not hurry +along the road, and shall be there then before nine.” + + + + +CHAPTER LIII +CONCURRITUR—HORÆ MOMENTO + + +Outside the front of Boldwood’s house a group of men stood in the dark, +with their faces towards the door, which occasionally opened and closed +for the passage of some guest or servant, when a golden rod of light +would stripe the ground for the moment and vanish again, leaving +nothing outside but the glowworm shine of the pale lamp amid the +evergreens over the door. + +“He was seen in Casterbridge this afternoon—so the boy said,” one of +them remarked in a whisper. “And I for one believe it. His body was +never found, you know.” + +“’Tis a strange story,” said the next. “You may depend upon’t that she +knows nothing about it.” + +“Not a word.” + +“Perhaps he don’t mean that she shall,” said another man. + +“If he’s alive and here in the neighbourhood, he means mischief,” said +the first. “Poor young thing: I do pity her, if ’tis true. He’ll drag +her to the dogs.” + +“O no; he’ll settle down quiet enough,” said one disposed to take a +more hopeful view of the case. + +“What a fool she must have been ever to have had anything to do with +the man! She is so self-willed and independent too, that one is more +minded to say it serves her right than pity her.” + +“No, no. I don’t hold with ’ee there. She was no otherwise than a girl +mind, and how could she tell what the man was made of? If ’tis really +true, ’tis too hard a punishment, and more than she ought to +hae.—Hullo, who’s that?” This was to some footsteps that were heard +approaching. + +“William Smallbury,” said a dim figure in the shades, coming up and +joining them. “Dark as a hedge, to-night, isn’t it? I all but missed +the plank over the river ath’art there in the bottom—never did such a +thing before in my life. Be ye any of Boldwood’s workfolk?” He peered +into their faces. + +“Yes—all o’ us. We met here a few minutes ago.” + +“Oh, I hear now—that’s Sam Samway: thought I knowed the voice, too. +Going in?” + +“Presently. But I say, William,” Samway whispered, “have ye heard this +strange tale?” + +“What—that about Sergeant Troy being seen, d’ye mean, souls?” said +Smallbury, also lowering his voice. + +“Ay: in Casterbridge.” + +“Yes, I have. Laban Tall named a hint of it to me but now—but I don’t +think it. Hark, here Laban comes himself, ’a b’lieve.” A footstep drew +near. + +“Laban?” + +“Yes, ’tis I,” said Tall. + +“Have ye heard any more about that?” + +“No,” said Tall, joining the group. “And I’m inclined to think we’d +better keep quiet. If so be ’tis not true, ’twill flurry her, and do +her much harm to repeat it; and if so be ’tis true, ’twill do no good +to forestall her time o’ trouble. God send that it mid be a lie, for +though Henery Fray and some of ’em do speak against her, she’s never +been anything but fair to me. She’s hot and hasty, but she’s a brave +girl who’ll never tell a lie however much the truth may harm her, and +I’ve no cause to wish her evil.” + +“She never do tell women’s little lies, that’s true; and ’tis a thing +that can be said of very few. Ay, all the harm she thinks she says to +yer face: there’s nothing underhand wi’ her.” + +They stood silent then, every man busied with his own thoughts, during +which interval sounds of merriment could be heard within. Then the +front door again opened, the rays streamed out, the well-known form of +Boldwood was seen in the rectangular area of light, the door closed, +and Boldwood walked slowly down the path. + +“’Tis master,” one of the men whispered, as he neared them. “We’d +better stand quiet—he’ll go in again directly. He would think it +unseemly o’ us to be loitering here.” + +Boldwood came on, and passed by the men without seeing them, they being +under the bushes on the grass. He paused, leant over the gate, and +breathed a long breath. They heard low words come from him. + +“I hope to God she’ll come, or this night will be nothing but misery to +me! Oh my darling, my darling, why do you keep me in suspense like +this?” + +He said this to himself, and they all distinctly heard it. Boldwood +remained silent after that, and the noise from indoors was again just +audible, until, a few minutes later, light wheels could be +distinguished coming down the hill. They drew nearer, and ceased at the +gate. Boldwood hastened back to the door, and opened it; and the light +shone upon Bathsheba coming up the path. + +Boldwood compressed his emotion to mere welcome: the men marked her +light laugh and apology as she met him: he took her into the house; and +the door closed again. + +“Gracious heaven, I didn’t know it was like that with him!” said one of +the men. “I thought that fancy of his was over long ago.” + +“You don’t know much of master, if you thought that,” said Samway. + +“I wouldn’t he should know we heard what ’a said for the world,” +remarked a third. + +“I wish we had told of the report at once,” the first uneasily +continued. “More harm may come of this than we know of. Poor Mr. +Boldwood, it will be hard upon en. I wish Troy was in—Well, God forgive +me for such a wish! A scoundrel to play a poor wife such tricks. +Nothing has prospered in Weatherbury since he came here. And now I’ve +no heart to go in. Let’s look into Warren’s for a few minutes first, +shall us, neighbours?” + +Samway, Tall, and Smallbury agreed to go to Warren’s, and went out at +the gate, the remaining ones entering the house. The three soon drew +near the malt-house, approaching it from the adjoining orchard, and not +by way of the street. The pane of glass was illuminated as usual. +Smallbury was a little in advance of the rest when, pausing, he turned +suddenly to his companions and said, “Hist! See there.” + +The light from the pane was now perceived to be shining not upon the +ivied wall as usual, but upon some object close to the glass. It was a +human face. + +“Let’s come closer,” whispered Samway; and they approached on tiptoe. +There was no disbelieving the report any longer. Troy’s face was almost +close to the pane, and he was looking in. Not only was he looking in, +but he appeared to have been arrested by a conversation which was in +progress in the malt-house, the voices of the interlocutors being those +of Oak and the maltster. + +“The spree is all in her honour, isn’t it—hey?” said the old man. +“Although he made believe ’tis only keeping up o’ Christmas?” + +“I cannot say,” replied Oak. + +“Oh ’tis true enough, faith. I cannot understand Farmer Boldwood being +such a fool at his time of life as to ho and hanker after this woman in +the way ’a do, and she not care a bit about en.” + +The men, after recognizing Troy’s features, withdrew across the orchard +as quietly as they had come. The air was big with Bathsheba’s fortunes +to-night: every word everywhere concerned her. When they were quite out +of earshot all by one instinct paused. + +“It gave me quite a turn—his face,” said Tall, breathing. + +“And so it did me,” said Samway. “What’s to be done?” + +“I don’t see that ’tis any business of ours,” Smallbury murmured +dubiously. + +“But it is! ’Tis a thing which is everybody’s business,” said Samway. +“We know very well that master’s on a wrong tack, and that she’s quite +in the dark, and we should let ’em know at once. Laban, you know her +best—you’d better go and ask to speak to her.” + +“I bain’t fit for any such thing,” said Laban, nervously. “I should +think William ought to do it if anybody. He’s oldest.” + +“I shall have nothing to do with it,” said Smallbury. “’Tis a ticklish +business altogether. Why, he’ll go on to her himself in a few minutes, +ye’ll see.” + +“We don’t know that he will. Come, Laban.” + +“Very well, if I must I must, I suppose,” Tall reluctantly answered. +“What must I say?” + +“Just ask to see master.” + +“Oh no; I shan’t speak to Mr. Boldwood. If I tell anybody, ’twill be +mistress.” + +“Very well,” said Samway. + +Laban then went to the door. When he opened it the hum of bustle rolled +out as a wave upon a still strand—the assemblage being immediately +inside the hall—and was deadened to a murmur as he closed it again. +Each man waited intently, and looked around at the dark tree tops +gently rocking against the sky and occasionally shivering in a slight +wind, as if he took interest in the scene, which neither did. One of +them began walking up and down, and then came to where he started from +and stopped again, with a sense that walking was a thing not worth +doing now. + +“I should think Laban must have seen mistress by this time,” said +Smallbury, breaking the silence. “Perhaps she won’t come and speak to +him.” + +The door opened. Tall appeared, and joined them. + +“Well?” said both. + +“I didn’t like to ask for her after all,” Laban faltered out. “They +were all in such a stir, trying to put a little spirit into the party. +Somehow the fun seems to hang fire, though everything’s there that a +heart can desire, and I couldn’t for my soul interfere and throw damp +upon it—if ’twas to save my life, I couldn’t!” + +“I suppose we had better all go in together,” said Samway, gloomily. +“Perhaps I may have a chance of saying a word to master.” + +So the men entered the hall, which was the room selected and arranged +for the gathering because of its size. The younger men and maids were +at last just beginning to dance. Bathsheba had been perplexed how to +act, for she was not much more than a slim young maid herself, and the +weight of stateliness sat heavy upon her. Sometimes she thought she +ought not to have come under any circumstances; then she considered +what cold unkindness that would have been, and finally resolved upon +the middle course of staying for about an hour only, and gliding off +unobserved, having from the first made up her mind that she could on no +account dance, sing, or take any active part in the proceedings. + +Her allotted hour having been passed in chatting and looking on, +Bathsheba told Liddy not to hurry herself, and went to the small +parlour to prepare for departure, which, like the hall, was decorated +with holly and ivy, and well lighted up. + +Nobody was in the room, but she had hardly been there a moment when the +master of the house entered. + +“Mrs. Troy—you are not going?” he said. “We’ve hardly begun!” + +“If you’ll excuse me, I should like to go now.” Her manner was restive, +for she remembered her promise, and imagined what he was about to say. +“But as it is not late,” she added, “I can walk home, and leave my man +and Liddy to come when they choose.” + +“I’ve been trying to get an opportunity of speaking to you,” said +Boldwood. “You know perhaps what I long to say?” + +Bathsheba silently looked on the floor. + +“You do give it?” he said, eagerly. + +“What?” she whispered. + +“Now, that’s evasion! Why, the promise. I don’t want to intrude upon +you at all, or to let it become known to anybody. But do give your +word! A mere business compact, you know, between two people who are +beyond the influence of passion.” Boldwood knew how false this picture +was as regarded himself; but he had proved that it was the only tone in +which she would allow him to approach her. “A promise to marry me at +the end of five years and three-quarters. You owe it to me!” + +“I feel that I do,” said Bathsheba; “that is, if you demand it. But I +am a changed woman—an unhappy woman—and not—not—” + +“You are still a very beautiful woman,” said Boldwood. Honesty and pure +conviction suggested the remark, unaccompanied by any perception that +it might have been adopted by blunt flattery to soothe and win her. + +However, it had not much effect now, for she said, in a passionless +murmur which was in itself a proof of her words: “I have no feeling in +the matter at all. And I don’t at all know what is right to do in my +difficult position, and I have nobody to advise me. But I give my +promise, if I must. I give it as the rendering of a debt, +conditionally, of course, on my being a widow.” + +“You’ll marry me between five and six years hence?” + +“Don’t press me too hard. I’ll marry nobody else.” + +“But surely you will name the time, or there’s nothing in the promise +at all?” + +“Oh, I don’t know, pray let me go!” she said, her bosom beginning to +rise. “I am afraid what to do! I want to be just to you, and to be that +seems to be wronging myself, and perhaps it is breaking the +commandments. There is considerable doubt of his death, and then it is +dreadful; let me ask a solicitor, Mr. Boldwood, if I ought or no!” + +“Say the words, dear one, and the subject shall be dismissed; a +blissful loving intimacy of six years, and then marriage—O Bathsheba, +say them!” he begged in a husky voice, unable to sustain the forms of +mere friendship any longer. “Promise yourself to me; I deserve it, +indeed I do, for I have loved you more than anybody in the world! And +if I said hasty words and showed uncalled-for heat of manner towards +you, believe me, dear, I did not mean to distress you; I was in agony, +Bathsheba, and I did not know what I said. You wouldn’t let a dog +suffer what I have suffered, could you but know it! Sometimes I shrink +from your knowing what I have felt for you, and sometimes I am +distressed that all of it you never will know. Be gracious, and give up +a little to me, when I would give up my life for you!” + +The trimmings of her dress, as they quivered against the light, showed +how agitated she was, and at last she burst out crying. “And you’ll +not—press me—about anything more—if I say in five or six years?” she +sobbed, when she had power to frame the words. + +“Yes, then I’ll leave it to time.” + +She waited a moment. “Very well. I’ll marry you in six years from this +day, if we both live,” she said solemnly. + +“And you’ll take this as a token from me.” + +Boldwood had come close to her side, and now he clasped one of her +hands in both his own, and lifted it to his breast. + +“What is it? Oh I cannot wear a ring!” she exclaimed, on seeing what he +held; “besides, I wouldn’t have a soul know that it’s an engagement! +Perhaps it is improper? Besides, we are not engaged in the usual sense, +are we? Don’t insist, Mr. Boldwood—don’t!” In her trouble at not being +able to get her hand away from him at once, she stamped passionately on +the floor with one foot, and tears crowded to her eyes again. + +“It means simply a pledge—no sentiment—the seal of a practical +compact,” he said more quietly, but still retaining her hand in his +firm grasp. “Come, now!” And Boldwood slipped the ring on her finger. + +“I cannot wear it,” she said, weeping as if her heart would break. “You +frighten me, almost. So wild a scheme! Please let me go home!” + +“Only to-night: wear it just to-night, to please me!” + +Bathsheba sat down in a chair, and buried her face in her handkerchief, +though Boldwood kept her hand yet. At length she said, in a sort of +hopeless whisper— + +“Very well, then, I will to-night, if you wish it so earnestly. Now +loosen my hand; I will, indeed I will wear it to-night.” + +“And it shall be the beginning of a pleasant secret courtship of six +years, with a wedding at the end?” + +“It must be, I suppose, since you will have it so!” she said, fairly +beaten into non-resistance. + +Boldwood pressed her hand, and allowed it to drop in her lap. “I am +happy now,” he said. “God bless you!” + +He left the room, and when he thought she might be sufficiently +composed sent one of the maids to her. Bathsheba cloaked the effects of +the late scene as she best could, followed the girl, and in a few +moments came downstairs with her hat and cloak on, ready to go. To get +to the door it was necessary to pass through the hall, and before doing +so she paused on the bottom of the staircase which descended into one +corner, to take a last look at the gathering. + +There was no music or dancing in progress just now. At the lower end, +which had been arranged for the work-folk specially, a group conversed +in whispers, and with clouded looks. Boldwood was standing by the +fireplace, and he, too, though so absorbed in visions arising from her +promise that he scarcely saw anything, seemed at that moment to have +observed their peculiar manner, and their looks askance. + +“What is it you are in doubt about, men?” he said. + +One of them turned and replied uneasily: “It was something Laban heard +of, that’s all, sir.” + +“News? Anybody married or engaged, born or dead?” inquired the farmer, +gaily. “Tell it to us, Tall. One would think from your looks and +mysterious ways that it was something very dreadful indeed.” + +“Oh no, sir, nobody is dead,” said Tall. + +“I wish somebody was,” said Samway, in a whisper. + +“What do you say, Samway?” asked Boldwood, somewhat sharply. “If you +have anything to say, speak out; if not, get up another dance.” + +“Mrs. Troy has come downstairs,” said Samway to Tall. “If you want to +tell her, you had better do it now.” + +“Do you know what they mean?” the farmer asked Bathsheba, across the +room. + +“I don’t in the least,” said Bathsheba. + +There was a smart rapping at the door. One of the men opened it +instantly, and went outside. + +“Mrs. Troy is wanted,” he said, on returning. + +“Quite ready,” said Bathsheba. “Though I didn’t tell them to send.” + +“It is a stranger, ma’am,” said the man by the door. + +“A stranger?” she said. + +“Ask him to come in,” said Boldwood. + +The message was given, and Troy, wrapped up to his eyes as we have seen +him, stood in the doorway. + +There was an unearthly silence, all looking towards the newcomer. Those +who had just learnt that he was in the neighbourhood recognized him +instantly; those who did not were perplexed. Nobody noted Bathsheba. +She was leaning on the stairs. Her brow had heavily contracted; her +whole face was pallid, her lips apart, her eyes rigidly staring at +their visitor. + +Boldwood was among those who did not notice that he was Troy. “Come in, +come in!” he repeated, cheerfully, “and drain a Christmas beaker with +us, stranger!” + +Troy next advanced into the middle of the room, took off his cap, +turned down his coat-collar, and looked Boldwood in the face. Even then +Boldwood did not recognize that the impersonator of Heaven’s persistent +irony towards him, who had once before broken in upon his bliss, +scourged him, and snatched his delight away, had come to do these +things a second time. Troy began to laugh a mechanical laugh: Boldwood +recognized him now. + +Troy turned to Bathsheba. The poor girl’s wretchedness at this time was +beyond all fancy or narration. She had sunk down on the lowest stair; +and there she sat, her mouth blue and dry, and her dark eyes fixed +vacantly upon him, as if she wondered whether it were not all a +terrible illusion. + +Then Troy spoke. “Bathsheba, I come here for you!” + +She made no reply. + +“Come home with me: come!” + +Bathsheba moved her feet a little, but did not rise. Troy went across +to her. + +“Come, madam, do you hear what I say?” he said, peremptorily. + +A strange voice came from the fireplace—a voice sounding far off and +confined, as if from a dungeon. Hardly a soul in the assembly +recognized the thin tones to be those of Boldwood. Sudden despair had +transformed him. + +“Bathsheba, go with your husband!” + +Nevertheless, she did not move. The truth was that Bathsheba was beyond +the pale of activity—and yet not in a swoon. She was in a state of +mental _gutta serena_; her mind was for the minute totally deprived of +light at the same time no obscuration was apparent from without. + +Troy stretched out his hand to pull her towards him, when she quickly +shrank back. This visible dread of him seemed to irritate Troy, and he +seized her arm and pulled it sharply. Whether his grasp pinched her, or +whether his mere touch was the cause, was never known, but at the +moment of his seizure she writhed, and gave a quick, low scream. + +The scream had been heard but a few seconds when it was followed by +sudden deafening report that echoed through the room and stupefied them +all. The oak partition shook with the concussion, and the place was +filled with grey smoke. + +In bewilderment they turned their eyes to Boldwood. At his back, as +stood before the fireplace, was a gun-rack, as is usual in farmhouses, +constructed to hold two guns. When Bathsheba had cried out in her +husband’s grasp, Boldwood’s face of gnashing despair had changed. The +veins had swollen, and a frenzied look had gleamed in his eye. He had +turned quickly, taken one of the guns, cocked it, and at once +discharged it at Troy. + +Troy fell. The distance apart of the two men was so small that the +charge of shot did not spread in the least, but passed like a bullet +into his body. He uttered a long guttural sigh—there was a +contraction—an extension—then his muscles relaxed, and he lay still. + +Boldwood was seen through the smoke to be now again engaged with the +gun. It was double-barrelled, and he had, meanwhile, in some way +fastened his hand-kerchief to the trigger, and with his foot on the +other end was in the act of turning the second barrel upon himself. +Samway his man was the first to see this, and in the midst of the +general horror darted up to him. Boldwood had already twitched the +handkerchief, and the gun exploded a second time, sending its contents, +by a timely blow from Samway, into the beam which crossed the ceiling. + +“Well, it makes no difference!” Boldwood gasped. “There is another way +for me to die.” + +Then he broke from Samway, crossed the room to Bathsheba, and kissed +her hand. He put on his hat, opened the door, and went into the +darkness, nobody thinking of preventing him. + + + + +CHAPTER LIV +AFTER THE SHOCK + + +Boldwood passed into the high road and turned in the direction of +Casterbridge. Here he walked at an even, steady pace over Yalbury Hill, +along the dead level beyond, mounted Mellstock Hill, and between eleven +and twelve o’clock crossed the Moor into the town. The streets were +nearly deserted now, and the waving lamp-flames only lighted up rows of +grey shop-shutters, and strips of white paving upon which his step +echoed as his passed along. He turned to the right, and halted before +an archway of heavy stonework, which was closed by an iron studded pair +of doors. This was the entrance to the gaol, and over it a lamp was +fixed, the light enabling the wretched traveller to find a bell-pull. + +The small wicket at last opened, and a porter appeared. Boldwood +stepped forward, and said something in a low tone, when, after a delay, +another man came. Boldwood entered, and the door was closed behind him, +and he walked the world no more. + +Long before this time Weatherbury had been thoroughly aroused, and the +wild deed which had terminated Boldwood’s merrymaking became known to +all. Of those out of the house Oak was one of the first to hear of the +catastrophe, and when he entered the room, which was about five minutes +after Boldwood’s exit, the scene was terrible. All the female guests +were huddled aghast against the walls like sheep in a storm, and the +men were bewildered as to what to do. As for Bathsheba, she had +changed. She was sitting on the floor beside the body of Troy, his head +pillowed in her lap, where she had herself lifted it. With one hand she +held her handkerchief to his breast and covered the wound, though +scarcely a single drop of blood had flowed, and with the other she +tightly clasped one of his. The household convulsion had made her +herself again. The temporary coma had ceased, and activity had come +with the necessity for it. Deeds of endurance, which seem ordinary in +philosophy, are rare in conduct, and Bathsheba was astonishing all +around her now, for her philosophy was her conduct, and she seldom +thought practicable what she did not practise. She was of the stuff of +which great men’s mothers are made. She was indispensable to high +generation, hated at tea parties, feared in shops, and loved at crises. +Troy recumbent in his wife’s lap formed now the sole spectacle in the +middle of the spacious room. + +“Gabriel,” she said, automatically, when he entered, turning up a face +of which only the well-known lines remained to tell him it was hers, +all else in the picture having faded quite. “Ride to Casterbridge +instantly for a surgeon. It is, I believe, useless, but go. Mr. +Boldwood has shot my husband.” + +Her statement of the fact in such quiet and simple words came with more +force than a tragic declamation, and had somewhat the effect of setting +the distorted images in each mind present into proper focus. Oak, +almost before he had comprehended anything beyond the briefest abstract +of the event, hurried out of the room, saddled a horse and rode away. +Not till he had ridden more than a mile did it occur to him that he +would have done better by sending some other man on this errand, +remaining himself in the house. What had become of Boldwood? He should +have been looked after. Was he mad—had there been a quarrel? Then how +had Troy got there? Where had he come from? How did this remarkable +reappearance effect itself when he was supposed by many to be at the +bottom of the sea? Oak had in some slight measure been prepared for the +presence of Troy by hearing a rumour of his return just before entering +Boldwood’s house; but before he had weighed that information, this +fatal event had been superimposed. However, it was too late now to +think of sending another messenger, and he rode on, in the excitement +of these self-inquiries not discerning, when about three miles from +Casterbridge, a square-figured pedestrian passing along under the dark +hedge in the same direction as his own. + +The miles necessary to be traversed, and other hindrances incidental to +the lateness of the hour and the darkness of the night, delayed the +arrival of Mr. Aldritch, the surgeon; and more than three hours passed +between the time at which the shot was fired and that of his entering +the house. Oak was additionally detained in Casterbridge through having +to give notice to the authorities of what had happened; and he then +found that Boldwood had also entered the town, and delivered himself +up. + +In the meantime the surgeon, having hastened into the hall at +Boldwood’s, found it in darkness and quite deserted. He went on to the +back of the house, where he discovered in the kitchen an old man, of +whom he made inquiries. + +“She’s had him took away to her own house, sir,” said his informant. + +“Who has?” said the doctor. + +“Mrs. Troy. ’A was quite dead, sir.” + +This was astonishing information. “She had no right to do that,” said +the doctor. “There will have to be an inquest, and she should have +waited to know what to do.” + +“Yes, sir; it was hinted to her that she had better wait till the law +was known. But she said law was nothing to her, and she wouldn’t let +her dear husband’s corpse bide neglected for folks to stare at for all +the crowners in England.” + +Mr. Aldritch drove at once back again up the hill to Bathsheba’s. The +first person he met was poor Liddy, who seemed literally to have +dwindled smaller in these few latter hours. “What has been done?” he +said. + +“I don’t know, sir,” said Liddy, with suspended breath. “My mistress +has done it all.” + +“Where is she?” + +“Upstairs with him, sir. When he was brought home and taken upstairs, +she said she wanted no further help from the men. And then she called +me, and made me fill the bath, and after that told me I had better go +and lie down because I looked so ill. Then she locked herself into the +room alone with him, and would not let a nurse come in, or anybody at +all. But I thought I’d wait in the next room in case she should want +me. I heard her moving about inside for more than an hour, but she only +came out once, and that was for more candles, because hers had burnt +down into the socket. She said we were to let her know when you or Mr. +Thirdly came, sir.” + +Oak entered with the parson at this moment, and they all went upstairs +together, preceded by Liddy Smallbury. Everything was silent as the +grave when they paused on the landing. Liddy knocked, and Bathsheba’s +dress was heard rustling across the room: the key turned in the lock, +and she opened the door. Her looks were calm and nearly rigid, like a +slightly animated bust of Melpomene. + +“Oh, Mr. Aldritch, you have come at last,” she murmured from her lips +merely, and threw back the door. “Ah, and Mr. Thirdly. Well, all is +done, and anybody in the world may see him now.” She then passed by +him, crossed the landing, and entered another room. + +Looking into the chamber of death she had vacated they saw by the light +of the candles which were on the drawers a tall straight shape lying at +the further end of the bedroom, wrapped in white. Everything around was +quite orderly. The doctor went in, and after a few minutes returned to +the landing again, where Oak and the parson still waited. + +“It is all done, indeed, as she says,” remarked Mr. Aldritch, in a +subdued voice. “The body has been undressed and properly laid out in +grave clothes. Gracious Heaven—this mere girl! She must have the nerve +of a stoic!” + +“The heart of a wife merely,” floated in a whisper about the ears of +the three, and turning they saw Bathsheba in the midst of them. Then, +as if at that instant to prove that her fortitude had been more of will +than of spontaneity, she silently sank down between them and was a +shapeless heap of drapery on the floor. The simple consciousness that +superhuman strain was no longer required had at once put a period to +her power to continue it. + +They took her away into a further room, and the medical attendance +which had been useless in Troy’s case was invaluable in Bathsheba’s, +who fell into a series of fainting-fits that had a serious aspect for a +time. The sufferer was got to bed, and Oak, finding from the bulletins +that nothing really dreadful was to be apprehended on her score, left +the house. Liddy kept watch in Bathsheba’s chamber, where she heard her +mistress, moaning in whispers through the dull slow hours of that +wretched night: “Oh it is my fault—how can I live! O Heaven, how can I +live!” + + + + +CHAPTER LV +THE MARCH FOLLOWING—“BATHSHEBA BOLDWOOD” + + +We pass rapidly on into the month of March, to a breezy day without +sunshine, frost, or dew. On Yalbury Hill, about midway between +Weatherbury and Casterbridge, where the turnpike road passes over the +crest, a numerous concourse of people had gathered, the eyes of the +greater number being frequently stretched afar in a northerly +direction. The groups consisted of a throng of idlers, a party of +javelin-men, and two trumpeters, and in the midst were carriages, one +of which contained the high sheriff. With the idlers, many of whom had +mounted to the top of a cutting formed for the road, were several +Weatherbury men and boys—among others Poorgrass, Coggan, and Cain Ball. + +At the end of half-an-hour a faint dust was seen in the expected +quarter, and shortly after a travelling-carriage, bringing one of the +two judges on the Western Circuit, came up the hill and halted on the +top. The judge changed carriages whilst a flourish was blown by the +big-cheeked trumpeters, and a procession being formed of the vehicles +and javelin-men, they all proceeded towards the town, excepting the +Weatherbury men, who as soon as they had seen the judge move off +returned home again to their work. + +“Joseph, I seed you squeezing close to the carriage,” said Coggan, as +they walked. “Did ye notice my lord judge’s face?” + +“I did,” said Poorgrass. “I looked hard at en, as if I would read his +very soul; and there was mercy in his eyes—or to speak with the exact +truth required of us at this solemn time, in the eye that was towards +me.” + +“Well, I hope for the best,” said Coggan, “though bad that must be. +However, I shan’t go to the trial, and I’d advise the rest of ye that +bain’t wanted to bide away. ’Twill disturb his mind more than anything +to see us there staring at him as if he were a show.” + +“The very thing I said this morning,” observed Joseph, “‘Justice is +come to weigh him in the balances,’ I said in my reflectious way, ‘and +if he’s found wanting, so be it unto him,’ and a bystander said ‘Hear, +hear! A man who can talk like that ought to be heard.’ But I don’t like +dwelling upon it, for my few words are my few words, and not much; +though the speech of some men is rumoured abroad as though by nature +formed for such.” + +“So ’tis, Joseph. And now, neighbours, as I said, every man bide at +home.” + +The resolution was adhered to; and all waited anxiously for the news +next day. Their suspense was diverted, however, by a discovery which +was made in the afternoon, throwing more light on Boldwood’s conduct +and condition than any details which had preceded it. + +That he had been from the time of Greenhill Fair until the fatal +Christmas Eve in excited and unusual moods was known to those who had +been intimate with him; but nobody imagined that there had shown in him +unequivocal symptoms of the mental derangement which Bathsheba and Oak, +alone of all others and at different times, had momentarily suspected. +In a locked closet was now discovered an extraordinary collection of +articles. There were several sets of ladies’ dresses in the piece, of +sundry expensive materials; silks and satins, poplins and velvets, all +of colours which from Bathsheba’s style of dress might have been judged +to be her favourites. There were two muffs, sable and ermine. Above all +there was a case of jewellery, containing four heavy gold bracelets and +several lockets and rings, all of fine quality and manufacture. These +things had been bought in Bath and other towns from time to time, and +brought home by stealth. They were all carefully packed in paper, and +each package was labelled “Bathsheba Boldwood,” a date being subjoined +six years in advance in every instance. + +These somewhat pathetic evidences of a mind crazed with care and love +were the subject of discourse in Warren’s malt-house when Oak entered +from Casterbridge with tidings of the sentence. He came in the +afternoon, and his face, as the kiln glow shone upon it, told the tale +sufficiently well. Boldwood, as every one supposed he would do, had +pleaded guilty, and had been sentenced to death. + +The conviction that Boldwood had not been morally responsible for his +later acts now became general. Facts elicited previous to the trial had +pointed strongly in the same direction, but they had not been of +sufficient weight to lead to an order for an examination into the state +of Boldwood’s mind. It was astonishing, now that a presumption of +insanity was raised, how many collateral circumstances were remembered +to which a condition of mental disease seemed to afford the only +explanation—among others, the unprecedented neglect of his corn stacks +in the previous summer. + +A petition was addressed to the Home Secretary, advancing the +circumstances which appeared to justify a request for a reconsideration +of the sentence. It was not “numerously signed” by the inhabitants of +Casterbridge, as is usual in such cases, for Boldwood had never made +many friends over the counter. The shops thought it very natural that a +man who, by importing direct from the producer, had daringly set aside +the first great principle of provincial existence, namely that God made +country villages to supply customers to county towns, should have +confused ideas about the Decalogue. The prompters were a few merciful +men who had perhaps too feelingly considered the facts latterly +unearthed, and the result was that evidence was taken which it was +hoped might remove the crime in a moral point of view, out of the +category of wilful murder, and lead it to be regarded as a sheer +outcome of madness. + +The upshot of the petition was waited for in Weatherbury with +solicitous interest. The execution had been fixed for eight o’clock on +a Saturday morning about a fortnight after the sentence was passed, and +up to Friday afternoon no answer had been received. At that time +Gabriel came from Casterbridge Gaol, whither he had been to wish +Boldwood good-bye, and turned down a by-street to avoid the town. When +past the last house he heard a hammering, and lifting his bowed head he +looked back for a moment. Over the chimneys he could see the upper part +of the gaol entrance, rich and glowing in the afternoon sun, and some +moving figures were there. They were carpenters lifting a post into a +vertical position within the parapet. He withdrew his eyes quickly, and +hastened on. + +It was dark when he reached home, and half the village was out to meet +him. + +“No tidings,” Gabriel said, wearily. “And I’m afraid there’s no hope. +I’ve been with him more than two hours.” + +“Do ye think he _really_ was out of his mind when he did it?” said +Smallbury. + +“I can’t honestly say that I do,” Oak replied. “However, that we can +talk of another time. Has there been any change in mistress this +afternoon?” + +“None at all.” + +“Is she downstairs?” + +“No. And getting on so nicely as she was too. She’s but very little +better now again than she was at Christmas. She keeps on asking if you +be come, and if there’s news, till one’s wearied out wi’ answering her. +Shall I go and say you’ve come?” + +“No,” said Oak. “There’s a chance yet; but I couldn’t stay in town any +longer—after seeing him too. So Laban—Laban is here, isn’t he?” + +“Yes,” said Tall. + +“What I’ve arranged is, that you shall ride to town the last thing +to-night; leave here about nine, and wait a while there, getting home +about twelve. If nothing has been received by eleven to-night, they say +there’s no chance at all.” + +“I do so hope his life will be spared,” said Liddy. “If it is not, +she’ll go out of her mind too. Poor thing; her sufferings have been +dreadful; she deserves anybody’s pity.” + +“Is she altered much?” said Coggan. + +“If you haven’t seen poor mistress since Christmas, you wouldn’t know +her,” said Liddy. “Her eyes are so miserable that she’s not the same +woman. Only two years ago she was a romping girl, and now she’s this!” + +Laban departed as directed, and at eleven o’clock that night several of +the villagers strolled along the road to Casterbridge and awaited his +arrival—among them Oak, and nearly all the rest of Bathsheba’s men. +Gabriel’s anxiety was great that Boldwood might be saved, even though +in his conscience he felt that he ought to die; for there had been +qualities in the farmer which Oak loved. At last, when they all were +weary the tramp of a horse was heard in the distance— + +First dead, as if on turf it trode, +Then, clattering on the village road +In other pace than forth he yode. + + +“We shall soon know now, one way or other.” said Coggan, and they all +stepped down from the bank on which they had been standing into the +road, and the rider pranced into the midst of them. + +“Is that you, Laban?” said Gabriel. + +“Yes—’tis come. He’s not to die. ’Tis confinement during Her Majesty’s +pleasure.” + +“Hurrah!” said Coggan, with a swelling heart. “God’s above the devil +yet!” + + + + +CHAPTER LVI +BEAUTY IN LONELINESS—AFTER ALL + + +Bathsheba revived with the spring. The utter prostration that had +followed the low fever from which she had suffered diminished +perceptibly when all uncertainty upon every subject had come to an end. + +But she remained alone now for the greater part of her time, and stayed +in the house, or at furthest went into the garden. She shunned every +one, even Liddy, and could be brought to make no confidences, and to +ask for no sympathy. + +As the summer drew on she passed more of her time in the open air, and +began to examine into farming matters from sheer necessity, though she +never rode out or personally superintended as at former times. One +Friday evening in August she walked a little way along the road and +entered the village for the first time since the sombre event of the +preceding Christmas. None of the old colour had as yet come to her +cheek, and its absolute paleness was heightened by the jet black of her +gown, till it appeared preternatural. When she reached a little shop at +the other end of the place, which stood nearly opposite to the +churchyard, Bathsheba heard singing inside the church, and she knew +that the singers were practising. She crossed the road, opened the +gate, and entered the graveyard, the high sills of the church windows +effectually screening her from the eyes of those gathered within. Her +stealthy walk was to the nook wherein Troy had worked at planting +flowers upon Fanny Robin’s grave, and she came to the marble tombstone. + +A motion of satisfaction enlivened her face as she read the complete +inscription. First came the words of Troy himself:— + +Erected by Francis Troy +In Beloved Memory of +Fanny Robin +Who died October 9, 18—, +Aged 20 years. + + +Underneath this was now inscribed in new letters:— + +In the Same Grave lie +The Remains of the aforesaid +Francis Troy, +Who died December 24th, 18—, +Aged 26 years. + + +Whilst she stood and read and meditated the tones of the organ began +again in the church, and she went with the same light step round to the +porch and listened. The door was closed, and the choir was learning a +new hymn. Bathsheba was stirred by emotions which latterly she had +assumed to be altogether dead within her. The little attenuated voices +of the children brought to her ear in distinct utterance the words they +sang without thought or comprehension— + +Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, +Lead Thou me on. + + +Bathsheba’s feeling was always to some extent dependent upon her whim, +as is the case with many other women. Something big came into her +throat and an uprising to her eyes—and she thought that she would allow +the imminent tears to flow if they wished. They did flow and +plenteously, and one fell upon the stone bench beside her. Once that +she had begun to cry for she hardly knew what, she could not leave off +for crowding thoughts she knew too well. She would have given anything +in the world to be, as those children were, unconcerned at the meaning +of their words, because too innocent to feel the necessity for any such +expression. All the impassioned scenes of her brief experience seemed +to revive with added emotion at that moment, and those scenes which had +been without emotion during enactment had emotion then. Yet grief came +to her rather as a luxury than as the scourge of former times. + +Owing to Bathsheba’s face being buried in her hands she did not notice +a form which came quietly into the porch, and on seeing her, first +moved as if to retreat, then paused and regarded her. Bathsheba did not +raise her head for some time, and when she looked round her face was +wet, and her eyes drowned and dim. “Mr. Oak,” exclaimed she, +disconcerted, “how long have you been here?” + +“A few minutes, ma’am,” said Oak, respectfully. + +“Are you going in?” said Bathsheba; and there came from within the +church as from a prompter— + +I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, +Pride ruled my will: remember not past years. + + +“I was,” said Gabriel. “I am one of the bass singers, you know. I have +sung bass for several months.” + +“Indeed: I wasn’t aware of that. I’ll leave you, then.” + +Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile, + + +sang the children. + +“Don’t let me drive you away, mistress. I think I won’t go in +to-night.” + +“Oh no—you don’t drive me away.” + +Then they stood in a state of some embarrassment, Bathsheba trying to +wipe her dreadfully drenched and inflamed face without his noticing +her. At length Oak said, “I’ve not seen you—I mean spoken to you—since +ever so long, have I?” But he feared to bring distressing memories +back, and interrupted himself with: “Were you going into church?” + +“No,” she said. “I came to see the tombstone privately—to see if they +had cut the inscription as I wished. Mr. Oak, you needn’t mind speaking +to me, if you wish to, on the matter which is in both our minds at this +moment.” + +“And have they done it as you wished?” said Oak. + +“Yes. Come and see it, if you have not already.” + +So together they went and read the tomb. “Eight months ago!” Gabriel +murmured when he saw the date. “It seems like yesterday to me.” + +“And to me as if it were years ago—long years, and I had been dead +between. And now I am going home, Mr. Oak.” + +Oak walked after her. “I wanted to name a small matter to you as soon +as I could,” he said, with hesitation. “Merely about business, and I +think I may just mention it now, if you’ll allow me.” + +“Oh yes, certainly.” + +“It is that I may soon have to give up the management of your farm, +Mrs. Troy. The fact is, I am thinking of leaving England—not yet, you +know—next spring.” + +“Leaving England!” she said, in surprise and genuine disappointment. +“Why, Gabriel, what are you going to do that for?” + +“Well, I’ve thought it best,” Oak stammered out. “California is the +spot I’ve had in my mind to try.” + +“But it is understood everywhere that you are going to take poor Mr. +Boldwood’s farm on your own account.” + +“I’ve had the refusal o’ it ’tis true; but nothing is settled yet, and +I have reasons for giving up. I shall finish out my year there as +manager for the trustees, but no more.” + +“And what shall I do without you? Oh, Gabriel, I don’t think you ought +to go away. You’ve been with me so long—through bright times and dark +times—such old friends as we are—that it seems unkind almost. I had +fancied that if you leased the other farm as master, you might still +give a helping look across at mine. And now going away!” + +“I would have willingly.” + +“Yet now that I am more helpless than ever you go away!” + +“Yes, that’s the ill fortune o’ it,” said Gabriel, in a distressed +tone. “And it is because of that very helplessness that I feel bound to +go. Good afternoon, ma’am” he concluded, in evident anxiety to get +away, and at once went out of the churchyard by a path she could follow +on no pretence whatever. + +Bathsheba went home, her mind occupied with a new trouble, which being +rather harassing than deadly was calculated to do good by diverting her +from the chronic gloom of her life. She was set thinking a great deal +about Oak and of his wish to shun her; and there occurred to Bathsheba +several incidents of her latter intercourse with him, which, trivial +when singly viewed, amounted together to a perceptible disinclination +for her society. It broke upon her at length as a great pain that her +last old disciple was about to forsake her and flee. He who had +believed in her and argued on her side when all the rest of the world +was against her, had at last like the others become weary and +neglectful of the old cause, and was leaving her to fight her battles +alone. + +Three weeks went on, and more evidence of his want of interest in her +was forthcoming. She noticed that instead of entering the small parlour +or office where the farm accounts were kept, and waiting, or leaving a +memorandum as he had hitherto done during her seclusion, Oak never came +at all when she was likely to be there, only entering at unseasonable +hours when her presence in that part of the house was least to be +expected. Whenever he wanted directions he sent a message, or note with +neither heading nor signature, to which she was obliged to reply in the +same offhand style. Poor Bathsheba began to suffer now from the most +torturing sting of all—a sensation that she was despised. + +The autumn wore away gloomily enough amid these melancholy conjectures, +and Christmas-day came, completing a year of her legal widowhood, and +two years and a quarter of her life alone. On examining her heart it +appeared beyond measure strange that the subject of which the season +might have been supposed suggestive—the event in the hall at +Boldwood’s—was not agitating her at all; but instead, an agonizing +conviction that everybody abjured her—for what she could not tell—and +that Oak was the ringleader of the recusants. Coming out of church that +day she looked round in hope that Oak, whose bass voice she had heard +rolling out from the gallery overhead in a most unconcerned manner, +might chance to linger in her path in the old way. There he was, as +usual, coming down the path behind her. But on seeing Bathsheba turn, +he looked aside, and as soon as he got beyond the gate, and there was +the barest excuse for a divergence, he made one, and vanished. + +The next morning brought the culminating stroke; she had been expecting +it long. It was a formal notice by letter from him that he should not +renew his engagement with her for the following Lady-day. + +Bathsheba actually sat and cried over this letter most bitterly. She +was aggrieved and wounded that the possession of hopeless love from +Gabriel, which she had grown to regard as her inalienable right for +life, should have been withdrawn just at his own pleasure in this way. +She was bewildered too by the prospect of having to rely on her own +resources again: it seemed to herself that she never could again +acquire energy sufficient to go to market, barter, and sell. Since +Troy’s death Oak had attended all sales and fairs for her, transacting +her business at the same time with his own. What should she do now? Her +life was becoming a desolation. + +So desolate was Bathsheba this evening, that in an absolute hunger for +pity and sympathy, and miserable in that she appeared to have outlived +the only true friendship she had ever owned, she put on her bonnet and +cloak and went down to Oak’s house just after sunset, guided on her way +by the pale primrose rays of a crescent moon a few days old. + +A lively firelight shone from the window, but nobody was visible in the +room. She tapped nervously, and then thought it doubtful if it were +right for a single woman to call upon a bachelor who lived alone, +although he was her manager, and she might be supposed to call on +business without any real impropriety. Gabriel opened the door, and the +moon shone upon his forehead. + +“Mr. Oak,” said Bathsheba, faintly. + +“Yes; I am Mr. Oak,” said Gabriel. “Who have I the honour—O how stupid +of me, not to know you, mistress!” + +“I shall not be your mistress much longer, shall I Gabriel?” she said, +in pathetic tones. + +“Well, no. I suppose—But come in, ma’am. Oh—and I’ll get a light,” Oak +replied, with some awkwardness. + +“No; not on my account.” + +“It is so seldom that I get a lady visitor that I’m afraid I haven’t +proper accommodation. Will you sit down, please? Here’s a chair, and +there’s one, too. I am sorry that my chairs all have wood seats, and +are rather hard, but I—was thinking of getting some new ones.” Oak +placed two or three for her. + +“They are quite easy enough for me.” + +So down she sat, and down sat he, the fire dancing in their faces, and +upon the old furniture, + +all a-sheenen +Wi’ long years o’ handlen,[3] + + +that formed Oak’s array of household possessions, which sent back a +dancing reflection in reply. It was very odd to these two persons, who +knew each other passing well, that the mere circumstance of their +meeting in a new place and in a new way should make them so awkward and +constrained. In the fields, or at her house, there had never been any +embarrassment; but now that Oak had become the entertainer their lives +seemed to be moved back again to the days when they were strangers. + +“You’ll think it strange that I have come, but—” + +“Oh no; not at all.” + +“But I thought—Gabriel, I have been uneasy in the belief that I have +offended you, and that you are going away on that account. It grieved +me very much and I couldn’t help coming.” + +“Offended me! As if you could do that, Bathsheba!” + +“Haven’t I?” she asked, gladly. “But, what are you going away for +else?” + +“I am not going to emigrate, you know; I wasn’t aware that you would +wish me not to when I told ’ee or I shouldn’t ha’ thought of doing it,” +he said, simply. “I have arranged for Little Weatherbury Farm and shall +have it in my own hands at Lady-day. You know I’ve had a share in it +for some time. Still, that wouldn’t prevent my attending to your +business as before, hadn’t it been that things have been said about +us.” + +“What?” said Bathsheba, in surprise. “Things said about you and me! +What are they?” + +“I cannot tell you.” + +“It would be wiser if you were to, I think. You have played the part of +mentor to me many times, and I don’t see why you should fear to do it +now.” + +“It is nothing that you have done, this time. The top and tail o’t is +this—that I am sniffing about here, and waiting for poor Boldwood’s +farm, with a thought of getting you some day.” + +“Getting me! What does that mean?” + +“Marrying of ’ee, in plain British. You asked me to tell, so you +mustn’t blame me.” + +Bathsheba did not look quite so alarmed as if a cannon had been +discharged by her ear, which was what Oak had expected. “Marrying me! I +didn’t know it was that you meant,” she said, quietly. “Such a thing as +that is too absurd—too soon—to think of, by far!” + +“Yes; of course, it is too absurd. I don’t desire any such thing; I +should think that was plain enough by this time. Surely, surely you be +the last person in the world I think of marrying. It is too absurd, as +you say.” + +“‘Too—s-s-soon’ were the words I used.” + +“I must beg your pardon for correcting you, but you said, ‘too absurd,’ +and so do I.” + +“I beg your pardon too!” she returned, with tears in her eyes. “‘Too +soon’ was what I said. But it doesn’t matter a bit—not at all—but I +only meant, ‘too soon.’ Indeed, I didn’t, Mr. Oak, and you must believe +me!” + +Gabriel looked her long in the face, but the firelight being faint +there was not much to be seen. “Bathsheba,” he said, tenderly and in +surprise, and coming closer: “if I only knew one thing—whether you +would allow me to love you and win you, and marry you after all—if I +only knew that!” + +“But you never will know,” she murmured. + +“Why?” + +“Because you never ask.” + +“Oh—Oh!” said Gabriel, with a low laugh of joyousness. “My own dear—” + +“You ought not to have sent me that harsh letter this morning,” she +interrupted. “It shows you didn’t care a bit about me, and were ready +to desert me like all the rest of them! It was very cruel of you, +considering I was the first sweetheart that you ever had, and you were +the first I ever had; and I shall not forget it!” + +“Now, Bathsheba, was ever anybody so provoking,” he said, laughing. +“You know it was purely that I, as an unmarried man, carrying on a +business for you as a very taking young woman, had a proper hard part +to play—more particular that people knew I had a sort of feeling for +’ee; and I fancied, from the way we were mentioned together, that it +might injure your good name. Nobody knows the heat and fret I have been +caused by it.” + +“And was that all?” + +“All.” + +“Oh, how glad I am I came!” she exclaimed, thankfully, as she rose from +her seat. “I have thought so much more of you since I fancied you did +not want even to see me again. But I must be going now, or I shall be +missed. Why Gabriel,” she said, with a slight laugh, as they went to +the door, “it seems exactly as if I had come courting you—how +dreadful!” + +“And quite right too,” said Oak. “I’ve danced at your skittish heels, +my beautiful Bathsheba, for many a long mile, and many a long day; and +it is hard to begrudge me this one visit.” + +He accompanied her up the hill, explaining to her the details of his +forthcoming tenure of the other farm. They spoke very little of their +mutual feeling; pretty phrases and warm expressions being probably +unnecessary between such tried friends. Theirs was that substantial +affection which arises (if any arises at all) when the two who are +thrown together begin first by knowing the rougher sides of each +other’s character, and not the best till further on, the romance +growing up in the interstices of a mass of hard prosaic reality. This +good-fellowship—_camaraderie_—usually occurring through similarity of +pursuits, is unfortunately seldom superadded to love between the sexes, +because men and women associate, not in their labours, but in their +pleasures merely. Where, however, happy circumstance permits its +development, the compounded feeling proves itself to be the only love +which is strong as death—that love which many waters cannot quench, nor +the floods drown, beside which the passion usually called by the name +is evanescent as steam. + + + + +CHAPTER LVII +A FOGGY NIGHT AND MORNING—CONCLUSION + + +“The most private, secret, plainest wedding that it is possible to +have.” + +Those had been Bathsheba’s words to Oak one evening, some time after +the event of the preceding chapter, and he meditated a full hour by the +clock upon how to carry out her wishes to the letter. + +“A license—O yes, it must be a license,” he said to himself at last. +“Very well, then; first, a license.” + +On a dark night, a few days later, Oak came with mysterious steps from +the surrogate’s door, in Casterbridge. On the way home he heard a heavy +tread in front of him, and, overtaking the man, found him to be Coggan. +They walked together into the village until they came to a little lane +behind the church, leading down to the cottage of Laban Tall, who had +lately been installed as clerk of the parish, and was yet in mortal +terror at church on Sundays when he heard his lone voice among certain +hard words of the Psalms, whither no man ventured to follow him. + +“Well, good-night, Coggan,” said Oak, “I’m going down this way.” + +“Oh!” said Coggan, surprised; “what’s going on to-night then, make so +bold Mr. Oak?” + +It seemed rather ungenerous not to tell Coggan, under the +circumstances, for Coggan had been true as steel all through the time +of Gabriel’s unhappiness about Bathsheba, and Gabriel said, “You can +keep a secret, Coggan?” + +“You’ve proved me, and you know.” + +“Yes, I have, and I do know. Well, then, mistress and I mean to get +married to-morrow morning.” + +“Heaven’s high tower! And yet I’ve thought of such a thing from time to +time; true, I have. But keeping it so close! Well, there, ’tis no +consarn of of mine, and I wish ’ee joy o’ her.” + +“Thank you, Coggan. But I assure ’ee that this great hush is not what I +wished for at all, or what either of us would have wished if it hadn’t +been for certain things that would make a gay wedding seem hardly the +thing. Bathsheba has a great wish that all the parish shall not be in +church, looking at her—she’s shy-like and nervous about it, in fact—so +I be doing this to humour her.” + +“Ay, I see: quite right, too, I suppose I must say. And you be now +going down to the clerk.” + +“Yes; you may as well come with me.” + +“I am afeard your labour in keeping it close will be throwed away,” +said Coggan, as they walked along. “Labe Tall’s old woman will horn it +all over parish in half-an-hour.” + +“So she will, upon my life; I never thought of that,” said Oak, +pausing. “Yet I must tell him to-night, I suppose, for he’s working so +far off, and leaves early.” + +“I’ll tell ’ee how we could tackle her,” said Coggan. “I’ll knock and +ask to speak to Laban outside the door, you standing in the background. +Then he’ll come out, and you can tell yer tale. She’ll never guess what +I want en for; and I’ll make up a few words about the farm-work, as a +blind.” + +This scheme was considered feasible; and Coggan advanced boldly, and +rapped at Mrs. Tall’s door. Mrs. Tall herself opened it. + +“I wanted to have a word with Laban.” + +“He’s not at home, and won’t be this side of eleven o’clock. He’ve been +forced to go over to Yalbury since shutting out work. I shall do quite +as well.” + +“I hardly think you will. Stop a moment;” and Coggan stepped round the +corner of the porch to consult Oak. + +“Who’s t’other man, then?” said Mrs. Tall. + +“Only a friend,” said Coggan. + +“Say he’s wanted to meet mistress near church-hatch to-morrow morning +at ten,” said Oak, in a whisper. “That he must come without fail, and +wear his best clothes.” + +“The clothes will floor us as safe as houses!” said Coggan. + +“It can’t be helped,” said Oak. “Tell her.” + +So Coggan delivered the message. “Mind, het or wet, blow or snow, he +must come,” added Jan. “’Tis very particular, indeed. The fact is, ’tis +to witness her sign some law-work about taking shares wi’ another +farmer for a long span o’ years. There, that’s what ’tis, and now I’ve +told ’ee, Mother Tall, in a way I shouldn’t ha’ done if I hadn’t loved +’ee so hopeless well.” + +Coggan retired before she could ask any further; and next they called +at the vicar’s in a manner which excited no curiosity at all. Then +Gabriel went home, and prepared for the morrow. + +“Liddy,” said Bathsheba, on going to bed that night, “I want you to +call me at seven o’clock to-morrow, in case I shouldn’t wake.” + +“But you always do wake afore then, ma’am.” + +“Yes, but I have something important to do, which I’ll tell you of when +the time comes, and it’s best to make sure.” + +Bathsheba, however, awoke voluntarily at four, nor could she by any +contrivance get to sleep again. About six, being quite positive that +her watch had stopped during the night, she could wait no longer. She +went and tapped at Liddy’s door, and after some labour awoke her. + +“But I thought it was I who had to call you?” said the bewildered +Liddy. “And it isn’t six yet.” + +“Indeed it is; how can you tell such a story, Liddy? I know it must be +ever so much past seven. Come to my room as soon as you can; I want you +to give my hair a good brushing.” + +When Liddy came to Bathsheba’s room her mistress was already waiting. +Liddy could not understand this extraordinary promptness. “Whatever +_is_ going on, ma’am?” she said. + +“Well, I’ll tell you,” said Bathsheba, with a mischievous smile in her +bright eyes. “Farmer Oak is coming here to dine with me to-day!” + +“Farmer Oak—and nobody else?—you two alone?” + +“Yes.” + +“But is it safe, ma’am, after what’s been said?” asked her companion, +dubiously. “A woman’s good name is such a perishable article that—” + +Bathsheba laughed with a flushed cheek, and whispered in Liddy’s ear, +although there was nobody present. Then Liddy stared and exclaimed, +“Souls alive, what news! It makes my heart go quite bumpity-bump!” + +“It makes mine rather furious, too,” said Bathsheba. “However, there’s +no getting out of it now!” + +It was a damp disagreeable morning. Nevertheless, at twenty minutes to +ten o’clock, Oak came out of his house, and + +Went up the hill side +With that sort of stride +A man puts out when walking in search of a bride, + + +and knocked at Bathsheba’s door. Ten minutes later a large and a +smaller umbrella might have been seen moving from the same door, and +through the mist along the road to the church. The distance was not +more than a quarter of a mile, and these two sensible persons deemed it +unnecessary to drive. An observer must have been very close indeed to +discover that the forms under the umbrellas were those of Oak and +Bathsheba, arm-in-arm for the first time in their lives, Oak in a +greatcoat extending to his knees, and Bathsheba in a cloak that reached +her clogs. Yet, though so plainly dressed, there was a certain +rejuvenated appearance about her:— + +As though a rose should shut and be a bud again. + + +Repose had again incarnadined her cheeks; and having, at Gabriel’s +request, arranged her hair this morning as she had worn it years ago on +Norcombe Hill, she seemed in his eyes remarkably like a girl of that +fascinating dream, which, considering that she was now only three or +four-and-twenty, was perhaps not very wonderful. In the church were +Tall, Liddy, and the parson, and in a remarkably short space of time +the deed was done. + +The two sat down very quietly to tea in Bathsheba’s parlour in the +evening of the same day, for it had been arranged that Farmer Oak +should go there to live, since he had as yet neither money, house, nor +furniture worthy of the name, though he was on a sure way towards them, +whilst Bathsheba was, comparatively, in a plethora of all three. + +Just as Bathsheba was pouring out a cup of tea, their ears were greeted +by the firing of a cannon, followed by what seemed like a tremendous +blowing of trumpets, in the front of the house. + +“There!” said Oak, laughing, “I knew those fellows were up to +something, by the look on their faces.” + +Oak took up the light and went into the porch, followed by Bathsheba +with a shawl over her head. The rays fell upon a group of male figures +gathered upon the gravel in front, who, when they saw the newly-married +couple in the porch, set up a loud “Hurrah!” and at the same moment +bang again went the cannon in the background, followed by a hideous +clang of music from a drum, tambourine, clarionet, serpent, hautboy, +tenor-viol, and double-bass—the only remaining relics of the true and +original Weatherbury band—venerable worm-eaten instruments, which had +celebrated in their own persons the victories of Marlborough, under the +fingers of the forefathers of those who played them now. The performers +came forward, and marched up to the front. + +“Those bright boys, Mark Clark and Jan, are at the bottom of all this,” +said Oak. “Come in, souls, and have something to eat and drink wi’ me +and my wife.” + +“Not to-night,” said Mr. Clark, with evident self-denial. “Thank ye all +the same; but we’ll call at a more seemly time. However, we couldn’t +think of letting the day pass without a note of admiration of some +sort. If ye could send a drop of som’at down to Warren’s, why so it is. +Here’s long life and happiness to neighbour Oak and his comely bride!” + +“Thank ye; thank ye all,” said Gabriel. “A bit and a drop shall be sent +to Warren’s for ye at once. I had a thought that we might very likely +get a salute of some sort from our old friends, and I was saying so to +my wife but now.” + +“Faith,” said Coggan, in a critical tone, turning to his companions, +“the man hev learnt to say ‘my wife’ in a wonderful naterel way, +considering how very youthful he is in wedlock as yet—hey, neighbours +all?” + +“I never heerd a skilful old married feller of twenty years’ standing +pipe ‘my wife’ in a more used note than ’a did,” said Jacob Smallbury. +“It might have been a little more true to nater if’t had been spoke a +little chillier, but that wasn’t to be expected just now.” + +“That improvement will come wi’ time,” said Jan, twirling his eye. + +Then Oak laughed, and Bathsheba smiled (for she never laughed readily +now), and their friends turned to go. + +“Yes; I suppose that’s the size o’t,” said Joseph Poorgrass with a +cheerful sigh as they moved away; “and I wish him joy o’ her; though I +were once or twice upon saying to-day with holy Hosea, in my scripture +manner, which is my second nature, ‘Ephraim is joined to idols: let him +alone.’ But since ’tis as ’tis, why, it might have been worse, and I +feel my thanks accordingly.” + + + + +NOTES + + [1] This phrase is a conjectural emendation of the unintelligible + expression, “as the Devil said to the Owl,” used by the natives. + + [2] The local tower and churchyard do not answer precisely to the + foregoing description. + + [3] W. Barnes + +Transcriber’s note: + + [*] Greek word meaning “it is finished” + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 107 *** |